CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In a town where half the population seemed old enough to collect Social Security, the diner wasn’t exactly booming after dinner hour. By eight, even Patrick had gone home. After that, we had one middle-aged couple that worked in the city and got home late, and one family—the Pattersons—with two preadolescent children who’d apparently rebelled against Meatloaf Night. Otherwise, it was a slow stream of seniors coming by for a cup of tea and slice of pie.
Another problem with an elderly population? Call me ageist, but after seventy, they all start to look alike. If I wanted decent tips, I needed to be able to put names to faces . . . and remember “the usual” for each. I made notes like “Bob Masters: bad dentures, black coffee, blueberry pie” and “Sue Masters: hairy moles, Earl Grey with milk, tea biscuit with honey.” I kept the notes in my deepest pocket and prayed I never dropped them.
I wasn’t a good server. I wasn’t even an adequate one. But I tried my damnedest, and I did get tips, though I suspect they were more like doggy biscuits for the obedience class dropout—gentle encouragement that would lead to better performance in the future.
• • •
On my way back to the apartment for the night I turned onto the walkway to the park and heard a whoosh-whoosh ahead. I stopped. The sound came again. The beating of large wings. I hurried around a bush and saw a huge bird ripping apart something on the ground.
I ran and realized it was two huge birds. They dropped their prey and soared away, as silent as wraiths. When I saw the black bundle on the ground, my gut twisted. The cat.
I hurried forward, then slowed. The bloody mess of red and black looked . . . wrong. The fur was . . . Not fur. Feathers.
It was the raven. Dead. Ripped apart so badly it was only a bloody mess of feathers and entrails.
I glanced up just as a massive brown form alighted on a gatepost. The owl stared at me, unblinking. Then it settled in, talons gripping the stone, leaving bloody claw marks.
The second owl landed on the opposite gatepost.
Two huge owls perched like live gargoyles. Waiting for me to go away. To leave their prey.
I took a step back. One started unfolding its wings and then stopped. I moved back again as they watched. The other one spread its wings and hopped from the post, sailing down gracefully, grabbing the raven in both claws. With a flap of its wings, it took off.
The second owl stayed for another moment, round eyes fixed on mine. Then it followed the other in silent flight.
“Mrrow?”
I spun. The black cat leapt onto the gatepost vacated by the owl. It arched up, purring. I petted it and checked its back. I saw dried blood, but the punctures had already sealed and weren’t tender enough for it to complain when I prodded.
I stepped back to get a better look at the cat. It leapt to the ground, strolled over to the bloody spot on the cobblestones, and began licking it.
“Getting rid of the evidence,” I murmured. “Good idea.”
I returned to the diner, hoping Larry was still there so I could grab a bucket of water and clean the bloody stones before any kids came to play the next day. When I got back with the bucket, the cat was gone. I cleaned up the blood as best I could.
• • •
I opened my apartment door to see yet another business card waiting for me.
ROSALYN Z. RAZVAN, AAP
Professional Prognostication
By Appointment Only
Take Charge of Your Future
The address was for the house across the road.
I flipped over the card. In precise handwriting, she’d written: We must speak. You need my help.
“For a hundred bucks a session, I’m sure.” I tossed it into the trash, the same place I’d thrown her nephew’s card two days ago. This one would stay put. I needed his services; I certainly didn’t need hers.
• • •
The next morning, I made my daily call to Howard before heading out for a much-needed walk. His voice mail picked up right away, and I wondered if he was just hitting ignore when he saw my new number. No matter. I’d keep making these calls and he’d keep passing on the messages to James and my mother. My family paid him too much not to.
On my way past the library, I popped in to check the bulletin board. If I planned to stay in Cainsville for a while, I should get more involved. I could join the knitting circle. Or the book club. Or, if I waited a few weeks, lawn bowling season would start.
I skimmed to karate lessons. Join anytime. Weekly at the community center. Five dollars per session.
That I could afford and self-defense lessons wouldn’t be a bad idea. I jotted down the particulars.
• • •
It wasn’t yet ten when I got back to my apartment, but Gabriel’s Jag was already out front, and the man himself was on the stoop, talking to Grace.
