He suspected that Olivia’s particular life choice hit a little too close to home. Olivia “giving up” her life of privilege reminded him of his mother and Lent. They’d never set foot in a church—he didn’t even know if they were Catholic—but every Lent, she gave up something, just for fun. While one could argue there were many things Seanna Walsh could give up that would improve her life—and her son’s—it was never any of those, but something frivolous, like chocolate. A meaningless sacrifice. She’d made him do it, too. He’d cheated, sneaking candy bars into his room, but those stolen snacks had been as bitter as a guilty conscience, made all the more stomach-churning by the conviction that he had nothing to feel guilty for.
Olivia giving up her life of privilege was just as meaningless. She should accept her advantages and be grateful for them. But no, she’d voluntarily walked away, taken a smelly apartment and a menial job, and it was, for her, a grand adventure. Like a suburbanite roughing it in a cabin without electricity or running water. If it got too rough? Pack it in and go home.
Real poverty was not a choice. If you knew what that was like, then you would look at Olivia Taylor-Jones and you wouldn’t be impressed. She had everything she wanted. Turning her back on that was the foolish act of an immature, spoiled child.
Except that Olivia was not particularly immature or spoiled. Which, he could argue, only made her decision all the more repugnant.
Still, it wouldn’t last much longer. One of these days, she would wake up, go to ring the bell for her cappuccino and croissants, remember that she’d voluntarily chosen a life without cappuccino and croissants and maids, say “What the hell was I thinking?” and hightail it home to Mommy.
When she did, he would convince her that she still wanted the Larsen case investigated. Then there would be no waiting for her trust fund—he’d be paid up front. While she hadn’t proved as incompetent as he feared, he worked better alone. For Olivia, the allure of playing detective would wear off soon, taking her enthusiasm and commitment with it.
The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Walsh?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a Mr. Morgan here to speak to you.”
He hesitated. No, it was a common enough name.
“Morgan?” he repeated.
“James Morgan,” his secretary, Lydia, said. “Olivia—”
“Yes, I know who he is. Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.”
Olivia’s ex-fiancé. Coming to see him. What the hell for?
His gaze shifted to the pile of newspapers on his desk.
The article. Morgan had seen Gabriel’s name, looked him up, and asked around. Now he was riding to Olivia’s rescue, to free her from Gabriel’s clutches—and cut Gabriel loose from her employ.
Damn. This could be inconvenient.
He crossed the office and hit the button on the camera that fed into the reception area. Sometimes it was advantageous to watch waiting clients, judge their mood, decide exactly how long they could or should be kept waiting.
With one glance at James Morgan, Gabriel knew that ignoring him was not an option. The man hadn’t even taken a seat. He was important, damn it, and he would not be kept waiting. The white knight, on his feet and prepared for battle.
Very inconvenient.
Gabriel sized up the man. He had doubtless seen photographs of Morgan before, but when he’d learned whom Olivia had been engaged to, he’d been unable to pull up a mental image. Now he knew why. Because there was absolutely nothing memorable about him. Oh, he cut a dashing enough figure. Handsome, trim and fit, well groomed, custom suit. But walk down the Loop and you’d see a dozen men like him. Corporate Ken dolls with just as much personality as the plastic version.
Before Gabriel had met Olivia, he’d have doubtless thought James Morgan was a good match for her—Corporate Ken and Debutante Barbie. But now he looked at Morgan and thought, What the hell does she see in him?
The answer came quickly. An easy life. That’s what Olivia would see in a man like James Morgan. Good genetics. Deep pockets. Political aspirations. And dull enough that she could wrap him around her finger or pin him beneath her heel, depending on which served her purpose. Olivia might like to think she was a decent, well-bred young woman, but there was a streak of ruthless survivalism there, and Morgan was further proof of it.
Interesting.
Gabriel opened his door and walked into the reception area.
“Mr. Morgan?”
