Omens Page 16

  How did I know this? Because the best-known article written on the Cottingley fairies was by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, published in a Christmas edition of the Strand. He'd been convinced they were real. That had been the actual subject of my master's thesis--a reanalysis of his ultralogical famous detective in light of Conan Doyle's interest in the otherworldly.

  "It looks real, doesn't it?" Rosalyn said.

  "It's a double-negative. That's the theory anyway. The girls shot a photo of the cardboard fairies and got a double-negative of the images."

  Another croaked laugh. "You have a very firm opinion on the subject, don't you?"

  "I do. I could tell you my opinion of fortune-telling, too." I turned. "I'll warn you, prognostication is wasted on me. I had my palm read once, on a lark with friends. The psychic told me I'd marry a handsome, rich man."

  "Which you were going to, were you not?"

  "Past tense. Meaning it was wrong, though I'm sure if I pointed that out, she'd say there's still time. Even if I married two ugly, poor men in a row, she could tell me there was still time."

  "It was a reasonable guess, though. She could tell you come from money. Even today, you may think you're hiding behind department store attire, but you're wearing a Cartier watch. Besides, a trained ear can pick up the softened midwestern accent that suggests private school. If you come from those circles, it is likely your husband will be wealthy."

  "And handsome?"

  "Beautiful women sometimes choose unattractive men to move up on the social ladder. Again, you don't need that. So it is a reasonable guess you will marry a man who is both wealthy and handsome."

  "She also said I'll have two children."

  Rosalyn settled into a chair at the table and motioned for me to do the same. "There she was wrong. Or relying on outdated information. The current national average is less than two. Higher socioeconomic status often results in fewer children. Based on that alone, I'd have said one. However, in your case, I'd say none."

  "Because I won't want to pass on my tainted serial-killer genes?"

  "No, because you don't like children."

  When I started to protest, she continued, "Perhaps that's too harsh. You don't dislike them. But to you, they are like parrots. Pretty to look at, fun to play with, but you wouldn't want to be saddled with that responsibility for the rest of your life."

  "That's a big leap to make for someone you just met."

  "Not really. I don't know who broke the engagement, you or James Morgan. The papers say he did. I suspect it was you. Pride, most likely. Either way, had you been eager to start a family, you would have tried to work it out. Also, you don't strike me as being particularly maternal. So I would have said no children is most likely, though I would hedge my bets by adding that there is the possibility of one later in life. What else did your fortune-teller say?"

  I shrugged. "More of the same. Things she thought I wanted to hear or things she could guess. A mix of fantasy and truth."

  "For psychics like that, it's a con job. Anyone willing to learn to read the signs can do it."

  "Not exactly a good promotion of your services, Ms. Razvan."

  "It's Walsh. Rose Walsh. Rosalyn Razvan is my professional name. In this business, people want a gypsy, not a fourth-generation Irish immigrant. You can call me Rose. As for admitting to chicanery, I was referring to psychics like the one you visited. I have the sight. I can see the futures."

  "Futures? Plural?"

  "Of course. That's the problem with most theories of prognostication. They presume a single future. You will marry a handsome, rich man and have two children. Is life so predetermined from birth to death, like a car on a fixed track, no room for detours, no allowance for free will? There are futures, Olivia. Possible outcomes based on choices. My gift is not the ability to predict you will marry a handsome, rich man, but to say, if you marry this particular handsome, rich man you will live a comfortable but constrained life. If you do not, your life will be fuller, but you will look back with regret. The choice, then, is yours."

  "More life coach than fortune-teller."

  "Yes, and I will pretend I didn't notice the sarcasm in your tone." She took a deck of well-worn tarot cards and fanned them before me.

  "Choose."

  I slid one out, still upside down.

  "Now turn it over."

  I did. It was a gorgeously rendered Victorian-era card showing a circus clown balancing on a ball, surrounded by dogs with tiny hats.

  "The fool," I murmured. "I'm afraid to ask what that means."

  "That's not how this works. I don't interpret the card. You do. When you first saw it, your reaction was dismay."

