"I know they're my biological parents," I said. "But I don't think of them as Mom and Dad. I already have those."
"Fair enough. So what did the Larsens do with the mistletoe? I suspect it wasn't just lying beside the bodies."
"It pierced a symbol on the women's stomachs."
He frowned. "What kind of symbol?"
I hesitated, then pulled out a drawing of it.
"Pictish v-rod," he said. Then he shook his head. "Did Gabriel hire these researchers? I'll have to speak to him. He should demand a refund if they couldn't identify this one."
"By Pictish you mean the Picts, right? Iron Age tribe? Northern Scotland?"
"Late Iron Age, early medieval."
"Any connection to the Druids?"
He nodded. "Before they converted--or were forced to convert--to Christianity."
"And the v-rod means?"
"No one knows. Again, no records. No reliable ones anyway. It's believed to have something to do with death. As for piercing it with mistletoe?" He shrugged. "I've never heard of that."
A mishmash of symbols. Someone randomly linking them in a made-up ritual.
I showed him the symbol carved onto the thighs next, but he didn't recognize it. Nor did he know what a stone in the mouth might signify, further supporting my theory.
As we walked back to the diner, he offered to look into the other symbols. No charge. He liked a challenge, and as long as I kept his coffee cup filled, we could call it even.
After my shift, I did a little more research on my laptop. I was popping over to read an old article on the Sun-Times website when a name on the home page caught my attention. James Morgan. There was another name there, too. One I knew well. Eva Talbot.
James always joked about how long it took to catch me. But he left out a few pertinent details that made the story a little less romantic.
At a Christmas party the year before last, James had overheard me make an offhand reference to Chicago history. He'd minored in history in college, so we'd talked about it later, probably the first private conversation we'd ever had.
A few days into the New Year, James had called. His firm wanted to run a white-ribbon campaign and the shelter where I worked seemed a good recipient for donations. That led to long talks on the phone, then over coffee, then over lunch...
James was trying to gauge whether his interest was mutual before he asked me out because ... well, there was an obstacle. Eva, a socialite he'd been dating for two years.
In retrospect, I suppose this should have told me that James was never, ever going to chase me out that door when I broke off our engagement. Never going to suggest we fly to Vegas and get married. Never going to say, "To hell with everything--this is what I want." He had to be sure that the ground was firm before he stepped on it.
When I hadn't given him the signs he was hoping for--I don't flirt with unavailable guys--he'd finally asked point-blank. If Eva wasn't in the picture, would I go to Paris with him?
I should have said, "Get her out of the picture and then ask." Force him to take a chance. But at the time, the question spoke to me of honesty, not a lack of spontaneity. So I said yes, and Eva Talbot got the breakup talk.
Now I was reading a piece about a charity dinner last night where James and Eva had been spotted together. Complete with a photo of them at the table, James leaning over to whisper something, Eva gazing at him adoringly. Sources confirmed the two were seeing each other again, Eva consoling him. The
re was even a quote from her, after the dinner, about poor James and all he'd been through.
Bitch.
That was the most vitriol I could work up for Eva, though. Only a little more for James. I stared at that picture and I thought of us, at our last dinner together, how happy we'd been.
I'd given that up. Willfully given it up. And he'd already moved on.
Chapter Forty-six
With Gabriel gone, my reluctance to impose on Ida and Walter Clark faded fast. As long as I refilled the gas tank and paid with returned favors, I could justify borrowing their car for my Thursday morning meeting with Dr. Evans.