Ghost Talker (19 page)

That app on her tablet hadn't included his scent, sage and Zach. He opened the door and tossed her roller bag and his cane behind the seats and pulled himself into her Jeep.

“Welcome home,” she said. “Your investigation is finished?”

“Yes. It is. I'm certain the actor Darin Clavell is our guy. Died fifteen days ago.”

“You said it wasn't suicide?” She'd found a brief notation about suicide in Sandra's journals and had transcribed it for later use, but it only covered how she could help a suicide in her time period move on.

“No.” Who knew? Better to give Clare the most positive spin.

A sigh sifted from her. “Good.”

“Just a damn stupid mistake. No question the guy was depressed. Drank, smoked, did some drugs. There was an apartment fire and he died of smoke inhalation.”

“Oh.” She stared at her lover, who had his cop face on. “He didn't burn to death?”

“No. The neighbors were pretty quick to put out the fire. Not quick enough to save him, though.” Zach sighed, too, and his shoulders sagged as he released tension. Instead of clipping on his seatbelt, he turned and grabbed her by the shoulders. She angled her head, saw his stubbled face up close before his mouth took hers.

Hard and soft. His lips soft, his kiss hard, demanding, nearly compelling. His tongue swept between her lips and she let him in, let his taste explode through her, even better than his fragrance.

She tasted coffee and dark chocolate and his tongue rubbed against hers and liquid heat began to sizzle through her from her core.

Someone honked and she jerked from the kiss, still enjoyed the feel of his hands on her, and stroked his cheek. “After the Lookout Mountain visit, let's go home.”

“Yours or mine?” he asked.

“The house I bought,” she said.

“Good.” He let her go, settled back into his seat, and strapped in. “Good,” he repeated. “Let's get this done, go to bed, and roll around on the sheets.”

She glanced in her mirror, signaled, then pulled into traffic.

He rolled down his window. “God, the air is so much better here.” He sniffed. “Glad to be home in Denver.”

That
was a good sign. Occasionally she wondered if he wanted to move back out of the city, to a less populated town, the mountains, or a less populated state like Wyoming.

“Glad to have you back.” She might as well reveal her feelings first. Keeping her eyes on the road, she said, “I missed you outrageously.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitched up and he looked more like her lover than the cop. “Outrageously, huh?”

“That's right.”

“I missed you, too.” From the corner of her eye she saw his head turn toward her. “Especially the sex.”

“I know when you're teasing me,” she said.

“Glad to be back. Thanks for picking me up.”

“Always,” she said.

“Catch me up on events. How's the poltergeist doing?” Zach asked. “Since I didn't see anything in the news, you're keeping a lid on it.”

She grimaced. “Somewhat. I think Maurice Poche is ramping up to do a special and make his television debut as soon as he can figure out how to fake the whole thing. He seemed to be practicing yesterday morning with an interview. The TV people still seem to want a psychic medium show.” Her voice had turned acid, which she didn't like but couldn't quite suppress.

“I thought we were handling him.”

“I'm not sure what Rickman did or is doing. He hasn't kept me informed.”

“The TV people want you.”

“But I don't want them, and they might go with Poche.” Her mouth firmed. “Though if we take care of the poltergeist quickly, Poche won't have a big story.”

“Best if we call the ghost by name, don't you think? Get used to naming him, thinking of him as a person—” Zach stopped.

Clare took an instant to flick her gaze in his direction. “Did you view the body?”

His laugh sounded more like a croak. His shoulders tensed. “After fifteen days? No. He's gone, cremated, and his urn is in a nice slot in a local cemetery.”

“But you feel sorry for him,” she added quietly. She thought about the immature man and new ghost himself, and shoved any irritation at Maurice Poche aside. “Confused and lost.”

“Poche doesn't even know his name,” Zach said roughly.

“Which is why we will use it. Darin Clavell.” A thought occurred and she spoke slowly, turning over the ramifications. “He reminds you of us, last month.” Her mouth turned down as recollection hit, and her hands gripped the wheel hard. “I was going crazy, denying my gift.” Her voice caught on memory. “Dying of cold in the middle of the hottest summer of record in Denver.” She paused. “Definitely confused, and my sense of self was lost.” She coughed. “I am still defining my new identity, understanding the new me. The me who is a ghost seer . . . Out of the closet with my psychic gift and a woman who might be helping phantoms transition as a business.”

Zach brushed her near hand with his fingers. “You're doing great.”

“But I've been lost and confused. And before you accepted the crow business—” She wanted to look at him now, but
didn't dare because he'd see how concerned she was.

“Yeah, me too,” Zach said.