  "I didn't mean--"

  "You're afraid of being played for a fool. Take another."

  I shook my head.

  "Too revealing?" she said. "You're uncomfortable sharing emotional reactions."

  "No, I just--"

  "You are." She scooped up the cards. "Now take another."

  I did.

  A half hour later, Rose said, "I believe our time is almost up." She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and checked it. "Yes, my next appointment will be here soon."

  "So where's my reading? Oh, wait. I have to pay for that, right?"

  "I already did the reading. I read you. Now you need to ask me a question."

  "I don't have any."

  She met my gaze. "Really? I doubt that, under the circumstances."

  "If you expect me to ask whether Pamela and Todd Larsen are really serial killers, I'm not going to."

  "Good, because I have no idea. Even if I did, my answer would mean nothing to you. First, you don't believe I have the sight anyway. Second, you would presume, whatever I say, that I have an ulterior motive. In this you need to find your own answer. I can simply help you with the smaller questions. When you have one, come back." She stood. "My first answer will be at no cost. After that the price will escalate as I prove my worth. In the meantime, let me offer some free advice. You need protection."

  I thought of Gabriel in the park, rubbing the griffin's head. "Against plague?" I hooked my thumb at the Cottingley photo. "Or fairies?"

  That had her cracking a smile. "You never know when a plague may strike, Olivia. They say it'll be any day now. And plagues come in many forms. As do fairies. I could offer you an amulet or crystal or other protective talisman. But you'd only stick it in a drawer. For now, I'll focus on the more prosaic dangers and strongly suggest you buy a gun."

  "A gun?"

  "Yes, a gun. Now--"

  The doorbell buzzed.

  "Well, it seems my next appointment is early. Would you mind letting him in when you go?"

  She left the room before I could answer. I headed for the front door. Aside from that earlier bullying about Gabriel, the visit hadn't been nearly as bad as I'd feared. Now, I could only hope she'd let him know I'd visited and that would provide just the excuse he needed to take another run at me.

  I opened the front door ... and there stood the man himself.

  Chapter Thirty

  "Ms. Razvan will be with you in a moment, sir," I said. "Please take a seat in the parlor."

  I made a move to slip past him. Useless, of course. If Gabriel Walsh wanted to block a doorway, he just needed to stand there.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  "Yes," he said. "My aunt let me know you were coming. I'd like to speak to you."

  "Fine. I charge in fifteen-minute increments. Hundred bucks each."

  "That would be my profession. For yours..." He dug loose change from his pocket.

  "Is that suppose to be a tip? Don't expect more than five minutes of my time, and I'll forget half your order and spill coffee on your sleeve."

  A twitch of a smile. He pulled out a twenty. When I took it, he looked surprised.

  I shoved the bill into my pocket. "You have fifteen minutes. Walk and talk. I need the exercise."

  As I'd expected, he was still hell-bent on selling me his services
. While most lawyers hire private investigators, Gabriel's methods were irregular--in other words, not always legal or ethical--so he undertook the fieldwork himself.

  Next came the list of credentials. His success rate was excellent, which may be a little disconcerting, considering he specialized in cases others wouldn't touch. As my research had already revealed, he was best known as the lawyer for Satan's Saints, a Chicago biker gang with a record so clean it was the envy of Illinois' homegrown Outlaws.

  If the hard sell didn't convince me he really wanted the job, he sealed it by offering to negotiate a reduced rate. He claimed it was only fair, as success would benefit him as well.

  "Yes," I said as we walked toward the empty school yard. "But I don't need to solve this. I won't spend a day in jail or owe a dollar in fines if I don't hire a lawyer. It's pure curiosity and self-interest, and I won't blow my trust fund on that. For starters, I want a sliding scale."

  "A--?"

  "Sliding scale. Your aunt offered me one for her services."

  "My aunt and I are hardly in the same line of--"

  "A matter of opinion. I want one day of your time for free. Then the rate will increase on a predetermined schedule, as you prove your worth."

  His brows shot up. "Prove my--?"

