“I see you found one of our hidden gargoyles.”
I jumped and turned to see Veronica—the old woman who’d helped fight off the raven. She was coming around the corner, tugging a contraption that looked like a mobile watering can with a sprayer hose. It wheeled along silently on rubber tires.
“I hadn’t seen this one before,” I said, touching the gargoyle.
“That’s because it’s a night gargoyle. It only comes out after dark.” She waved to the garden across the road. “Like the moonflowers.”
“Ah.” I smiled. “Well, it was definitely well hidden. Are there any more?”
“Lots. I could tell you how many, but that would be cheating. Only a few select elders know the total number of gargoyles in Cainsville and where to find them. Otherwise it would spoil the May Day contest.”
“May Day contest?”
“Every year, at the festival, the children can submit a list of all the gargoyles they’ve found so far. There are prizes for those who get more than half of them, more than sixty percent, and so on.” She smiled. “It’s quite a competition. The kids jealously guard their lists year after year, and they are forbidden to pass along hints to their own children later.”
“What happens if someone finds them all?”
“We add another gargoyle … modeled after the child. Of course, the last time that happened was almost twenty years ago. To the youngest winner ever. He was ten.” She looked at me. “Care to guess who?”
I thought of all the locals who would be about the right age, then shook my head.
“Gabriel Walsh,” she said.
I tried to picture Gabriel as a boy, visiting his aunt, racing through the streets, laughing as he hunted for gargoyles. I couldn’t. But as I peered out, I imagined another little boy, a serious dark-haired child, notepad in hand, searching with a single-minded drive, determined not just to win but to set a new record. Yes, that would be Gabriel.
“So where’s his gargoyle?” I asked.
Veronica’s eyes danced. “You need to find it.” She rubbed her lower back and grimaced.
“Are you okay?”
“Old bones. A sit-down is next on my to-do list.” She waved at a bench near the diner. “I’d love company if you care to chat, but I know you’re a busy young woman.”
“I have time. I want to hear about May Day.”
I knew a bit about the tradition. It was pre-Christian, marking the celebration of Beltane on the first of May, heralding spring. People put on their spring suits and dresses, danced around the maypoles, crowned a May queen, and feasted. As Veronica explained, the town of Cainsville stuck close to the old traditions.
“We have four major festivals every year,” she said. “May Day is the spring one, and always includes a wedding or two, for the young people who come back, set on getting married in Cainsville.”
“You mean if they don’t want to get married in church?”
She stared at me a moment before bursting out laughing. “For a girl who notices so much, sometimes you notice very little. Where are these churches in Cainsville?”
“Where are…?” I thought. “You know, I haven’t seen any … Wait. There aren’t any.”
“Correct. So you did notice. You just didn’t process the information. Cainsville has no churches.”
“Why? I mean, it’s big enough, isn’t it?”
“It is. But the gargoyles kept them out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s true. The gargoyles protected us from organized religion. And as an old pagan, I’m perfectly happy with that.” She gave a sly smile as she stretched her legs, getting comfortable. “Cainsville was settled by immigrants from the British Isles. Hence, May Day. There were a few Anglicans, a few Presbyterians, a few Catholics, a few pagans … In other words, the religious background wasn’t cohesive enough to choose a representative church. So everyone worshipped in their own way. As the town grew, people of other faiths joined and that continued. If you wanted services, you’d drive to a neighboring town. A perfectly suitable arrangement that recognized freedom of religion. All very American…
“But one of the churches didn’t think so,” she continued. “They sent a letter to the town council saying they wished to build here. The council politely demurred. The church insisted and there was pressure from neighboring towns, who’ve always thought we were a little odd. So the council relented. The church sent a representative. He took one look at the gargoyles and hightailed it from town. Declared we were all terrible heathens. The church demanded we remove some so they could feel comfortable building here. We refused. So we have no churches. Thanks to the gargoyles.”
“Notre Dame is famous for its gargoyles. Plenty of old churches have them.”
“Do you know why?”
“I know their original purpose is architectural. They divert water from the building itself. That’s why they lean out—to let water fall away from walls so they aren’t damaged by runoff.”
“Correct. But churches also used them for two other functions. Some thought they would scare people into churches—remind them of the hell and damnation that awaited if they skipped service. Others viewed them as guardians, keeping the worshippers safe. There developed, however, a third view. That they were demonic themselves or, at the very least, idolatrous. That’s why they kept churches out of Cainsville.” She rose, rubbing her back. “I should get back to work. Anytime you want to chat, though, I’m around. But if you’re interested in more, you can also speak to Rose Walsh. She’s quite the expert on folklore.”
“I have talked to her a couple of times. We had a, uh, session.”
“I’d be more pleased about that if your tone told me you took it seriously. You don’t believe in the sight, child?” She shook her head. “I bet you don’t believe in the protective powers of gargoyles, either.” A smile and a wink, and she trundled off with her cart.
Chapter Forty
Gabriel insisted on taking me to the interview with Evans. I suppose it fell under the same category as teaching me to use a gun—a dead client would look very bad on his résumé.
I made him drop me off a block away. Having William Evans glance out to see me stepping from Gabriel’s Jag would not be a good way to start the interview.
Evans lived with his wife in River Forest, an affluent suburb west of Chicago. Their house was in an older part, where the houses weren’t obscenely large and you actually had some green space between you and your neighbors. My original plan was to have Gabriel drop me at the nearest bus stop. But this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where anyone took the bus.
When I reached the Evans home, a middle-aged housekeeper was on the front porch, speaking to a young gardener. She showed me into the study, where William Evans waited.
Evans sat at his desk. He was a thick-set man with an iron-gray, military-short buzz cut, dressed in a golf shirt that showed off biceps that would be the envy of men half his age. Not what I’d expected, given the soft-spoken voice on the phone.
“Ms. Jones,” he said when the housekeeper ushered me in. He strode around the desk to take my hand. “Do you go by Jones? Or Taylor-Jones?”
“Jones. Keeps things simple. But Olivia is even better.”
“Excellent. Please call me Will.” He looked over at the housekeeper. “I’m sorry, Maria. I know you were just leaving, and I completely forgot to mention Ms. Jones’s appointment. Is there any chance you could…?”
She smiled. “I’ll bring coffee.”
He thanked her and waved me to a seat as he took his. We talked about the weather until the coffee arrived. Then he said, “So you’re investigating my son’s murder.”