She stuck out her chin. “We're better now.”
Breathe in and out, concentrate on driving.
“Did you see any crows in Oklahoma City?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

“Ones. A lot of single crows.”

“One for sorrow,” Clare murmured.

“That's right.”

“So, a sorrowful trip.”

“Mostly, I'd say.” Then he grunted as if punctuating he was done talking about it.

“Well, Darin Clavell has been active.”

Zach looked at her again. “Yeah?”

“He continues to visit Buffalo Bill's grave site sunrise and sunset, but now he's stacking rocks in patterns on the iron prongs and curves of the enclosure.”

“Impressive.”

“It really is.”

“Did you talk to Texas Jack?”

“He's a congenial ghost, and he likes company.” She smiled. “He reminds me of you.”

“Me!”

“A stand-up guy. Honorable. Willing to help. Keeps his word. We're lucky to have him on our side.”

“I suppose so.”

She pulled onto the highway. Though she wanted to look at Zach—stare at him, just for the pleasure of it as well as to scrutinize his face for his emotions—she kept her gaze ahead. Yes, she'd driven this way so often lately that she knew every curve, but familiarity didn't mean you shouldn't be alert while driving.

“What's really bothering you about this?” she asked.

“Something Texas Jack said a while back, and I think he was right.”

“What?”

“Darin Clavell. He might not have figured out he's dead.” Zach's body jerked a little and his voice was nearly a whisper. “Can you imagine how that might feel? The shock of figuring out you're not alive anymore?”

She pulled over to the shoulder of the road, ignored cars whizzing by, turned and stared at Zach, leaned forward to frame his face with her hands. “It would be tough.”

“The medical examiner extrapolated that he'd passed out from drink and drugs, never woke up before his apartment
fire.” Zach shook his head. “And his neighbors said he was crazy about Buffalo Bill.”

“And so we have the present situation.”

“That's right. Do you have any new ideas about how to move him on?” Zach asked.

“No. But I'm sure that I can't by myself. Texas Jack must help, and Enzo, too, maybe. Enzo's waiting for us up at Lookout Mountain.”

Zach grunted, leaned forward, and kissed her on the mouth, then said, “Then we'd better get going.”

When they were on their way again, Zach said, “Texas Jack's been an agreeable ghost. But from what I read, he was an agreeable man. Nice change from that god-awful evil spirit we dispatched last week.”

“So Texas Jack will talk to the polt— to Darin Clavell for us.” Discreetly she stretched in her seat. “If Clavell stays long enough on Lookout Mountain to be talked to, and if he can hear Jack.”

Nodding, Zach said, “We'll do it. If not tonight, then tomorrow morning. And if not tomorrow morning, tomorrow sunset.”

“Yes.”

“I'll call ahead and ask them to leave the gate open. Tell them we'll be trying to get rid of the poltergeist,” Zach said. “Do you have any idea how long it will take?”

He'd asked her, though he'd been with her most times when she'd aided a phantom to move on. She smiled. She was the expert, and becoming more experienced every day, and Zach respected her expertise. “I can't imagine it taking more than an hour.”

Zach nodded and called to relay the information to the people at Pahaska Teepee. Even over the phone, Clare could hear their relief that this might be the last time they'd have to put up with Clare and Zach, and, even more, worry about maintaining the grave site, replacing the rocks in their proper places, or even getting new rocks for the mounds.

Once they reached the nearly empty Lookout Mountain parking lot, Clare knew they'd cut things close. The actual moment of sunset had occurred but the sky had not darkened into night.

A member of the staff shooed the television van off the parking lot like everyone else. Or rather the guy informed the driver that he'd close and padlock the gate in five minutes and wouldn't open it again until the next morning. No more perks for them.

Clare suppressed a smile. Mr. Welliam and his new fervor for truth at work.

Zach moved more quickly than she and was out of the passenger seat and opening her door. He must be wearing a brace as well as his special shoes. He held his cane in his left hand, and offered her his right. Since he also wore his weapon in a shoulder holster and usually kept his right hand free for that, he must not think there was any danger to them.

The night didn't feel threatening. Clare inhaled the crisp fall air, looked at the fading color in the dusky sky, and everyday cares fell away. “Fall's coming. The equinox is tomorrow.” She gave a little shiver.

“What?” Zach asked.

“I'm not sure how I'm going to handle Halloween and All Souls Day with all the ghosts.”

“Maybe that's a concern.” He squeezed her fingers, his hand warmer than her own. “But it's more than a month away. Don't borrow trouble.”

She puffed out a breath. “No.”

As they walked to the path, Mr. Welliam appeared and greeted them with a wide smile. Clare felt Zach straighten from a casual lope to a more authoritative walk. She wondered if his leg bothered him.

