“This is Calgary,” Joe snorted. “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes.” He paused at the door. “You know you’re…
“I know.”
“It’s just that after dark…”
“I
Ginger brows drew in. “Because you’re her granddaughter?”
Allie rolled her eyes. “Because you’re a leprechaun. Also there’s a signed picture of a minotaur over the counter, plus another seven potions in the cabinet, and I suspect the name on the first mailbox isn’t in a Human language. Not that hard to connect the dots, Joe. The only thing that’s confusing me—about this specifically,” she amended, “is why
He shrugged, much like he had the last time she’d brought it up, and said, “Things are happening here. I’ll see you tomorrow, Alysha Catherine Gale.”
Put like that, it was a binding promise.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Joe O’Hallan.”
He’d barely moved out of sight, heading west at a slow run after a quick look up at the sky, when her phone rang.
“Well?” Auntie Jane demanded.
Until Allie found out what her grandmother was up to, there would be only one question. “I’ve hired someone who can watch the store while I look into things.”
“For pity’s sake, Alysha, ignore the store.”
Allie picked a yoyo out of the box and turned it between her fingers. “No,” she said, and hung up.
The crack of thunder that sounded as she closed her phone was probably a coincidence given the three-thousand-odd kilometers and all.
It hadn’t taken quite the ten minutes Joe said the weather required before dark clouds filled the sky. The first scud of rain, barely enough to dampen the sidewalk, seemed to be a test run. Then thunder cracked, lightning flashed, and Allie could suddenly no longer see the road through the sheets of falling water.
Closing early might not be a bad idea. It was nearly five, and there wouldn’t be any…
The umbrella entered the door first, followed by a dark trench coat and a lot of water. A tanned, long-fingered hand wrestled the umbrella closed, and Allie got her first look at a pair of extraordinarily blue eyes. Not the more common bluish gray but a bright, cerulean blue. A Maxfield Parrish sky-blue.
“Sorry about dripping all over the floor.”
“That’s very blue.”
“Pardon?” His voice was rough. A whiskey voice, Auntie Ruby would call it. Actually, Auntie Ruby was losing it, so she could easily call it a carpet voice, but that was beside the point. It stroked against Allie’s skin like a cat’s tongue, lifting all the hair on the back of her neck.
“All right. I meant, that’s all right. About dripping on the floor.” The remarkably blue eyes were in a pleasant enough face with a straight nose—a bit on the short side—over a longish upper lip and distinctly long chin. Not Brian Mulroney or Jay Leno long, but long. The eyes were tucked under nicely shaped brows on a high forehead tucked in turn under medium brown hair that could use a trim although, to be fair, the storm had destroyed whatever style he might have started the day with. He wasn’t very tall, had maybe two inches on her tops, but then he smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners, and Allie forgot all about his height.
She was suddenly entirely aware of the bit of pie filling smudged on the front of her sweater. If she’d known he was coming, she’d have changed. Hell, if she’d known he was coming, she’d have baked a cake.
“I’m looking for Alysha Gale.”
“I’m Alysha Gale.”
“You’re Alysha Gale?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not…” He frowned, clearly trying to marshal his thoughts and having a hard time doing it. “… old.”
That was just strange enough, Allie wrestled cognitive thought back on-line. “Excuse me?”
“God, that had to have sounded inane. I promise you, I don’t usually sound inane.” He reached in past the lapels of his dripping trench coat into the inner pocket of a distinctly cheap suit. Although the tie was nice. The narrow stripe across the gray was the same color as his eyes.
“Ms. Gale?”
Cognitive thought hadn’t lasted long. She stared down at the white rectangle of paper. Oh. A business card. “Graham Buchanan?”
“That’s right.”
“And
“It’s a newspaper. I’m a reporter. For the newspaper. Hang on.” He reached into the inner pocket on his trench coat and pulled out a folded newspaper and passed it over. “It’s last week’s, we’re a weekly and okay, it’s a tabloid, but…” His eyes crinkled again. “It’s a job. That’s uh, me.” One finger tapped the page. He kept his nails very short. “My byline. There.”
“Hauntings on the LRT?”
“Some people saw things in the glass.”
“Actual things?”
“Probably not.”
She liked that he said probably. That he was open to the possibility. That could come in handy later.
“Anyway, I was talking to Catherine Gale last week, about her business, this business, about how it’s mostly made up of odds and ends of people’s lives, trying to convince her there’s a terrific human interest story here…”
