So he strode into the restaurant, waved off the hostess, and scanned the first room. Whomp! Emotional fist in the gut. Clare sat at a table with a professional, distinguished type of guy in a thousand-dollar suit. Wavy gray and white hair, well-kept hands, smooth hands, and a face women would like. Gym-muscular, trim, but he still had years and pounds and polish on Zach.
Didn’t look like an accountant, possibly a lawyer, could be a medical doctor, definitely not a broken-down ex–deputy sheriff.
No dirty dishes showed, but a half glass of white wine stood before Clare and a tall tumbler of water with lemon before the guy.
The dude was flirting extremely discreetly, and the helluvit was that Zach couldn’t read Clare well enough to know how she was taking that flirt. She wasn’t flirting back, like she had with Zach when they’d met, but from the tilt of her head and her listening expression, she could be interested.
Possessiveness surged through him, along with a wave of protectiveness. Clare had been through a lot lately. He didn’t want some guy twisting her around more than she was.
Zach’s hand clenched the handle of his cane as the man brushed Clare’s fingers when he reached for his water glass.
TWENTY-FIVE
SHIFTING A SHOULDER to release tension, the one without his holster, Zach began to move toward them . . . slower than he wanted because he had to proceed cautiously to take care with his foot drop. Since he was considering the bartitsu lessons, he might let the thought of a brace worm into his head.
Halfway across the room Clare glanced up and saw him. Her eyes seemed to light and Zach wanted, badly, to lengthen his stride but cursed instead within his head.
By the time he reached the table, the guy had become aware of him; his smile for Clare faded and he slanted his body to see Zach.
The man scanned Zach from top to toe, then met his eyes with a penetrating gaze and Zach’s stomach clenched. He knew that look and now he knew that professional. Shrink. Psychiatrist, psychologist, life coach, counselor—though the guy must have an MD or a lot of other letters after his name to be able to afford the shirt, suit, tie, cuff links, watch, and shoes he wore.
Zach came up and put his briefcase down, lifting his hand to Clare’s shoulder. “Hey, Clare. Good to see you. I have something you might be interested in,” he said easily, smiling at the guy in the suit. “Zach Slade.”
“Dr. Madison Barclay.” The man inclined his head at Zach. Didn’t offer his hand, so he wasn’t so interested in Clare that he wanted Zach’s free hand off Clare, and he didn’t want to shake hands with Zach. Zach had dealt with all sorts of therapists and psychiatrists, both after his brother’s murder and with regard to his mother’s mental illness, as well as more recently after the shooting and his crippling. Some were worth the pain of sessions, some just wrongheaded, and some were scammers about as good as any other con men in the business.
“I was seeing Dr. Barclay recently,” Clare said a little stiffly.
Barclay’s eyes tightened when he heard her call him by his title.
“Isn’t that unethical, hitting on a client?” Zach said.
“He’s not my psychologist anymore,” Clare said. She wiggled her shoulder and Zach reluctantly dropped his hand.
“Not so very long with me.” The man smiled again at Clare. His teeth were too even and white. “But I know Clare well,” he said with a pompous note in his voice. Since he hadn’t reacted to Zach’s surname, Clare must not have spilled about the ghost of Jack Slade.
Zach smiled slowly and just had to put his hand back on Clare’s shoulder and squeeze. “There’s knowing and knowing.”
Barclay’s jaw set.
“And speaking of that.” Zach set the briefcase on the table, flicked the lock open, took out a ledger book and placed it near Clare, flipped it open. As he’d expected, her gaze became glued to the columns of figures.
“What’s that?” asked the shrink.
“Antique financials in a case I’m working on. Expenses, I believe. I think Clare can track them for me, give me some insights.”
She was running her fingers down the columns, reading the handwritten pages.
“Give her a project outside settling her great-aunt’s estate and moving into her new house. Good for her, don’t you think?”
