The Orange Cat & other Cainsville tales (17 page)

“Different. Also, oddly arousing.”

“I thought it might be, after that story you told me this morning.”

He paused and then sputtered a laugh as he remembered sharing his fantasy moment from the cavern, recreating the selkie image from his grandmother’s books. Thinking of that and looking at the skirt . . .

Fuck.

Liv stripped off her shirt. Under it, she wore a brown speckled bra, one that went remarkably well with the sealskin skirt.

“I have two words to add to that scenario I gave you,” she said. “Just two.”

“Uh-huh.”

She leaned in, her chest brushing his, lips going to his ear as she whispered, “Selkie porn.”

He let out a laugh. Then she moved back and his gaze traveled down her, taking in the view of her with the pounding surf behind and . . .

“Fuck.”

“That depends. What do you say? It’s the chance to bring to life a childhood fantasy. Well, not one you actually had as a child, I presume. But I’m sure you can improvise now.” She looked at the water. “I see the ideal rock out there. Perfect for a selkie to climb up on, basking in the late-day sun, and then a hot young human just happens by—”

“I’m in.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” she said with a grin, and he chuckled again, a little ragged now as he moved toward her. She backed up. “Uh-uh. No touching until the fantasy is in full play. I may need to do some swimming first. Get all wet and ready. You can watch. Maybe find a nice tree to spy from. Good?”

“Oh, yeah. And this is just the warm-up. If I’m the one to give in first, I get the whole page of promises.”

“You do.”

“It’s just too bad you won’t get the ones on my page. I was looking forward to doing that. All of that.”

She smiled. “Oh, I’m still collecting. You just get to go first.”

“Uh, no. Sorry. That wasn’t the deal. I mean, I’d love to, naturally. But the offer was only good for the first who redeemed it. Which is me.”

“Wait, no. That was not—”

“Was, too.”

“Then I claim it,” she said quickly. “I surrender first. Add selkie porn to your list, so you’ll still get that and—”

“Nope. Sorry. Really. I feel
terrible
, but I couldn’t hold out. You win.” He sighed. “I was especially looking forward to . . .” He leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“Bastard.”

“Hey, that’s not nice. Especially since I was going to suggest that you could still win it. As a reward. For good behavior.”

“Good behavior?” She arched one brow. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“Yep. You gotta earn it. I’ll warn you, though, my selkie fantasy is getting more elaborate by the second.”

“Whatever you can come up with, I can meet and exceed
all
expectations.”

“Think so?”

“Know so.” She started for the water, her bra drifting down to rest on the pebble beach. “You just gotta be able to keep up.”

“Oh, I will. You know I will.”

He watched her walk into the water and waited until he got that first glimpse of her diving into the surf, the flip of her sealskin skirt before she disappeared under the water. Time to find a place to spy from. Just as soon as he grabbed his camera. He did have a scrapbook to fill.

Rituals

Coming August 2017

Yes, this is a first glimpse at the first draft opening chapters to the next book, Cainsville 5.

If you haven’t read
Betrayals
yet, stop now!

Seriously, stop now. Come back. It’ll still be here

Rituals

Cainsville 5 sneak peek

One

When I saw the ambulances parked outside the burning farmhouse, I thought there was still hope. That Detective Pemberton was wrong, and we hadn’t lost the only witness who could set my father free after twenty years in prison for murders committed, instead, by my mother.

I saw the old house in flames, smoke filling the night air, and that ambulance with its lights still flashing. As Gabriel pulls the Jag to the side of the country lane, I leaned back in the seat and exhaled in relief. We weren’t too late. After six months, we’ve finally found our key witness, and that fire meant she’d be in no shape to run again.

And that’s when they brought out the stretchers. With body bags.

“Maybe it’s not Imogen,” I said.