Morgan turned. Relief flickered across his face, as if he hadn’t expected Gabriel to see him.
“Gabriel Walsh,” Gabriel said, extending his hand.
As Morgan shook it, he gave Gabriel his own sizing up. He doubtless hadn’t been thrilled to hear that his beautiful ex-fiancé was being spotted around town with an unattached, successful young lawyer. But James’s satisfied nod said that once-over was all he needed to reassure himself that the relationship with Olivia was simply business.
Asshole.
“You wanted to speak to me?” Gabriel said.
“I did. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Certainly.” Gabriel waved him toward his office and motioned for Lydia to hold his calls.
Chapter Thirty-nine
When I walked away from my family home, I left a lot of things behind. There were times when I did miss those advantages. Like when it was dinner hour and my stomach was grumbling, and I hadn’t thought of what to make, much less started cooking. Tonight that was covered. Gabriel had texted me to say he was coming to discuss the case and would be bringing takeout for both of us. Very nice, even if I suspected he’d add it to my bill.
So I was working at home, drinking cold coffee from the diner, and munching on slightly burned cookie rejects. The cat was on his towel. I’d broken down and bought him some food. Also, a flea collar. I’d seriously contemplated a real collar—a sparkly green one—if only because I was sure it would offend his dignity.
At 5:50 my phone rang.
“It’s Gabriel,” he said, as he always did, as if I might not recognize his number. Or his voice. “I just had a very interesting visitor.”
He paused. I played along, asking, “Who?”
“William Evans.”
“Who?” I barely got the question out before the name clicked. “The father of Peter Evans. Jan Gunderson’s boyfriend.”
“Correct.”
“He stopped in to speak to you?”
“Not quite. He came right after I left for an appointment. I suspect that was not a coincidence. When I represented Pamela, Mr. Evans made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with me. Refused all my requests for interviews. Now it seems he wants to speak to you.”
“Me? Why? To threaten me like…” I trailed off as I thought of Niles Gunderson.
“Mr. Gunderson was mentally unstable. William Evans is not. While he is nearing seventy, he still works as a clinical psychologist.”
“He’s a shrink? That’s not much better.” I sighed. “Are you saying I should call him?”
“Yes. We can do that tonight if you’d like me to coach you through it.”
“I can handle it.”
“All right, then. I’ll give you his number.”
I Googled William Evans before I called. I had to add “Chicago” and “psychologist” to narrow it down, but once I did, he popped up. A well-known guy it seemed. Lots of awards and accolades for his work. Several charity affiliations, particularly Peter’s Angels, an organization he’d founded to offer free grief counseling for the victims of violent crime.
I dialed his number.
“Oh God, do I smell miso soup?” I said as I let Gabriel in.
“Small-town life has its limitations, doesn’t it? Not much hope for Japanese in Cainsville, which lacks even the requisite Chinese takeout.”
“Having eaten from small-town Chinese takeouts, I’m not missing anything. Though if those old urban legends about them are true, it might solve my cat problem.”
The cat glanced up from his spo
t by the stove and fixed me with a baleful stare.
“Don’t give me that look,” I told the cat. “You’ve caught one mouse since you’ve been here. And what do you get in return? Food, shelter, and a human servant to clean up your shit. You didn’t even warn me when someone was at the door.”
“Because his sixth sense tells him I can be trusted.”
“Then his sixth sense is broken.”
I took the soup to warm in the microwave.
“Did you call Evans?” Gabriel asked as he emptied the take-out bag.
“Yes. He’d like to see to me. Seems that friend of Jan’s called to warn him I was investigating Peter’s murder. He wants to help.”
“Help?”
I shrugged as I brought the soup to the table. “He says he has information that the police weren’t interested in at the time. About Christian.”
I had to smile at how fast Gabriel whipped around, nearly dropping a box of sushi.
“And he didn’t see fit to give it to me when I was representing Pamela?”
