Omens (11 page)

Ida and Walter had just walked onto Rowan Street when a taxi pulled to the roadside. An odd sight in Cainsville.

A young woman got out. Hair as bright as a copper penny, worn in loose, short curls. Glasses that seemed designed to mask a pretty face, and were doing a poor job of it, judging by the look Walter was giving her.

“Is that the Larsen girl?” he asked.

Ida looked closer. “Hmm. It just might be.”

As they approached, the young woman shut the taxi’s door and the car sped off, spitting up gravel, making the girl step quickly back.

“Rude driver,” Ida sniffed.

“City folk.”

She nodded. As they passed the girl, Ida offered her a smile and a good morning, which her husband echoed, and the girl returned.

“Yes, it’s definitely the Larsen girl,” Ida said after they’d passed. “She’s ahead of schedule.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“True. We should tell the others.”

“We will. After we get you your coffee drink.”

She smiled, took his arm, and they continued on.

T
he taxi had barely gone thirty miles past Chicago before it turned off the highway. I expected the town to be right there, but it was at least another twenty-minute drive until we passed the sign welcoming us to Cainsville. Actually, “welcoming” might be an exaggeration. The sign was so small I had to squint to see it. It didn’t even say Welcome. Just Cainsville, Pop. 1,600, as if state law decreed there be one or they would have left the population sign off altogether.

It looked welcoming enough, though. Classic mid- to late-nineteenth-century architecture—heavy on brick and stone and flourishes. A pretty town, in better shape than most. The main street—called Main Street, naturally—was heavily Renaissance Revival, red brick with the occasional yellow brick facade thrown in for variety. Arched windows topped by simple keystones. Elaborate cornices of tin or painted wood. Trees lined the road, and there were flowering pots and raised beds everywhere.

Almost every shop on Main Street was occupied, and from the looks of the signs—J. Brown and Sons Grocers, the Corner Diner, Loomis Bros. Fine Fashions—they’d been there for decades. That was a huge accomplishment these days, where many town cores were filled with For Rent signs, dollar stores, and pawnshops.

A flicker of movement near a roof caught my eye and I looked up to see a bluebird alighting on the long nose of a gargoyle. A spring bluebird. That was a good sign.

As the cab paused at the crosswalk, I took a better look at the gargoyle. It was a real one, the mouth opening in a spout for water draining off the roof. It was far from the only gargoyle, too. Now that I looked, I saw them everywhere—on rooftops, on gateposts, over doorways.

“A town filled with gargoyles,” I said. “Must be well protected.”

The cabbie looked up and muttered something in a language I didn’t recognize. Then, as the light changed, he said, “This is Cainsville. I let you out here.”

“I have an address,” I said. “Five Rowan Street.”

“I do not know where that is.” He pulled to the side. “You get out here.”

“No, I have an address.” I put the window down and called to a young woman pushing a stroller. “Excuse me, do you know where I’d find Rowan Street?”

She gave me directions, friendly as could be. Even warned us that there was no parking on the east side of the road.

Rowan adjoined Main Street, making it an easy drive. The cabbie turned onto it but didn’t park. He barely stopped. Just took my fare and left me on the side of the road. I didn’t tip him, either. A first for me, and I thought I’d feel guilty. I didn’t. Instead, I was happy for the excuse to keep the money.

An elderly couple tut-tutted as the cabbie sped off, then gave me smiles and good mornings, which I returned before they carried on.

I stood on the curb for a moment, waiting for that sensory overload after the cocooning quiet of the car. It didn’t come. I smelled lilacs and freshly mown grass. I heard the wind and the distant
ding-ding
of a bicycle bell. But that was it.

I relaxed and looked around. The apartment building was across the road. When I saw it, I had to double-check the address. The building was gorgeous. Three stories of Renaissance Revival beauty. Smooth, yellow-gray stone walls forming a rectangle. A recessed, arched front entrance topped by a triangular gable. Red-clay tiled hipped roof. Deep eaves with huge, decorative brackets. Balconies under every window, most too narrow to use.

