A very long pause.
Jones wasn’t what he said, Bart murmured in a reticent tone.
“Ya think?” she snapped back. “So why didn’t you warn me?”
I didn’t understand until it was too late, he said, lowering his chin as his cheeks flushed crimson.
Surprised at his uncharacteristic act of contrition, she elected not to chastise him further.
“So what is he?” she asked, and took another sip of tea, pleased to see her hands had finally stopped shaking.
A man who bends the truth to suit his fancy.
“Which means?”
We’ve been conned.
Chapter Four
O’Fallon hadn’t intended to spend so much time with the old drunk, but there was just something about Bernie. Though grizzled with age and twisted with arthritis, he possessed a gentle nature, a graciousness the booze hadn’t worn away. O’Fallon passed on tippling any more of whatever Bernie had in the bottle; his gut still burned from the first sip. Instead, they sat in the old man’s dinky room, and he listened to him reminisce.
Bernie had had it all—a good job, a wife and kids. The wife had fallen ill, and his job vanished. Not knowing how to cope, he’d fled the field of battle. His children would be grown, and now his world revolved around the booze and his disability check.
They spoke at length about the dead man and how Benjamin had shared his pizza with Bernie the night he died. He and the old man had talked about their families and lost dreams. Not once did Benjamin indicate he intended to step off a chair into eternity.
O’Fallon knew not to ask Bernie if he’d taken the young man’s rosary. That would have been an insult. When he asked about the hotel manager, the man spit on the floor in disgust.
“He’s a bastard. You have to watch him all the time. He steals things.”
“Even a rosary?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. I’ve seen him go into rooms and come out with stuff.” Bernie hesitated and then added, “He was nervous that night.”
“The manager?”
The wino shook his head. “No, the kid. He kept looking at his watch like he had a date or something.”
“In a way he did,” O’Fallon said. His companion nodded and then took another pull from the bottle.
In time, O’Fallon left the old man a twenty and trudged down the endless flights of stairs. His calf muscles twitched in complaint by the time he reached the lobby. He paused in the hallway and stared out the front door to find it was pouring rain. He’d left his umbrella in the car. A cloud of raw smoke drifted from a couple of bums huddled in the entryway; the pot they were toking was definitely subpar.
The manager fidgeted at his desk, higher than a chorus of angels. “You done lookin’?” he asked. O’Fallon recognized the telltale signs—the guy had a snort of coke up his nose.
He tossed the key across the desk, and the manager barely trapped it with a trembling hand as it careened toward the floor.
“The room was unlocked. You owe me ten bucks,” O’Fallon observed, leaning over the desk.
“No kiddin’?” was the smug answer.
“I won’t take it out of your ass if you answer a couple of questions.” The guy yawned as if bored with the conversation. “Did you steal the kid’s rosary?”
The fellow shook his head. “No man, I wouldn’t do that. The nuns taught me better’n that.” He grinned, exposing irregular teeth.
O’Fallon’s practiced ear heard the lie. He leaned over and latched on to the man’s sweat-stained T-shirt and hauled him across the desk with one forceful tug. Cigarette butts flew in all directions.
“Hey, let go!”
“Give me the rosary,” O’Fallon barked into the unshaven face.
“I don’t have it.”
He tightened his grip. “Make me believe you.”
“You can’t do this,” the fellow protested.
“Sure can. I’m not a cop . . . anymore.” Out of habit, O’Fallon shot a quick look at the two men in the doorway. “This is between me and the loser. Any problem with that?” The bums shook their heads in unison and resumed taking puffs from the roach, talking in hushed tones.
Returning his attention to the manager, O’Fallon lowered his voice, adding a menacing undertone. “I want the rosary. If you don’t tell me where it is . . .” He left the threat unspoken, knowing the doper would fill in his own worst fear.
“I didn’t take it. I couldn’t get it out of his hand.”
O’Fallon heard the ring of truth and shoved him back across the desk. The manager landed on the filthy floor with a thud, spewing a string of expletives.
