Ghost Seer (13 page)

A multitude of caws hit his ears, and he glanced to the telephone line to see a row of crows. He tried to ignore them. Tried not to count.

Seven.
Seven for a secret, Not to be told.

Secrets. Usually he wanted to know secrets, especially ones that made a woman go from appealing to compelling.

Not now. No.

He heard the wings of birds as they flew away, but dread sifted through him.

Dropping her hand that he’d warmed with his own, he touched her lightly on her back—her cool back, not damp from sweat—as they took the few steps up the portico to the door.

He said, “Clare, this is Mrs. Magee. Mrs. Magee, this is Clare Cermak.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”

Clare handed the bouquet to her. “A pleasure to meet you, too.”

“Come in, come in!” called Mrs. Flinton from the dimness inside.

Mrs. Magee stepped back, and Zach and Clare walked into the wide entry hall.

Clare sighed. “You don’t have air-conditioning on.”

“No.” Mrs. Flinton held out her hands. “The house was built to be cool enough in the summer, though my husband had the place retrofitted for air-conditioning, of course.”

“Of course,” Clare said.

Zach had discovered that both of the ladies he lived with, like most elderly, weren’t fazed by the heat, so the house remained in the low eighties except for his apartment.

“I’ll put these in water.” Mrs. Magee bustled away with the flowers.

Clare was hesitating in taking Mrs. Flinton’s hands, and Zach knew why. Finally courtesy demanded it, and Clare put her fingers in Mrs. Flinton’s, squeezed briefly, and showed her a fake smile.

Mrs. Flinton’s brows winged up. “My
dear
, you do need tea. Come along.” She turned and whisked down the hallway into a parlor that was more feminine than the one she’d led Zach to the day before.

A sofa, a love seat, and two chairs upholstered in a pastel floral pattern formed the main sitting area, but a café table of iron curlicues in green with a glass top was set for three. Steam furled upward from the spout of a large teapot, in nearly the same pattern as the furniture.

Zach hesitated.

A dog barked and he frowned. Neither of the old ladies had pets.

“What was that?” he asked.

Clare looked over toward the table. “Enzo!”

“Enzo?”

Clare flushed. Her gaze flittered to his, then back. She bit her lips, now the plumpest thing on her face. Moist, pretty lips. She gave a crack of laughter, her shoulders slumped. “It’s Enzo,” she repeated.

“The ghost dog,” Mrs. Flinton said firmly as she glided to the table. She sure handled the walker a lot more gracefully than he did his cane.

Now Zach repeated flatly, “The ghost dog.” The one Mrs. Flinton believed followed Clare and she’d denied before.

She swallowed, then rubbed her hands. “Yes. The ghost dog.” She sighed. “Oh, Zach.”

He braced himself. He knew that tone. She was gonna unload on him.

H
E SAID, “I
don’t believe in ghosts, Clare.”

She stared him in the eyes, her own hazel eyes showing more brown than green. “Zach, neither do I. That’s the big problem here.”

And
thunk
, the atmosphere eased as the “secret not to be told” was revealed.

“Your seeing ghosts and not believing in them
is
a big problem. But I
do
believe and can help you.” Mrs. Flinton nodded and waited by her chair.

Zach moved forward to seat her.

She smiled up at him and said, “Surely you’ve seen odd things in your life as a law enforcement officer.”

He stared at her. What did she think she knew about him? Had she noticed when he saw the damn crows? The older woman remained serene under his glare. But he couldn’t really disagree with her. He’d seen plenty of screwy things. Some explainable, some not. Even omitting all the damned crow sightings. “Maybe,” he grumbled.

Mrs. Flinton nodded.

Clare pulled out her own chair and slipped in opposite the elderly lady, which left the final chair for Zach, his back to the door. He moved around the table, tapped Clare on the shoulder, and waved to the other place. “Please,” he said.

She frowned.

Mrs. Flinton stood and placed the napkin she’d taken from her plate on the one opposite her. “I didn’t think, Zach. You’ll want to sit where I am, yes?”

Clare stood slowly, blinking at him.

The dog barked again and he tensed, then ignored it.

“Yes, Mrs. Flinton,” he said, then met Clare’s eyes. “I don’t like sitting with my back to the door.”

“Oh, I understand.”

Mrs. Flinton smiled. “You don’t watch a lot of crime shows, Clare?”

“No.” Her gaze flicked to Zach, and she did that smile-and-glance-from-under-her-lashes thing that had lust zipping through him. Bad idea to act on the attraction.

“Bekka Magee and I do. Zach, you’re right-handed, so you want your right hand to be toward the door and not the window. Are you armed, dear?”

“Not right now. This is mostly habit.”

Mrs. Flinton stopped staring at his jacket as if she wanted to see his rig.

“Oh,” Clare said softly, and moved to the center chair with her back to the door.

