Danger Signals. Kathleen Creighton
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people do.” Her half smile told him she knew the chances of him doing likewise were slim.
Which was maybe why he said, out of pure contrariness, “Okay, Miss Tee it is, then. I’m Wade, by the way. Wade Callahan.” He turned in his seat to offer his hand. Did it out of long habit, then kicked himself for hesitating, for having second thoughts. For wondering whether it was “safe” to touch her, or if physical contact might open up some kind of psychic channel between them. Kicked himself all the more for even thinking those thoughts, knowing it meant he had to believe at least some of what she claimed to be able to do might be real.
Her hand was warm in his, small but vibrant, reminding him of a gentle but wary animal that had allowed him to hold it for one short moment in his grasp.
“Wade,” she murmured, and there was a shimmer of amusement in her eyes. Eyes so clear and blue and…yes, normal, he wondered how anyone in their right mind could believe she had creepy gifts. The Sight—or whatever she wanted to call it.
He released her hand and was smiling crookedly as he wrapped his around the gearshift lever, wondering whether it was himself or her he was smiling at.
She lived with her grandmother, he discovered, in an apartment above an art gallery called Jeannette’s, in a formerly hippieish part of the city that was gradually becoming yuppified. No surprises there; Wade figured if he ever wanted to hang out his psychic shingle it was the place he’d choose. Just enough hippie left to provide plenty of local ambience, with a New Age slant to appeal to the yuppies who went in for that sort of thing.
What did surprise him, though, when Tierney led him through the gallery to the stairs at the back, was how much of the artwork on display actually appealed to him. The watercolors particularly. Not the roses, so much, although he could see the real artistry in them. They were a bit too pretty and feminine—for want of a better word—for his taste. But the waterfalls, now those he wouldn’t mind hanging on his own walls. There was something about them… He paused to look closer at one, and a coolness, like fresh moist air, seemed to pour into him, filling all the churning dark places. He felt a strange easing inside, a sense of quietude and peace.
“That’s Multnomah Falls,” Tierney said. “It’s one of my favorite places.” He hadn’t been aware of her coming to stand beside him.
“Yeah,” he said, “mine, too.” He saw it now, the neat and vaguely archaic signature in the lower righthand corner: T. Doyle. He glanced at her and stated the obvious. “These are yours.”
She nodded without looking away from the painting, her smile crooked. “When I’m working on a case—like this one—I like to go there, or to places like it. Places where people feel a sense of awe. Or just…happy. Thankful.” She nodded at a panel hung with a grouping of the rose paintings. “The Portland Rose Gardens—that’s another, and it’s closer, easier to get to when I’m…when I need it. Those emotions—good emotions—nourish me. The other kind, the bad emotions…” She shook her head and glanced up at him before moving away. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sure you’re not interested, since you don’t believe in what I do.”
“Haven’t made up my mind on that score, actually.” He was surprised to discover that was true, and judging from the smile he glimpsed as he held the door she’d opened, so was she.
He followed her through the door into a small passageway that led to what appeared to be an office, or maybe a storeroom, and the back entrance to the right, and to the left, a flight of stairs. The space smelled of some sort of cleaning product—maybe several mixed up together. Whatever it was, he couldn’t quite place it. “But I’d be interested, whether I believe in what you do or not. I’m always interested in what makes people tick.”
“Tick?” A ripple of light laughter drifted down to him as she mounted the stairs ahead of him. “You mean, you’d like to know what my ‘racket’ is, don’t you?”
“Well, sure,” he said, carefully screening his enjoyment at the view. “That, too.”
On the landing at the top of the stairs, Tierney paused to take a key from the pocket of her slacks and insert it in the door’s dead bolt lock.
“If you don’t mind waiting here for a moment, I’ll see if my grandmother’s…” The rest she left hanging as she opened the door and stepped inside, leaving him standing on the landing.
After a moment he pushed on the door she’d left almost closed but unlatched, widening the crack so he could hear what was going on inside the apartment. Didn’t hesitate or feel guilty about it, either. That was the thing about being a cop—nosiness pretty much went with the territory.
He heard Tierney call softly, her voice light, sweet, gentle, as if she were talking to a very small child. “Jennie, darling, it’s Tee…”
There was a ripple of laughter, low and musical, and a voice to match it said, “Hello, dear.”
The next words were muffled, as if by an embrace. “Gran, do you feel like having company? I’ve brought a friend. His name is Wade Callahan. Would you like to meet him?”
More of that laughter, and the voice took on a certain unmistakable lilt. “Wade Callahan—a fine Irish name! Have him come in, by all means. I’d dearly love to meet him.”
“Are you sure? You’re not too tired?”
“Not at all, darlin’—what gave you such an idea? I’m never too tired to meet a friend of yours, particularly an Irish lad.”
Tierney’s face appeared in the partly open doorway, looking flustered. “Sorry about that,” she murmured breathlessly as she opened the door wide and beckoned him in. “Detective—ah, Wade, I’d like you to meet my grandmother, Jeannette Doyle.”
He didn’t know what he’d expected—an invalid, someone frail and ancient, but sprightly, perhaps?—but it sure as hell wasn’t the person who rose from a chair near the window as he entered, holding out her hand in greeting.
She was, quite possibly, the most exquisitely beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She wasn’t tall, but her slender build and the way she carried herself made her seem so. Her head sat atop her long neck at an angle that made him think of ballerinas in flowing white dresses, or a queen bestowing her grace upon her subjects. Her hands seemed to have a life of their own, like white doves or lilies, and her hair, parted in the middle and falling in gentle waves to her shoulders, was an incredible shade of red-gold that seemed to capture light where there was none and give it back a thousand times brighter. She wore slim black slacks and a long tunic top in a soft sea-green, with iridescent blue-and-gold braided trim around the edges of the draped sleeves and neckline, and open-toed, wedge-heeled gold slippers.
“Wade Callahan,’ tis a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was flirtatious as a girl’s, her blue-green eyes bright and wicked.
And it was only then, when she drew near enough to reach out and place those graceful white hands in his, that he saw the lines around her mouth, the softness of her jawline, the fragile crepelike skin around her eyes that gave away her age. Though just what that might be, he wouldn’t even venture to guess.
She pulled her hands from his and tilted her head, regarding him in a measuring sort of way. “But you’re no more Irish than the pope, now, are you, lad?”
He caught a breath and let it go in a gust of surprised laughter, almost covering Tierney’s dismayed gasp.
“Gran!”
“Well, he isn’t,” the lady hissed back, like an obstinate child.
Tierney shot him a look of mute apology. She seemed tense, watchful, Wade thought, like an anxious parent with a precocious and unpredictable child. His cop sense prickled along the back of his neck, telling him something was “off” here—not dangerous or anything like that—just odd.
“No, it’s okay. She’s right,” he said, surprising himself; his personal history wasn’t