We walked toward the burning house. I surveyed the personnel on duty, chose my target and picked up speed as Gabriel fell back. We were almost an hour outside Chicago, and the police on the scene were state troopers, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t know Gabriel, at least by his reputation. As one of the city’s most notorious defense lawyers, that reputation did not endear him to anyone with a badge.

I approached a young officer left guarding the perimeter.

I extended my hand. “Liv Jones,” I said. “We’ve been looking for one of the women renting this house. Imogen Seale. She’s a material witness in a multiple homicide.”

The trooper peered at me with a
Don’t I know you from somewhere
. But it was dark and smoky and tonight I was just Liv Jones. No relation to Olivia Taylor-Jones, former debutante daughter of the Mills & Jones department store owner. Certainly no relation to Eden Larsen, daughter of the notorious serial killers, Todd and Pamela Larsen.

“Hope she wasn’t a valuable witness,” the trooper said.

“Kind of,” I said with a wry smile. “I’m guessing my contact was right, then. She didn’t survive.”

“Pronounced DOA,” she said. “Her mother fell asleep smoking on the sofa. You really think people would know better. If you have to smoke, at least invest in an alarm.”

“Aren’t they mandatory?”

“In old rentals like this, no one checks until something happens. A fifty-dollar investment could have saved two lives.”

“And chance I can see the bodies?” I asked. “If she’s definitely gone, I need to move fast in another direction.”

“I hear you,” she said and waved for me to follow. “And I hate to see a killer walk free. Especially a multiple murderer.”

Mmm, yeah, sorry, but actually, if we win this one, we do set a multiple murderer free. It’s a package deal—getting my father out means freeing my mother, too.

As we walked, Gabriel fell in beside me. When the trooper glanced at him, I said simply, “My colleague,” and she said, “Organized crime?”

I choke on a laugh, and she quickly added, “I mean the case. I can imagine you’d need security for something like that.”

It wasn’t the first time Gabriel had been mistaken for my bodyguard. When we met, I’d pegged him as hired muscle myself. Even the expensive cut of his suit had only made me amend that to “hired muscle for someone with a lot of money.” He was at least six four and built like a linebacker. It was more than his size, though. He just had that look—the one that makes people get out of the way.

The trooper said something to one of the paramedics, who nodded and opened the smaller body bag. Imogen’s mother. Death had obviously been smoke inhalation, with signs of suffocation and only minimal burning, mostly to the clothing. Which meant there was no chance we were looking at the badly-burned corpse of a stranger. And the second corpse? Imogen herself, mistress of Marty Tyson, one of my mother’s victims. The only person who could have testified that Tyson actually killed the first two alleged victims. It would have been the reasonable doubt we needed to overturn the conviction.

And now we’d lost it.

#

The next morning, Gabriel drove me to work. He’d spent the night at my house in Cainsville. In his room, I hasten to add. We’d been up half the night discussing the case. Now as he pulled into the laneway of his office greystone, his topic of conversation had nothing to do with work and everything to do with distracting me from fretting over my parents’ appeal. Gabriel had put himself through law school with illegal gaming.

“Blackjack,” he said as he closed his car door. “That was my specialty. It’s simple and efficient.”

“Also one of the easiest games to cheat in, isn’t it? Counting cards?”

“No one counted cards at my table. Not after the first time.”

Something at the periphery of my vision caught my eye. I glanced over see the front door of the office building swing open, no one behind it. I stopped short. When I blinked, the door was shut again.

A door opening on its own. The sign of an unwanted visitor.

“Olivia?”

I shook off the omen. Given what Gabriel did for a living, we got plenty of unwanted visitors.

“Sorry. Missed my cue,” I said. “So, tell me, Gabriel, what’d you do the first time you caught someone counting cards?”

He studied me, suspecting something was up.

“Are you going to tell me?” I said. “Or is this one of those stories you tease me with and then say
Whoops, looks like we’re at the office already. I’ll finish later.
”

His lips twitched. “You like it when I do that. It builds suspense.”