Zach’s instincts didn’t like that at all, that someone coming in could target her first. To his inner shock, he realized he’d prefer Mrs. Flinton in that chair.

He seated Mrs. Flinton, then Clare, then took his own place, ignoring a yip and a cold draft around his legs.

The scent of food teased his nose, and a couple of seconds later Mrs. Magee came in with a big tray. Zach started to rise, then stopped. He couldn’t handle that tray as well as the older woman, couldn’t help her. Bile burned in the back of his throat.

Mrs. Magee dished out the soup, laid halves of a big sandwich on each plate, and left after accepting thanks from them all. Mrs. Flinton poured the tea.

Even though the meal was much like his lunch, Zach didn’t feel he could leave. He did manage to sidetrack Mrs. Flinton from ghosts to crime shows every time she brought up woo-woo stuff.

Clare picked at her food and occasionally said something that wasn’t in reply to either Mrs. Flinton’s or Zach’s comments, and that weirded him out. But now and then he found himself staring at the curve of her cheek, the form of her lips, a discreet checkout of her breasts. Still extremely sexy to him, physically, and even though he knew what was behind the secrets in her eyes, he remained intrigued with her.

Teatime stretched until he could barely stand it, couldn’t even glance outside the window because now and again he saw a black bird flying.

At last, Mrs. Flinton dabbed at her mouth and put her napkin down. “I think I will rest a little. Why don’t you two walk in the gardens?” Mrs. Flinton asked with a big smile. “Enzo, why don’t you stay with me awhile.”

“I’d like that,” Clare said, and she and Zach left the room. But by the time they’d reached the back door, she knew he’d put an emotional wall up between them. He didn’t touch her, no matter how casually.

Her heart sank. She’d blown the relationship with him by acknowledging Enzo. Stupid!

When he opened the door and said, “I don’t think this thing with us should go any further,” she just swallowed and nodded. How could she blame him for thinking her crazy? She would have taken a huge step back from him if the circumstances had been switched.

“I understand,” she said, her voice husky. Her smile was bright and false but the best she could do. “I’m glad you’ve found a good job and a good home, Jackson Zachary Slade.”

“Thank you; sorry it happened this way.” His voice held a little roughness she didn’t bother to analyze.

She ducked her head to keep her tears from showing and walked through the back door into a lush and lovely garden, and strode down pretty red sandstone flagstones set in thyme . . . until she heard the screen door shut.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed her, she pulled a tissue from her purse and heaved a couple of sobs into it before she got hold of herself. After one last blowing of her nose, she glanced around and saw a grape arbor not too far away with a bench and a blue gazing ball on a stone pedestal. Something she’d like in her own yard . . .

No. She couldn’t buy a house if she’d be dying soon; it would be the height of irresponsibility, to make her brother deal with such paperwork, even if she closed this week—have him sell
two
houses. And she had to face it, her health was bad. She wasn’t eating, barely slept, was cold all the time. Because she didn’t accept her psychic gift, a gift that had run through her family’s Gypsy blood for generations—the gift of communicating with ghosts.

No. That wasn’t real. Ghosts weren’t real. How could she believe that? Not at all logical.

Was it more logical that she was simply going insane, that some humongous disorder she’d had all along was now wracking her when she’d come into a nice fortune? How sane was
that
belief?

The pressure bearing down on her all day began to crush her. To break her mind and spirit. Broken in two, one part her old logical self, another part Gypsy instincts and heritage shrieking for freedom.

This had to stop!

 • • • 

Zach left the house for an interview regarding Mrs. Flinton’s antiques, his mood foul. He walked past Clare’s car in the driveway. A very sensible car that an accountant would drive, just as he’d noted before. How had she gone off the rails so badly? Cold slipped along his spine. If that could happen to a solid woman like Clare, and in such a small amount of time, Zach’s whole worldview might be sliding into another focus again, like a kaleidoscope.

He’d never liked kaleidoscopes . . . changing before you got a handle on the picture.

Realizing he’d hunched over, avoiding scanning the area because he’d see some damn crows, he stood tall, moved even slower, scrutinized the neighborhood. All fine.

He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension, but there remained an ache in his heart where he’d already put Clare and hopes for a connection with her. Since he’d recently been in her presence, his body had a low-level lust ache, too. Irritating that the first woman he’d been attracted to since he’d gotten shot was . . . too far gone into bizarre.

Which made him wonder if he’d be able to live with Mrs. Flinton after all, since she seemed to believe in the weird and illogical.

Opening his car door, getting in, and slamming it shut behind him, he figured he’d finish her case, then reexamine the living arrangements.

 • • • 

Clare scrubbed the last trace of tears from her face.

This insanity or ghost business or
whatever
had to stop!

Now.

