Cainsville: Visions Part 19

When he checked his watch, I said, "Go on home. I'll be fine."

"That wasn't what I meant."

"You were reminding me that I'm being unreasonably stubborn, while you're here, helping me, out of the goodness of your heart."

A flicker in his eyes. My darts rarely pierce Gabriel, but every now and then they manage.

"You got my messages to turn back," I said. "You didn't come out here to help me. You came because I'm not sure I made the right choice agreeing to work for you, and you wanted to seal my employment, through obligation if necessary."

"That's ridiculous." The words were said with the right degree of scorn and affront, but if you hang around Gabriel long enough, you learn to detect the tonal s.h.i.+fts that give lie to his words.

"I would like you to speak to Rose," he said. "It's not yet ten. Come along."

I considered letting him go out the door first then locking it behind him, but that was petty. Besides, he could pick the lock.

"At least call her first," I said. "She did have a date. Just because she's home doesn't mean she's alone."

He gave me a perplexed look.

"Call," I said.

He did.

Rose didn't have company. And she wasn't particularly happy about it.

"Waste of my night," she grumbled when I asked her how it went. "We're still on the appetizers, and he asks if I know how to bake banana bread. Can you believe that?"

"First dates are awkward," I said as we walked into the front room. "He was probably struggling to make conversation."

She snorted. "Conversation, my a.s.s. I can tell you why he was asking. Because his late wife baked banana bread and he misses it. For date number two, he'd invite me to his place, where I'd find all the ingredients and her old recipe. Widowers. They aren't looking for companions.h.i.+p; they're looking for a new housekeeper. This is why I should stick to women." When I looked surprised, she shrugged. "I'm flexible."

"Widens the dating pool," I said as I sat.

"It does. I'm updating my profile tonight. Widowers-and widows-need not apply."

"You found him through an online service?"

She scowled at me. "Ask me in that tone again when you're no longer a skinny twenty-five-year-old, and we'll see if your att.i.tude changes, missy."

"I wasn't judging. I'm just not sure that's safe."

A grunt from beside me elicited a glare from Rose.

"Don't start, Gabriel," she said. "I'm well aware of your views on the subject."

"Because I've defended two clients accused of crimes committed against women they found through an online dating service. Neither was guilty, of course-"

"Of course," I said.

"But the fact remains that it does not seem a safe way to find a relations.h.i.+p. With either gender."

She turned to me. "So you've stumbled into trouble again. Shouldn't the omens warn you against that?"

"I don't know. Shouldn't the cards warn you against bad dates?"

She grumbled under her breath. "All right. Explain."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

Rose handled the discovery of Ciara's body as matter-of-factly as her nephew had. To them, the point was what it meant for me-why the corpse was being used to threaten me, and whether tonight's events were a continuation of that threat or mere happenstance.

I showed her the photos of the dining room and parlor friezes.

"Where is this?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Beechwood Street. It's a Victorian with leaded windows-"

"The Carew house," she said. "I wasn't sure which empty house you meant. There are probably a half-dozen in Cainsville at any time, owned by the town. They aren't an easy sell to newcomers between the commuting issues and the approval committee."

"Approval committee?" I said.

"For new purchasers."

"Is that legal?"

"It's been challenged a few times," Gabriel said. "But race, religion, s.e.xual orientation, and socioeconomic status play no role in the process, so it isn't discriminatory. It's all about whether you're suitable."

"Which is a very nebulous determination," Rose said. "As off-putting as it sounds, the average prospective home owner does pa.s.s, and those who don't? Do you really want to live in a town that doesn't want you? They move on. All that, however, means that sometimes houses don't sell, and the homeowners won't be happy if it's because of local politics. So if a house is on the market more than six months, the town buys it. Then they keep it for someone from Cainsville. Usually a young couple who grew up here."

"Chief Burton thought there was a legal issue holding up the sale."

"There was. Years ago. But the town owns it now."

So I could buy it? The words were almost on my lips before I realized how horrible they sounded. Ciara Conway's body had been found there only an hour ago. And my first thought was, "Really? It's for sale?" Yet there was something about the house, a pull I couldn't shake.

Rose continued, "The reason I recognize the house is these." She pointed at the photos I'd taken of the friezes. "I remember going there as a very young girl. My mother would take me for readings."

"The owner was a psychic?"

"Not ... exactly." Rose's gaze rose to meet my eyes. "She could read omens."

I opened my mouth to say, "What?" but nothing came out and I sat there, goose b.u.mps rising on my arms.

"You knew someone who could read omens?" That was Gabriel, a chill creeping into his gaze. "I think Olivia could have used this information sooner."

"There wasn't any information to give her. I vaguely recalled a woman in Cainsville with the same gift. I've been going through my old diaries, trying to remember details. I also wanted to speak to the elders, see if someone remembered her. When I had more, I planned to tell Olivia."

"That's fine," I said, ignoring the look on Gabriel's face that said otherwise. "This woman who lived there-she could do what I do?"

