The Orange Cat and Other Cainsville Tales (Cainsville 3.5)

He nodded. "All right. I'll go get you a mocha. Lydia?"

"Chai latte please," she said.

As Lydia opened the office door, I raised my voice and said, "So, yeah, don't expect Gabriel anytime soon. This courthouse issue could take all day. We need to--" I stopped short, as if Lydia hadn't mentioned a waiting client.

When I got a look at the woman, though, I didn't need to feign my shock.

I couldn't guess at her age. Maybe sixty, but in a haggard, hard-living way that made me suspect the truth was about a decade younger. Her coloring matched Gabriel's, what his great-aunt Rose calls "black Irish"--pale skin, blue eyes and wavy black hair. She also had the sturdy Walsh build that Gabriel shared with Rose, along with their square face, widow's peak and pale blue eyes.

Yet I knew she claimed to be a relative so it wasn't the resemblance that stopped me in my tracks.

I'd seen her face before.

In the photo of a dead woman.

I had to be mistaken, of course. The dead woman had also been a Walsh, so there was a strong resemblance--that's all.

I walked over, hand extended as she rose. "I'm--"

"The infamous Eden Larsen," she said, and my hackles rose. I am Eden Larsen, as much as I'm Olivia Taylor-Jones. But calling me by my birth name is the social equivalent of a smirk and a smackdown. I know who you really are, Miss Larsen.

I responded with the kind of smile I learned from my adoptive mother. The smile of a society matron plucking the dagger from her back and calmly wiping off the blood before it stains.

"It's Olivia," I said. "Or Liv. And you are?"

A smile played at her lips, and that smile did more than raise my hackles. My gut twisted, and I wanted to shove her out the door. Just grab her arm and muscle her out before she said another word.

"I'm Seanna Walsh," she said. "Gabriel's mother."

Two

"Seanna Walsh?" I forced a laugh. "Uh, no. If you're going to impersonate a long-lost relative, I'd suggest you pick one who's actually alive."

"Do I look alive to you, Eden?"

Behind me, Lydia said, "I believe she asked you to call her Olivia."

Lydia's gaze was laser-beamed on the woman, as if ready to throw her out. Lydia might be well past retirement age, but I didn't doubt she could do it. When I shook my head, though, Lydia walked stiffly to her desk and lowered herself into the chair.

"You are not Seanna Walsh," I said. "I've seen photographs of her, both before and after her death. You may resemble her, but those coroner pics guarantee you are not."

"And I guarantee I am. The pictures were staged."

"Bullshit," I said, bearing down on her. "You cannot stage--"

"With enough money, you certainly can."

"Which only proves you are not Seanna Walsh, who never had a dime she didn't snort or stick up her arm."

"So it's true, then."

"What's true?"

"The rumors that you and my son are more than coworkers."

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

"Get--" I began.