Ghost Talker (7 page)

“She'll be happy to put out the food and eat by herself in the garden while reading.” Mrs. Flinton's voice sounded a little disappointed, and Clare got the idea that the extroverted older woman still hoped to reform her friend.

“We'll see you later, Mrs. Flinton.” Clare signed off, then called Zach. As she'd expected, he was up and still at her house, and would remain there until she returned. He'd exercised in the pretty-much-empty room she'd earmarked for such an activity in the basement and made disparaging remarks about her antique stationary bike. She'd barely used it, so she hadn't been able to convince herself to leave it behind when she moved.

Guiltily she promised to talk to him about equipping that room when she got home, even as she wondered how much good equipment cost. She'd prefer that Zach exercised there, at her home, than at the gym in the building downtown that housed Rickman Security and Investigations. She'd be providing a room, equipment, an area he might prize in her home.

Living with someone might be expensive—in money and compromise and emotions and loss of privacy—but it was worth it when you loved the person.

And she did. And with that, she thought of Texas Jack and the ache for his lost wife that Clare had sensed, a nearly overwhelming loss. No wonder he wouldn't reveal it to her on short acquaintance. But that made her job harder, because she didn't know whether it was an issue with his wife that kept Jack stuck in the gray dimension. And until she understood what
kept him here, she couldn't help him move on.

She heard the clang of what she thought was the lower gate opening across the road and picked up her pace. Taking the roads to where she'd parked might be easier, but would take longer. What to do?

When she saw an expensively suited Maurice Poche surging up the path, she regretted walking slowly and thinking. She couldn't turn back—only one way up and down from the grave site.

He seemed to spot her several seconds after she'd spied him. He scowled an instant, then his face smoothed. After a glance over his shoulder, he moved more quickly than she thought usual for him up the path and stopped just above her. Taking the high ground. To speak with him, she had to turn her back to the parking lot. A fast glance showed her a couple of people getting out of a panel van.

“A fine morning, Ms. Cermak.” Mr. Poche smiled genially.

Enzo!
Clare sent the thought, wanting his support. Aloud she replied to Maurice Poche, fake medium and con man, “Yes, a lovely morning for a walk. It's nicer in the sun, though.” They'd stopped in the overhang of tall evergreens.

“No doubt, no doubt.” Mr. Poche glanced up the angle of the hill toward the grave site that couldn't be seen. “I'm supposed to meet Kurtus here,” he said smoothly. His opaque eyes gave nothing away, but she thought he lied. Mr. Welliam would have told her of the medium's arrival, perhaps even angled for Mr. Poche to be invited to meet Mrs. Flinton. Clare had gauged Mr. Welliam to be passionate about his hobbies and friends, wanting to champion both. Heaven knew he truly believed in ghosts, this particular poltergeist, and Mr. Poche.

“Mr. Welliam's gone,” she said bluntly.

Poche's gaze flickered. He opened his mouth, but Clare continued to speak through a false smile. “I'm sure he told you that he's set his jogging route to witness any supernormal activity.”

“And was there supernormal activity this morning?” Poche's voice held a mocking note—at Mr. Welliam's gullibility? That irritated Clare. As far as she could tell, Mr. Welliam had consulted with Poche before, and paid him good money for whatever services Poche offered.

She shook her head. “I don't believe the poltergeist struck at dawn.” She paused. “When I arrived, most of the rocks torn from the graves remained balanced on the fence posts.”

He frowned.

“Like Mr. Welliam filmed on his watch last night?” she prompted.

“Of course, of course.” But she saw that whatever he'd done last night, he hadn't paid attention to the video Mr. Welliam had captured of the lost ghost.

Mr. Poche's gaze went past her. His smile thinned and became strained. In a low tone, he said, “I recognized your surname last night.”

Clare stiffened, replied with starchy voice herself. “So Mr. Welliam told me.”

He inclined his head. “Yes, indeed. Your aunt made a name for herself in our profession.”

Her fingers ached and she realized she'd fisted them. “My great-aunt Sandra,” she corrected.

His eyes flickered. “Yes.” Then he cast his gaze down. “Please accept my condolences on her death.”

Sudden tears backed behind her eyes, along with anger that this man—this
fraud
—pretended to be a true medium like Great-Aunt Sandra.