  "Yes. You won't use your usual scale of billable hours, either. I'm not paying fifteen minutes for a two-minute phone call or thirty for an e-mail."

  "That's standard practice--"

  "--in a law firm where the partners are breathing down your neck, making sure you put in eighty billable hours a week. You're your own boss. You can set your own rates. I want real-time charges, and I don't want you doing anything that I could do myself--phone calls, e-mails, letters, library research--unless we've agreed to it in advance."

  "I believe you're overestimating my interest in this case, Ms. Jones."

  I met his gaze. Hard to do when he was still wearing his shades, but I approximated. "No, I don't think I am."

  His lips pressed together. Annoyed with himself for tipping his hand.

  When I'd looked up Gabriel online, his work record suggested he was no more than thirty. In other words, he might act like a seasoned professional, but he wasn't really. More of a quick study, passing the bar, then attacking his job with a single-minded ferocity that earned him a reputation fast. Young enough that he could screw up and act rashly.

  "Those are my terms," I said. "I'll give you a minute to consider them."

  I wandered over to the fence, gripped the cool metal mesh, and peered into the school yard. Picture-book quaint, like most of Cainsville. A small enclosure with a bright colored play structure, freshly mown grass, and asphalt decorated with a chalk hopscotch court. I didn't think anyone played hopscotch anymore.

  A sprinkler turned on. It was dry here, the warm spring having sucked up any moisture from the other day's storm. Yet right under the fence a line of darker colored soil looked damp.

  I bent and touched the line. No, it was dry. Just darker. I rubbed my fingers together. Brownish-red. Odd.

  "Thinking of taking up gardening?"

  I stood as Gabriel walked over. "Maybe. Depends on if I get my murder investigation or not."

  "And that depends on what you're willing to pay for it." He waved to a bench outside the fence. "Let's discuss that."

  ----

  I suspect that my terms cost me any "discount" he'd originally been willing to give. I tried to dicker, of course. He stood firm, and the set of his jaw told me he wasn't budging. It was, admittedly, a fair price for his services.

  So I agreed.

  "Good." He tucked his shades into his suit-coat pocket. "We'll begin tomorrow. I have an idea where we can start. I'll call you in the morning."

  He started to stand.

  "One more thing..." I said.

  His shoulders tightened.

  "I want a gun," I said.

  He turned slowly and looked down at me. "A gun?"

  "It was your aunt's idea."

  A faint sigh.

  "Hey, you wanted me to talk to her."

  "No, I believe I said--"

  "Don't talk to her, which you knew would make me talk to her, so in the event that I didn't take you up on your offer, you'd have a second crack at me."

  "You give me too much credit, Olivia."

  "No, I don't think I do. Anyway, she's right. I'm the daughter of two very unpopular people. I should have a gun."

  "And you think I can provide it?"

  "Ask your biker gang buddies."

  "They prefer the term 'motorcycle club.'"

  "I'm sure they do."

  He leaned farther into the bench, lips pursed. "While I'm not against such a thing in theory, I'd need to provide lessons, too. Otherwise, I'm liable to lose my client to a fatal gun cleaning incident before she ever sees her trust fund."

  "How much will you charge for those lessons?"

  He considered. "A hundred dollars each. Discounted because it's in my best interest to keep you from shooting yourself."

  "Fine. I want a gun I can put in my purse. Small, reliable, and cheap."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  Gabriel called at eight thirty the next morning, as I was in the clothing store looking for jogging sweats.

  "I've arranged our first appointment," he said.

  I flipped through a stack of pink T-shirts. Were they all pink?

  "Who is it?"

  "Jan Gunderson's sister."

  "Anna?" Damn it. My one lead and he already had her contact information. And I was sure he hadn't needed to break into an apartment with a dead body to get it. Figures.

  He continued, "You'll pose as my intern. Dress--"

  "Businesslike. I know. Unless we're interviewing hookers or bikers, that'll be my default. If we do interview hookers and bikers, warn me in advance, because I have nothing to wear." I looked around the shop. Fifty percent polyester. Fifty percent loungewear. "And I won't find it in Cainsville."

