Chapter Twenty-Two

 

Seamus returned by dinnertime.

“No sign of Tarrant,” he told me as I pulled the bubbling lasagna from the oven. He sniffed appreciatively over my shoulder. “Is that lasagna? It smells fantastic.”

“Yeah, it’s one of my specialt—”

I broke off as he gave me a quick peck on the mouth. I laughed. I wasn’t used to playful—these were not playful circumstances—but I liked his good humor and his easy affection.

“And he can cook,” Seamus informed the ether.

“Enough to survive. Anyway, Tarrant. Where would he go? Why would he go?” I elbowed the oven door closed, transferred the casserole dish to the counter, opened the lower oven door, and pulled out the toasted garlic bread.

“My theory is he caught the nine a.m. bus across the street from the church headquarters. Which means he could be in San Francisco by now. We’ve got an APB out on him, but locating him could take time.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“I’m having trouble buying the idea of Tarrant on the run with Ogden’s ill-gotten gains.”

“He’s been searching for something these past weeks. If it wasn’t the money, what was it? And why did he take off without a word?”

“Oh, I believe he somehow found out about the money and was hunting for it. I don’t think he found it.”

“Why’s that?”

“First, because I spoke with Aunt H., and she swears there was no money.”

Seamus opened his mouth to object, but I kept talking. “Hear me out. Aunt H. says she and Ogden fought constantly about money, that he was bitter at being dependent on her, and that he had started borrowing from their friends and neighbors.”

Seamus spread his hands like I had just handed over a basketful of nothing.

“But the main thing is Betty. It’s too much of a coincidence that Betty would die the same morning Tarrant goes missing.”

“It’s not a coincidence at all. I’m guessing Ulyanna’s attack was brought on by something Tarrant said or did this morning. They probably argued. And when Tarrant saw what had happened, he snapped.”

It sort of made sense, yet I just couldn’t quite believe this scenario of Seamus’s. It was also hard to believe that Betty had died only that day.

I said, “Betty’s expression. Did you notice it?”

“Yes.” Seamus looked ill at ease, remembering. “That doesn’t mean anything, though. Even when people die a natural death, they don’t always look like they do when they’re prepared for a viewing.”

I was quickly losing my appetite for lasagna—or anything else. “She looked scared to death.”

“I know. Where are you going with this?”

“What if what Betty saw was Tarrant being murdered?”

“Whoa. That’s quite a leap.”

“Yes, but it’s not impossible.”

“No, but it’s pretty unlikely. What are you basing that theory on? Who’s your suspect? What’s the motive?”

“Maybe Liana and Roma Loveridge working together.”

“Seriously?”

I shrugged. “No. Well, I don’t know. I just—I’m hoping you’ll keep an open mind because, while I know I’m biased, I really don’t believe my aunt knows anything about that money. And without the money, she had no motive for getting rid of Ogden. Oscar. Whoever.”

Once again Seamus opened his mouth, and once again I cut him off. “She’d have divorced him. There’s no reason she couldn’t have divorced him.” I closed my mind to my own suspicions—and the memory of Aunt H.’s guilty demeanor.

Seamus looked unconvinced. “The thing you learn in police work is 99 percent of the time, the most obvious solution is the correct solution.”

“But there’s always that one percent.”

“True. Anyway, let’s table the discussion for now. Neither of us got much sleep last night, and I don’t know about you, but I can’t think straight when I’m starving.”

I assented. “Dinner’s ready when you are.”

 

 

Aunt H. joined us for dinner after heating up canned soup for Liana and taking it upstairs on a tray.

“How’s she doing?” Seamus inquired, and I knew he was wondering how long until he could question Liana.

Aunt H. said, “Still very groggy. She’s agreed to have someone from the RCU come and stay tonight.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” I said. “At least you’ll be able to get some sleep tonight.”

Aunt H. said nothing.

“RCU?” Seamus asked.

“Rational Christians United,” I said. “Our new neighbors.”

“Oh, the cult.”

Aunt H. began to splutter. “I think cult is perhaps an exaggeration. The church seems to do a lot of good work locally.”

“I notice you’re not a member,” I said. “I still have trouble believing Liana is.”

“She joined shortly after Ogden’s death. She found it very difficult to come to terms with losing him. She’s been less involved lately.”

“So many séances, so little time,” I said.

“Whatever gets you through the night,” Seamus said.

Aunt H. studied him curiously and then glanced at me. Meeting my eyes, she smiled faintly, ruefully.

“I thought the RCU had died out years ago. What brought them back?” I asked.

“The economy. And Reverend Ormston.”

“I don’t remember Reverend Ormston.”

