And what did Gabriel do? Just silently waited for Ricky to be done.
"We aren't pushing on tonight," I said. "We're fine, and I appreciate everything you've done but--"
"Is it because I asked you to push on?" Gabriel said.
Ricky opened his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it.
"No, Gabriel. Shockingly, we aren't going to endanger our lives to spite you."
"That isn't what I meant."
"Doesn't seem to be any other way to mean that. We aren't staying to spite you. We aren't staying because it's convenient. We aren't staying because we're tired. I mentioned a baby. A local overheard Ricky and me talking about me being an investigator, and he told a nineteen-year-old girl whose baby has disappeared. No, I did not agree to take the job. I'm not qualified for that. But we had reason to believe this fae might have taken the baby, which is why I asked you to investigate that part. We now know the gwragedd did not take her. So I need to wait until morning to tell this girl that I can't help. It's the decent thing to do."
"A missing child is a tragedy but--"
"Stop."
"--this girl cannot expect you to waste your vacation--"
"Stop."
"--and if you do feel obligated, a note would suffice." His tone added, Though I can't imagine why you would feel obligated.
Ricky rolled his eyes. "We're leaving in the morning, Gabriel. We're at the bike now and heading straight to the inn and then straight out in the morning. We'll lock our door and bolt the shutters. Now, as Liv said, thank you. Thank Patrick for us, too. We'll talk later."
Twelve - Liv
Back at the inn, we sat out on our balcony with a six-pack we'd grabbed earlier, and we drank and talked. Talked about what we'd found. Talked about our plans to deal with the baby issue. Talked about where we'd go when we left tomorrow. Talked about everything that was not related to Gabriel or the problems we'd left in Chicago and Cainsville. Those stayed firmly in the box of stuff we'd deal with later. This was our vacation. Or as close to one as we could manage.
The next morning, we played. Kissing in bed. Teasing. Showering. Using the shower to test that cold-water theory. Wonderfully distracting. Then I was downstairs getting breakfast while Ricky finished up in the room. And I don't mean the fun kind of "finishing up" either. I'd have stuck around for that.
After the shower experimentation, I had offered him an exception, as I did in the swimming hole. There's a limit to my teasing, and it falls short of leaving a guy hanging, much as I'd expect him not to leave me in the same predicament. I'd gotten a yes. A hell, yes. Then his phone rang and provided exactly the momentary distraction he'd needed to collect himself and decide to pass on the exemption, damn him.
The problem with Ricky passing on exemptions? I couldn't claim reciprocal ones, which meant I might--horrors--be the first to fold. Which was very vexing, even if he had provided a nice incentive. An extremely nice incentive that I was trying very hard not to think about, instead gathering breakfast while Ricky finished his call upstairs.
I was getting a second serving of smoked salmon when I heard Hildy outside the otherwise-empty dining room.
"Don't you talk that way to me, Owen Parr. I know you're going through a rough time, but that doesn't give you any right to talk like that. Or to come barging in here, demanding to see one of my guests."
Owen Parr. Maggie's father.
I took a deep breath. Maybe this was the way to do it. Cowardly, yes, avoiding facing Krista herself. But I couldn't help her and wasn't particularly looking forward to telling her so. Owen might be easier.
I walked into the front room. "Are you looking for me?"
The guy with Hildy was exactly what I'd have expected. A decent-looking young man in an auto-body shop T-shirt with a streak of grease on his jaw. The set of that jaw suggested someone wasn't very happy about Krista coming to me. Probably thinking I was some shady American taking advantage. That would make this much easier.
"You the PI?" he said, barely unhinging his jaw.
"Not exactly, but I'm the person you're looking for. Let's step outside and talk." I turned to Hildy. "When Ricky comes down, can you tell him I'll be right back, and he should grab some salmon before I finish it all?"
She nodded, but her eyes stayed worried as she watched us go. "You watch yourself, Owen Parr," she called. "You don't want your momma knowing you stormed in here to pester my guests."
As the back door closed behind us, I said, "Gotta love that about small-town living. No threat worse than telling your mom, whether you're ten, twenty or fifty years old."
Owen wheeled on me. "I want the money Krista gave you."
