Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (14 page)

C
ainsville is a cloistered little town, physically cut off from the rest of the world. The highway passes close by, but you have to circle back twenty minutes on a narrow thirty-mile-an-hour road to get there. There is no industry, no tourism, and the housing market is tightly controlled. In short, unless you have good reason to visit Cainsville, you wouldn’t.

As we rode in, I kept my arms around Ricky, my eyes on the back of his jacket. He turned onto Rowan and stopped in front of Rose’s. It wasn’t hard to find, given the “Rosalyn Z. Razvan, Take Charge of Your Future” sign in the window. And it was across the road from my apartment.

I glanced over at the three-story, yellow-gray Renaissance Revival walk-up that had been my home for the past couple of months. My landlord, Grace, sat on the front stoop, perched like one of the town’s many gargoyles, the most forbidding of them all. She made no secret of the fact she was watching me, her sunken dark eyes glued on the motorcycle the entire way from the corner.

After a moment’s hesitation, I pulled off my helmet and said, “I’m going to speak to Grace.”

He nodded and lifted a hand to her in greeting. She acknowledged him with a dour nod.

I crossed the road and climbed the steps. “So,” I said. “You’re a bogart, right?”

“Is that how you’re going to start conversations now?”

“Just in Cainsville.”

She snorted.

“Hey, it’s the only way I’m likely to find out.”

“You bringing him here?” She pointed at Ricky.

“Is that a problem?”

“Not for me.”

I sat on the stone railing. “I’d like to know what the elders have against him. It isn’t because he’s a biker, is it?”

Another snort. “He could be a banker and they’d feel the same. Though, if he was a banker, I might mind. Worse than
aufhockers
. I’d rather invest my money with bikers. Probably get a better rate of return.”

“
Why
don’t they like him, Grace?”

Her eyes met mine. “Oh, you know, girl. You can pretend you don’t, but you do.”

I fought to keep my expression even. “Humor me. Explain.”

She eased back in her chair. “I believe the modern slang is cock-blocking.”

“Excuse me?”

“What? You don’t think I understand the lingo, girl? I’ve got the Internet.”

“I know the term. I just don’t get how it applies . . .” I trailed off as I figured it out. “No . . .”

“Your frisky racehorse there is in the way of their prize stallion, and their fondest breeding hopes.”

“They—? No— Is that really—? No, just . . . no, and if that’s what they’re hoping for, then they’ve got a world of disappointment coming. If you think—”

“Oh, I don’t give a damn who shares your bed. But you asked what their problem is, so I told you.”

So the only reason the elders disliked Ricky was that they saw him as an obstacle to me getting together with Gabriel. Which meant that all my earlier fears had indeed been my overactive imagination, making connections where none existed.

“All right, then,” I said. “Next time I see them, I’ll set them straight on their wedding dreams.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t think they much care whether there’s a wedding involved, just as long as you two are—”

“Not happening. There are no babies coming, not from this girl and
any
guy.”

“They’ll go on hoping for what they hope for, whatever you say. The one you need to worry about is me. I don’t like having that apartment sitting empty.”

“It’s paid up. And I suspect half the rooms in this building are empty—and unpaid.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s an empty
occupied
apartment that’s a problem. If someone breaks in, you’ll blame me.”

“I won’t. You have my word.”

Grace peered up at me. “You should stay. Forget their bullshit. You belong here. You’re safe here.”

“And Ricky? How badly do they want that path cleared?”

“Not that badly. Which isn’t to say they aren’t capable of it. They are, and you’d best never forget that. But killing your boy would drive you off, and they’d never do that. He won’t get a warm welcome in Cainsville, but no one’s going to interfere.”

—

Rose’s place looked like a Victorian dollhouse. Not much more than a thousand square feet, it’s a narrow two-and-a-half-story house with a tower, balconies, and plenty of gingerbread. It’s not in the best shape—I suspect Rose figures as long as it’s structurally sound, it’s good enough. The yard is another matter. It’s a perfect English garden with a manicured lawn and flowers in blossom that shouldn’t be out for weeks yet.

The front door opened before we even climbed the steps. Rose may not sit on her porch like Grace, but she knows just as much about what’s going on outside her door.

She filled the doorway nearly as well as her great-nephew. She’s in her late fifties, a few inches taller than me, buxom and sturdy. She’s a karate brown belt, but I wouldn’t have tangled with her even before I knew that. She shares her nephew’s dark hair—hers laced with gray—and his blue eyes, hers light but not as startlingly so.