“Is that the guy on the fliers?” Seamus asked. “The one who looks like Biker Jesus?”

That started Aunt H. spluttering again. “I don’t know much about him,” she said finally.

“The Bancrofts have always identified as Episcopalian,” I told Seamus. “Carpenter Jesus is as blue collar as we get.”

“Ah.”

Aunt H. rolled her eyes at this sacrilege. “I believe he was a friend of Reverend Hornsby. He moved from San Francisco about six years ago. By that time the church was in decline.”

“Village scandal,” I informed Seamus. “The very married Reverend Hornsby was caught fooling around with his organist.”

Aunt H. shook her head at me. More in sorrow than in anger, as Horatio said to Hamlet—although in Aunt H.’s case it was more in resignation. “Ormston took over from Hornsby, with Hornsby’s blessing, and from everything I’ve heard, completely revitalized the church. I think the RCU is only second in size—and influence—to St. Teresa’s. Even Tarrant started attending services.” Aunt H. sighed. “I suppose I should consult with the reverend regarding Ulyanna’s funeral arrangements. I keep hoping we’re going to hear from Tarrant.”

Seamus and I exchanged looks but said nothing.

The doorbell rang as we were finishing up dinner.

Sister Regina was small, slim, and dark-haired. She looked about seventeen. A serious, solemn seventeen, but still. A kid. Then again, all she had to do was not fall asleep during the night, so after a brief interview, Aunt H. bade us good night and escorted the teen angel of mercy upstairs.

Seamus and I gathered up the dinner dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

I set my load in the sink and said, “I think these can wait until tomorrow. I’m calling it a day.”

Seamus hesitated. Said tentatively, “Do you want company tonight?”

It was my turn to hesitate, to be tentative. “I do, but I really am beat.”

“Right. Of course.” He looked flatteringly disappointed.

I was unexpectedly disappointed too. I did not want to say good night to Seamus—and that had nothing to do with not wanting to face those cold, dark rooms upstairs alone.

I said slowly, “If you don’t mind sleeping together when it really is just sleeping…”

He brightened, grinned, said immediately, “I don’t mind. Sleeping is one of my favorite things.”

 

 

“Tell me the story of your life,” I said.

It was about an hour after Seamus and I had retreated upstairs. We’d taken turns splashing around in the bathroom and were now settled in each other’s arms in the boat of a bed I’d used to lie awake in, dreaming of a guy like Seamus wandering into my life.

Instead, Greg had wandered in, and I’d gone with that.

At the time, I’d believed that being with the wrong guy was preferable to being alone.

Now I knew better.

Seamus grinned. “Am I auditioning?”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Are you?”

He made a sound of amusement, tipping his head as though to study me better in the lamplight.

“Not a lot to tell. I’m a born and bred New Yorker—sorry, I lied; you guessed right that day in the garage. Age thirty-three, Protestant, O-positive blood type, unmarried, no kids, registered Independent, annual income just under $100K.”

“The ideal man,” I said lightly. “Is that what you always wanted to be? A cop?”

“I wanted to be a playwright.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” He laughed without self-consciousness. “No. I’ve got a box full of terrible scripts to prove it.”

I found this charming, which had to be proof I was seriously falling for Seamus Cassidy.

“How did you end up on the force?”

“Och, I come from a long line of Irish cops,” he said with a not-too-shabby Irish accent. “Anyway, no regrets. I like it. I’m good at it.”

“Your interest isn’t solely financial crimes, is it? Don’t you have a background in cults and mind control?”

“Cults? Me? No.”

“Oh. I saw some textbooks on the shelf in your living room that made me think you had an interest in that kind of thing.”

“No. Those books were there when I arrived. They’re not mine. Except the cooking with booze book. That’s mine all right.”

I laughed.

He said, “What about you?”

“Did I grow up wanting to be a theater critic? Uh, no. I don’t think anyone grows up dreaming of being a theater critic.”

“What did you want to be?”

I made a face. “I wanted to act, dahling, of course.”

“What happened?”

“Those who can, do. Those who can’t, critique.”

“You’re a very good critic. I love reading your columns.”

I laughed. “Thank you.”

“No, but I’m serious. I like the way you think.”

I laughed again, self-consciously. “Okay. Tell me three surprising things about yourself.”

“Now I feel like I really am auditioning.”

“They don’t have to be big things.”

He looked ceilingward, thinking. “Hmm. Well… I’m the oldest of triplets.”

“Triplets!”

“Yep. I’m allergic to honey.”

“How can that be?”

He held up three fingers. “And I have a cat named Milo.”

“I like cats. How old is Milo? What kind of cat is he?”