“Who took it?” O’Fallon asked, dusting his jacket with a flick of his fingers. “The maid?” She’d found the body, but he doubted she’d light-fingered the rosary.
The manager shook his head vehemently. “No, not her.”
“Then who?”
The man rose to his feet and glanced around. The two bums at the door feigned indifference, the cloud of smoke thicker now.
The manager lowered his voice. “The fuckin’ pigs, who else? They get all the good stuff down here.”
O’Fallon straightened his jacket, buying time. The little prick could be lying, but he doubted it. He’d heard rumors about the local precinct, that some of the cops had sticky fingers. Over the years, he’d learned it was prudent to wear blinders when you carried a badge, at least for the minor offenses. Stealing off a dead man was another matter.
“I’ll be back if you’re lying, after I tell the cops what you said about them.”
The manager’s eyes widened and he licked his lips in a nervous gesture. “I ain’t lying, man. They do it all the time.”
It was O’Fallon’s turn to act bored. “And you’re a good Catholic boy, to be sure,” he said, pushing his Irish accent to the max. “I bet the nuns would be pleased with how well you’ve turned out.”
The two bums parted and allowed him to wade out into the torrential downpour. O’Fallon scurried in front of a honking taxi, water flooding into his shoes and down his collar. The rain only reminded him of angels and of lost innocence.
* * *
Gavenia leaned her elbows on the kitchen table, her chin in her hands, ignoring the bowl of cereal in front of her. After a night punctuated with dreams of energetic little boys cavorting with black puppies, she had no appetite.
This one is getting to you, a familiar voice observed. She levered open her eyes to find Bart sitting across from her as he meticulously polished a pair of antique spectacles with an embroidered handkerchief.
“You don’t wear glasses,” she observed.
I thought they went well with the outfit. He stood so she could get the full effect, executing a quick spin.
“Ben Franklin?” she guessed. He was far too thin to do Franklin justice, but the costume was impressive, right down to the lace at the cuffs. He nodded and sat opposite her, resting his chin in his hands, mirroring her posture. Through the round lenses, he batted his eyelashes in an attempt to annoy her.
It worked.
“Why are you bugging me? Don’t you have a barmaid to proposition?” she grumbled.
You’re ignoring your houseguest.
“Ari’s not up yet.”
I wasn’t talking about her. You can ignore him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there.
“If you mean—”
Bart vanished, and she found herself talking to the air. A moment later the sound of bare feet padded down the long hall.
“I figured you’d sleep later,” Gavenia said as her sister appeared in the kitchen doorway, the gray presence of her dead husband right behind her. Like he’d be anywhere else. Gavenia put on her game face and headed for the coffeepot.
“Cream and two sugars, right?” she asked. Ari nodded and settled at the table. The dark circles under her eyes appeared a shade lighter than the previous evening. “Did you sleep at all?”
“A little,” was her muffled answer. “My b
ody is still on London time.”
“Here, drink the coffee. You want some breakfast?”
“Yours will do,” Ari said, pulling Gavenia’s bowl toward her. She’d always grazed off her older sister’s plate, even as a child, and remained tall and willowy. Another bone of contention between them.
“It might be a bit soggy,” Gavenia warned.
“Easier to chew.”
Gavenia poured herself more coffee and watched her sister eat. Bart reappeared by the sink, fussing with a bit of cuff lace. Ari’s Guardian, Matilda, appeared next to him, and they spoke in hushed tones. She was positively drab compared to the flamboyant figure next to her. Given Paul’s presence, the poor thing rarely had an opportunity to get close enough to Ari to do her work.
“Who were you talking to when I came in?” Ari asked between mushy bites.
“Myself,” Gavenia said. It was a white lie, but her sister had never been comfortable with Bart hanging around. She shot a look at the ghostly form of her brother-in-law, and he pointedly ignored her. Not much different than when he was alive.
“So what’s up?” Ari asked, unaware of the ethereal dynamics in the room. She pushed away the empty bowl and took a sip of the steaming coffee.
