Tangled Souls (18 page)

* * *

Lucy slowly removed her glasses and pushed the morning’s paper across the table toward Gavenia. They were sitting in the shelter’s dining room. The enticing scent of roast turkey drifted in the air as pans rattled in the kitchen.

“You already knew,” Gavenia said. She shouldn’t be surprised; little got past her aunt.

“I always read the morning paper, unlike you.”

“So what do we do?”

Lucy scrutinized her with those serious brown eyes. “Was the reading you gave this Jones person on the mark?”

“Yes,” Gavenia snapped, more forcefully than she wanted. “Sorry. I’m worried about this.”

Lucy nodded. She seemed weary, as if the news was one more weight she couldn’t afford to carry. The shelter was her baby, a means for the Pagan community to become more proactive, more mainstream. Bad publicity could dynamite the whole project.

“Let’s hope it blows over. I prefer not to stir things up, but if the article proves libelous, you might consider a lawsuit. If so, call Llewellyn and he can file the papers.”

Llewellyn, her aunt’s boyfriend, was a top-rated attorney. For some reason she hadn’t thought of asking him for help.

Lucy continued, “I’ll let the community know Mr. Jones is off-limits, magicwise. There will be an uproar, I’m sure. It’ll take some time to repair the damage.”

“I had no idea he wasn’t on the level.”

“Bart didn’t warn you?” her aunt asked.

Gavenia shook her head. “He was as blind to it as I was.”

“Hmm . . . that’s interesting,” Lucy said. She tapped an index finger on her upper lip in thought. “Well, what’s done is done. Keep your cool and we’ll make it through this.” She reached across the table and took Gavenia’s quaking hand in hers. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The words hung between them and called forth memories. Her aunt had said those very words after the kidnapping. Said them over and over to try to reassure Gavenia it hadn’t been her fault that a young girl had been spirited away, held captive, and threatened by two human monsters.

You didn’t do anything wrong.

“Gavenia?”

She pulled herself back to the present. “I just didn’t want to bring any harm to the shelter. It’s too important.”

“It’ll work out.” Lucy leaned forward and embraced her niece. “Tonight, seven o’clock. And no whining this time.”

Gavenia smiled in return. “No whining.”

As she cleared the back door of the shelter, her cell phone rang. The caller ID made her do a double take.
O’Fallon.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to eat crow after all.

Gavenia returned with cups of tea and cranberry scones. She pushed one of each toward him.

The PI gave her a faint smile. “I owe you an apology, Ms. Kingsgrave. It wasn’t right for me to use your boyfriend’s marital status as a weapon.”

Gavenia bit her lip in response and her hand trembled where it sat on top of the table. She put it in her lap. His eyes followed its descent, and she thought she saw pity.

His voice lowered. “You didn’t know he was married?”

She gave a sharp intake of breath and then a quick shake of her head. She stared at the far wall of the café, focusing on a large poster touting an upcoming Celtic concert to keep the tears at bay. “All the signs were there. I was just ignoring them.”

“I’m sorry I was the one to tell you.”

Gavenia pressed on. “Why did you call me, Mr. O’Fallon?”

“I want to help you find Merlin.”

“Why?”

“Then I’ll know that at least one member of the Alliford household is at peace.”

That sounded reasonable. She took a long sip of tea to work it through. No crow eating required, yet she hesitated. She owed him something.

“I want to apologize as well. I shouldn’t have . . . it wasn’t right to mention your . . . marital history, either.”

Their eyes met. “We both have scars, Ms. Kingsgrave.”

Gavenia gave him a wan smile. “Yeah, we do.” She dug in her purse and pulled out the list and handed it to him. “I’ve just started to weed through the animal shelters. There’s a ton of them. If we could find Janet Alliford—”

“I talked to her yesterday when I drove her to Skid Row. She’s no help. She says she dropped the dog off downtown, but that sounded false.”

Gavenia’s estimation of the PI rose. “Is there anything we can do for her?”

“Not to sound cold, Ms. Kingsgrave, but she’s too far gone. Unless she can deal with the mommy hatred, she’s headed for the grave.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” she challenged.

“I’ve seen it too many times.”

She involuntarily shivered. “You’re right, it is cold.”

His eyes grew sad. “I know,” he said. “It’s how I cope.”

“It hurts you,” she murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.” She glanced at her watch. “Okay, what do we do?”

“I think we should go back to my place, lay out a map, and start working a grid pattern. We’ll check the animal shelters’ websites based on the map.”

Gavenia’s mind stuck on the first part of the plan. “Your place?”

He nodded. “I figured after the stalker problem you had a couple years back, you’d not want to go to your condo.”

“What don’t you know about me?” she demanded.

He leaned forward in response, a slightly roguish grin on his face. “Well, I don’t know your favorite wine or if you wear pajamas to bed.”

“Fumé Blanc, and I sleep in the nude.”

They eyed each other, neither giving an inch. “See, now you’re no longer an enigma,” he said, spreading his hands. “Well, I’ll just have to think up more questions.”

Gavenia allowed herself a grin that matched his. The Irish guy had style. “So where do you live?” she asked.

He pulled out a notebook, ripped out a page, and penned directions in between sips of the Moonbeam. She noted he hadn’t complained about the tea. Another point in his column.

“I should warn you I have a rather unique roommate,” he said, his eyes flickering up to hers.