"First," I said. "It's Krista's money, not yours. But second, and more importantly, I didn't take a dime from her. As I'm sure you heard, she tried to hire me to find your daughter. I said I'd check a few things. I didn't accept money to do it."
"Because you're going to come back and make her think you've got a lead, and then she'll give you the money . . . right before you skip town with her savings."
"No, I was going to tell her--"
Owen cut me short as he advanced. "Save the bullshit. I'm not some dumb hick, and I'm not going to let you con Krista out of her money."
"I have no intention--"
He took another step, looming over me. "I'm giving you thirty minutes to leave town."
"Excuse me?"
His face came down to mine. "You heard me. If you and that boyfriend aren't past the town limits in thirty minutes--"
The back door banged open. Owen saw Ricky and jumped back, hands clenching into fists. Ricky just strolled out, coffee cup in hand. He looked over, saw us and took a sip before saying, "Everything okay?"
Owen snorted, and with that snort, he dismissed Ricky. Sure, he was as big as Owen, with well-muscled biceps peeking from under his T-shirt sleeves. Even the ink on those arms didn't mean shit. Just a city boy who's never hit anything scarier than a punching bag at his overpriced gym.
"Everything okay?" Ricky asked again before taking another sip of his coffee.
"Everything's fine," I said.
"You coming in soon? Hildy brought out freshly baked scones."
"I'm good. You go enjoy."
Ricky looked at Owen. "You want a scone? They smell great."
Owen's broad face screwed up. "No, I don't want a scone."
Ricky shrugged. "Your loss." He looked at me. "You expecting this to take much longer? I could save you one."
Owen strode over to him. "How about you just eat a fucking scone yourself. We're busy."
"I was just asking--"
"I don't want a scone. She doesn't want a scone. Go eat a scone and check your stocks or whatever your sort do."
"My sort?"
"The sort that rides a fucking Harley because he thinks it'll make him look badass. Did your daddy buy you that bike?"
"Actually, yes. When I joined the family business."
"You work for your daddy?" Owen sneered. "Figures."
I was about to point out that Owen worked for his father, but Ricky said, "Just part-time. I'm still a student. MBA. So I can take over the business one day, manage the stocks or whatever my sort do."
"Well, you know what your sort don't do? Look after their shit. They park a fancy bike like that where anyone can get to it."
"True."
"And they leave their fancy girlfriends where anyone can get to them while they go eat a fucking scone."
"They smell awesome." Ricky looked at me. "Have you had one?"
"Not yet. Save me one, please."
"I will." He turned to Owen as he set down his coffee mug. "Now, you were saying something about my bike and my girlfriend. That wasn't a threat, was it? It kinda sounded that way, but I'm sure I was misunderstanding."
"I'm telling your girlfriend here to get out of town."
Ricky's lips twitched. "By high noon? Or sunset?"
"You think that's funny?" Owen stepped up to him. "Take your bike and your
girlfriend and get out of here before someone messes one of them up. Understood?"
"Mmm. I think so. Let's see . . ." Ricky eased back, as if considering. Then his fist shot out, hitting Owen in the jaw so hard the young man slammed into the wall.
Owen spit blood, sputtering, "You--you--"
"That's what my sort do. If you want to hit me back, go ahead and try. But if you miss, I'm going to hit you again, and we'll continue that way until either the cops come or I pound some sense through your thick skull. The alternative is that you decide you're going to have a polite conversation with my girlfriend while I go inside and save her a scone."
Owen stared at him, hand cradling his jaw.
"He thinks I'm trying to take Krista's money," I said. "I was explaining otherwise." I turned to Owen. "I am not taking a penny from Krista. As your smart-ass comments about Ricky's bike should make clear, we don't need her money." I waved my wrist in front of him. "Not to be a stereotypical trust-fund brat, but this watch is worth ten times what Krista was offering. I was trying to be helpful. Look into Maggie's disappearance. Ask around. Then, if I was concerned that the police might not be handling it properly, I'd make suggestions for alternatives. Alternatives that don't involve hiring me or anyone I know. Is that acceptable, Owen?"