On closer inspection, I could see the signs that the building had not been kept in the shape befitting such a grand old dame. Disrepair is harder to spot with a place like this—the stonework will survive anything short of a bomb blast. No factories in the area meant the stone had stayed reasonably clean. But there were little signs—the crumbling edge of a window rail, the slight sag in the roof—that it was only good bone structure that left her looking so fine in her old age. Even the plain ivory curtains in the windows seemed as if they hadn’t been replaced in decades.

Speaking of curtains … as I walked down Rowan I noticed another pretty place, this one a fraction of the size. A dollhouse of a two-story Victorian, narrow and shallow, its height making it seem bigger than it was. Weathered boards cried out for a fresh coat of paint. Ivy covered every surface. The yard was well kept, though. Exceedingly well kept, with a golf-course-perfect lawn and gardens so lush they seemed to have time-warped into midsummer. It was jarring, that juxtaposition. Like something out of a fairy tale, the perfect yard enticing the unwary into the witch’s abode.

The witch herself seemed to be in residence, peering out from that open curtain. Below her, in the first-floor window, a sign read “Tarot, palmistry, and astrology. By appt. only.” A fortune teller? Seriously? I squinted to get a better look at the woman. The curtain fell.

As I crossed the road, I noticed the apartment building had gargoyles, too. Under the eaves and tucked into the corners of the fake window balconies, stone gargoyles standing watch. I marveled at them, then climbed the steps and reached for the doorknob. There, above my head, was yet another Gothic touch, this one far more subtle and definitely unintended. A massive spiderweb, dew-dappled and glistening in the morning sun. The spider was there, too, big and black, waiting in the middle of its web.

That was a new one. Just what I needed. More superstitious crap filling my brain.

I shook my head and pulled open the door.

R
ose ducked back behind the gauzy curtain as the girl squinted her way. The red hair had thrown her, but only for a moment. She’d known the girl was coming. The cards never lied. So Rose had been watching. Now she was here.

Eden Larsen. Olivia Taylor-Jones. As for what her arrival in Cainsville portended … The cards were, as usual, long on declarations and short on interpretations.

The girl had stopped on the stoop of Grace’s building. She was staring up into the corner of the front doorway.

What was she gaping at? Whatever it was, it held her attention for at least a minute before she opened the door and walked through.

Rose picked up her binoculars from the table and peered out. She looked where the girl had been staring. Nothing. She adjusted the lenses and looked again. It didn’t help. She was looking right at the spot.

There was nothing there.

T
he front door opened into a vestibule with stairs going up and a perpendicular hall for the apartments. No locked door to pass through. No panels of buzzers to alert the residents to company. Not even names on the mailbox slots.

The hall was paneled plaster with a wooden floor. My knowledge of architecture was confined to the external, so I didn’t know how historically accurate this was. It looked right, though. It was definitely nicer than any of the apartments I’d visited so far. Yes, the floorboards were worn, unvarnished paths showing the main routes, and the walls could use fresh paint. But it had a comfortable, lived-in look. Benign neglect.

I looked down the main hallway. Two doors on each side, four apartments on each floor. Twelve overall, then. Small, but it certainly didn’t feel full. The long corridor was dimly lit and cool, like a cave. Smelled a lot better than any cave I’d explored. I picked up teasing traces of sandalwood. The sounds were as muted as the smells. Hushed. Not so much a cave, then, as a church after hours, dark and cool and peaceful.

I knocked on 1D, the number on the note. It took three tries for the landlord to answer, and when she did, the look she gave me said I should have taken the hint after the first two.

She was at least as old as her cousin in Chicago. Steel gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Sharp nose. Sharp chin. Even sharper gaze.

“What?”

“Are you Grace?” I handed her the note without waiting for a reply. “Your cousin Jack in Chicago—”

An abrupt wave, silencing me as she snatched the paper. As she read it, her frown deepened, until she wouldn’t have been out of place perched on top of her building.

“Got one apartment,” she said. “Three hundred a month.”

“Could I see—?”

“No. Wasn’t expecting to be showing apartments today.”