“Let me grab my notebook,” I said, by way of greeting.
“I brought the file.” He lifted it.
“Which is good, considering that’s what I’m paying you for.”
I started to walk past him.
“I meant that we don’t need to go anywhere,” he said. “If you’re uncomfortable having me in your apartment, we can leave the door open.”
“Um, no, I know how to scream. And I’m sure Grace would call the cops for me. Otherwise she’d lose the rental.”
Grace nodded, not the least offended.
“I’m suggesting we don’t do this inside because my apartment stinks,” I said. “Despite hours of cleaning.”
“Buy an air freshener,” Grace said.
“I did. A lovely peach-scented one. Now my apartment smells like rotten peaches. I’m going to paint the place next week.”
“Wash the walls first,” Gabriel said.
I looked up at him.
“You need to use a bleach solution on the walls, or you’ll only temporarily cover the stench.”
Obviously someone who had experience with cheap apartments. I struggled to picture it—the guy looked like he wouldn’t be caught dead outside the penthouse.
“And buy good paint,” Grace said.
“Will that help?”
“No, but if you buy cheap-ass crap and it peels, I’ll—”
I cut her off with a wave and headed inside. Gabriel followed.
When I opened my apartment door, he took one sniff and said, “You’re right.”
“Checking my alibi, counselor?” I said. “If I wasn’t comfortable being alone with you, I’d say so.”
As I grabbed my notebook and pen, he stepped in. His gaze went to the wastepaper basket and I remembered the card in there.
“Not yours,” I said. “Seems pushing business cards under doors runs in your family. Your aunt wants a consultation. Or, I suspect, she wants me to buy one from her.”
“I presume you aren’t interested.”
“You presume correctly.”
“Good. I’ll speak to her. She won’t bother you again.”
So he didn’t want me talking to his aunt? Interesting.
I fished the card out of the trash. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty.”
He plucked the card from my fingers. “My aunt sells superstition, Olivia. While you may be at a point in your life where you wouldn’t mind some guidance, I’d suggest you spend your money on decent paint instead. It will brighten your future far more than any psychic reading.”
Was he worried his aunt might warn me against him? Or was he merely pretending he didn’t want me to visit her, because I’d already shown signs that I was a contrary bitch?
Damn.
I let him keep the card and locked the door behind us.
• • •
As we walked out of the building, Gabriel began listing places we could talk—the library, the coffee shop. I vetoed them all and instead steered him down the alley to the park.
We arrived just as the only occupants—a woman with two preschoolers—were heading home. I held the gate for her. As we walked through, Gabriel rubbed the head of a chimera griffin.
“For luck?” I said.
“No. For . . .” He paused. “Protection.”
“Protection? Against what?”
“Bogeymen and goblins and fairies and everything else that might threaten the life of an innocent child.”
I studied his face. “You’re serious.”
“Serious in the sense that it’s what I was told, growing up. As for whether they still tell children that . . . ?” He shrugged. “My aunt is far from the only superstitious soul in this town.”
“And those?” I pointed at the gargoyles on the bank. “Protection against flying monkeys?”
“Plague.”
I shot another look his way.
“That’s what I heard. When the plague struck Chicago, the townspeople here erected the gargoyles, and nary a soul was lost to the Black Death.”
“The bubonic plague predates Chicago by about five hundred years.”
He lowered himself to the bench. “I know. I was very disappointed when I found out. Almost as bad as when I learned there were no fairies. The world is much more interesting with goblins and plagues.”
“Unless you catch the plague.”
“It’s a risk. But imagine the market for quack cures. One could make a fortune.” He gazed up at the gargoyles. “I suppose there’s a more prosaic explanation. Someone puts up a gargoyle. His neighbor puts up two. Before you know”—he swept a hand across the vista—“monsters everywhere.”
“Speaking of monsters . . .” I pointed at the file.
“That’s an awkward segue,” he said. “You can do better.”
“Lawyers bill in fifteen-minute increments. Stop stalling and give me the damn file.”
He handed it over.