CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

We didn’t visit the Conway family. Though Ciara’s body had been found, I still couldn’t visit them in good conscience. I also knew what it meant to lose a loved one. When my dad died, I realized for the first time the cruelty of funeral customs that expect the family to meet and greet people mere hours after a death. Yes, I know, it’s supposed to provide support. But I hadn’t wanted support. I’d wanted to curl up in my bed and grieve. Gabriel didn’t understand but agreed to wait until after Ciara’s funeral.

Instead, we visited two friends and a teacher whom I’d found in my online research. That was all we could fit into an afternoon, and we were lucky to find many potential sources at home and willing to speak to us.

All we heard were variations on a story. Ciara was a good girl. Ciara was a troubled girl. Good but troubled—that was her epitaph. We asked if she’d expressed concerns about anyone following her, stalking her, contacting her. Nope. She was there, struggling through life. And then she wasn’t.

By the time we finished the interviews, it was past seven. Gabriel was driving me home when he noticed the time and said, “I should have got you dinner.”

Gabriel might not seem to take much interest in feeding himself, but God forbid I missed a meal. I was curled up in the passenger seat, half drowsing to the strains of Handel. I bit back a yawn. “I’d invite you over, but the only thing I have is dry cereal and bread. And I think the bread is sprouting a lovely shade of periwinkle.”

“I’ll take you out, then.”

“That wasn’t a hint.”

“I know, but . . .” He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the wad of bills from James. “It was a profitable day.”

I laughed and shook my head. He glanced over, as if making sure I was really okay with him fleecing my former fiancé. I was. James fell for it and could afford it.

“Dinner it is, then,” he said. “I believe we’re past the point of pulling off the highway, so you’ll have to settle for the diner.”

“The food’s good. The service is iffy, but that new girl isn’t on tonight, so it should be fine.”

—

By the time we got there, the dinner crowd had cleared out and the place was more than half empty. That may explain why we seemed to provide the main source of entertainment. Ida, Veronica, and the other elders sat there, beaming and whispering until I felt like the wallflower who showed up for prom with the star quarterback.

“Next time?” I whispered. “You’re getting dry cereal and toast. I’ll scrape off the mold.”

He glanced around. “It does inhibit conversation, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm.”

Patrick stopped by the table, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder.

“Calling it a night?” I said.

“I am.” He leaned over and lowered his voice. “Keep talking to me. Smile. Nod. Look happy.”

“Why?”

“The old folks think I’ve done something right for a change. I see no point in disillusioning them. Just look like you’re pleased to see me. You, too, Gabriel.”

“What do we get for it?” I asked.

“My gratitude, which is valuable beyond reckoning.”

I snorted. Gabriel smiled and sipped his coffee.

Patrick turned to him. “How are you doing, Gabriel?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Very well?” An enigmatic smile. “I’m glad to hear it.” He straightened. “All right, kids. Enjoy your meal and ignore the old folks.” He started to leave, then turned. “Did I hear that the body of Ms. Conway disappeared in transit the other day?”

“It did,” I said.

He pursed his lips. “Won’t that impede the investigation?”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’ll mean no autopsy, but there’s still a coroner’s report and crime scene analysis. They have what they require to proceed.”

“Ah, right. Interesting.” He seemed to look at the elders as he hefted his bag again. “Interesting.”

He smiled over his shoulder and left.

—

Gabriel followed me home after dinner. That was understandable, given that he’d parked out front. Except he didn’t stop at his car when we got there.

“I want to show you something,” he said. “A personal project that will improve your research skills.”

“Do I get paid for it?” I asked as I followed him up the steps.

“Did you catch the personal part? I’m assisting you with something I believe you’ll be interested in, and you’ll receive the benefit of my experience in lieu of cash.”

“I’d rather have the cash.”

When we entered the apartment, TC went nuts, as if he hadn’t seen me in days. I gave him a pat then bumped him off the kitchen table and set up my laptop.

“Okay, so what are we doing?” I asked.

“A public records search.”

“You really know how to show a girl a fun night, don’t you?”

He lowered himself into the other chair. “Records searches are one of the most necessary skills for a researcher. Also, one of the most tedious. Which is why I’m passing my knowledge on to you.”

“Oh, joy.” I opened a browser window and hit a bookmarked site. It brought up the online search for the Cook County records.

“Ah,” Gabriel said. “Doing prep work, I see. Unfortunately, for tonight’s purposes, that’s the wrong county.” Gabriel punched in the search terms and bookmarked another site for me. “We’re going to pull up property records for the house where you found Ciara Conway’s body.” He glanced over. “That interests you, does it not?”

It did. After seeing those omen friezes and hearing Rose’s story, I wanted to know more about the woman who owned the house.

“It isn’t a simple matter of entering an address,” he said.

