Free Tangled Souls by Jana Oliver Page B

Gregory Alliford see in this woman? Was he slumming? Or was there something else?
    As she was readily welcomed inside by the maid, O’Fallon popped open his notebook and made an entry, glancing at his watch to check the time. Nine fifty-eight. At nine ten she’d left her condo and stopped at a Starbucks, purchased two Grande coffees, and then made a beeline here. She’d drunk one on the way over and carried the other inside the house.
    “Serious caffeine addiction,” he said. He flipped open the subject’s folder and riffled through the growing collection of documents he’d added to it this morning after an online search. Rising before dawn had its advantages. Not that there was a choice—once Seamus was awake, sleep was impossible. This morning it had been Gilbert and Sullivan opera tunes.
    Better than artillery.
    O’Fallon pulled out his voice recorder, a gleaming silver digital version he’d bought for his birthday. He still thought it looked cool, more high-tech than the one he’d carried before, although he hadn’t figured out all the little bells and whistles.
    He clicked it on.
    “Further notes on Gavenia Kingsgrave. She’s thirty-seven years old, unmarried, a genuine card-carrying witch, and claims to be a psychic.” He snorted at that and then read a bit farther, letting the machine run. “What, no one–eight hundred psychic hotline of your own?” he chided. “You’re never going to get rich that way.” A few more lines down. “Oh, you don’t need the money because your family’s rolling in it. Your aunt is the widow of Alexander Merin, of Merin Foundation fame, and your sister, also a widow, is co-owner of Hansford Technologies.” He shuffled papers, doing a quick calculation of their combined net worth. “Ka-ching! Well, we’ll never have to run a benefit for you, sister.”
    He clicked off the recorder and moved to the page he’d found most interesting—a newspaper account of his quarry’s traffic accident overseas nearly six months earlier. The accompanying photo made him queasy. The car was mashed beyond recognition, crumpled into a stone wall like a flattened soda can. Apparently Ms. Kingsgrave had come damned close to meeting her pagan gods. Her boyfriend, a man named Winston Thomas, made the trip without her. O’Fallon scanned further in the article, but found no mention of drunk driving. According to the paper, it was just an early-morning encounter with a flock of woolies on a remote Welsh country road.
    “Sheep happen,” he said. He dug through more of the papers until he found the second article, a brief mention in the local Welsh newspaper from a month later, saying that the patient was returning to the States and that her aunt had contributed a sizable donation to the hospital in gratitude for the care her niece had received.
    “Bor-ing,” he muttered, unconsciously using Seamus’s favorite word. Nothing screamed temptress or scam artist. “So if you’re not screwing him, what’s your game, sister?” he asked. He tossed the file onto the seat and huffed in irritation. The beginning of a case was always a hassle. Too little information, with no clue who was on the level.
    “So how does this relate to the TE?” he grumbled, using Avery’s shorthand for the “triggering event.” In this case, the TE was the Alliford boy’s death, the tragedy that had brought Gavenia Kingsgrave into Gregory Alliford’s life.
    “What’s her angle?” No answer came bubbling forth. “‘When in doubt, work both sides of the equation.’” Another Avery gem. It was time to learn more about the grieving parents. Perhaps they might provide clues to the lady with the sea-blue eyes.
    He opened his notebook, flipped to a new page, and titled it The Allifords . It sounded like a third-rate sitcom. He dug out his cell phone and began a series of calls. He was one day into his seven-day timeline and needed answers.

Chapter Seven
     
    “Augusta and I never got along because I