Changeling Detective Agency - Shadows In The Starlight Part 12

"Yes, dear?"

"Are you Mrs. Williams?"

The woman looked puzzled for a moment. Her expression cleared and her eyes lit up. "Yes, that's me!

Lord, I haven't heard that name in years. The people around here are 'Irma this, Irma that.' Talking to me like I was a child. I'm not, you know. I'm a married woman."

Gwen responded with a noncommittal hmm. "Where would you like me to put your flowers?"

Irma Williams flashed a radiant, toothless smile and held out her arms for the flowers. "Those would be from my Henry. He never forgets an anniversary. We've been married for some time, you know."

Thanks to the report Gwen had received that morning from her information broker, she knew that Henry had been Roy Williams's father. Roy had told Shawna O'Riley half the truth: his father was long dead. His mother was alive, but when her mind faltered under the weight of her years, she'd forgotten him and he'd apparently decided to return the favor.

She placed the flowers on the peeling windowsill, right next to Mrs. Williams.

"Enjoy them," she said as she backed out of the room. She swiftly retraced her steps down the depressing halls, knowing that she'd completed the job Damian had asked her to do: she'd found a reason for the vague unease the cop had felt around Roy Williams.

Gwen had a fairly good idea how Shawna O'Riley would react to this news. Knowing he'd warehoused his mother would be a deal-breaker.

She could picture Shawna's stunned indignation, but she couldn't understand it. Yes, Roy Williams had dumped his mother in a state-run home, to an unknown fate at the hands of strangers. That was no different from what had been done to her, and Gwen couldn't manage to summon the same level of indignation. What she had was questions. Lots of them.She'd only recently learned that James and Ruby Avalon, not David and Regina Gellman, were her real parents.

When her parents died in a car crash, another baby girl had been strapped in Gwen's car seat-or whatever people used thirty-four years ago when they traveled with small children. They'd taken that little girl from her crib and left Gwen in her place. Apparently this was standard practice among her kind.

What had prompted her parents to do this, and what did it say about them?

It wasn't a pretty picture from any angle. At the very least, James and Ruby Avalon had put another child at risk to save their own daughter's life. According to Edmonson, they had brutally slaughtered the girls'

parents and left their own daughter, a changeling child, to be raised by the state.

And why were her parents running? What did they have that Wallace Edmonson wanted? Was it just the blue crystal he'd shown Gwen, or something more?

Over the years, Gwen had never given much thought to her family. During her childhood, practical matters-such as survival-had taken most of her focus, and she'd never seen much sense in dwelling on the past. But all of a sudden family was very, very important. There was no getting around it: to understand what she was, she had to know more about where she'd come from.

Even if-no, especially if-those answers were hard to face.

CHAPTER NINE.

The scent of cinnamon greeted Gwen when she walked into The Green Man later that afternoon. Alice Powers hastened over, a steaming mug in hand.

"Any word of Erin?" she demanded before Gwen could speak.

"Nothing yet. In fact, I have a few more questions for you, if you don't mind."

"Of course not. Would you like some tea while we talk? It's the same kind you had the other day, only with a bit of cider and cinnamon added."

It sounded like one of the concoctions Trudy routinely made. She was always drinking some sort of green-smelling brew laced with juice and spices and G.o.d-only-knows what else. And she wasn't alone in this. You could actually buy the stuff in bottles at otherwise respectable coffeehouses.

"No, thanks. I'm a degenerate coffee fiend, myself."

Alice clicked her tongue reprovingly. "A good herbal tea is much healthier, not to mention far more soothing."

Who wanted soothing? Gwen was used to being tense and saw no reason to change.

On the other hand, Trudy would probably love this stuff, and considering their last exchange, perhaps a keep-the-peace offering was in order. Gwen picked up a box that had a label similar to the shop's sign.

"Is this it?"

"Yes. Those are loose tea leaves. It also comes in a condensed syrup that's very convenient for making fruit-blend teas, warm or iced.""I'll take one of each."

Alice's appraising gaze slid down Gwen, taking in her ancient leather jacket, the dozen or so cheap silver rings on her hands, and the boots from Payless, buy one pair get the second pair half-off.

"This particular tea isn't inexpensive."

What the h.e.l.l, thought Gwen-it was on Kyle's dime. "In that case," she said dryly, "I'll take two of each."

The woman gave her an uncertain smile, but she rang up the sale and led Gwen into the tearoom. Alice sat down and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater in a getting-down-to-business gesture not usually a.s.sociated with lavender cashmere.

"Now, what can I tell you?" she asked briskly.

"Anything you can think of. Any names Erin might have mentioned-friends, babysitters, her kid's friends, whatever. Any people who came here to see her recently."

Alice shrugged. "We're seldom in the shop on the same day. When we are together, Erin is pleasant, but very private. She really doesn't share much. Funny," she mused, "but I've never really noticed that before."