“I
hate
it when you do that. It’s sadistic. You have five seconds—”

“Gabriel?” Lydia stepped out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Gabriel bristled at the interruption.

“Client?” I guessed.

Lydia nodded, and we backed farther from the door.

“It’s a woman,” she said. “She claims to be a relative.”

Gabriel made a noise deep in his throat.

The fact Gabriel had a legit job made him one of the few “white” sheep in the Walsh family. So, yes, I was sure relatives showed up now and then, in need of his services. Which he would happily provide, providing they could pay his fees.

“Prospects?” he said to Lydia.

Lydia’s look answered.

“I’ll get rid of her,” I said. “Give me ten minutes.”

Gabriel hesitated, his need for control warring with an equally strong desire for efficiency. Also, listening to some distant relative sob on his sofa was terribly awkward and—more importantly—a pointless waste of billable hours.

“The sooner we get rid of her, the sooner we can get to work on our appeal strategy,” I said. “I’d appreciate that.”

He nodded. “All right. I’ll go get you a mocha. Lydia?”

“Chai latte please,” she said.

As Lydia opened the office door, I raised my voice and said, “So, yeah, don’t expect Gabriel anytime soon. This courthouse issue could take all day. We need to—” I stopped short, as if Lydia hadn’t mentioned a waiting client.

When I got a look at the woman, though, I didn’t need to feign my shock.

I couldn’t guess at her age. Maybe sixty, but in a haggard, hard-living way that made me suspect the truth was about a decade younger. Her coloring matched Gabriel’s, what his great-aunt Rose calls “black Irish”—pale skin, blue eyes and wavy black hair. She also had the sturdy Walsh build that Gabriel shared with Rose, along with their square face, widow’s peak and pale blue eyes.

Yet I knew she claimed to be a relative so it wasn’t the resemblance that stopped me in my tracks.

I’d seen her face before.

In the photo of a dead woman.

I had to be mistaken, of course. The dead woman had also been a Walsh, so there was a strong resemblance—that’s all.

I walked over, hand extended as she rose. “I’m—”

“The infamous Eden Larsen,” she said, and my hackles rose. I am Eden Larsen, as much as I’m Olivia Taylor-Jones. But calling me by my birth name is the social equivalent of a smirk and a smackdown.
I know who you really are, Miss Larsen.

I responded with the kind of smile I learned from my adoptive mother. The smile of a society matron plucking the dagger from her back and calmly wiping off the blood before it stains.

“It’s Olivia,” I said. “Or Liv. And you are?”

A smile played at her lips, and that smile did more than raise my hackles. My gut twisted, and I wanted to shove her out the door. Just grab her arm and muscle her out before she said another word.

“I’m Seanna Walsh,” she said. “Gabriel’s mother.”

Two

“Seanna Walsh?” I forced a laugh. “Uh, no. If you’re going to impersonate a long-lost relative, I’d suggest you pick one who’s actually alive.”

“Do I look alive to you, Eden?”

Behind me, Lydia said, “I believe she asked you to call her Olivia.”

Lydia’s gaze was laser-beamed on the woman, as if ready to throw her out. Lydia might be well past retirement age, but I didn’t doubt she could do it. When I shook my head, though, Lydia walked stiffly to her desk and lowered herself into the chair.

“You are not Seanna Walsh,” I said. “I’ve seen photographs of her, both before and after her death. You may resemble her, but those coroner pics guarantee you are not.”

“And I guarantee I am. The pictures were staged.”

“Bullshit,” I said, bearing down on her. “You cannot stage—”

“With enough money, you certainly can.”

“Which only proves you are not Seanna Walsh, who never had a dime she didn’t snort or stick up her arm.”

“So it’s true, then.”

“What’s true?”

“The rumors that you and my son are more than coworkers.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“Get—” I began.

“Get where? Under the desk? Behind the bathroom door? Where exactly are you going to hide me, Eden? And why bother, if I’m not really his mother?”