“Is this roomie as unpleasant as you are?” she asked, dismantling the cranberry scone into manageable pieces.

“Yes, he can be. Seamus is a bit of a character.” He laid the paper next to her cup.

“Seamus? Oh, give me a break.”

“Pardon?”

Gavenia pointed at him. “Your last name’s O’Fallon; you’ve got red hair, an Irish brogue, a Saint Christopher medal in your car, a roommate named Seamus; and you used to be a cop. Goddess, you’re a walking stereotype.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not the one who sees ghosts, sister.”

They eyed each other warily.

Gavenia raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, I give up. Anything to get Merlin and Bradley together. Then you can go away, and I can get back to my life.”

“Works for me.”

“So is Seamus your lover?” she asked, with a hint of mischief.

He answered with an irritated shake of his head. “Seamus is a parrot.”

“What kind?”

“An African gray.” His tone sounded as if he was waiting for her to challenge him about having a bird for a pet.

“That’s cool.” She studied the directions. The writing was amazingly legible for a guy’s. “Give me an hour or so. I’ve got an errand to run.”

He nodded. “Let’s meet there at”—he studied his watch—“three. Have you eaten?”

“Nothing substantial but this scone.”
Plus a couple ice-cream bars.

“I’ll pick up a pizza. You aren’t one of the vegetable people, are you?” he asked.

“You mean . . . vegan?”

“Yeah, one of those who won’t eat something if it used to have big brown eyes.”

“Not a problem.”

“Thank God.” He rose. “At three, then.” O’Fallon dropped a ten on the table, rolled his cranberry scone in a couple of napkins, and made his way out of the café without another word.

Gavenia started to snicker, not able to help herself. The snickering grew to muted laughter after the Irish guy exited the front door.

“Goddess, he’s a piece of work.”

* * *

O’Fallon’s apartment building was nondescript, a two-story complex. Apparently, a cop’s pension wasn’t that bountiful, or the PI was the frugal sort. A crew of painters attacked the exposed wood trim like hyperactive monkeys from a forest of ladders and scaffolding. Animated conversation flowed downward from the scaffolding in a variety of languages. Two painters were debating, in Russian, whether Gavenia’s breasts were real or otherwise. One of them claimed only women from their home country had real breasts. The other disagreed.

Gavenia pulled open the front door to the complex and paused as the debate continued above her. She couldn’t resist.

“They are real,” she announced in flawless Russian. One of the painters dropped his brush in astonishment and it hit his boot, splashing white around his ankles. Trickles splattered the ground near Gavenia’s cane. The other painter laughed heartily, slapping him on the back.

“Very nice!” he called down in a thick accent.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

* * *

O’Fallon found his guest sitting on the floor outside his apartment, relaxing against the wall, her eyes closed. When she heard him, she gave him a wry smile.

“Had to stop for some hair dye?” she teased.

“No. Actually, it increases my mojo to have women lined up outside my apartment door.”

She chuckled, reached for her cane, and levered herself into a standing position. He saw a brief flash of discomfort. Belatedly he realized he should have offered to help.

“You could have waited in the car,” he noted as he shifted the pizza box and cola to unlock the door.

“And run the testosterone gauntlet again?” she said, angling her head toward the parking lot. “Thanks, but once was enough.”

“They give you a rough time?” he asked, frowning.

“Not really, unless you consider having your breasts critiqued a hard time.”

“Don’t know, I’ve never had that happen.”

She scrutinized his chest. “I can see why.”

He swung the door open and headed for the wailing alarm. Four quick jabs at the keypad disarmed it, but the noise continued. Gavenia turned in the direction of the sound: a large gray parrot.

“Ah, the infamous Seamus,” she said.

The siren abruptly ceased. “About damned time!” the bird shouted.

“Give me a break, will you?” O’Fallon replied.

“No break, no break!”

Gavenia quirked a smile. The parrot marched back and forth on his perch, watching them intently. She headed for the cage, leaning over to inspect its occupant.

“Hi there, Seamus,” she said. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Woo-hoo. Fresh meat!” the bird called.

“Seamus, behave yourself,” O’Fallon scolded.

The bird appeared to think that through and then spouted, “Woo-hoo. Pretty lady, pretty lady.”

“That’s better,” O’Fallon replied, nodding his approval.

“He’s gorgeous,” Gavenia said. “I’ve never see an African gray in person.”

“Spring me, spring me!” the bird called.

“He wants out to say hi to you. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure.”

“If he frightens you, let me know,” O’Fallon cautioned.

“He’s not as scary as some people I know,” she said, giving her host a knowing look.

O’Fallon ignored the jibe. “Let me stick this stuff in the kitchen first.”

“Spring me, judge!” the bird called.

“He will. Give him a minute,” Gavenia replied.

“Seamus,” the bird said, clawing his way up the side of the cage, apparently in an effort to get a closer look at her.

“I know.”

“Seamus,” the bird repeated a bit louder, as if she’d not heard him the first time.

It dawned on her what he wanted and she knew her actual name would be too difficult. “I’m Tinker.” He tilted his head. “Tinker,” she repeated.

“Tink . . . er?”

“Yes. Tinker. Glad to meet you, Seamus.”

“Tinker!” the bird proclaimed.

“You got it.” She held up a small plastic bag. “I brought something for you.”