Forget Dr. Barclay and whatever time schedule he might have her on . . . that probably included heavy-duty medications or some inpatient treatment somewhere. She had to deal with this now. The sooner, the better.

Today.

She would have to commit herself to one path—fight the illogic of ghosts, the craziness of what was happening to her to her last ounce of strength, or give in to the illogical fact that there were ghosts. She could feel her mind crumbling, her body deteriorating.

How to do that? But just with the question, her mind clicked into planning.

She’d confront her fears, confront ghosts. There were plenty of ghosts in Denver, and time enough today to do that. She wouldn’t wait for night. She’d need a good map. Would there be a map of persistent haunts in Denver? The library might have one.

When she did research in the library for a map of where known and active ghosts could be found, she’d pay special attention to anything downtown in easy walking distance. She didn’t dare go in a car; too dangerous.

The sooner she did this, the better, and driving to the library could be iffy in terms of safety, too.

Anticipating the courtesy from Mrs. Magee and Mrs. Flinton that Clare could leave her car here, she called a cab to come pick her up, then walked back into the house, ready to get on with her life and face the future.

Enzo greeted her as soon as she went through the door. His tongue was dangling. For the first time since he’d shown up, she stared at him. Definitely Great-Aunt Sandra’s Lab, with a little something extra in the eyes. “Hello, Enzo, I’m going to meet my fate.”

He gamboled around her.
You believe in ME, in US, in ghosts. In your GIFT!

Perhaps.

This is right, you will see. Mrs. Flinton can help you like I do, too. It’s good we all met.

Clare thought of Zach and her heart twinged. There had been . . . more than a possibility for a good relationship with him. She stopped a sigh and straightened her back.

Mrs. Flinton entered the hallway, smiling, no doubt in response to Enzo’s barks. Clare nodded to her.

“I am a logical person, Mrs. Flinton.”

“I know that this is difficult for you, dear.”

Almost, almost, she sounded like Great-Aunt Sandra, able to answer questions Aunt Sandra . . . no, nothing about the family gift, and that was very important. Perhaps Mrs. Flinton might know about “gifts” in general. But Clare wouldn’t ask right now.

She forced a smile, though it twisted on her. “I’ve decided that I must decide on which flavor of craziness to embrace—the fact that I’m cold and dying and insane, or that I can see ghosts.”

“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Flinton hurried to her and leaned over her walker to embrace Clare. “You aren’t going crazy.”

Enzo barked.
No you are not going crazy, you just have a gift!

“I
am
. I can feel my mind—” Clare stopped and sucked in a sharp breath. When she got her voice under control, she said. “I’ve decided to confront my fears, to confront the ghosts. I’ll find a map and figure out where the worst ones might be and go there to see them. Either they are real or I am beyond sanity and should admit myself to a mental health clinic, rest home, something, and wait for death.”

Mrs. Flinton looked startled, held Clare tighter with her thin and fragile arms. Then she stepped back and shook her head. “No, dear, I don’t think it’s good to go on your own to confront ghosts. I don’t think that’s a good idea
at all
.”

Clare lifted her chin. “Nevertheless, that’s my plan.”

“Let me get Zach to accompany you. You know, he has a gift, too. He has a touch of
the sight
.”

Almost, that statement distracted Clare. “No. I should do this myself.” No matter how quivery her insides were.

SHE WILL HAVE ME!
Enzo yelled.

“I don’t think that will be sufficient, dear doggie,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“We’ll be fine,” Clare said. “I’ve called a cab to take me to the library. They must have books on ghosts of Denver.”

“I daresay,” Mrs. Flinton said, frowning.

“May I leave my car here? I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” She knew her smile now held a touch of wildness or craziness and didn’t care. “If I can.”

“Of course you can leave your car here,” Mrs. Flinton said. “But I heartily advise against—”

Mrs. Magee appeared. “There is a taxi outside for Miss Cermak.”

Clare said, “Thank you, Mrs. Magee. Thank you, Mrs. Flinton, for all you have done. I’ll . . . I’ll see you later.”

“Wait! Clare, can you call me when you’re leaving the library before you go to . . . on your mission?” Mrs. Flinton called. Clare pulled open the heavy door but looked over her shoulder at the two concerned women.

She swallowed. “All right.” Then she exited, paying no attention to the irritated—worried?—conversation she left behind.

During the cab ride Clare organized her purse to make sure pen, pencil, and paper were at hand to whisk out when needed . . . and a quarter for a locker if she had to use a special room for research. But surely books on ghosts were more popular and less rare than the materials she’d looked through on her quest to learn about Jack Slade.

If she was efficient, and she prided herself on that, she could get in and out of the library quickly, before happy hour really got rolling, and be home before downtown locked in rush hour. That was the best timeline, best-case scenario, and now that she’d determined what to do and had a plan, optimism suffused her.