He straightened. "No, it's not. You're building up Krista's hopes. False hopes. I know what happened to Maggie. A rich couple like you two came to town. People who are used to getting whatever they want. What they wanted was a baby. They figured a couple kids wouldn't miss her, so they took her, and there's nothing we can do about that."
"Um, yes, there is. I can think of few crimes more likely to be prosecuted. If you have some reason to think that's what happened, someone who made a suspicious comment about the baby . . ."
He went quiet, and this look filled his eyes. The look of someone who's not accustomed to being crafty, trying his best to be exactly that. When I saw that look, every hair on my body rose. I glanced at Ricky, who was peering at Owen, his eyes narrowing.
For ten seconds, I was sure Owen was going to say yes, that's exactly what happened. A stranger had talked about wanting Maggie.
He was going to lie.
But then his look changed to uncertainty, worry. The realization hit that if he said that, we'd ask for details, and he'd have to think fast, and if he failed, it would look bad.
It already looked bad.
"No," he said. "Nothing like that. But everyone always said Maggie was a cute kid, and there are lots of people who want babies. That's what happened. Someone saw her and took her and didn't leave any clues. She's gone, and we don't need people like you saying otherwise. Getting Krista's hopes up. Getting Mrs. Lyons's hopes up. Getting my parents' hopes up."
"And yours?"
A moment of hesitation. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I know better."
"Do you?"
"Yeah, I do. Maggie's gone, and the sooner everyone accepts that, the sooner we can get on with our lives. I only hope that whoever took her is a good person. Treats her well. Maybe gives her stuff we couldn't, like that fancy watch." He nodded, as if to himself. "That's what I hope. What I know is that she's not coming home."
Thirteen - Ricky
It was nearly lunchtime, and they hadn't left town yet. Ricky was fine with that--he wouldn't have gone even if Liv had asked, because he knew she wouldn't want to.
Liv worried that her fae blood made her cold, insensitive. It didn't. It just meant she didn't go out of her way to find people in need and help them. Which, as far as Ricky was concerned, would be stupid, pointless and ultimately a lot less satisfying than one might think. Yeah, obviously he had some of that fae blood, too, but it was also just common sense. The way he saw it, most people who did that were only looking for self-satisfaction or a pat on the back. Liv honestly wanted to help Krista, and so did he. Now that they had an actual lead, they were staying.
They'd spent the morning getting a better sense of Owen's role in this co-parenting arrangement. The truth wasn't as cut-and-dried as Krista made it seem. Or, Ricky figured, more like it wasn't as cut-and-dried as Krista thought.
Owen was a far more reluctant teen parent than everyone let on. Part of that seemed to be that people had a different set of expectations for mothers versus fathers. Ricky knew that first-hand. All his life, he'd heard how his mother was a monster for giving him up and his father a saint for raising him. Bullshit on both ends. It'd been an accidental pregnancy between a guy and a girl who'd been not much older than Krista and Owen. His dad had asked his mom to carry the pregnancy to term and give him the child, and she'd agreed, despite being in med school and feeling totally unprepared for motherhood. They'd both made a tough choice, a huge sacrifice, and he respected them both for it. Yet, if he told people that, they thought he was justifying his mother's actions. And his dad? Totally the hero in this scenario . . . for deciding he wanted to be a father to his kid. Ricky wasn't sure which one should be more insulted.
So, yeah, Ricky knew the expectations would be different for Krista and Owen. As the devoted teen mom, Krista was only playing her natural role. As for Owen, the simple fact that he played any role won him kudos. People praised him for that, saying it'd have been so easy to walk away or deny paternity "like some boys would." It was the simple advantage of biology. Guys could walk away, their part done in thirty seconds. Girls didn't have that option. Granted, the flip side was that guys didn't always have his father's choice--to not opt out. A complicated situation, and in Ricky's case, he knew exactly how fortunate he'd been.
Krista and Owen's case was far more typical of a "success" story for co-parenting. Except, when Liv dug into it, the arrangement had a lot more to do with devoted paternal grandparents than a devoted young dad. Owen's parents were the ones who'd made sure he stepped up. Made sure he paid support. Made sure he had partial custody . . . while they were the ones seen pushing Maggie in her stroller.