“Is it one bedroom?”

“You need more? Too bad. It’s one.”

“One is fine. Separate kitchen and living area?”

“It’s five hundred square feet, girl. You won’t be doing much
living
in there. But if you’re asking if it’s all one room, like one of those bachelor pads, no, it’s a proper apartment. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath.”

“Furnished?”

“If you call a fridge, stove, twin bed, and sofa ‘furnished.’ Might not be up to your standards, though. Got them at a yard sale.” A pause. “Twenty years ago.”

“Could I replace them if I wanted?”

“Can do anything you want. Replace the furniture, paint, carpet. Hell, you can even clean the place. Might need it. Haven’t opened the door since the tenant moved out last year.”

Lovely …

“Okay, so three hundred a month,” I said. “First and last’s makes that six—”

“Did I say you could stay two months? You pay one. Then I decide if you can have it for another.”

Renting a place unseen was ridiculous. But three hundred was a steal, especially with no second month’s rent or damage deposit.

I took another look down the hall. I wouldn’t even want to think what I’d pay in a place like this in Chicago.

“I’ll take it.”

A grunt that might have been “good” but probably wasn’t. She held out her hand, and it took me a second to realize she wanted her money. Now. I peeled three hundred from my wad and handed them over.

She took a key ring from inside her doorway, then strode along the hall so fast I had to scamper to keep up. No arthritic knees or hips here, despite her age. As we walked, she didn’t say a word, just worked on getting a key off the ring.

We went up the stairs to the top floor. She walked to one of the front apartments and swung the door open. Left unoccupied
and
unlocked for a year?

The stink of must hit me as soon as the door opened. Nothing worse, though. A few hours—okay, a few days—with the windows open, and it would be fine.

As I followed her in, I realized she wasn’t kidding about the cleaning. There were newspapers and empty boxes littering a floor so thick with dust that I kicked up clouds with every step.

Still, as with the rest of the building, the apartment was in good shape. Pretty even, with worn wood floors and plenty of decorative flourishes. It just needed a thorough scrubbing. The mauve painted walls would have to go before they gave me a headache.

Grace handed me the key. Then, without a word, she walked out.

If it hadn’t been for the smell, I think I’d have collapsed on the bed and called it a day. But that stink got me out—with the windows left open.

Grace was on the front stoop, in a ratty lawn chair, surveying the street as if expecting an invasion of Mongols. I offered a cheery “Have a good morning!” as I started down the steps.

“Where you off to already?” she said.

“Job hunting.”

“You just got here.”

“I need a job.”

“Well, you won’t get one here. Not this fast.”

I walked back up the stairs. “The town doesn’t look like it’s hurting too badly. There must be jobs for someone willing to take what she can get, which I am.”

“Oh, there are jobs. But folks don’t know you yet. Not going to hire you until they do. Only ones who’ll take you so fast are other new people.” A dismissive wave at a young woman herding two preschoolers toward Main Street. “They’ll hire you to clean their houses and look after their brats.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

She snorted and shook her head as I went back down the steps.

“Waste of time,” she called after me. “But if you insist on going out, might as well stop by the diner.”

I turned. “Do they have an opening?”

“No. I want a scone. One of those cranberry orange ones. If Larry says he’s out, you tell him Grace says he’s full of shit and he’d better find one.”

G
race was right. I hit every shop on Main Street. Some people said they weren’t hiring. Others peered at me and asked me who my folks were.

My parents, they meant. I definitely wasn’t answering that. But what they were really asking was whether I was local, maybe gone off to college and come back and they didn’t recognize me. When I told them I was new in Cainsville, they said they didn’t have any openings, but I should come back in a week or two. In other words, once people around here got to know me.

I’d just left the last store when I passed a sign for the library. It was in the community center, which was an amazing building. It looked like a small version of Altgeld’s castles, the Gothic Revival halls built at five Illinois universities. When Altgeld was governor in the late nineteenth century, he’d expressed concern about the ugliness of public buildings and suggested a style that would be both functional and attractive. The result was those five buildings.