Ghost Talker (10 page)

“Rickman.”

She nodded, but couldn't prevent her lips from thinning. That man, Tony Rickman,
watched
her with a heavy gaze. She hadn't quite decided whether she liked him or not. Certainly didn't feel a . . . connection . . . like she did with his wife, Desiree. “I'll clean up.” Clare stacked the plates and headed downstairs with them. She considered putting in a tiny kitchen in the corner of the upstairs sitting room, including a coffeepot, of course, a small microwave and refrigerator, even a two-top gas-burner stove and small sink. Something to think about so she wouldn't be doing this trek every day.

Though it got her out of listening to Zach talk to his boss.

After washing the plates, she ran back upstairs to the bedroom, hardly out of breath at all, and found Zach had stripped the bed and put the sheets in the hamper, thrown a new set onto the bed.

They made the bed together, then Clare said, “I might attend my yoga class this morning.”

Zach laughed. “Much as I like your flexibility, Rickman wants to see us.”

Zach observed Clare's becoming flush fade. Wariness came to her eyes as she met Zach's gaze. He liked the color in her cheeks better.

“He has a case for us?” she asked.

A chuckle escaped Zach. He shook his head and grinned. “You might say that. Seems like Mrs. Flinton convinced Welliam yesterday to hire us on to officially find the poltergeist haunting Buffalo Bill's grave.”

Clare's lips pinched. “We were doing that as a pro bono, a service to the community.” She sounded offended at having Rickman orchestrate things. Her brows came down as she stared at him. “I thought you were all about serving and protecting the public.”

That caught him on the raw, but he knew she didn't mean any offense. He unclenched his teeth, then said patiently, “Clare, this is not a case that the Denver Police Department wants to handle—that any public law enforcement officer would like to handle.”

“Oh.”

“And it's not a case they
could
handle. We can. Me, you, Enzo, and Texas Jack.”

She nodded.

Zach appealed to her baser self. “And I'd prefer to be paid for taking care of the mess. How about you?”

“That's true.” Her breasts rose with a big breath, then lowered on a little sigh as she looked at the mantel clock. “I suppose he wants to see us right now.”

“That's right. Rickman
did
convince Welliam that he didn't have to stay . . . and take up all our time with discussion ad nauseam. We talked a lot yesterday at brunch.”

“At least that's something,” Clare grumbled.

“But Rickman has one appointment slot free in half an hour. I said we could be at the office by then.”

“Barely time to get dressed,” she mumbled as she shot toward her closet. “I don't know why Mr. Rickman always calls at the last minute.”

The more to keep Clare off-balance and easier to influence, Zach figured. He sauntered over to watch Clare dress. She'd chosen a primly professional suit of a gray that edged more toward fall than reflected summer—but the autumn equinox hit this week.

“As for Welliam, I'm thinking he's interested in the poltergeist, sure, but he's also fascinated by you,” he said.

“Why?” Buttoning up a pale blue cotton blouse, Clare shot the question at him.

“You're not like Poche, a medium who works with people who've recently lost loved ones.”

Clare winced at that, her whole body huddled in on herself. Huge emotions alarmed her; dealing with others' loss
would hurt her as much as any spectral wound. Not that she wouldn't do that if she felt it was her duty, but she didn't consider herself a people person, more a shy introvert. And she was still getting her feet under her as a ghost seer, vocation-wise; she hadn't begun to really think of it as a business. Yeah, a complicated woman he could appreciate.

He continued, “And you aren't like your great-aunt Sandra, who did the same thing, but who
didn't
con people.”

“She
didn't
,” Clare affirmed.

“That's what I said.”

“I'm still not sure how she managed that whole thing, talking to current ghosts when her time period had passed.” Clare frowned.

“And you're not like Mrs. Flinton, who can see ghosts, a little, but also has other generalized psychic powers.”

“I didn't know she had other powers.”

Zach shrugged. “She does, and I'm sure that's a reason Welliam knew her name. I also talked to Rickman,” Zach said.

“Oh. What gift does
he
have?” asked Clare.

“We didn't get into that. No idea.”

She smiled. “
Yet.
I know you, and you love a puzzle. You'll find out, and soon.”