Liv and Ricky's last stop was to Owen's parents, all the data compiled, time to test their suspicions. Sure enough, they only had to walk into the house for that, with pictures of baby Maggie on the mantle, a bassinet in the corner, an infant carrier by the door and two distraught grandparents, offering Liv whatever it took to get their grandbaby back.
Liv had been talking to the Parrs for about thirty minutes when a rap sounded at the door. It was Krista. Seeing Liv and Ricky, she gave an exaggerated start, as if shocked to find them there, though Ricky was sure she'd known exactly where they were.
"You're taking the case?" Krista reached into her pocket and pulled out the wad of bills.
"I'm just asking questions," Liv said. "I'm not licensed to practice--"
"I don't care."
"But Liv has to care, honey," Mr. Parr said. "She could get in a lot of trouble for working without a license. She's gathering information we can pass on if we decide to hire a private investigator. By we, I mean all of us. We'll all pay our share. Everyone wants Maggie back."
"I'm not sure about Owen," Liv said.
Mrs. Parr jumped, guilt flickering. "What?"
"I'm not sure Owen would be thrilled about hiring someone," Liv said. "He made it quite clear he thought it was a waste of time and money."
"No, you've misunderstood," Mr. Parr said firmly. "He's frustrated. That's all. He'll pay his share. We'll make sure of that."
Whether he wants to or not.
"I was bringing this over." Krista lifted a tote bag. "In case you stopped by. It's the stuff from Maggie's room. The crime scene. The police didn't want it. They dusted for prints, but I think they were just doing it for show. They wouldn't even take this stuff. So I bagged it all up."
She held open the tote. Inside were a bunch of plastic freezer bags, all carefully sealed and labeled. Liv seemed ready to just make some noncommittal comment. Then she stopped and took out a plastic bag. Inside was a yellow baby blanket covered in cartoon lions.
"Oh, this is adorable," Liv said. "I've never seen this pattern
before. Is it local?"
Krista shook her head. "My mom made it. She ordered the fabric online from Toronto. It was a joke."
Liv frowned.
"Lyons?" Krista said. "Our last name? Maggie Lyons. So"--she waved at the blanket--"Maggie's lions."
#
There was a message on Ricky's phone. Several, in fact. One of each variety: voice mail, text and e-mail, each worded as if it were the first, on the presumption that clearly Ricky was not getting the others.
No, not a presumption. Ricky suspected Gabriel knew full well he was being ignored. But to admit that would suggest he had grounds for being ignored. That Ricky was pissed with him. Best to pretend as if Ricky's methods of contact must be failing.
Ricky wished he had returned one of those messages earlier. Now his only option was to call back--after getting pissy about Gabriel suggesting he couldn't keep Liv safe--and tell Gabriel they were about to do the one thing most likely to send him into a frothing fury.
Okay, frothing fury was an exaggeration. Ricky was the one with the temper, the one who needed to control it, as he'd practiced with the kid earlier. Gabriel's anger was ice. He'd freeze you out, and if you dared call him on it; then, he didn't know what you were talking about. There was obviously a misunderstanding because you didn't matter enough to warrant his anger. That's what it came down to. The worst way to hurt someone: say they don't matter to you, and you were a fool if you thought otherwise.
That was how Gabriel had hurt Liv, and there was no way to make him understand. Ricky understood. He'd lived a life of overrated popularity. He was the kind of guy that everyone presumed had a contact list full of friends and girlfriends. He was good-looking, easygoing and naturally charming. Growing up with bikers lent him the kind of bad-boy allure other guys only dreamed of. He remembered his first year of college, some drunk guy at a party saying, "You're that guy, aren't you? All the guys want to be you; all the girls want to fuck you."
Except Ricky wasn't that guy. Never had been. He got straight As in school, but his biker home life meant the smart kids steered clear. He devoured pop culture, but the geeks and freaks figured if he was talking to them, he was mocking them. He was athletic, but his grades and pop culture hobbies made the jocks nervous. Classmates always liked him--that natural charm went a long way. Even they presumed he had more girls and friends than any guy deserved. But the truth? When the first girl he'd dated broke it off, she'd explained by saying, "I thought you'd be . . . I don't know . . . cooler."
The Orange Cat and Other Cainsville Tales Page 11