"I believe so. From what I recall, my mother would go to her for guidance. The woman would ask questions, interpreting omens that my mother had seen, and suggesting a course of action. A variation on what I do. She died before I came into my own power. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have had more dealings with her."

"Then she's not the woman who lived there last."

"Oh, no. The one I knew was at least ninety, and I wasn't even school age yet. As I recall, her husband built the house for her, which explains the friezes. I vaguely remember a grandson and his wife who lived there when I was growing up. At some point it was bought by the last owner."

Gabriel cleared his throat. "The point is that this house was owned by someone with the same ability as Olivia. That is worth looking into, as someone using that house is threatening Olivia. Show Rose the triskelion."

I did, and I told her about the vision.

"Bean nighe," she said as she rose. "The washerwoman."

"So not a banshee?"

Rose took a book from her shelf, flipped through it, and laid it open for me at a folklore encyclopedia entry on bean sidhe.

"Banshees," she said. "Bean sidhe is the Irish Gaelic spelling of the word. It's been anglicized as banshee."

"And a bean nighe is a form of bean sidhe," I said as I read. "It's an old woman who washes the clothing of the dead. Which isn't quite what I saw- No, here it is. Gwrach y Rhibyn. Is that how it's spelled? That's worse than bean sidhe. It's the word from the vision, though, and the description matches. Ugly old woman was.h.i.+ng in a stream while wailing death warnings. A Welsh cross between the bean nighe and the traditional bean sidhe. It's not a fetch, though. She's warning me of death in general. I'm guessing it was an omen telling me Ciara's body was upstairs. As for why I saw it when I stepped onto the triskelion..."

"I'm presuming it has something to do with the original owner," Rose said. "It seems to be some sort of conduit, possibly activated by those three lights. I'll look into it. Now, tea?"

"Olivia was hoping for-" Gabriel began.

"I'm fine. I should get back home."

"Not tonight, after what happened," Rose said. "You'll go back with Gabriel and pack an overnight bag while I make tea."

I argued. It didn't help. So I shut up and got my bag.

Gabriel left at midnight. I stood in the front room window as the taillights of his Jag vanished into the darkness. When I turned, Rose was there, watching me.

"He should have left when I got my bag," I said. "He really didn't need another late night like this. He's tired. Overworked."

"You'll be helping with that."

"With his workload, yes. But I'm the reason he'll be getting home at one this morning when he has a court appearance at nine."

"He'll be fine. I don't think he sleeps more than five hours under the best of circ.u.mstances. What you're seeing isn't exhaustion. It's strain. The situation with you is part of it. Gabriel isn't accustomed to personal drama. It's untidy and it confuses him."

"Uh-huh." I turned back to the window.

"I'm serious, Olivia. He is accustomed to clients being angry with him. Furious, even. It's part of the process-they're fighting for their freedom and they never think their lawyer is doing enough. Gabriel knows he will be vindicated at trial, when they see him perform miracles. If they do remain angry-and I'm sure some do-he doesn't care. It's a business relations.h.i.+p. Yours is more than business. Your opinion of him-and your continuing relations.h.i.+p with him-matters. My nephew is not accustomed to that, and he's struggling with it."

Be patient with him. That's what she meant. Except that, with Gabriel, excuses felt dangerous. Cut him slack and he'd haul in as much rope as he could, then think you a fool for letting him.

I thought of another reason he might be exhausted, another source of stress. One I was much more comfortable with, because it had nothing to do with me.

I turned from the window. "Has he identified the photos of his mother yet?"

"Photos of his mother?"

"At the police station."

As a crease furrowed between her eyes, I realized he'd never told her.

"Sorry," I said quickly. "I thought- You should ask him about it."

I started for the stairs, mumbling about my morning s.h.i.+ft. She stepped into my path.

"Olivia. What are you talking about?"

"I shouldn't-"

"Yes, you should. And you will. What is this about Gabriel's mother?"

I hesitated, but I could tell by her expression it would be cruel to walk away without explaining. So I told her.

"It might not have even been a photo of Seanna," I said as I finished. "Will Evans was clearly trying to separate me from Gabriel and-"

She walked to her desk and opened a drawer.

I continued, "-Gabriel might have already established it wasn't Seanna, which is why he never mentioned it to you, and-"

She handed me a small photo alb.u.m, opened to photos of Gabriel. He couldn't have been more than thirteen. He had his wavy black hair, pale blue eyes, and strong features-too intense for a gangly, acne-pocked adolescent. What I recognized most, though, was his expression. Wary, as if he was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. But there was challenge there, too, a hardness already. As if he was hoping for provocation. An excuse to run. To escape.

The photo Rose wanted me to see, though, was in the top corner.

"Seanna," I whispered.

"Is that who you saw?"

I nodded. Rose lowered herself into a chair.

"Dead," she whispered. "All this time, she was dead." Grief crossed her face, but she blinked it back. "This would explain some of the strain."

"Maybe a lot of it."

She shook her head. "It's not as if this means he'll now realize his mother was a good woman who didn't abandon him. How much do you know about the situation?"

I told her.