“He doesn’t like you,” I said. “You’re … how did he put it? Pathologically ambitious. Me? In my own way, I’m as much a victim as the families who lost loved ones in this tragedy.”
Gabriel snorted as he took his soup and sat.
“I seem to recall you saying almost the exact same thing once,” I said.
“That was before I knew you.”
I sat down and took a salmon roll. “Anyway, Evans obviously likes taking care of victims, so I’ll play one for him tomorrow.”
Gabriel frowned. “You’ve arranged an appointment? I’m waiting for a verdict on the Rivers case, Olivia. I cannot—”
“You’re busy, I know. I’m not. It’s my day off. So I’ll handle this. He doesn’t want you there anyway.”
“I would prefer to be there.”
“And I’d prefer to have you there. But it ain’t happening. Either I go in alone or we don’t get this interview.”
“I’ll drive you. We’ll reschedule if necessary.”
“I’m perfectly capable of—”
“You were already attacked by the father of one victim. You’re my client. I can’t have you getting yourself killed.”
“Getting myself killed?” I shook my head. “No wonder you’re a defense lawyer. We’ll discuss transportation later. Let’s eat.”
After Gabriel left, I couldn’t relax, much less consider winding down for the night. I kept thinking about William Evans and what he might have to say to me.
Finally, I gave up trying to relax and went out for a walk. By ten, Cainsville had shut down for the night. Main Street was a movie set of a picture-perfect town, the road empty, the sidewalk bathed in soft lamp glow, the wind whispering past. I suppose that could be eerie, too, postapocalyptic even, but I knew where all the people were—at home, snug in their beds, dreaming.
Even the gargoyles weren’t sinister at night. They loomed from rooftops like grumpy old men on a small-town porch, ready to yell at any kid who dropped a candy wrapper, but making sure they stayed safe, too. When one gargoyle seemed to move, I only glanced up. I think if it had spread its wings and flown off, it wouldn’t have fazed me. It was just that kind of night. It was a cluster of bats, though, launching from their stonework perches, to pirouette and swoop across the sky.
When the bats were gone, I continued on. The breeze changed direction, bringing with it the smell of moonflowers from a storefront garden. Planting moonflowers for a place that never stayed open past dark? It seemed a touch of whimsical defiance.
I could smell honeysuckle from the lamppost pots, too, along with the rich scent of damp earth, as if they’d just been watered. One was still dripping. It made no sound, which seemed odd until I realized there were strategically placed sidewalk-level pots under each hanging one. I put out my hand, letting a few drops fall on it. In the glow of the streetlamp, my fingers seemed red and I lifted them for a better look in the light. Then I caught a few more drops. Yes, definitely a red tinge, like the water on the school yard.
If I was being macabre, I could imagine it as blood. But I wasn’t in that kind of mood. It was iron or runoff from clay or red bark or red stone. I wiped my fingers on my jeans and turned to see a face staring at me. A gargoyle face embedded in one of the stone medallions carved around the bank’s thick doors. I must have walked this way a dozen times and had never noticed it. I even ran my fingers across the bulbous nose and hooked chin and curved horns, in case I was seeing wrong.
“I see you found one of our hidden gargoyles.”
I jumped and turned to see Veronica—the old woman who’d helped fight off the raven. She was coming around the corner, tugging a contraption that looked like a mobile watering can with a sprayer hose. It wheeled along silently on rubber tires.
“I hadn’t seen this one before,” I said, touching the gargoyle.
“That’s because it’s a night gargoyle. It only comes out after dark.” She waved to the garden across the road. “Like the moonflowers.”
“Ah.” I smiled. “Well, it was definitely well hidden. Are there any more?”
“Lots. I could tell you how many, but that would be cheating. Only a few select elders know the total number of gargoyles in Cainsville and where to find them. Otherwise it would spoil the May Day contest.”
“May Day contest?”
