Tangled Souls (10 page)

O’Fallon knew the pattern from his years on the force. When someone couldn’t stand up to a bully, they found other ways to displace that aggression.
Boxing the man
, he called it. It was a no-win scenario.
The man
always won.

He cranked his attention back to the shop. By his watch, Ms. Kingsgrave had been in Crystal Horizons for over thirty minutes. It appeared that selecting the proper witchy supplies wasn’t a slam dunk.

He tapped his foot in time to the radio as he balanced his checkbook, his gaze periodically bouncing from the numbers to the shop like a jack-in-the-box. Pleased with the balance he’d calculated, he tucked his checkbook away and started fiddling with the radio.

His cell phone rang and he snagged it off the seat, eager for the distraction. The caller ID gave him hope.

“O’Fallon.”

“Doug, it’s Kathryn.”

A lusty smile crossed his face. “Changed your mind about tonight?” he asked. He crossed the fingers on his free hand.

“No.”

Disappointment arced through him as the fingers snapped apart. “You sure you can’t drop by for a little while? That way you’ll be nice and relaxed for your meeting.”

A low chuckle, a moment’s hesitation, and then, “No, I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Is he cute?” he asked perversely. Kathryn was too pretty not to attract other suitors, despite the fact she spent the majority of her time elbow deep in corpses.

“Sort of, but . . .” She sighed as if realizing she’d been mouse-trapped. “That’s not the situation, Doug. It’s just business.”

He struggled to keep his voice mellow. “I understand. Just don’t forget me, okay? Seamus misses you.”

“Oh, right,” she chuckled. “I’m headed out of town later this week, so it’ll be some time before I can call again.”

Now she’s going out of town.
Was it with the guy she was meeting tonight?

“Have a safe trip.” He flipped the phone shut and shook his head. His lovers always came on strong and then faded long before the finish line. Only Seamus would be pleased when it ended. He wasn’t fond of O’Fallon’s paramours, Dr. Kathryn Bergstrom included. At least he hadn’t bitten her.

A sharp rap on the window startled him, and he nearly dropped the phone. As he reached for another dollar in his front pocket, he hesitated. This wasn’t a bum, not with that hair. His inattention had cost him the stakeout.

“Dammit,” he muttered. He hauled himself out of the car and leaned on the open door. He noted she remained on the other side, using it as a shield. In the distance, a woman stood outside the New Age shop, phone in hand, watching the scene intently. Ms. Kingsgrave had come with backup.

Street savvy. Point for the witch.

The frown on his quarry’s face appeared genuine, and she gripped the cane between her two hands like a weapon, her right hand exhibiting a coarse tremor. Her eyes were more vivid in person, with a depth he’d not anticipated. High cheeks—natural, not cosmetic—full lips, and honey-wheat hair. A striking young woman.

“Why are you following me?” she demanded.

He refocused on the question, away from those eyes.

“That’s what I was hired to do. I’m a private detective.”

“You have proof of that?” He politely handed over a business card. She took it in an unsteady hand and gave it a cursory glance. “Anyone can print a business card. I want to see your license.” This one was cautious. He pulled out his wallet and displayed the license. She studied it and then nodded as if satisfied on that point.

“Who hired you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry, client confidentiality.”

The frown deepened. He thought he could see the pale outline of a scar just above her left ear where it disappeared into her hair. A souvenir of the car accident?

“Why were you in Palm Springs?” she asked.

He hedged. “What makes you think I was in Palm Springs?”

“Because I saw your car at Mrs. Pearce’s. It was back by the carriage house.”

“There are a lot of beige Chevys in LA.”

“Not with an
Irish Make Better Lovers
bumper sticker and a rusty dent on the left rear fender.”

He mentally cursed. He’d been meaning to remove that sticker, a holdover from Shirley.

By his count the witch was two for two. He offered a conciliatory grin, hoping to disarm her anger. “You got me,” he said, spreading his hands.

She returned the cane to the ground and then signaled to Viv. Her friend waved back and disappeared into the shop.

“A bit skittish, aren’t we, Ms. Kingsgrave?” he asked.

When she glared at him, he made sure to smile back. He could tell she was assessing him, making note of his off-the-rack clothes, the lack of a ring on his left hand and the fact he wore a simple watch.

That’s right. I’m not a threat.

That was exactly what he wanted her to believe.

“Why did Mrs. Pearce hire you?” she asked.

“Since you’ve tagged me, I might as well be honest. Mrs. Pearce has concerns that you might not be on the level.”

“She’s not helping the situation. All she needs to do is tell us where Merlin is.”

“I find it hard to believe you drove all the way to Palm Springs looking for a dog.”

“That’s exactly what I did. Do you know where he is?”

He shook his head. “Why is the mutt so important?”

She delivered a smirk. “Sorry, client confidentiality, Mr.”—she studied his business card—“O’ . . . Fallon.”

“It’s a good Irish name,” he said, frowning.

She gave him an astonished look. “Really? I never would have guessed.”

They glowered at each other until a couple of bums began an argument, something to do with the rights to a particular patch of cracked pavement. Their voices grew more raucous, and a third transient intervened.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” O’Fallon commented, and gave a low sigh. Another check of those eyes; they were darker now, more intense, the sea at midnight.

