He frowned in aggravation. “I don’t pad my fees, Mrs. Pearce.”
“Everyone inflates their fees. If you don’t, then you’re a fool.” She paused and added, “Just don’t attempt it with me.”
“If you don’t trust me, then you shouldn’t hire me,” he said bluntly.
“You have to earn my respect, Mr. O’Fallon.”
“As you have to earn mine.”
She studied him, a slight furrow between the thinly tweezed brows. “Mrs. Samuelson said you could be quite willful.”
He spread his hands and delivered a wry grin, allowing the woman to believe she was the alpha in the room. They continued to analyze each other, like lawyers before a high-profile case. In the distance, the door chime sounded, followed by muffled voices.
A tap on the door interrupted the standoff.
“Come,” she ordered. The maid hurried to Mrs. Pearce’s side, offering her apology along the way. She whispered something that caused one of the matron’s silver eyebrows to rise.
“Put her in the sunroom. Do not mention this gentleman’s presence, do you understand?”
“Yes, madam. Serve her tea or—”
“No,” Mrs. Pearce barked. “She doesn’t deserve hospitality.” Startled, the domestic nodded her understanding and, after a quick glance toward O’Fallon, hustled from the room, shutting the door.
Mrs. Pearce returned her cold gaze to him. “Your timing is fortuitous, Mr. O’Fallon. The individual I wish investigated has arrived on my doorstep. Ms. Kingsgrave wants to talk to Janet, though I have no idea why.”
He scribbled the young woman’s name in his notebook, followed by a question mark.
“Does your daughter know her?” he asked.
“Not that I am aware.” She seemed on the verge of adding something. Instead, she responded, “Will you take the case?”
“Yes, as long as you understand I will work it my way.”
Mrs. Pearce tapped a finely lacquered fingernail on the leather blotter and then nodded her approval.
“You have one week,” she said.
“When you talk to Ms. Kingsgrave, is there some way I can overhear the conversation?”
A faint smile came his way. “I’ll arrange it.” She handed him the file. Inside he found his retainer check, enough for one week at the going rate. She’d been so sure of herself she’d cut the check before he arrived.
As he riffled through the other papers, he found a picture of a woman in her late thirties, apparently the one currently waiting somewhere within the confines of the Pearce mansion. She was climbing out of a red sports car, her movement aided by a cane. Her honey-blond hair fell in waves to her waist. Despite the distance from the camera, he saw her eyes were a deep shade of sea blue.
“Is this the woman?” he asked, holding up the photo.
Mrs. Pearce nodded. “I have no idea how Gregory came in contact with such a person.”
O’Fallon quickly skimmed the folder’s contents. He found a credit report and the subject’s vital statistics: full name, address, birth date, telephone number. All easily obtained if one was Internet savvy. He knew what he was seeing, and it aggravated him.
“I’m not the first investigator on this case, am I?”
Mrs. Pearce shook her head. “I’ve had my son-in-law watched for some time now. However, you’re the first licensed investigator I’ve hired. Nevertheless, I assure you, you won’t be the last if you don’t deliver. Do we have an understanding?”
He slapped the folder closed, his Irish pride urging him to tell the self-centered bitch to go to hell. He hesitated and opened the folder again. Something about the case called to him.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, pushing the check out of the way to study the face of his potential quarry.
Mrs. Pearce nodded and permitted herself a knowing smile. “Money always talks,” she said smugly.
Not in this case, he thought. This time it was the sea-blue eyes.
Chapter Five
The sunroom was pleasant, but isolated. By Gavenia’s watch she’d been waiting for almost a quarter of an hour, her patience evaporating as the minutes crawled by. It appeared that Mr. Alliford had not smoothed the way. Only sheer stubbornness and the image of little Bradley hugging his bear kept her rooted in place.
To pass the time, she studied the exquisite Italian marble floor tiles, sampled the fragrances of the various potted roses set artfully around the room, then sat by the small fountain and let the water play off her fingers. Above her, the silken whoosh of twin ceiling fans generated a light breeze.