Mr. Welliam bounded toward them, offering his hand to Zach. “Clare, thank you for letting me know that Zach confirmed the identity of our poltergeist. Zach, good work.”

They stopped and Zach shook Mr. Welliam's hand, sending a satiric look toward Clare. A “keep the client happy” look.

She stiffened, aware that one part of their lucrative job had been completed.

“A pleasure,” Zach said, and she thought he meant it.

Clare gave a little cough, donned a serious expression. “Twilight's fading quickly. We should be heading up to the grave site.”

Mr. Welliam's big blue eyes widened like Enzo's. “That's right. We—”

“Not you, sir,” Zach said. “This spirit is lost and unstable. We don't know how violent he may become and I don't want you in any danger. You hired us to find out who the poltergeist was; we did that. Let us finish our jobs.” He sounded serious, though the illogic of the idea behind his words hit Clare's ears and she jerked. Two months earlier she'd have sneered at so irrational a sentence.

“The poltergeist
is
active with those quartz rocks. Not sure how dangerous he'll be when confronted with his identity,” Zach continued.

After another small cough, Clare added, “We don't know how Darin Clavell will react when we take away his belief that he is Buffalo Bill.”

Mr. Welliam frowned.

“Let us do our job,” Clare said.

“Oh, all right.” Mr. Welliam sighed. “Though I hoped to watch it.” He held up his wrist. “Maybe even film it.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach said.

“I'll wait for you at one of the picnic benches.” He went over and sat down, stared at them, then tilted his head toward the top of the pine-strewn knoll of the grave site. Clare didn't think he could see anything from there, not even the flagpoles, but he'd settled in to wait.

Only one bright light shone in Pahaska Teepee, illuminating the gift shop. They both glanced that way but continued on. Zach swung her hand. “It occurs to me that I haven't seen you in authentic Western garb.”

Turning her head, she let him see her long scan of him up and down. “You're wearing slacks, a jacket, and a dress shirt.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I have cowboy boots and a hat at my place. Well worn, even, along with jeans.”

“Since your last job was as a deputy sheriff in Montana.”

“That's right.” He wiggled their hands. “I've seen you dressed and dancing as a gypsy, but not as a—”

“Rodeo queen?” She lifted her brows. “I don't ride.”

“Don't tell Texas Jack that.”

“I think he's already guessed. But I have well-worn jeans, too.”

“How about a cowgirl hat and boots?”

She hesitated, then admitted, “No.”

Nodding, he said, “We'll get you some. In fact, I'd like to take a picture of you up here, wearing that. Maybe holding a rope.”

If she hadn't been walking, she'd have closed her eyes in disbelief.

“Maybe take a picture of you in front of the bronze buffalo. You could put it on your new business cards.”

“Oh. No.”

Clare glanced at Zach, thought she'd tease him back, and tilted her head in consideration as she scrutinized him. “You know, sometimes Texas Jack appears in this buckskin outfit, you know the kind, with shirt and pants having that long fringe.” She smiled. “I think I'd like to see you in that, Zach.”

To her surprise, he flashed her a grin, ducked his head. “Done deal. I'll buy one.” He raised his brows. “Though I think that we'll find that when I'm standing in it, I'll look more like an Indian scout than an Indian fighter.” He flicked his hand at his face. “It'll show off my Native American coloring.”

With a few seconds to imagine that, Clare smiled back. “You'll look even sexier.”

Zach laughed and caught her hand, said with satisfaction, “And if my father the general ever saw me in it, he'd have a fit. Always a plus.”

They were laughing when they reached the grave site on the top of the hill.

Since Zach held hands with Clare—and damn he wanted to do a whole lot more and soon—he saw the frontiersman easily.

Texas Jack looked at them holding hands and smiled. This time he leaned against the tall single slab of the memorial.

Good to see you again, Zach
, the phantom said mentally.

“Likewise,” Zach said. “I've found that our disturbed ghost is one Darin Clavell, an actor who aspired to play your old friend, Buffalo Bill.”

Yeah?

“Yeah. There's a new western show starting up at a big casino in Nevada. The place was hiring men to portray Buffalo Bill. Darin Clavell auditioned for the job, but didn't get it.”

Sour luck
, Texas Jack said.

“Yeah. He tried out for several positions here and there, including a spot in a prospective film. Didn't make it.”

Jack frowned at him. Zach went on, “He didn't get the work he hoped he would. That he wanted and would satisfy him.”

Omohundro nodded, then stood up straight and angled his body toward the mountains. Glancing at Zach and Clare, he said,
Didn't think that I'd see you today. Here the young 'un comes.