“I understand you came into your gift recently,” Poche said, still in a low, mellow intonation. “If I can help guide you in any way . . .” He managed to do a half-bow despite his bulk. When he straightened, he put a soft, heavy hand on her shoulder.

Stepping back, she sniffled at his frown. She could act, too. Yet her fingers twitched. “I have a spirit guide.”

His slanted glance held pity and his nostrils flared as incredulity radiated off him. She understood that the false medium absolutely disbelieved in anything supernatural. He thought anyone who
did
accept the paranormal fools and marks to be targeted and conned. Stupid people who deserved to have their money stripped from them by any means.

Which made a simmering Clare heat close to boiling. Her entire former career had been preserving people's money, helping them keep it, grow it.

“But spirit guides are, ah,
otherworldly
.” Poche's face held a sad and serious expression. “They sometimes don't understand the constraints of the living.”

Clare, you called me, Clare!
Enzo galloped up, his tongue lolling with some of the phantom silvery drool dropping and disappearing before it hit the path.

“Hello, Enzo,” she said. She lowered her hand and stroked it through him.

“Who do you speak with?” asked Poche, looking at her askance.

“My guide.”

Enzo's back end wiggled madly.
I AM your guide. I AM a help.

Yes, Enzo
, Clare replied mentally.

“Short guide,” Poche said.

No. She wouldn't tell him Enzo was a dog. Poche already thought her a brainless sucker. But, as usual, she couldn't resist a little rebellion. Again she petted Enzo, her fingers turning numb with cold. When she initiated contact with a ghost, the cold was always worse. When she stepped into a phantom to help the spirit pass on, she had to take care that her heart didn't stop as ice imbued her. Right now, she wanted to confound Poche.

Lifting her hand, she offered it to him. “I'm running late. Thank you for your . . . concern.”

He grasped her fingers and shock flashed in his eyes. With her non-petting-Enzo, much-warmer hand, she covered their clasped fingers. “Very good of you.”

A strangled noise issued from him. He stepped back, up the incline, pulling his hand from hers. His eyes narrowed and she got the idea that he wanted to shake his cold fingers, but believed that to be a weakness.

Yes, they played games with each other, and that behavior was childish and beneath her.

Poche drew himself up. “And now I should see if there is any lingering sense of Buffalo Bill. Perhaps discover”—he touched fingers to his temple—“why William F. Cody is disturbed enough to resort to poltergeist activity.” He turned around as if to scan the area as a professional. Shaking his head, he said, “A beautiful area.”

She heard that lie, too. He hated the hills, the expanse of the sky and plains and distant mountains, the tall pines. He preferred Denver, was a city creature.

“Though no ghosts seem to be resonating with me. It is a . . . serene . . . place,” he intoned.

Clare decided that he really meant “desolate,” though most found the panoramic view gorgeous. She nodded. “Serene is right.”

He cleared his throat. “I prefer helping modern ghosts cross over.” His face took on a soulful expression. “Helping people who need me now.”

Who could pay him good money now. She didn't see the universe rewarding Poche for his efforts in assisting spirits reach whatever new destination awaited them, like the material objects she'd received after every one of her own cases.

“Denver's past phantoms are few,” Poche said dismissively.

Clare stared at him. “I haven't found that to be the case.” She couldn't even drive through certain parts of Denver, the oldest settled portions, because ghosts crowded around her, shouted at her mentally. She straightened her spine. “On the contrary, Denver is teeming with old-time ghosts, and always has been.” He might not have done his research, not even on her, but she'd done hers—and she trusted Zach to check out Poche.

She smiled. “Even in 1874, the newspaper, the
Rocky Mountain News
, said they wouldn't publish any more stories on ghosts because they were becoming altogether too common.”

“Huh, interesting,” said someone behind her. She jolted, swiveled on her heel to see a man with a digital video camera that looked professional . . . So did the man himself. “Is that so?” he asked.

“It is very so,” Clare confirmed.

Poche's stance rigidified and his face took on color. He nodded to Clare, and even as she stepped out of what she hoped was camera range, the medium blocked her from the video. Absolutely fine with her.

Enzo ran around and through the new arrival, down the path to another man walking up and through him, then back and straight through Poche. Not one of the men reacted to the ghostly Lab.
These guys are NOT interesting.
Circling Poche, Enzo let out a string of barks that sounded a little like laughter.
You are showing this stupid man. There are many, many ghosts in Denver for you to help!
he told her gleefully.