Zach smiled back. A complicated woman who understood him, didn't worry about his crippled leg or his seeing crows invisible to others; how could he not love her? Pride meant nothing when compared to that. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak she lifted her brows and nose and put on that prim expression. “You have to dress.”

She tickled him, too. “I guess I do.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later, Zach's hip-shot attitude had Clare scanning him from head to toe: black hair slightly shaggy the way she not-so-secretly liked it, dress shirt, mid-weight jacket that wouldn't show he wore a shoulder holster or one at his waist . . . new black running shoes that looked odd.

“Not your usual professional shoes,” she said. She knew he had special orthopedic shoes that a professional man would wear. Coming closer, she saw the heel of these actually looked like a short spring.

“I don't like those,” he said with enough fervor that she decided “don't like” meant “hate.” She nodded. Of course, he wouldn't like wearing an ankle brace with little lines and hooks that attached to the tops of his shoes either. Not easy to get out of. And what would happen if the lines got caught in something?

She smiled. “You make a statement.”

He snorted and walked to the door with a sure step. She didn't know if he wore a brace, too, and wouldn't ask. His left ankle was absolutely the least interesting thing about Zach.

“It's not as if I have to wear a uniform anymore,” he said. She caught up with Zach as he descended the stairs—more easily than usual.

“I don't think Mr. Rickman will say a word about your shoes,” she said.

“You're right.” Zach grinned. “Most of those operatives of Rickman's—”

“Your colleagues,” Clare amended, as they set the alarm and walked out of the house.

“My colleagues,” Zach repeated. “Not like they don't dress exactly the way they want, too.”

He would know that better than she. The two men she'd met who belonged to Rickman Security and Investigations had dressed in expensive suits.

She considered as she boosted into his truck, then said, “Tony's wife, Desiree, dresses casually.”

Zach grinned. “Yeah, I remember those jeans she wore when we first met.”

The jeans had been tight, and Zach had been suspicious of the woman. Even now, Clare liked and considered Desiree her friend, and Zach saw her as an odd, dangerous woman and the wife of his boss.

Clare had been jealous of Desiree, that she and Zach had much more in common as active people with physical careers than Zach and Clare had. But Desiree and Clare bonded more than Zach and that woman, which nudged Clare into looking at her reaction to Janice Schultz.

Yes, she'd been jealous, and for the same foolish reason. Ms. Schultz was a peace officer like Zach. He'd been appreciative of her looks, but no more than any other guy. Yet . . . something about Ms. Schultz's manner bothered Clare. Something Clare couldn't define. She'd keep an eye on the woman.

As they drove into the heart of Denver, older than the area where Mrs. Flinton lived, ghosts congregated around Zach's vehicle, pressing against it, yelling at Clare. No use shutting her eyes; she'd still feel their chilly presence. They appeared to her, wailed at her, but their barely-there states showed the time wasn't right for them to move on right now, and that definitely mattered. She'd have to understand the timing for Texas Jack, too.

A few minutes later she and Zach entered Rickman's offices, said hello to the receptionist, and waited for her to tell Rickman they'd arrived.

Clare hadn't been in the downtown Denver high-rise for a while. Last Thursday afternoon, Mr. Rickman had met their private plane at the airport when they'd come in from their job in Creede, Colorado.

He'd handed each of them checks for a significant amount, forestalling their protests that they'd been working for free because of the danger to the whole town from an evil ghost. It was the right thing to do.

But he didn't take no for an answer, and Desiree Rickman had joined him in welcoming Clare and Zach home and told them not to be stupid.

Clare didn't know where the payment had come from. From Mrs. Flinton, Zach's landlady, whose great-grandson they'd saved, from the Rickmans individually, or the business. Naturally, curiosity itched at her, but she couldn't ask. She knew Mrs. Flinton's net worth was several times Clare's own, and she had used her accounting sources and contacts to discover how financially healthy Rickman Security and Investigations was—extremely well-funded. But Clare hadn't checked out the Rickmans' personal finances. That would invade their privacy.

She still wondered who had paid them. Someday she'd find out. She smiled. Or she'd ask Zach to find out. That would
be easy for him.