Clare tilted her head and moved as if she felt the spirit, too.

“Darin actually died at the age of forty-two,” Zach said.

Texas Jack frowned.
Well, he's a new ghost. And he feels like a young man. Younger than me.

But Clavell had been older than Zach, while John Baker Omohundro had died at thirty-three, a year younger than Zach. He didn't want to think of that.

Zach said, “We think you can help us move Darin on to whatever comes next.”

Out of the gray
, Jack said, and his whole aspect rippled.

“Yes.” Clare nodded. “I can only see ghosts of your time period, Jack.”

So you've said.
Texas Jack moved his shoulders.
Yeah, I think I can help you with this.
He shot them a glance from dark eye holes.
Zach, that is. I think this is a job for us men
.

“What?”

I've been thinkin' a lot about this, about the new ghost believing he's my old pard, and how to talk to him. I think the best way is to set the scene out on the prairie. I'll be here to talk to him like he is Bill and Zach here will add the modern touch because the youngster— because the new ghost belongs to your time.
Texas Jack stared at Clare.
You can't stay, Clare. No women in the setting or scene. You should take off.
Jack jerked his head down the hill.

“It's my job . . .” she began.

I will help, too!
Enzo enthused.

The frontier didn't have a lot of women around. The three of us can handle it
, Texas Jack said.
Me, Zach, and the dog.

“But Zach won't be able to see Clavell. His gift— That is, he's not a ghost seer.”

The dog and I will help him
, Texas Jack said.

A hollow mental voice came from Enzo, as the Lab morphed into the Other.
Enzo might not be able to help Zach see, since the phantom is a minor spirit. But
I
can.

“But, but—” Clare sputtered.

My scene won't work with you, Clare.
Texas Jack focused on something Zach couldn't see—yet. He got a feeling of what the smart frontiersman had in mind, sort of like a good-cop, bad-cop discussion with Clavell.

“Let's get this done and over, Clare.” Zach took her hand and squeezed it, let it drop.

“Without me?” Hands on her hips, she tapped her foot.

“Clare, trust Texas Jack and Enzo and me.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss that he hoped showed he was promising a whole lot more. “Later, okay?”

“All right,” she huffed. She sent a glance in the blue twilight, where Zach could see the faintest circling of dust above head level moving toward them, then she took the path down, moving quickly.

*   *   *

When Clare walked down the path, Mr. Welliam and Officer Schultz stood by the bronze buffalo outside the entrance to the gift shop and café. Mr. Welliam had his wrist up to his mouth, talking. Clare heard the name Barbara, and deduced he spoke with Mrs. Flinton.

Officer Schultz appeared bored. She slanted Clare a look, her lips curved in a small smirk and her eyes flicked over Clare's figure. Clare had to deliberately stop from sucking her stomach in.

“Kicked out of the action?” the policewoman asked.

“Apparently the play they're putting on only includes males,” Clare said, smiling with too much sweetness.

Brows dipping, Officer Schultz pushed away from the post she'd been leaning against and stepped out to head up the path.

“I wouldn't,” Clare warned, and the woman hesitated. “As I understand procedures, it's not good to interrupt an ongoing . . . ah . . . interrogation.”

“No, don't go up, Janice,” Mr. Welliam said. “Let Zach handle this. He's an utterly competent man.”

Clare stared at Mr. Welliam, and she heard a squawk from his watch. “What are we, nincompoops?” she said, at the same time Mrs. Flinton hissed a phrase then hung up.

Mr. Welliam smiled big, his eyes shifting, showing he knew his words had landed him in trouble. Clearing his throat, red rising to his cheeks, he amended. “I just think a man like Texas Jack and, uh, the guy who thinks he's Buffalo Bill would, uh, listen to another very macho man, uh, a man of action, better.”

“John Baker Omohundro's wife was one of the most savvy people in show business at the time,” Clare pointed out.

“I know,” Mr. Welliam said humbly, not meeting Clare's eyes. “And I deeply regret my previous comments.” Now he lifted hopeful eyes to her and smiled winningly. “You'll help me with my apologies to Barbara Flinton, won't you?”

Mrs. Flinton and Mr. Welliam made a cute couple. Clare nodded.

The three of them walked back to the picnic table and benches as the last of the sun's rays shot above the edge of the mountains, leaving a pink sky with few clouds.

Clare stiffened, sensing the poltergeist's arrival. “He's here.”

Janice frowned at her. “Who?”

“Darin Clavell, the actor.”

Mr. Welliam sighed deeply. “I'm missing out on everything.” He twitched impatiently on the bench.