Clare sighed. She met the cameraman's eyes briefly, but didn't twitch her lips up in a fake smile, nodded to Poche, then hurried down the path. “Later,” she called. Then she crossed the parking lot, empty except for the truck that had a local television station logo on the side, Poche's Mercedes, and vehicles that must belong to the staff.

She shuddered. She didn't
want
to be filmed, especially publicly, and muttered under her breath at the irritation that Mrs. Flinton had made up and circulated those business cards for Clare.

Watching her feet as she headed down the short flight of steps and the narrow one-person dirt-with-jutting-rocks path along the side of the hill, she glanced at her watch. Someone had opened the gate at the end of the drive early for the van—or for Maurice Poche.

Forty minutes later she walked into her home and the scent of newly brewed coffee. She and Zach took their coffee seriously.

She loved that he kept his black hair a little shaggy for her, though now his shower had slicked it down. He looked at her over his mug, the same DPD mug he'd used last night, so he'd washed it.

Blue green eyes sharp, he asked. “What's the news?”

So she poured her own cup of French-roast coffee, joined him at the breakfast bar, and told him of Texas Jack and Maurice Poche. Tilting her head, she kept her gaze locked with Zach's, enjoying the flush of attraction skimming through her blood, feeling
more
, tenderness and love, sinking into her bones. “It occurs to me,” she said, “that those two men are complete opposites in terms of character and honor.” That particular quality had become important in her life, in dealing with both lingering ghosts of the Old West who valued the concept and the man sitting next to her.

Zach understood honor, had his own code, and he kept to it. She considered herself as having rules to live by and didn't like breaking them. Most of the time Zach's honor and her rules lined up pretty well.

But Zach frowned. “I didn't get as far as I'd like tracing our friend Maurice Poche last night. I'll have to dig a little deeper.” Zach stared at her. “He didn't threaten you?”

Clare sniffed. “He doesn't think I'm worth threatening. I'm a credulous fool.”

“A weak-minded sucker.” Zach smiled. “Same difference.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Time for us to head out to Mrs. Flinton's. Good thing, too; I'm starving.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows. “Barbara Flinton and Kurtus Welliam. I wonder who can out-charm the other.” A thought occurred and he narrowed his eyes, knew his smile had taken on an edge.

Glancing at him askance, Clare said, “What else are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that between the three of us, we can bend Welliam's thinking about Poche.”

When Zach pulled into the circular drive, a large, pristine white SUV had already parked. Mr. Welliam exited the vehicle, dressed in a tailored suit that flattered him. His white hair looked more stylish than Clare had seen before. He held a large bouquet of flowers clearly
not
purchased from a grocery store, and that impressed Clare with his resourcefulness.

He grinned at them and waited to join them as they walked to the portico and the front door.

Zach knocked in a pattern he had for the older ladies and Mrs. Magee, the housekeeper, opened the door and stepped aside. Zach kissed her cheek, and Clare hugged her—though neither she nor Mrs. Magee were as demonstrative as Zach and Mrs. Flinton.

Turning to Mr. Welliam, Clare introduced him to the older, heavier, steel-haired woman in a pristine cook's apron. The man drew out three flowers and a bit of greenery from the larger bouquet and offered it to Mrs. Magee with a smile that showed dimples.

She took the flowers and flushed slightly. “Thank you. Good to meet you.” She shut the door behind them and looked at Clare. “Food's back in the breakfast room.” She waved toward the back of the house, then stepped aside.

“Mrs. Flinton, may I introduce you to Mr. Kurtus Welliam,” Zach said with a formality that had Clare's brows raising. He stood next to the white-haired chipper woman, who wore a silk summer dress and stood straight in the framework of her walker.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Mr. Welliam said. “I've heard much about you.” He sounded fascinated, dropping back into his true-believer-in-the-paranormal status. Mrs. Flinton could sense ghosts, too.

He offered her the bouquet. “A gift for you.”

“How utterly lovely; thank you!” She took the flowers, cradled them in her arms for a moment before reluctantly handing the bouquet over to Mrs. Magee. Mrs. Flinton aimed another smile at Mr. Welliam. “Please follow me to the breakfast room. It has a wonderful view of the lawn, and the trees are just beginning to turn color at the edges.”

“Lovely,” Mr. Welliam echoed.

