Tangled Souls (6 page)

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, and 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.”

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.

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.”