“So I noticed when I looked at the Cook County site,” I said. “Township, subdivision, lot number . . . They need a ton of information. And even then their records only go back to 1985. For transactions before that, you need to go to the office and dig through files.”

“Which is a glorious way to spend a day. As you’ll eventually discover.”

“Don’t you guys hire law clerks for that?”

“I have you. Fortunately, the records for this county go back further, probably because there are relatively few of them. I’ll show you another time how to obtain property specifics. For now, here they are.”

He passed me his cell, with the details on a text note. I entered them and got “property not found.”

“You’ve made a mistake,” Gabriel said.

“Naturally.”

I let him double-check my input. It was correct. He entered information for Rose’s house, which he’d brought for comparison. When it also came up blank, he fixed the screen with a cold stare.

“Intimidation only works on living things,” I said. “Let me see what I can find.”

The answer was on the records-search site, under FAQ. Records for Cainsville had not been digitized. They were available at the town records office, inside the library, and could be accessed by appointment only, with a minimum of forty-eight hours’ notice.

“Seriously?” I said.

“Let’s see what we can find by other means,” Gabriel said. “Names of previous owners should be accessible elsewhere.”

Eventually he found the full name of the last owner. Using that, he uncovered the original one.

“Glenys Carew,” he said.

“I’ve heard that name,” I said. “I know there are Carews in Cainsville. A few of them, anyway. I think Veronica said it was an old family. Glenys sounds familiar, too. I’ll take a wild stab and guess it’s Welsh?”

Gabriel’s fingers flew over the keyboard, surprisingly adept for someone whose fingers looked like they’d hit three keys at a time. “It is. As is Carew. You’re right—there are a few Carews in town. Presumably not direct descendants, given that they allowed the house to change hands.”

He passed me the laptop and I ran a few searches, chatting as I did. “If Glenys advertised her services as a fortune-teller, I don’t see any historical record of it. It isn’t exactly a common name. Ah, here’s something. A wedding announcement for a granddaughter from the Morning Star, which is apparently one of the newspapers that merged to become the Rockford Register Star, and—”

I stopped and stared at the screen, rereading the announcement. It was for the wedding of the daughter of Arthur Carew, only son of Owen and Glenys Carew, all of Cainsville, Illinois. The daughter, Daere Jean Carew, was marrying the only son of another Cainsville family—John Laurence Bowen.

“Daere Bowen,” I whispered, barely able to get the word out. “That’s—”

“Pamela’s mother,” Gabriel said. “Your maternal grandmother.”

—

Pamela’s mother had babysat me during the murders. I’d known her as Grandma Jean, but my research had said her first name was actually Daere.

“So my mother’s family is from Cainsville,” I said. “Like yours. My grandmother left after she married, according to this announcement.” It said the newlyweds planned to move to Chicago, where John was employed as a factory foreman. “Your mother left, too.”

“Yes, she moved to Chicago when she was pregnant with me.”

“How did you get Pamela’s case?”

“I pursued it after someone brought it to my attention. Yes, that someone was from Cainsville. Ida, in fact. I was not, however, aware that Pamela had any connection to the town. It didn’t come up in our discussions, and there was no reason to delve that far into her family past.”

His fingers drummed the tabletop. Annoyed that he hadn’t known. I was still trying to process it all. I had a connection to Cainsville. My mother’s family came from here. I didn’t know what to make of that, but I had a good idea where to start asking questions.

“Is there any sense speaking to Pamela?” I said. “I hate to, after I said I won’t until she’ll talk about the omens and the hounds.”

“No, this estrangement is wearing her down. She calls daily to see if you’ve changed your mind. Any information she can give on your omens is worth holding out for. I will mention Cainsville at our next meeting.”

“Do you think it means anything?” I asked. “Or is it just a case of townies looking out for townies?”

“I don’t know.” More finger drumming. Then he stopped himself. “We should learn more about Glenys Carew. Find out if there’s anyone here who remembers her. Some of the elders might.”

“Okay.” I closed the laptop. “It’s late.”

“It is. You should get to bed. I’ll stay.”

There was no reason for Gabriel to stay. Did I argue, though? No, I did not. I got out fresh towels for him, said good night, and went to bed.

—

When I got into my room, I texted Ricky.

Heading to bed. Gabriel still here. Sleeping on my sofa bed. Again.

I waited for the reply, wondering how I would interpret a delay. Taking a while to respond because he was busy at the clubhouse? Or because he wasn’t sure what to say about Gabriel staying over?

His reply came less than ten seconds later. LOL. Must be comfortable.

I exhaled. He’d given no signs that he was jealous of my time with Gabriel, but I kept waiting for it. I’m not sure how many guys would be fine with their girlfriend’s boss sleeping on her sofa. I sent a final text and went to bed.