*   *   *

For Zach, brunch with his landlady was quite a show. Clare looked great in a sundress that revealed a lot of skin, including cleavage he deeply appreciated. Mrs. Flinton twinkled at the man about a half decade younger than she—and he responded with charming gallantry. Not to mention the large portions of gourmet food for them all to eat. Just great.

Mrs. Flinton avidly interrogated Clare about her experiences with the poltergeist the night before, watched the tiny screen of Welliam's watch showing the dust devil, and proudly took credit for printing and disseminating Clare's new business cards:
Have Ghost? Will travel. Specializing in Ghosts of the Old West.
That whole conversation led to Clare talking to
Welliam about her gift and the time-period limitation she had. She reluctantly revealed that she
had
talked to a phantom, not Buffalo Bill, but Texas Jack Omohundro.

Welliam knew in general about Texas Jack, but peppered Clare with fascinated questions. Zach liked how the man loosened Clare up with his sincere interest until she felt comfortable with him.

As for Maurice Poche, between Zach and Mrs. Flinton, they wrung a lot about that character from Welliam, with the exception of the exact amount the guy had soaked Welliam for. By the time the meal had ended, Welliam leaned firmly on their side of preferring Clare as a practitioner of ghostly communication rather than the pompous Poche. Neither Zach nor Mrs. Flinton had out-and-out condemned Poche, but Zach thought they'd planted doubts in Welliam's mind about the guy. Hopefully enough that Welliam wouldn't be paying the con man any more dough.

Mrs. Flinton and Zach had gently led him to make his own conclusions based on Mrs. Flinton's feelings and status in Welliam's eyes, and Zach's reputation and deductions.

Zach hadn't been pleased at all when Clare had told him she'd run into Poche that morning, and had bit off scolding her. She wasn't a child, and it sounded as if she'd taken care of that particular situation.

But he sure would be doing that deep background search on the man today, Sunday or not. He'd run a check on Officer Schultz and Welliam, too.

Tony Rickman, Zach's employer and Mrs. Flinton's godson, would help with Zach's clearance into top governmental databases. Rickman would want to know the deets of the man Mrs. Flinton, his godmother, twinkled at.

When Zach and Clare took their leave of Mrs. Flinton, she offered to show Welliam her gardens and the rest of the mansion, and he'd eagerly accepted.

Mrs. Flinton walked them to the door while Welliam used the john. Zach's bright and happy landlady gave them an update on her great-grandson, who they'd saved a week before. The seven-year-old boy had somehow gotten a phantom dog companion of his own. Caden had said Enzo had helped—news to Clare as well as Zach.

Smiling at Mrs. Flinton's news, Clare and Zach walked out the door, onto the portico, and down the stairs, where Zach noted a woman leaning up against a black Jaguar sports car. He skipped a pace, tilted slightly, and had to drag his foot and mess with his cane, even hop, to keep his balance. Felt like a darn fool.

When Clare gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure and rushed to the sexy-looking female and into a mutual hug, Zach scowled and slowed his walk. Even just standing that woman projected a trained lethal and athletic grace that Zach might have been able to match—once. Before the bullet below his knee.

Desiree Rickman. Zach's boss's wife, Mrs. Flinton's goddaughter-in-law—was that even a relationship?—and Clare's new friend. Maybe Clare's only friend since she'd broken off with all her accounting-work colleagues. Zach grunted. Clare valued loyalty so would stick by her new friend no matter Zach's wariness.

What bugged Zach about Desiree Rickman, though, was not her grace, and not that she'd been some sort of operative, probably in the intelligence sector; not even that she, too, had a psychic gift.

She felt like a loose cannon to him. He couldn't predict her, count on her to be where she should be, where he could expect her to be. She surprised him with her actions. Rickman must be okay with that unpredictability of hers, since his new boss had married the woman, but she flicked on “danger alarms” all over the place for Zach. Thinking of that, he glanced around for crows—felt like they should be there—but saw and heard nothing. Still, his gut tensed.

The women hugged again. Yep, Clare liked Desiree, so it appeared that Zach would be spending time with the woman. Not only that, but Desiree had gotten through to Clare with regard to needing self-defense faster than Zach had been able to, which irritated him, too.