Nowhere during her long trek through the massive house did she encounter the telltale signs of a dog. Puppies made a great deal of racket and an equal amount of mess. Her heart told her Merlin wasn’t here or, at best, was banished to an outside kennel. As she thought this over, Bart appeared, sitting next to her on the long rattan couch as if they were waiting in a dentist’s office.
“Is the dog here?” she asked.
No.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was a wasted trip?”
You didn’t ask.
“Yes, I did.”
No, you asked if Bradley’s mother was going to be helpful.
“And if I had asked about the dog?”
He shook his head. It was your decision. It’s not up to me to always tell you what to do.
She glared. “You seem to do a damned good job of it when you choose.”
He returned the glare and promptly vanished.
“Goddess,” she muttered. First she’d pissed off her sister, and now her Guardian. The way things were going, her meeting with Janet Alliford was doomed.
She fell to self-grooming, selecting a long lock of her wavy hair for scrutiny. Its thick nature gave it a tendency to knot, especially at the back of her neck, and plucking apart the strands helped her relax. Some folks took medication or had psychotherapy; she unraveled her hair. Cheap and never-ending entertainment.
Bart reappeared, watching as she untangled one particularly stubborn clump.
“You’re very quiet today,” she observed.
Nothing much to say.
Gavenia frowned. Bartholomew Quickens was the master of banal banter. Why the sudden change?
“What’s up?” she quizzed.
Bart was saved from a reply when the maid opened the door and beckoned. After another long hike, Gavenia found herself in the front foyer. Her temper flared. If they thought she was just going to leave . . .
The maid halted, gesturing for her to wait. “Mrs. Pearce come soon,” the woman said.
“Thank you,” Gavenia replied. The domestic was young, her eyes glancing up and down in a nervous fashion. “Have you worked here for very long?”
“No. She is . . .” The maid’s eyes darted toward a closed door and fell silent.
Gavenia gave her a knowing smile. “Comprendo.” I understand.
The maid smiled in return, clearly pleased that Gavenia had used her native language. “It is . . . difficult—” She stopped short when a door opened and an older woman entered the foyer, marching toward them with firm steps.
She appeared to be in her sixties. Her jewelry was gold, the real stuff, and her hair was a striking shade of silver. There was no welcome in her eyes as she approached.
Gavenia forced a polite smile.
“I’m Gavenia Kingsgrave,” she said, extending her hand. It trembled in midair, and she struggled for control. The tremors increased.
The woman ignored the outstretched hand. “I’m Mrs. Pearce,” the woman said. “Janet’s mother,” she added as if it was an afterthought.
Gavenia dropped the arm to her side, hiding her fluttering fingers behind her long skirt. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’d like to talk to your daughter for a few minutes.”
“She does not wish to see you.”
“Well, perhaps you can help me. Mr. Alliford has asked me to pick up Merlin.”
“Who is Merlin?”
Conf
used, Gavenia pressed on. “He’s Bradley’s dog. I would like to take him with me back to—”
“I don’t keep a dog,” was the solemn reply.
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
Gavenia hesitated, disconcerted. When it appeared the woman didn’t intend to add anything further, she asked, “Didn’t Mr. Alliford call you?”
Mrs. Pearce adopted a stern expression. “He’s called repeatedly, babbling some nonsense about ghosts and about you, in particular. I don’t take what he says very seriously,” she said, punctuating a dismissive gesture.
The rebuke struck home.
“I’m a . . . counselor, Mrs. Pearce, and I’m trying to help Mr. Alliford cope with the death of your grandson. It’s very important that we—”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Gregory said you were a psychic. I can only imagine what that means.”
Gavenia felt warmth rise in her cheeks. “If you are suggesting that—”
“I shall be blunt—the last thing my son-in-law needs is someone like you. It would be better if he received professional treatment for his delusions and his juvenile craving for alcohol.” The woman gestured toward the double doors. “I have no further time for you.”