  "Jeans and a T-shirt would suffice for such situations."

  I'd been joking. Was he? I honestly couldn't tell.

  He continued, "Business wear for this one, but dowdy."

  "Dowdy?"

  "Frumpy. Plain. No makeup. Tie your hair back if you can."

  "What is she, Amish?" I found a navy and white sweat suit in my size and pulled it out.

  "Just do it, Olivia. I'm in court this morning. The interview is at noon. I'll--"

  "I work at three. I'll need to be back by then."

  A pause. "So you intend to keep playing server, even though you have something else to occupy your time?"

  I gripped the phone tighter. "I'm not playing anything. It's my job."

  "You have an Ivy League education, and you're working in a diner."

  "That's not your concern."

  "It is if it interferes with this investigation. I have a job, too, Ms. Jones. You cannot expect me to work around your schedule when with one call to your adoptive mother, you could solve your insolvency."

  "No." I took the sweat suit into the change room. "You're right about the scheduling, though. We'll work it out."

  "We'll see. Be ready at eleven." Before I could argue, he said, "I can dictate to my secretary on the drive there, so it isn't lost time. I'll bill you a hundred dollars flat fee each way."

  Which meant it was roughly the same cost as a cab. And the cab would not be a luxury sports car.

  I agreed, hung up, and went to try on the sweat suit.

  I was sitting on the front steps when Gabriel pulled up to the curb. He put down the passenger window and lowered his shades to look at me. I tried to open the door. It was still locked.

  "I thought we talked about your appearance," he said.

  "I have one business suit. This is it. My hair is too short to pin up."

  "Makeup?"

  "Not wearing any," I said. "I'm twenty-four. I don't need to trowel it on."

  He nudged his shades up and opened the car door. I got in.
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  As he peeled from the curb, he said, "Your hair color is washing out."

  "Yes, apparently, I bought temporary dye by accident. I'll get the proper stuff."

  "Don't bother. It isn't helping."

  I glanced over.

  "The cut, the color, and the glasses are useless. To anyone who has seen the photographs, you are obviously Eden Larsen in hiding." He turned onto Main Street. "Do you want to look like Eden Larsen in hiding?"

  "No."

  "Then I'd suggest you don't bother with the rest. Your features are too strong to disguise yourself with anything short of plastic surgery. And as long as you insist on playing poor, you can't afford plastic surgery."

  I wasn't touching that. "Is that why you insisted on the dowdy disguise today? In hopes Jan Gunderson's sister won't recognize me?"

  "Partly. I'm hoping that the families of victims will avoid the articles." He paused. "The exception, of course, being Niles Gunderson. I hear you've already encountered him."

  I tried not to react. I must have given something away, though, because he glanced over.

  "Yes, I'm sure that was unpleasant. Being attacked in your home. But the man is mentally unstable. Everyone knows that, including the journalist--or more likely Internet blogger--who alerted him that night. He clearly did it hoping for exactly the kind of scene he got."

  I cleared my throat. "Maybe there's another reason he"--I stopped myself before referring to Niles in the past tense --"is unstable. The family closed ranks after Christian killed himself. Presumably because they thought he'd been innocent. What if Niles knew he wasn't?"

  "And was driven mad by guilt?"

  "Maybe. I know what it's like to have a serial killer in your gene pool. But at least I can say I'm not responsible for what the Larsens did. If it's your child who is the killer? Not only could it be in your genes, but you might have done something to make him commit murder."

  Gabriel murmured something that could be agreement.

  I reclined my seat and closed my eyes, and he turned up the stereo--Haydn this time--and accelerated onto the highway.

  Anna Gunderson lived in an older suburb of North Chicago, a once-separate town, swallowed by urban sprawl. According to Gabriel, she'd moved there with her daughter after a recent divorce. She had a small bungalow with frilly curtains in every window. On the door hung a handcrafted welcome sign adorned with red flowers. There were more flowers in every garden. Lawn cutting service truck out front, young guy unloading a mower. He stared at the Jag as Gabriel pulled in.