Tangled Souls (7 page)

“Who is Merlin?”

Confused, 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.

“Thank you for your help,” he replied.

Three flights of stairs later he reached the street, where a couple of boys were playing basketball. It was so different from his childhood—big-city LA, small-town Ireland. He’d grown up innocent, believing that everyone loved him, that the world was a fair place. The bomb blast that killed his father had shattered those illusions, taught him the world was an unholy place filled with bastards who would murder you just because you were different from them.

Shaking off his melancholy, he hiked to the car, passing a pair of young Latinas in tight black capri pants and T-shirts. One giggled and said something to the other. He caught the word
pelirrojo
, “red,” no doubt in reference to his hair. He hoped the rest was a compliment.

O’Fallon sat in his car for some time, watching the boys in the street. No matter how much he hoped, the trail of the missing rosary kept pointing toward the cops. He turned the key in the ignition.

“At least it’s stopped raining.”

* * *

Though Gavenia purposely chose her sister’s favorite restaurant, seeking a neutral location that wouldn’t add to the stress of the evening, unease sat between them like an unwanted dinner companion. She and Ari chatted about the weather and LA traffic. Then they moved on to the astronomical cost of British housing. Superficial social conversation, nothing that dug into the marrow of their private pain.

Gavenia toyed with her dinner, her appetite nonexistent. Ari had no such problem and tackled her rare steak with bravado. She wielded her eating utensils English style, cutting the meat with the knife held in the right hand and then using the fork in her left to bring the morsel to her mouth. An efficient food delivery system, no time wasted changing utensils from one hand to the other. Just what you’d expect from a woman with a scientific mind and a doctorate in archaeology.

“So why are you such a grump?” Ari asked between mouthfuls, tired of the social banter. She’d always been the more direct of the two.

Gavenia opened her mouth to retort and then let a low sigh escape. She couldn’t really argue with that observation—she was a grump.

“I’ve got a difficult case.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have anything interesting going on right now.”

Oops
, Bart chimed in as he appeared on the bench seat next to his charge.
She caught your little white lie.

Gavenia paid him no heed. “I fibbed. I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Ari gave her a measured look and resumed her assault on the steak. The crimson juices oozed across the white china plate, making Gavenia queasy. She averted her eyes, studying her sister’s clothes. As usual, Ari wore head-to-toe black.

The perpetual widow
, Bart observed.

“So do you want to talk about it now?” Ari asked.

Gavenia pondered and then nodded. The way things were headed, the Alliford case wasn’t going to be resolved anytime soon and her grumpy mood would only get worse. Ari might as well be in the loop.

“It’s a little boy,” Gavenia began. As she buttered a warm roll, she related Bradley’s tale. By the end of the story, Ari’s eyes were misty, her dinner ignored.

“God, that’s horrible. And his grandmother won’t help?”

“Nope. Mrs. Pearce is a block of ice.”

Ari frowned and took another sip of her red wine. “Is there anything I can do?”

Gavenia’s first instinct was to refuse, but something held her in check. Her sister was taking a tiny step out of her all-encompassing widowhood. Why not foster that?

“Yes. I’d like to know more about Mrs. Pearce. Ask a few questions, see what you can find out about her. The Hansford name should open a few doors.”

“It’s not my name, it’s the zeros behind it.” Ari retrieved her knife and fork. “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

“Thanks.” Gavenia relaxed her posture. She’d been sitting so rigidly that her back cramped in protest.

Ari waved a hand in the air as if she’d suddenly remembered something important. “Oh, I didn’t tell you. I’ve been asked to arrange a charity auction in London to benefit a museum exhibition.”