Ricky extended a hand. “Rick Gallagher.”

“Isn’t it Ricky?”

He smiled. “Yes, thanks, though I learned to stop introducing myself that way when I passed my twelfth birthday. Thanks for giving Liv a place to hang out for a while.”

“She’s welcome anytime.” Rose turned to me. “I’m sorry to hear about James, Olivia. More sorry you were the one to find him.”

I nodded and was about to reply when I caught a movement behind her. A black cat had stopped halfway down the stairs. Rose stepped aside, and we went inside.

“Hey, TC,” I said. “I’m back.”

His tail twitched once, as if to say,
Oh, it’s just her
, and he headed back up.

“Good to see you, too!” I called after him. “We’ll catch up later.”

“He missed you,” Rose said.

“I’d be shocked if he realized I was gone.”

“He did. Now, take Ricky into the parlor and I’ll make tea. Gabriel should be here momentarily.”

The parlor doubled as Rose’s office, and it was my favorite room in the house. It’s like a museum of folklore and spiritualism, filled with antique tools of the trade. There’s a wall of books, too, with a shelf of British and Celtic lore, and as I looked at it, I made a mental note of everything I’d been wanting to ask about since I’d seen her a few days ago.

“I have no idea what most of this stuff is,” Ricky said, looking around. “But . . . wow.”

“Yep,” I said. “It’s an amazing collection of occult paraphernalia. Over there is—” I stopped myself. “Sorry. Get me started and I won’t stop.”

“Did I mention my nana and her stories? I might not be able to identify anything except that Ouija board, but I’m definitely interested.”

“Well, first, that’s not a Ouija board. It is a planchette, which is similar. Ouija is a brand name. Not that I knew that, either, until Rose told me. . . .”

R
ose could hear Olivia and Ricky in the parlor. Yes, she was thinking of her as Olivia now. She’d been calling her Eden, if only to herself, but had come to accept that the possibility of “slipping” made it inadvisable. She liked and respected the girl, which meant she shouldn’t call her something she clearly didn’t wish to be called.

Speaking of names . . . When she’d heard that Rick Gallagher went by Ricky, she’d dismissed him. He was younger than Olivia, and his choice of diminutive only seemed to emphasize his youth. He’d be cocky and brash, immature and insubstantial, a pretty plaything for a young woman in desperate need of distraction.

As she eavesdropped on them in the parlor, she realized that Ricky was indeed distracting Olivia, but intentionally, guiding her attention away from shock and grief, immersing her in a subject she enjoyed. He listened to her explanations, made insightful remarks, asked intelligent questions, and coaxed out laughs along the way. Neither immature nor insubstantial.

Damn him.

Rose had slipped her deck of tarot cards out of the parlor before they arrived, and now, as she fixed the tea, she consulted them, hoping they’d tell her that Ricky Gallagher was a duplicitous bastard and the sooner Rose squashed this dalliance, the better off Olivia would be.

The cards said no such thing. They did tell her there was trouble. She’d known that from the moment she’d woken this morning from a sleep plagued by swirling nightmares. Tragedy, danger, darkness, grief, circling Gabriel and Olivia—and some shadowy third party. As soon as she’d seen Ricky Gallagher, she’d known who that third party was, and it had been easy to pounce on the conclusion that he was the cause of the rest. But the cards said no. He was intricately involved, and there was blame here, but it was through impulsiveness, not evil intent.

Olivia and Ricky laughed, and Rose slapped two cards on the counter. The Queen of Swords and the Knight of Wands. She swore under her breath. She shuffled, focused on the young couple, and tried again. The Queen of Swords and the King of Wands. Even worse.

The Queen of Swords was Olivia’s card. Bright, perceptive, intuitive, independent—it fit her perfectly. As did the reverse position, the more negative qualities that could slide to the fore in the wrong situation—cold-hearted, critical, cynical. The Knight of Wands was Ricky Gallagher. Energy, passion, action, adventure—those were the traits that guided the knight, and from what she’d seen, the card fit Ricky. Reversed, it meant he had a tendency to be easily frustrated, to act in haste. As for the
King
of Wands, that suggested a process of evolution—that Ricky was becoming a leader, someone with vision and honor, the reverse retaining that impulsiveness and adding a streak of ruthlessness.