“Every year, at the festival, the children can submit a list of all the gargoyles they’ve found so far. There are prizes for those who get more than half of them, more than sixty percent, and so on.” She smiled. “It’s quite a competition. The kids jealously guard their lists year after year, and they are forbidden to pass along hints to their own children later.”
“What happens if someone finds them all?”
“We add another gargoyle … modeled after the child. Of course, the last time that happened was almost twenty years ago. To the youngest winner ever. He was ten.” She looked at me. “Care to guess who?”
I thought of all the locals who would be about the right age, then shook my head.
“Gabriel Walsh,” she said.
I tried to picture Gabriel as a boy, visiting his aunt, racing through the streets, laughing as he hunted for gargoyles. I couldn’t. But as I peered out, I imagined another little boy, a serious dark-haired child, notepad in hand, searching with a single-minded drive, determined not just to win but to set a new record. Yes, that would be Gabriel.
“So where’s his gargoyle?” I asked.
Veronica’s eyes danced. “You need to find it.” She rubbed her lower back and grimaced.
“Are you okay?”
“Old bones. A sit-down is next on my to-do list.” She waved at a bench near the diner. “I’d love company if you care to chat, but I know you’re a busy young woman.”
“I have time. I want to hear about May Day.”
I knew a bit about the tradition. It was pre-Christian, marking the celebration of Beltane on the first of May, heralding spring. People put on their spring suits and dresses, danced around the maypoles, crowned a May queen, and feasted. As Veronica explained, the town of Cainsville stuck close to the old traditions.
“We have four major festivals every year,” she said. “May Day is the spring one, and always includes a wedding or two, for the young people who come back, set on getting married in Cainsville.”
“You mean if they don’t want to get married in church?”
She stared at me a moment before bursting out laughing. “For a girl who notices so much, sometimes you notice very little. Where are these churches in Cainsville?”
“Where are…?” I thought. “You know, I haven’t seen any … Wait. There aren’t any.”
“Correct. So you did notice. You just didn’t process the information. Cainsville has no churches.”
“Why? I mean, it’s big enough, isn’t it?”
“It is. But the gargoyles kept them out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s true. The gargoy
les protected us from organized religion. And as an old pagan, I’m perfectly happy with that.” She gave a sly smile as she stretched her legs, getting comfortable. “Cainsville was settled by immigrants from the British Isles. Hence, May Day. There were a few Anglicans, a few Presbyterians, a few Catholics, a few pagans … In other words, the religious background wasn’t cohesive enough to choose a representative church. So everyone worshipped in their own way. As the town grew, people of other faiths joined and that continued. If you wanted services, you’d drive to a neighboring town. A perfectly suitable arrangement that recognized freedom of religion. All very American…
“But one of the churches didn’t think so,” she continued. “They sent a letter to the town council saying they wished to build here. The council politely demurred. The church insisted and there was pressure from neighboring towns, who’ve always thought we were a little odd. So the council relented. The church sent a representative. He took one look at the gargoyles and hightailed it from town. Declared we were all terrible heathens. The church demanded we remove some so they could feel comfortable building here. We refused. So we have no churches. Thanks to the gargoyles.”
“Notre Dame is famous for its gargoyles. Plenty of old churches have them.”
“Do you know why?”
“I know their original purpose is architectural. They divert water from the building itself. That’s why they lean out—to let water fall away from walls so they aren’t damaged by runoff.”
“Correct. But churches also used them for two other functions. Some thought they would scare people into churches—remind them of the hell and damnation that awaited if they skipped service. Others viewed them as guardians, keeping the worshippers safe. There developed, however, a third view. That they were demonic themselves or, at the very least, idolatrous. That’s why they kept churches out of Cainsville.” She rose, rubbing her back. “I should get back to work. Anytime you want to chat, though, I’m around. But if you’re interested in more, you can also speak to Rose Walsh. She’s quite the expert on folklore.”
“I have talked to her a couple of times. We had a, uh, session.”
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