“Three. He’s a cool cat.”

I snickered.

Seamus said, “He’s not like a show cat or anything. I don’t know what breed he is. I found him as a kitten. Or he found me.”

If this kept up, I was going to fall in love with Seamus in short order. “How is it you’re not already in a relationship with somebody?” I asked suspiciously.

He made a thoughtful mmm sound.

I raised my head. “Or are you?”

He scowled. “Hell, no. I wouldn’t be lying here in bed with you if I was in a relationship.”

I relaxed against him again. “Good.”

He reached up to stroke my hair. It felt nice. His touch was sure and gentle. I thought how different it would be to be in a relationship with someone like him. Someone with a sense of humor. Someone who was sure of himself. Not arrogant, just…a guy who knew who he was and where he was going. Someone to whom gentleness came naturally, instinctively.

“Can I ask you something, Artemus?” he asked softly.

I closed my eyes. “How did I end up with a cheating asshole like Greg?”

“No. Who was Anthony Clarke?”

I was still for a moment. I opened my eyes to scrutinize his face. “Where did you hear that name?”

“His name came up in conjunction with yours a couple of times.”

I made a sound of disgust. “I bet. And people complain about unemployment when the local gossip mill is still operational?” Not that I was surprised. There had been plenty of talk at the time—and Tarrant and Betty had both been present at the first séance when Tony had supposedly appeared.

Seamus said calmly. “Gossip is a useful resource in my line of work.” He stroked my hair again, and I knew he was trying to communicate silently that this was not something meant to threaten or hurt.

“Tony was a friend.” I considered Seamus for a moment. Considered how open and honest he had been. Not with everything, but his interest—feelings—for me. I amended, “My first boyfriend. We were sixteen.” Sixteen. A different planet in a different solar system.

“What happened?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard. He killed himself.”

“I did hear that. I’m sorry.”

I sighed, and even I could hear what a long, weary sound it was. “It was a long time ago.”

It was. And yet it still hurt if I opened my heart to it—something I had become practiced at avoiding.

I said, “He was great. I…liked him. A lot. Everybody did. He was smart, funny, talented—there was someone who could actually act.” I sighed again. The memory of Tony was always going to be a weight on my chest. I said, “He was also bipolar, which none of us—his friends—knew.”

Seamus gave a quiet ah.

I was surprised by how much I wanted him to understand, to not blame me. But it was still hard to get the words out. “We hadn’t been seeing each other long. It was all still really new. We had an argument. It was something stupid. Trivial. So trivial, I honest to God am not sure to this day if I really do know what the argument was really about. At the time, I didn’t think a lot about it. It was just…a disagreement.” I cleared my throat. “I told him to go to hell.”

Seamus made a pained sound as though he was watching it unfold with me.

After a moment, I said, “He thought we were breaking up. He thought it was over. He drove out to Timber Landing and jumped off the cliff.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said again.

My eyes stung. It was silly. But there had not been a lot of sympathy for me back then.

“Thank you. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn’t my fault. That it wasn’t really about me. I did love him—was falling in love with him, anyway—but that’s not always enough.”

Intellectually, I really did understand and believe that, but I can’t deny that hearing Seamus’s instant, heated, “Of course not. Of course you weren’t to blame. You were a kid. You weren’t equipped to deal with that,” felt like balm on an open wound.

“Yes. We were both kids, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a tragedy.” I added, “And a really bad introduction to romance and relationships.”

Seamus started to respond but stopped at the sound of a floorboard creaking outside the bedroom door. We both sat up, listening. The floorboard squeaked again. I scrambled off one side of the bed. Seamus rolled in the other direction, diving for his clothes and pulling out a large and serviceable semiautomatic pistol out of the neat pile of jeans, T-shirt, socks, and briefs.

At my look, he whispered, “Not usually in the bedroom, no.”

I yanked open the door.

A lamp sat on a long table midway down the corridor. The muted light cast sharp shadows across the ceiling and walls—and revealed that the hall stood empty. All was quiet.

Seamus appeared at my shoulder, tense and alert.

A light shone from beneath Aunt H.’s door. A paler band glowed beneath Liana’s.

We waited. Nothing happened.

“What do you think?” he whispered.

I thought our nerves were wearing thin. I thought a night-light made all the difference in the world.

I said, “Bathroom run? A craving for hot milk that won’t be denied?”

We continued to stand motionless, not speaking, just listening.

Wood creaked near the head of the staircase, but the landing was empty.

It was an old building. Its bones ached and groaned at night. All the same…

I whispered, “I’m looking for those blueprints tomorrow.”

Seamus nodded.