Mr. Rickman buzzed the door to open and they went through, Clare first. Tony Rickman stood as she entered.

“So Welliam's our client,” Zach stated as he took his usual gray leather barrel chair before Mr. Rickman's desk. Clare sat beside him and they occupied two of the four client seats. Clare sighed.

“What?” Mr. Rickman sat in his executive chair behind his desk, and his deep-set gray eyes fixed on her with an intense stare.

“So far all my ghost seer consulting clients have come through your agency.”

“So what?” Mr. Rickman asked.

“Not the first,” Zach said.

She glanced at him. No, the case she'd worked on first—when she'd met Zach—hadn't been a paying client, except afterward when Jack Slade had transitioned. Then, as always, she'd received “payment from the universe.” That had been a four-point-four-million-dollar coin. But she didn't think that the Rickmans knew the universe provided her with a gift after each major ghost she helped move on. Yet. With their business and lives entangling with Clare's and Zach's, the Rickmans, too, would discover things about Clare and Zach. She hoped her trust—and Zach's—in Rickman wasn't misplaced.

Continuing more precisely, Clare said, “Any outside clients I've had have come from Rickman Security and Investigations.”

Rickman tapped his fingertips together and smiled. “This time your contact came to us through the Denver Police Department. Zach's connection with them worked.” Exactly as Mr. Rickman wanted when he hired Zach.

“I am very pleased that Kurtus Welliam hired us to determine the identity of the poltergeist haunting Colonel Cody's grave.” Mr. Rickman gave Clare a slow smile. “I told him we had an exclusive arrangement with you, Clare. As far as I am aware, that is true. You have only signed a consulting agreement with this agency.”

“Yes.” She bit off the word. She thought she heard a muffled chuckle from Zach and glanced at him, but his face stayed impassive and he looked straight ahead.

“I am sure Zach can discover the poltergeist's name and particulars,” Mr. Rickman said.

Zach shrugged. “Shouldn't be too hard. Standard and boring work, but not difficult. I've given it some thought.”

Mr. Rickman nodded.

“And you've already impressed our new client very much through your previous meetings, Clare.” Another slow smile from Rickman. “He's also interested in your interactions with an individual named Texas Jack.”

Clare nodded. They'd talked about Texas Jack at brunch with Mrs. Flinton the day before.

“Despite the fact that Mr. Welliam was forthcoming, I did not get the surname of Texas Jack.”

“John Baker Omohundro,” Clare provided.

“A friend of Buffalo Bill's?” Mr. Rickman asked.

“And Wild Bill Hickok's,” Clare said.

“Was Omohundro in the military, too?”

Clare smiled. “Yes, the Army of the Confederacy.” She enjoyed seeing Mr. Rickman's disconcerted expression. “Perhaps the Texas Army, too.”

“Oh.”

“He scouted for the U.S. Army,” Zach put in.

“Oh.” Mr. Rickman nodded in satisfaction.

“Before he became a showman and actor,” Zach finished.

“Texas Jack scouted for the Army, fought Indians, drove cattle along the Chisholm Trail, led hunting trips for elk and buffalo, and handled enraged bears,” Clare said.

Zach groaned. “Now you've gotten her started.”

“He was proficient with a six-shooter and a roping and lasso expert, and was the first to do lasso tricks in a performance.
Many
dime novels featured him as a hero. I am sure he was every bit as tough as either one of you manly men.” She paused. “Not to mention that he married a very beautiful, talented, and savvy Italian ballerina.”

Both of the men stared at her. And she ended, “A lady who introduced the cancan to the United States.”

They'd heard of that, all right.

“I guess we're shown up,” Mr. Rickman said.

Zach laughed. “I guess we are.”

Mr. Rickman brought his scrutiny back to Clare. “Mr. Welliam has given us an excellent retainer.”

“You mean you want me to make sure he's with me when I talk to Texas Jack sometime.”

“That would be good.”

“All right. I accept the job.” She rose.

“I do, too.” Zach stood. “I've got an idea on how to proceed with this case. I'll be doing some in-person interviews, but also computer searching, like we did yesterday. Using some of my contacts in law enforcement, probably.”

“One moment. We have a deadline,” Mr. Rickman said.