The third and final bothersome thing was that it had been Desiree's actions—unknown to Zach at the time—that had led to Clare saving Zach's life. A burden of gratitude to the Rickman woman that he definitely didn't want. Though when Tony Rickman had debriefed Zach and Clare after the events in Creede, Colorado, last week, Zach had told Desiree he owed her a favor. He'd acknowledged that.

He figured Desiree would claim it sometime in the future.

Then he noticed Clare stood stiffly, expression masked, and moved up to them, close to his lover. “What's the problem?”

Desiree—a beautiful woman of mixed race showing mostly her Asian heritage, and significantly shorter than he—met his gaze. She flicked a hand toward Clare and she flinched. Mouth pursed, Desiree said, “I don't like the looks of Clare's spectral wound.”

Zach blinked, angled toward Clare, but answered Desiree. “Is that so?” He looked at the left side of Clare's torso and saw nothing. The evil ghost they'd finished off had gotten a good swipe—or maybe a bite—at Clare. Zach had seen her rubbing her side. She hadn't said anything about the hurt lately, and he'd thought it had healed. “The wound is still there?”

Desiree nodded, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. “It appears much the same.”

“It hasn't healed at all?” Zach demanded.

“Doesn't look like it. What does it feel like, Clare?”

“Hurts.” She frowned at Desiree.

“You can't tell whether it's gotten worse or not, Clare?” Desiree asked.

Clare shrugged. “It's hard for me to tell.” And there was an undertone Zach heard that he didn't quite like. “It's only been
four
days.”

“What about you, Zach?” Desiree asked. “Can you sense any difference in Clare's etheric body?”

What the hell did he know about etheric bodies? “No.”

“Oh.” Desiree gifted him with a dazzling smile he didn't trust a millimeter. “Then your psychic gift doesn't run to healing?”

So she'd figured out he had a whiff of the paranormal in his makeup, too. But it certainly wasn't healing. Did he look like that kind of sensitive guy? “No.”

Desiree straightened from casual balance to her full height, still shorter than Clare, too. “Well, if I can tell, and neither one of you can't tell, perhaps you should speak to Clare's ghost Labrador about this,” Desiree said a little grumpily. She didn't like that she couldn't see Enzo . . . that Clare's gift seemed to be directly opposite hers. Desiree could see auras and that worked only on the living.

Their opposing gifts disgruntled Clare, too. Her gift worked only with the dead, the very cold phantoms.

“Do we have to discuss this here and now?” Clare asked.

“I'm concerned,” Desiree insisted.

“I think we should give it more of a chance to heal,” Clare said reasonably.

“I think it's a problem.” Again Desiree turned toward Zach. She lifted her brows.

“I think we should trust Clare,” Zach said.

“I want to give it time.” Clare lifted her chin and sent Desiree a cool glare. “I have a major case. And before I can help him pass on, Zach and I must get rid of the poltergeist.”

Desiree stared. “There really is a poltergeist?” Her eyes gleamed.

Clare said, “Let's grab some coffee and I'll tell you all about it.”

“Later,” Zach said. Linking fingers with Clare, he added, “Let's take this conversation to my apartment.”

New interest crossed Desiree's face. As far as Zach knew, she hadn't been in those quarters.

He tugged on Clare's hand and they walked to one end of the mansion and the separate entrance to his rooms. “We'll be private and can ask Enzo's opinion.” Zach opened the doors to his apartment, then uncoded the security alarm.

The scent of flowers wafted around them, fresh in a vase on the counter that separated the pullman kitchen from the living room. As usual they provided a rich splash of color, no matter that he told Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee not to bother.

Desiree Rickman strolled in after them and scanned the room in one of those comprehensive military glances—sort of like a cop examination, but not exactly. “Nice place,” she said. Smiling, she sank down into a corner of the sofa, the best defensible spot in the room. Zach's preferred seat.

“Nice and guy-like.” She narrowed her eyes. “I think I recognize the same furniture as what Tony had in his house before we married.”

“Mrs. Flinton probably helped Mr. Rickman decorate his place and used similar furnishings both here and there,” Clare said.

“Probably,” Desiree said. She waited until Zach took the other end of the couch and Clare sat in the opposite wing chair facing both of them.

“Tell me about this spectral wound,” Zach said to Desiree.

Desiree flipped a hand. “I noticed it last week.”

“Four days ago,” Clare reminded.

“Still last week. And I'm not sure it's healing.”