“The usual stuff.”
“Still herding souls around?” Ari asked.
Gavenia frowned. “Yes, if you must call it that.”
“Well, that’s sort of what you do, isn’t it?”
“Not really. You make me sound like a supernatural border collie.” When her sister didn’t object to that analogy, Gavenia’s irritation rose.
“Any interesting clients at present?” Ari asked.
Gavenia thought for a moment and then shook her head. “Nope. Pretty boring.” She had no desire to talk about Bradley or the Jones thing.
“So what’s up today?” Ari asked. “I thought maybe we could have lunch and go shopping.”
“I’m off to Palm Springs.” Her sister’s face brightened. “On business.”
“Oh, I see.” Ari rose, stretched, and trudged toward the doorway.
“How about dinner?” Gavenia asked, struggling to make amends.
Her sister’s response was a loud yawn.
“I’m going back to bed,” she announced. Gavenia winced at the rebuff. Ari wandered down the hall and then up the stairs, her astral entourage following her like dutiful servants.
Guilt nibbled at Gavenia, darkening her mood.
“Damn.” No matter what she did, her sister felt like a stranger.
* * *
The drive to Palm Springs hadn’t been a breeze. Usually it was a trip of a couple hours from LA, but an accident on I-10 ground traffic to a crawl and made the journey seem endless. Bart hadn’t helped. Riding shotgun, he was dressed in a black suit and gunmetal-gray tie, like a mortician. That wasn’t a positive sign. A quick sidelong glance told her he was off in his own world.
“How does a person become a Guardian? Was it something that happened right after you died, or did you have to earn that job?”
No comment, Bart replied.
“Someday you’ll have to tell me.”
But today is not that day.
Cut off from that line of thought, Gavenia fidgeted, her anxiety climbing. Acting as reluctant emissary between Gregory Alliford and his estranged wife wasn’t her notion of a good plan, but they’d little else to go on. Alliford’s attempts to talk to his wife had failed, circumvented by Janet’s formidable mother, Augusta Pearce. Now it was Gavenia’s turn to exude charm and, hopefully, return with the missing puppy. Whether the marriage survived wasn’t her problem.
“The guy on point always gets the bullets,” she murmured.
Gavenia reached for the turn signal, intending to leave the highway an exit early.
Stay on the interstate, Bart advised.
Other folks felt vague impressions that they shouldn’t do something, but she got instructions piped directly into her mind in bold type.
“I’m tired of the traffic, Bart,” she protested.
Remember Wales?
Her mind instantly conjured up the sound of grinding metal impacting stone.
“There are no flocks of sheep in LA,” she said.
But there are cement trucks.
Her previous Guardian, Emma, a sixty-something grandmother with a thick British accent and a sweet sense of humor, had been a lot more flexible. She’d not known Emma existed until the accident.
Gavenia often ignored her intuition, like that morning in Wales. The end result was that it took the rescue crew three hours to cut her out of the remnants of the rental car. Given that it had been either the stone retaining wall or plow through the mass of woolies and hit their astonished shepherd, the choice was obvious. Gavenia had veered for the wall on her side of the car, leaving the rest up to the Goddess. She’d been spared. Her boyfriend, Winston, died instantly, his disdain for seat belts exacting the ultimate toll. His soul was the first she ever saw: he’d stood by the car, urging her to hurry so that they could still make their breakfast appointment with a friend. He didn’t realize he was dead.
When she finally came to her senses in the hospital a few days later, the souls were still there. Some were in street clothes, others in hospital gowns parading through the halls pushing their IV poles. An elderly gentleman sat by her bed for the better part of a day, talking on and on about his wife and his Scottish terrier, Angus. That evening, when Gavenia mentioned him to her nurse, the doctor had promptly lowered the dosage of her pain medication. She soon realized that she was seeing and hearing things that others didn’t.