Gavenia opened her mouth to protest, but Bart overrode her.
Cut your losses. She doesn’t care. He was leaning next to a large potted ficus, his sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.
Gavenia decided to give it one last shot. “Please ask your daughter about Merlin. It’s very important we find him.”
The matron gave her an icy glare. “I sincerely doubt that. If you have any sense, you’ll stop troubling my son-in-law, or you will sincerely regret your interference.” She turned toward the maid. “Ensure she leaves immediately.”
Mrs. Pearce strode from the entryway, and the door closed soundly behind her, generating an echo in the cavernous foyer.
The maid stood wide-eyed, breathing in little gasps.
Gavenia asked in a lowered voice, “¿Hizo a Señora Alliford trae un perro con ella de Los Ángeles?” Did Mrs. Alliford bring a dog with her from Los Angeles?
The domestic’s eyes widened again as she gave a quick negative shake of her head.
On a hunch, Gavenia tried another query. “¿Señora Alliford ha estado aquí en los últimos días?” Has Mrs. Alliford been here in the last few days?
The maid looked toward the closed door. “No.”
“Muchas gracias,” Gavenia said. A moment before she crossed the threshold into the bright sunshine, she added, “Buena suerte.” Good luck.
“Gracias,” the maid replied as she closed the doors behind Gavenia.
Bart was in the car waiting for her. Gavenia seethed as she negotiated the long circular drive, passing the greenhouse and then the carriage house.
“What is it with these people?” she demanded, glowering at her Guardian. “Why in the hell didn’t that woman tell me her daughter wasn’t there? Why act like everything is Gregory’s problem?”
Bart shrugged, and Gavenia’s anger exploded. “Why am I being stonewalled about a damned mutt?”
Her Guardian waited until they reached the first stoplight before he answered. Because Merlin knows everything.
* * *
O’Fallon bird-dogged the subject of his investigation through the dense traffic on the way back to LA. Fortunately, the red Miata was easy to track. Knowing he’d need a great deal more information on Ms. Kingsgrave than a credit report and a photograph, he put in a couple of phone calls to get the ball rolling. Once traffic settled down to a more tolerable flow, he popped in a worn CD and immersed himself in the stirring melodies of his favorite Celtic band. The songs always reminded him of home, of what he’d left behind when he’d immigrated to New York as a teenager. Now he was a hybrid, a true Irish-American. His accent had dulled around the edges, but his heart still straddled two countries. Increasingly, Ireland exhibited a stronger pull than California.
He was due a trip home; his gran was in her nineties and growing increasingly frail. Her time would come soon enough, though he couldn’t imagine losing her. He called her every Sunday, flew home as often as possible, and made sure she had everything she needed, including a live-in companion. Guilt still gnawed at him. He allowed himself a long sigh. He’d go to Ireland when these two cases were finished. If he was lucky, he could be there in time for Easter.
O’Fallon shifted positions on the seat. He’d not taken the opportunity to doff his jacket before jumping into the car, worried he might lose his quarry, and now he regretted that haste. He shifted in his seat one last time and then accepted that he was going to be miserable, at least until he knew precisely where Ms. Kingsgrave was headed. If she took either of the next two exits, she was headed home. That he doubted; he’d already placed a mental bet it would be Bel Air and the grieving father’s bed.
As if to mock him, the Miata’s right turn signal flashed. A pang of disappointment shot through him.
Maybe they aren’t lovers.
Time would tell. If the couple were scorching the sheets, getting a photo of them in the middle of a horizontal counseling session might prove difficult, despite the fact that most people were reckless during the throes of mindless lust. He’d caught one man with his teenage lover at the tenth hole of the golf course at three in the morning. In divorce court, the man swore he was just improving his putt. His practice session had cost him a hefty alimony.
What was that nonsense about a dog? The Kingsgrave woman seemed so fixated on it. Was the canine a pawn, a control issue between Alliford and his estranged wife? If so, why involve a third party? Didn’t Alliford have the balls to confront his mother-in-law?