She should seize on that last one. Ruthlessness. A sign of evil, was it not? Sadly, no. There was nothing wrong with ruthlessness. It was a trait she admired, and the only way for a young man like Ricky to come into his own.

Good cards, both of them. Excellent, in fact. Which was the problem. She wanted something minor for Ricky, something forgettable, a sign that he himself was inconsequential. But a knight evolving into a king? Not inconsequential at all.

Rose put the King of Wands aside, flipped over so she wouldn’t have to look at it. Then she cut through the deck until she found the card she wanted. The King of Pentacles, symbolizing control, power, security, and discipline. Reversed, it suggested a tendency to be controlling, authoritative, domineering. Gabriel’s card.

She smiled at the austere and foreboding figure on the front. She laid it beside the Queen of Swords with a snap of satisfaction, stepped back, and . . .

Her grandmother’s voice sounded at her shoulder.
You can’t do that, Rosie. It doesn’t work that way.

But this is what I want.

I know, but you can’t force the cards to come. You can put them there, but what do you feel when you look at them?

Rose looked at the two cards on the counter. They
did
work together. Her gut said they did. But her gaze kept drifting to that discarded King of Wands.

Damn it.

If fifty years with the sight had taught her anything, it was exactly this. She could use her gift to manipulate circumstances and guide people down a path, but ultimately, they made their own choices.

At the creak of a floorboard, she glanced into the hall to see that Gabriel had arrived. He was standing outside the open parlor door, tucked back into the shadows as he watched Olivia with Ricky. His face was impassive, but she could see the turmoil in his eyes, the hesitation in his stance, as if he wanted to back up and walk away. Run away.

Goddamn it!

She wanted to march into the parlor and tell Ricky Gallagher to get the hell out of her house. To turn on Olivia and tell her to smarten up or she could get out, too. She needed to see what she was doing to Gabriel and tell Ricky it was over.

None of that was fair, of course. Ricky was doing nothing wrong. Nor was Olivia. If there was blame here, it fell on . . .

Her gaze slid to her nephew, and she stifled a pang of guilt. It wasn’t his fault. Not really. The problem could be traced back to everything that had gone into making Gabriel the way he was today: his mother’s neglect, his father’s negligence, and, yes, Rose not doing enough to mitigate the damage.

She had told herself he was fine, and he was, in so many ways. Brilliant, driven, successful, as capable and competent as a man twice his age. And completely, utterly incapable of forming anything remotely resembling a normal human relationship. Until Olivia.

Rose didn’t have a romantic bone in her body, but she wanted it for Gabriel. With Olivia, he could have that perfect bond between two people who are both partners
and
lovers. Ultimately, though, what mattered was having
a
bond. For Gabriel to have someone he cared for, who cared for him in return. Someone who made him happy. A few months ago, she’d have said that was impossible. Now she’d seen it wasn’t. He had Olivia. And Olivia had Ricky.

Gabriel turned toward the kitchen, as if to come look for Rose instead. Olivia noticed him there. She said, “Just a sec,” to Ricky, came out into the hall and retreated with Gabriel to the front door. Rose watched Olivia’s face for any sign of distance, proof that her bond with Gabriel was thinning. There was none. She was relaxed and comfortable with him, her gaze as warm as ever, her regard as strong as ever.

And Gabriel? He answered her questions about the police investigation concisely but sincerely, no impatience or sign that he’d rather be anyplace else, doing anything else.

Good. Now, ask her how she’s doing. How she’s holding up.

“Everything is under control,” he said. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t stick around and answer more questions—”

“There was no need. That’s what I’m for, as your lawyer.”

Damn it, Gabriel. No. Not as her lawyer. As her friend. She just found someone she cared about murdered. If you can’t express some sympathy, at least let her know you’re thinking of what she’s going through.

“Right,” Olivia said. “Anyway, billable hours or not, I appreciate it.”

Her tone was steady and her thanks sincere, but Rose didn’t miss the rueful twist to the words “billable hours.”

Goddamn it, Gabriel. You have no intention of adding a single dollar to her bill. Clarify that. It’s a gift, not a service. Make sure she knows—

“Is Rose around?” Gabriel asked.

“In the kitchen, making tea.”

“Would you mind giving her a hand? I need to speak to Ricky.”

“Sure.”

Rose slid the cards into her pocket and opened the cupboard.