This time Barclay’s smile was chill and aimed at Zach. The shrink folded his pristine napkin and rose slowly, moving his chair back, and inclined his head to Zach. In a rich, mellow tone, he said, “You are obviously a very angry man.” His gaze flicked to the cane, to Zach’s orthopedic shoes, back up to his left knee. Okay, the man was sharp enough to spot the weakest point of Zach’s body. Kudos.
Barclay continued, “If you wish to see me on a professional level, we can work through your issues with your disability.”
Zach showed his own teeth. “Sure. Until then, you might want to consider that I’m armed and dangerous.” He shifted and leaned on a chair enough that his jacket would gape to show his shoulder holster.
The psychologist retreated a step as surprise came to his eyes, and then his cheeks took on color.
“Clare.” Barclay raised his voice. “Thank you for the lunch.”
Clare jolted and looked up, her gaze sliding back and forth between them, her expression wary that she’d missed something—like a clash of males. She bit her lower lip and Zach wasn’t the only one who focused on her mouth.
Standing, she offered her hand to the shrink. “And thank you for agreeing to have lunch with me, Madison. I enjoyed it.” Her smile was simple and sincere and Zach saw the guy softening. Too damn bad.
“I’ll see you later,” he said, pressing her fingers.
“Outside your office, sure,” she said, rushing her words slightly so that Zach hoped she didn’t mean them. The doctor preened. Then, without another glance at Zach, the psychologist walked away with a smooth stride Zach watched and envied.
When he returned his attention to Clare, she’d sat again, was sipping her wine and reading the ledger entries as if they were riveting. Zach took Barclay’s seat and scrutinized her. Why was he so very attracted to her? Yeah, she was sexy as damn all, lovely, repeatedly presented riddles, and had haunting eyes that continued to suck him in.
He leaned back, lifting his right heel in a move he’d practiced to look casual, and contemplated his feet in good cotton socks and ugly leather shoes, not cop shoes. His left foot, ankle, and tibia didn’t look damaged.
And then he understood why Clare had slipped under his defenses and into his heart more than anyone else in a long, long time. It wasn’t that Clare didn’t know he was “disabled.” It was that she made absolutely no fuss over the fact. Just a minor part of him being Zach Slade.
Even though he knew his injury wasn’t minor. It had damn well ruined his life . . . all right, ruined his career. And, yeah, he sure as hell remained furious about that.
She’d accepted him just the way he was now. Didn’t think about how he might have been then, when he was whole.
As far as he knew, she hadn’t done a simple Internet search on him . . . and he did know enough that if he asked her now not to, it would pique her curiosity enough that she’d head straight for her computer.
She didn’t have the driving curiosity that he did.
Eventually she’d see him as he had been; the pics were up there. Hell, pics of his shattered tibia and droopy foot were up there. Until he and she were more involved than a few nights of awesome sex, he’d like her not to be able to judge him against the man he once was. Right now he was too thin, his muscles shrunken, and he’d had little aerobic exercise.
For that he’d need even better shoes and a brace.
Finally, after she’d turned to the next page, he said, “So, you had lunch with the doctor. Is he any good as a psychologist?”
She looked up and grimaced. “He is supposed to be the best, bu
t he wanted to discuss my childhood and I wanted to know if I was going crazy by seeing ghosts. He is expensive. I wished to end our association on a good note, so I took him to lunch.” She pouted. “On Sunday. He ordered the most expensive item on the menu, too.”
Zach chuckled. “And you, what, had soup?”
She shrugged. “I had a good meal.” She waved a hand. “Something or other.” She matched his gaze and repeated. “He always expected me to talk about my childhood. Not my favorite subject.”
He got what she was saying. He never liked talking about his childhood, not even the better times before Jim was killed. Two of a kind, there.
“Have you had lunch?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“I’ll look at this while you eat, but I’ve already paid my bill.”
Zach laughed, shook his head. “Clare, you’re a treasure.”
