Visions (Cainsville #2)(47)

When he checked his watch, I said, “Go on home. I’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“You were reminding me that I’m being unreasonably stubborn, while you’re here, helping me, out of the goodness of your heart.”

A flicker in his eyes. My darts rarely pierce Gabriel, but every now and then they manage.

“You got my messages to turn back,” I said. “You didn’t come out here to help me. You came because I’m not sure I made the right choice agreeing to work for you, and you wanted to seal my employment, through obligation if necessary.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The words were said with the right degree of scorn and affront, but if you hang around Gabriel long enough, you learn to detect the tonal shifts that give lie to his words.

“I would like you to speak to Rose,” he said. “It’s not yet ten. Come along.”

I considered letting him go out the door first then locking it behind him, but that was petty. Besides, he could pick the lock.

“At least call her first,” I said. “She did have a date. Just because she’s home doesn’t mean she’s alone.”

He gave me a perplexed look.

“Call,” I said.

He did.

—

Rose didn’t have company. And she wasn’t particularly happy about it.

“Waste of my night,” she grumbled when I asked her how it went. “We’re still on the appetizers, and he asks if I know how to bake banana bread. Can you believe that?”

“First dates are awkward,” I said as we walked into the front room. “He was probably struggling to make conversation.”

She snorted. “Conversation, my ass. I can tell you why he was asking. Because his late wife baked banana bread and he misses it. For date number two, he’d invite me to his place, where I’d find all the ingredients and her old recipe. Widowers. They aren’t looking for companionship; they’re looking for a new housekeeper. This is why I should stick to women.” When I looked surprised, she shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

“Widens the dating pool,” I said as I sat.

“It does. I’m updating my profile tonight. Widowers—and widows—need not apply.”

“You found him through an online service?”

She scowled at me. “Ask me in that tone again when you’re no longer a skinny twenty-five-year-old, and we’ll see if your attitude changes, missy.”

“I wasn’t judging. I’m just not sure that’s safe.”

A grunt from beside me elicited a glare from Rose.

“Don’t start, Gabriel,” she said. “I’m well aware of your views on the subject.”

“Because I’ve defended two clients accused of crimes committed against women they found through an online dating service. Neither was guilty, of course—”

“Of course,” I said.

“But the fact remains that it does not seem a safe way to find a relationship. With either gender.”

She turned to me. “So you’ve stumbled into trouble again. Shouldn’t the omens warn you against that?”

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t the cards warn you against bad dates?”

She grumbled under her breath. “All right. Explain.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


Rose handled the discovery of Ciara’s body as matter-of-factly as her nephew had. To them, the point was what it meant for me—why the corpse was being used to threaten me, and whether tonight’s events were a continuation of that threat or mere happenstance.

I showed her the photos of the dining room and parlor friezes.

“Where is this?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Beechwood Street. It’s a Victorian with leaded windows—”

“The Carew house,” she said. “I wasn’t sure which empty house you meant. There are probably a half-dozen in Cainsville at any time, owned by the town. They aren’t an easy sell to newcomers between the commuting issues and the approval committee.”

“Approval committee?” I said.

“For new purchasers.”

“Is that legal?”

“It’s been challenged a few times,” Gabriel said. “But race, religion, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic status play no role in the process, so it isn’t discriminatory. It’s all about whether you’re suitable.”

“Which is a very nebulous determination,” Rose said. “As off-putting as it sounds, the average prospective home owner does pass, and those who don’t? Do you really want to live in a town that doesn’t want you? They move on. All that, however, means that sometimes houses don’t sell, and the homeowners won’t be happy if it’s because of local politics. So if a house is on the market more than six months, the town buys it. Then they keep it for someone from Cainsville. Usually a young couple who grew up here.”

“Chief Burton thought there was a legal issue holding up the sale.”

“There was. Years ago. But the town owns it now.”

So I could buy it? The words were almost on my lips before I realized how horrible they sounded. Ciara Conway’s body had been found there only an hour ago. And my first thought was, “Really? It’s for sale?” Yet there was something about the house, a pull I couldn’t shake.