“Are you going to keep following me?” she asked.

“That would be pointless. If you’re trying to hide something, you’ll just alter your routine. I’ll do my research in other ways.”

“Or you’ll just change cars.”

“You have a devious mind.”
And a lot quicker than most.

“I suspect that’s a compliment coming from you,” she snipped. “Why don’t you just ask what you want to know?”

You called it.
“What are you up to with Gregory Alliford? Are you two lovers?”

She blinked in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “No, we’re not lovers. I don’t sleep with my clients.”

“So what is it you do for your clients?” he asked.

“I am a psychic. I read tarot cards and I’m a medium.” Her expression turned guarded, as if she felt she’d revealed too much. “I promise I have their best interests at heart. I’ll do nothing that will harm Mr. Alliford or his son.”

She spoke of the child as if he were still alive. He furrowed his brow. “If you’re scamming him, I’ll find out.”

“Is that what Mrs. Pearce thinks?”

“She thinks it’s a possibility.”

“I’m not surprised she’d see it that way. Mommie Dreadful views the world as her own private kingdom and Goddess help anyone who tells her ‘no.’”

The witch had pegged his client precisely.

“So how much do you charge for conjuring up a spirit?” he asked.

“I don’t conjure them. They come of their own free will. I only accept what my client wishes to pay, and that goes to charity. My psychic gift doesn’t line my pockets.”

“Your gift?” He leaned forward on the door, causing it to squeak in protest. “Don’t you mean your imagination?”

His challenge seemed to threaten her. “We’re done,” she said, stepping back. Her left leg wobbled, and she had to lean against the car to regain her balance.

“That’s from the accident, isn’t it?”

Color flooded her cheeks and her breathing grew uneven, as though he’d invoked an ancient curse. He watched her struggle for control, seeking clues as to what hidden weakness he’d targeted.

“How did you—”

“I’m an investigator,” he cut in, pressing the advantage. “It’s my job to know things.”

Her eyes shot brilliant blue. “You have no right digging into my life!”

“I have every right, especially if you’re running a game on Gregory Alliford.”

“I am not scamming him,” she retorted. She took two quick breaths in an attempt to throttle down her anger. “You don’t believe in psychics, do you?”

“Consider me . . . unconvinced.”

“Then what will it take to convince you so you’ll leave me alone and let me do my work?”

Gotcha.
He barely kept the grin off his face.

“Let’s see . . .” A thought leaped into his mind. “Tell me about my father.” That would settle it. She’d come up with some nonsensical patter, and he could report back to Mrs. Pearce that the woman was a flake. After he’d determined if she was working over Alliford’s finances or his libido—or both.

As she stared over his left shoulder, he twitched, fighting the urge to turn. She nodded, more to herself than him.

“I see a short man with auburn hair standing next to you.” She listened for a moment and then added, “He’s got a thick Irish brogue.”

O’Fallon shook his head. “That’s easy enough to guess. I’ve got an accent, and the hair color is too obvious. You’ll have to do better than that.” He expected her to react in righteous indignation, but she didn’t. She was fixated, as if listening to a voice he couldn’t hear. Her pale eyebrows arched upward.

“He’s smoking a carved pipe. His mustache is big and wide. He has a merry laugh.” Her eyes reached his, and O’Fallon saw immense sadness. “He says his name is Patrick, and he’s missing his left arm.”

O’Fallon’s heart beat double.

She took a shuddering breath. “He says he’s thankful you didn’t go to the pub that day, that you stayed home and worked on the model airplane. He says it turned out really nice and he liked it that you put it in the coffin for him.”

O’Fallon’s jaw went slack. He sucked in a deep breath, his heart pummeling inside his chest.

She continued, oblivious to his reaction. “He says he didn’t feel anything; it was just over.” A faint smile appeared on her face. “He loves you and is proud of what you do. He wants you to know.”

O’Fallon reached into his pants pocket, fumbled for his rosary, and clutched it tightly, winding it around his right hand. The crucifix cut into his palm. How could she have known about the model airplane, the one he was building the morning his father died? Only his gran knew about the Corsair and that he’d placed it in the coffin.

“Blessed Mary,” he murmured, and crossed himself, closing his eyes against the onslaught of memories.

A car bomb on Easter Sunday had cost his dad his left arm. Always in good humor, he’d joked that God was intending to take him home in bits and pieces. The explosion at the pub a year later ensured there wasn’t enough of him left to bury, but they’d put what they could find in a coffin and sent him to ground, along with the Corsair.

By the time O’Fallon regained his senses, the witch was no longer in front of him. She hadn’t taken the opportunity to gloat, to demand he drop his investigation—just delivered the bombshell and walked away as if she’d told him the time of day. His mind raced with questions, but he was rooted to the pavement. In truth, he feared what answers he might hear.

She paused by a cluster of bums, bending over, her golden braid swooping forward as she dropped coins into their cups. After sharing a few words with each one and darting a quick glance in his direction, she continued her journey to her car.

“My God, how did she know that?” He crossed himself again, his hand shaking, and kissed the crucifix.

As the red car pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic, he murmured, “Round One to the witch.”