Apparently sharing wasn't something Erin did. Kyle gave her a generous household allowance, but he had no idea what she spent the money on. At Gwen's request, he'd sent a disc containing a record of their household bills, which he had scanned into a computer file and meticulously organized. Odd, that someone who was that particular about his finances would let huge chunks of cash go unaccounted for.

Erin used one of Kyle's debit cards for mundane purchases-gas, groceries, clothing, and so on-but apparently she paid cash for anything that might leave a clue to her habits.

"Has she ever mentioned a favorite restaurant or shop? Or maybe where she gets her hair done?"

The older woman brightened up. "Yes! She had some very nice reddish highlights added about a month ago, and I asked her where she had them done. She mentioned a day spa in Newport: Esprit. It's down on Belleview Avenue, not far from the Tennis Hall of Fame."

In Gwen's opinion, that was a long way to drive to get a haircut. Usually when people went that far out of their way, they were going to a familiar salon or a longtime hairdresser.

That was good news. There seemed to be something about the fumes in those girly places that made women want to tell complete strangers about their lives. Maybe Erin had let something slip.

She thanked Alice and hit the road, heading back north to catch the bridge leading to the bay's biggest island. The drive to Newport was decidedly unscenic, winding as it did through streets lined with strip malls. Golden arches and similar signs hinted enticingly of off-limit French fries, breaking Gwen's heart every few blocks. It took her over a half hour to wind through this culinary purgatory to the island's southernmost town.

Apart from a couple of visits to the summer jazz festival, Gwen had never had much reason to visit Newport, but she figured Belleview Avenue couldn't be too hard to find. All the Gilded Era mansions were along this street-the "summer cottages" built by the Vanderbilts and their buddies back in the days before income tax and minimum-wage laws cut into a robber baron's profits.

After doing a few circles on narrow, one-way streets lined with historic clapboard houses and theoccasional folksy tavern, Gwen found Belleview. She parked at the small, upscale strip mall and walked the rest of the way to the day spa, armed with Erin's photo.

Jason had scanned the photo Kyle had given Gwen into his computer and fooled around with it until he managed to crop little Patrick out of the picture and superimpose Erin's picture on a woody background.

He'd made a good job of it. That was no major surprise to Gwen. Some people just had the knack-G.o.d knows Frank had taken to the computer like it was a new kind of donut.

Gwen showed the altered picture to the receptionist, a young woman with honey-blond hair gathered back into an artfully careless knot. The blonde pursed her lips and studied the photo.

"She looks familiar. Lisa? Take a look at this."

A thirtysomething woman with sleek black hair cut in an asymmetric wedge came over and glanced at the photo.

"Sure, that's Helene. Helene Tremaine. I've been doing her hair for years." Her eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Why?"

Gwen gave a quick, fict.i.tious explanation: she couldn't remember the name of the day spa Helene had recommended, only that it was on Belleview Avenue. She'd tried to call Helene to check, but she wasn't answering her phone.

Lisa cast a critical eye over Gwen's short hair, which had been styled only moments before by a brisk wind and a few impatient pa.s.ses of Gwen's hands. "Unfortunately, I don't have any openings today."

"No problem-I'll call in later and make an appointment. What I was wondering is, can you tell me what sort of styling products Helene uses?"

"I could, but your hair is... a lot different from hers."

Gwen grinned. "That's more tactful than I would have been! I like the way hers looks-nice long layers, lots of shine-and I'm thinking of letting mine grow out. I know I've got a ways to go, but what can I do to help bridge the gap?"

The stylist explained in considerable detail the virtues of various bottles of overpriced hair goop. But where Erin/Helene was concerned, she sang pretty much the same song that Alice Powers had: the woman was pleasant, but didn't talk about herself very much.

"She's a very pretty woman," Lisa concluded, "but you shouldn't try to copy her look. For one thing, she's quite a bit older than you. In fact, her hairstyle is a little young for someone her age."

A jolt of surprise hit Gwen. She saw Lisa register the reaction, so she decided to hide it in plain sight.

"Wow. I thought she was close to my age!"

The stylist smiled. "Now you're just being nice. I remember what it was like when I was a teenager.

Anyone over thirty was ancient. Helene is a pretty woman and I can help her look her best, but she'll never look seventeen again. That's a nice photo, but it's years out-of-date."

That was interesting. The picture Kyle had given Gwen couldn't have been taken more than a few months ago. In it, Patrick had looked around four or five, and Erin looked like she was still in high school.

"How long have you been doing Helene's hair?"Lisa pursed her lips and gazed toward the ceiling as she counted the years. "Twelve, maybe thirteen years? Maybe a little longer."

"Well, she looks great. I'll bet you have a lot of customer loyalty."

The stylist beamed. "Thanks. Helene's a pretty woman, but it's important to have your own ident.i.ty."