The footfalls continued past. Just one of Gabriel’s tenants.

I took out my phone and texted.
Can you stay away longer, pls?

The
please
would tell Gabriel I was serious. A moment later, he replied saying he was supposed to visit a client at Cook County this morning and should he just do that?

Yes, pls.

I pocketed my phone and turned to the woman.

“Sit down.”

She gave that spine-raking smile again. “If you’re trying to pretend you aren’t sleeping with my son, you might want to begin with a slightly less impassioned defense.”

“Gabriel and I are friends. Good friends.”

“Gabriel doesn’t have friends. No one wants to hang out with a freak.”

I felt Lydia’s hand on my arm before I even realized I was surging forward, fists clenched.

In that moment, I forgot that this couldn’t possibly be Seanna Walsh and that was who I saw, who I heard, and I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and choke the life out of her. It was only when I realized what I was thinking that I rocked back, exhaling fast and hard.

“Sit down,” I said again.

She started for the door.

I stepped into her path. “I told you—”

“No, Eden. You are adorable, really, but totally out of your league. Go back to painting your nails or picking out a new wardrobe or whatever your type does.”

I lifted my hand . . . to point a gun at her forehead. “This is what my type does. Or have you forgotten who my parents are?”

She laughed. “You aren’t that girl, Miss Eden. You might carry a gun in your purse and tell yourself you’re a private investigator, but your blue jeans probably cost a week’s salary. You’re a trust-fund baby, and
my
baby is going to fleece you for every penny you have. I hope you realize he’s running a long con here. Give the rich debutante her bad-girl dream, empty her trust fund and then dump her pretty little ass.”

I could tell her Gabriel doesn’t need my money. That he owned this building. Owned a million dollar condo. Kept a hundred grand in cash under his bed for “emergencies.” But that would mean giving her some idea exactly how much
her
mark was worth. So I shot her in the leg.

The woman fell back, yowling.

I turned to Lydia. “Please call the police and tell them I have been forced to shoot a trespasser. It’s a minor wound, but they still may want to send an ambulance.”

Lydia picked up the phone. The woman lunged to grab it. I motioned for Lydia to hang up and said calmly, “Are you going to sit down now?”

“You—you shot—”

“Barely.” I grabbed a tissue box from Lydia’s desk and tossed it at the woman. “Staunch the blood. If you play nice, I’ll get you bandages. I might even toss in five bucks to buy a patch for your jeans. Now sit. Lydia? Any chance you could grab me a mocha?”

Gabriel had a hard-and-fast rule about involving Lydia in trouble, and the legality of that bullet graze was already highly questionable.

When I mouthed “please?” she nodded with reluctance and said, “I’ll be right around the corner.”

I waited until she was gone. The woman still wasn’t sitting. She wasn’t making any move to leave either, so I decided not to press the point.

“Seanna Walsh is dead,” I said.

“No, Seanna Walsh was
playing
dead.” She tossed bloodied tissues aside. “I knew this guy—police sergeant—who used to make problems disappear for a price. We had an arrangement. One night, he brought dope to party, and he got loaded and told me he nabbed a half-kilo of coke from the evidence locker. I saw an opportunity.”

“To what? Steal it?”

She snorted. “That would be stupid. I’m not stupid.”

I bit my tongue.

“I was dealing with other shit at the time,” she said. “I’d conned a guy who blew it all out of proportion. Put a bounty on my head. A
bounty
.” She sounded genuinely insulted. “I cut a deal with this sergeant. I keep my mouth shut about the dope if he’d help me disappear—stage my death so no one would come after me.”

“No one even realized Seanna Walsh was dead until this spring. Fifteen years after she disappeared.”

“He screwed me over. The cops were supposed to find this Jane Doe who’d OD’d—I knew where her body was. My guy would wait six months and then swap her photos with mine and have someone ID me as the dead woman.”

“That is the stupidest scheme I’ve ever heard.”