“Probably not,” he muttered.
O’Fallon glanced at the dashboard clock—just after four. He had sufficient time to swing by the bank, deposit Mrs. Pearce’s check, and then speak with Guadalupe Alvarez, the maid at the Hotel LeClaire. Perhaps she’d be able to narrow the field of potential rosary thieves. If he was lucky, it was the hotel manager. He’d cheerfully work over that loser.
When the red sports car vanished down the off ramp, he thumbed the button on his portable voice recorder and made note of the time. Ms. Kingsgrave would come under closer scrutiny tomorrow.
* * *
It was moments like these that O’Fallon deeply regretted he’d never learned much Spanish. Mrs. Alvarez peered at him nervously above the security chain, clutching a tissue in a thin hand. Two small boys peeked around her, staring upward in fear as if he might devour them at any moment. The instant the woman saw his PI license, her lip began to quiver. Belatedly, he realized how frightening he must appear: a gringo in a suit, an unknown menace who could crush this family’s dreams in the name of bureaucracy. Trust came dear in the Hispanic community.
“I have . . . green card,” she said haltingly.
“I’m sure you do. I wanted to talk to you about the Hotel LeClaire.”
“I not work today. I am . . . fired,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, frowning.
“The manager say to steal and give to him. I say no.”
O’Fallon sighed. “You did right.”
Mrs. Alvarez did not reply. Her worried expression told him she was at war with her decision, as honesty didn’t always put food on the table.
“Did you see the rosary in the dead boy’s hand?”
She nodded and then crossed herself. Her roughened fingers tore the tissue as she shifted it from one hand to the other. A thin silver wedding band graced her left ring finger.
“It’s missing.”
“Gone?” she asked. One of her small sons tugged on her skirt and asked a question in Spanish. The maid shook her head and he fell silent. “I did not take.”
“I know you didn’t. Do you think the manager did?” he asked.
“No.”
“It was still there when the cops arrived?”
The woman bit her lip. She glanced down the hall and
then slid back the security chain and beckoned him inside. The two boys scooted out of the way, watching his every move.
“Thank you.”
She closed the door behind him. The apartment, small and sparsely decorated, was the antithesis of the Palm Springs mansion he’d visited earlier. A tiny fish tank sat in the corner with a solitary resident. Children’s schoolbooks lay open on the kitchen table, tablets and pencils nearby. He’d already noted the pair of men’s work boots by the front door and a small framed wedding picture on the wall. An immigrant family starting anew, like many of his relatives a century before.
O’Fallon sat in a threadbare chair and waited for his hostess to settle on the couch. Her sons huddled at her feet, still watching him with those dark eyes. “I know this is hard for you.” More silence. “I won’t say who told me, Mrs. Alvarez. I just want the boy’s mother to have his rosary. I’m sure you understand.”
The woman looked down at her children and smoothed the younger one’s hair in a loving gesture. The little boy had a picture book at his feet filled with colorful dinosaurs.
“I’ve spoken to the manager. He’s a . . .” O’Fallon hesitated. He couldn’t use that word in front of the children. “He’s not a good man.”
The woman looked away, her eyes unreadable.
“It was there . . . in his hands, then gone,” she admitted. Their eyes met and he knew he’d get nothing further. She was too frightened.
“I understand, Mrs. Alvarez.” All too well.
O’Fallon rose and placed two twenty-dollar bills on the small kitchen table, twice his usual gratuity for information. He penciled a name and address on the back of one of his business cards, placing the card near the money. Tapping it with his finger, he said, “This is another hotel, one that will pay better. It’s on a bus line, so you don’t need a car. Talk to the housekeeper. Tell her I sent you.”
Mrs. Alvarez looked stunned. “Gracias a Dios,” she murmured.
As he reached the apartment door, she intercepted him, lightly touching his forearm in gratitude. A soft smile graced her face. O’Fallon wondered how often that happened.