Gwen didn't have to feign the rueful edge to her answering smile. Apparently "Helene" didn't share that opinion.

Well, this was just great. Kyle's runaway wife had multiple ident.i.ties, one of which was established well before she'd met Kyle. Gwen had found missing persons who'd had more than one ident.i.ty, but something told her that finding Erin Westland or Helene Tremaine or whoever the h.e.l.l she was would be about as easy as herding cats.

Gwen stopped to restock her fridge on the way home: milk for coffee, rolls and meat for sandwiches, and lots of fruit. She was barely in the door of her office when the front-gate buzzer rang. Grumbling, she dumped the bags on her desk and stabbed the intercom b.u.t.ton with her car key.

"Who is it?"

"Whoa! Snarl much?"

The light, humor-edged baritone was familiar, even through the crackle of the intercom. Plus, she only knew one guy whose syntax was influenced by Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

"Jeff?"

"She remembers me! Did you forget about our date, or are you just fashionably late?"

She glanced at the calendar and suppressed a groan. The appointment was clearly marked: "Jeff & Jazz, 7:00.".

Jeff Monroe was Marcy's legal a.s.sistant, a pleasant-looking young man who shared Gwen's taste in music. Three or four times a year, they went up to Woonsocket, a mill town in northern Rhode Island and the home of Jimmy Chen's, the only Chinese restaurant in the state that featured live jazz. Tonight was supposed to be one of those nights. A few egg rolls, a little music, and a friendly tumble to round out the evening. She'd been looking forward to it.

"I forgot," she confessed. "It's just that this case I've been working-"

"Say no more. When you didn't show, I picked up some takeout. We can put on a CD while we eat. It's not the original plan, but it's close enough."

A smile played at the corners of Gwen's lips as she buzzed him in. Jeff was a good-natured guy, and easy to be around. His face was pleasant rather than handsome, he wore gla.s.ses to work, and he was thin enough and clean-cut enough to look sort of nebbishy in a white shirt and tie. Thanks to an addiction to racquetball, he looked a lot better when the business clothes came off. Nothing too exciting, but he was the kind of guy that went well with jazz and lo mein. He was definitely vanilla, but vanilla s.e.x was a good flavor for a weeknight.

She reclaimed her bags and sprinted up the stairs. It took all of five minutes to put the groceries away, and she was finished by the time she heard his footsteps on the stairs.Jeff had switched from office attire to his equally conservative casual look: khaki Dockers and a polo shirt. Tonight's polo shirt was pale yellow, and over it he wore a cotton sweater in forest green.

He greeted her with a quick kiss, then handed her a black leather CD case. While Gwen flipped through the CDs for something interesting, he made himself at home in her miniature kitchen. He quickly dished up two plates and brought them to the coffee table.

"The chicken Hunan is way too spicy," he warned. "Do you have anything cold to drink?"

Gwen glanced up from the stereo, CD in hand. "There's some herb-tea mix in that little bottle and some cranberry juice in the fridge. You can mix it if you want-there's a pitcher in the cabinet over the sink.

Gla.s.ses, too."

Jeff stirred up the concoction and took an experimental sip. He made a "not bad" face and drained the gla.s.s. He refilled his and poured another for Gwen, and brought them over to the sofa.

A saxophone began a mournful exploration of lost love as Gwen settled down beside Jeff. She took a mouthful of the chicken-Jeff hadn't been exaggerating about the spices-and promptly reached for her fruit tea. Like Jeff, she drained the gla.s.s. It took that much just to put out the fire. He refilled her gla.s.s from the pitcher, and topped off his own.

As she took another sip, the flavor began to edge its way past her seared taste buds. It wasn't anything like the bottled blends Marcy and Trudy were always getting at Starbucks. Gwen couldn't figure out why anyone would enter that cathedral of caffeine without taking Ma.s.s, but the fruit tea there wasn't half bad.

This stuff was so sweet and strong it was almost medicinal.

"Yikes! Didn't you add water?"

He took a considering sip. "I didn't know I was supposed to. Maybe it's a little strong, but I like the taste."

She set her gla.s.s aside and tucked into her pork fried rice and the lo mein, then went back to the kitchen for seconds on both. The Hunan chicken wasn't so bad once she stirred in extra white rice. Jeff, however, continued to eat the spicy stuff straight up, washing it down with the fruit tea.

"Good thing it's herbal," she observed as he poured his fourth gla.s.s. "If that was regular black tea, the caffeine would keep you up all night."

Jeff responded with a sidelong glance and a decidedly masculine chuckle. "I don't think I'm going to need caffeine for that."

It took Gwen a moment to catch the double entendre-she just didn't expect them from Jeff. But neither did she expect that predatory gleam in his eyes.

Or his impatience.

He took the plate from her hands and tossed it like a Frisbee in the general direction of the coffee table.