You’re a Shepherd, luv, Emma had explained when she manifested by Gavenia’s hospital bed the following morning. It’s not such a bad thing, really.
Now, nearly six months later, Gavenia still knew very little about her ability. It was a time of small, unsettling discoveries, like the mandate that didn’t allow her to push a recalcitrant soul across. A particular six-year-old came to mind.
A thought popped into her head and she eyed Bart. “You still haven’t told me why Emma isn’t my Guardian anymore. Did she get a bad review or something?”
She needed a break.
“She did fine up until a few months ago, and suddenly there you were.”
Can’t say. Rules, you know.
Gavenia ground her teeth together. She made the turn at the required exit and studied the directions while she waited at a stoplight behind a car hauler full of Jeeps. “What are my chances that Bradley’s mother is going to be helpful?”
Zip. She’s got issues.
“You’d think that seeing her son’s soul at rest would be her primary concern,” Gavenia replied caustically. It wasn’t fair to vent at Bart, but he was the only one present at the moment.
Lots of issues, was the reply. Her Guardian donned his wraparound sunglasses and leaned back in the seat as if he didn’t need to watch her driving any longer. Gavenia knew the ploy. He was effectively shutting down their conversation so she’d stop asking questions he wasn’t allowed to answer. She turned on the radio and cranked the volume. It did nothing to mitigate the anxiety bubbling in the pit of her stomach.
* * *
The woman sitting behind the massive black-walnut desk radiated authority. Her apricot silk suit complimented flawless skin and silver hair. Her fingernails were manicured to perfection, and the diamond ring on her left hand proclaimed an abundant bank account. A society matron? Someone’s beloved cookie-baking grandmother?
O’Fallon knew better. Her eyes gave her away. Most men preferred to stare at a woman’s breasts or legs. He was an eye man; if he didn’t like what he saw inside, the rest was just wrapping paper. Mrs. Pearce’s eyes spoke of cold resolve, a lack of humanity. She didn’t move to shake his hand, and O’Fallon was grateful for that. He didn’t relish any more contact than was required.
Like the Palm Springs matron, the room reflected a rigidly disciplined life. The desk was immaculate, not a mote of dust in sight, an
d a gold-rimmed china cup filled with steaming amber liquid sat in an equally exquisite saucer. Nearby a Montblanc pen and a manila folder rested on a leather blotter. The folder bore his name written in block letters. That unnerved him.
“Thank you for being prompt, Mr. O’Fallon. So many have forgotten the common courtesies,” the woman said. Her voice was low and persuasive, like that of someone accustomed to having her words taken as gospel.
“Thank you.” He waited for her to indicate that he should take a seat, but the gesture never came. Evidently the common courtesies only applied to those she perceived as her equals.
“Mrs. Samuelson recommended you. I have to admit, I’m not quite sure if you’re the best choice, but she assures me that your street contacts are most valuable.” He nodded politely at the backhanded compliment. “My son-in-law has recently become involved with a young woman.”
“Are they lovers?” he asked as he pulled out his notebook and pen. He flipped to a new page and wrote Pearce, Mrs. Augusta and underlined it, adding date, time, and location. Old habits were hard to break.
“I would assume so. She appeared right after the death of my grandson. She claims to be a psychic. I don’t hold with such nonsense.”
A slow twitch crawled up O’Fallon’s spine, like a troop of ants on safari.
Mrs. Pearce continued, oblivious to his unease. “Gregory and my daughter are separated. I want you to research this other woman and determine the nature of her relationship with my son-in-law. If she is his lover, I want photographs for the divorce proceedings. If she’s intent on swindling him by claiming to talk to the dead, I want her stopped. It is, after all, my daughter’s money as well.”
“How did your grandson die?”
The woman hesitated, and for a moment he thought he saw a crack in her armor. It vanished in a nanosecond. “It was a hit-and-run accident.”
“When did this happen?”
“Two weeks ago. Nonetheless, that is not the issue here, Mr. O’Fallon, and I do not want you sidetracked in an attempt to run up your fees.”