She grinned. “I know.”
But as he signaled the waitress and gave her his food and drink selection, he didn’t like the shadow in the back of his mind that whispered that it mattered, a lot, that Clare had had lunch with some other guy. And to remember that she broke up with men at restaurants.
• • •
Clare took the ledger home and for once the sky had clouded over so she could sit in her dry backyard without experiencing ferocious heat. Along with the ledger, Zach had provided a list of the eleven items Mrs. Flinton recalled from her childhood home and wanted back. Attached to the list were drawings or photos of similar items, and Clare’s eyebrows rose at the general six-figure amount that the furnishings would be worth now.
Rubbing her hands, then setting a notepad and pencil next to the book, she began studying the ledger.
She soon became accustomed to the overly fancy cursive writing and the standard expenditures . . . and began to see that some items were “sold” to a friend or relative of the guardians’ family, unrelated to Mrs. Flinton by blood, only by marriage, for a nominal amount. Clare’s mouth tightened. This had been just plain stealing.
With all her accountant senses alert, she scrutinized each entry.
Now and again, when her eyes hurt or she ran out of iced tea or lemonade, she went back in, eyed the packing that needed to be done, and did some physical work on her move. It was unlike her not to stick with a task until it got done, no matter the hours needed, but today she found that changing up the work was more efficient and helped her focus her attention on different items than Zach Slade. Honestly, the man and her budding relationship with him tended to dominate her thoughts more like she was a teenager than a mature, professional woman. She almost felt giddy when he was near. The surge of welcome, inner sexy heat helped her pack up her bedroom faster.
Unlike her office and living room, the bedroom had furniture she’d be giving away to a local charity: good, uninspired pieces except for the bed. In the back of her mind she acknowledged that she’d always expected to have antique furnishings that her parents kept in storage or from Aunt Sandra. That was a little creepy.
When she had to close the back door because the sun slanted in, she took another shower, donned another sundress, and moved the search inside. After a while, she had a list of names and called Mrs. Flinton.
“Hello, Clare, dear. How are you doing, and how is dear Enzo?”
Just that easily the zone she’d been in when focused on the ledgers shattered and she was flung back into the new odd land she inhabited. She cleared her throat and headed to the refrigerator for another glass of lemonade. “I’m fine, Mrs. Flinton.” Clare poured more liquid into a tall glass. “Uh, everything went well, and I am, uh, adjusting to my new, uh, circumstances.” Stop those “uhs”!
“I’m actually calling about your case. Did Zach tell you I’d be looking at your guardians’ books?”
“Yes, I authorized you with Tony Rickman.”
“Ah, good.” Clare had forgotten Zach’s new boss’s name. “Um, yes. I’ve examined one of the ledgers and found a couple of names . . . leads . . . and I’d like your permission to check those names with an online genealogical program I’m, uh, using.”
“Oh! That sounds wonderful! Now why have I never considered tracing my own gift?”
Once again, Clare’s mind was wiped clean of figures and headed over into family trees. “Ah, I did want to ask if you have done research into your family and if you might have a family tree.”
“I do, of course,” the woman said. “Somewhere, and copies, too, I believe. But I’ve always considered living in the present and with an eye on the future the best balance for one with psychic talent, especially a ghost seer, don’t you?”
Clare’s palm went sweaty around her phone, her mouth dry. She looked with longing at the glass of lemonade, but she didn’t want any sound of swigging to go over the phone, so unprofessional. “Absolutely, concentrate on the future,” she agreed.
“And I’ve heard those computer programs are so clever!” Mrs. Flinton enthused. “Maybe we can get together some time . . .”
“Sounds excellent,” Clare said. “But I truly wish to follow this thread while my discovery is fresh, though I do have thorough notes, of course.”
“Naturally, Clare.” Mrs. Flinton sounded disappointed. “But I’ll let you go. I believe you will find my family tree on the major genealogical website under Flinton-Patterson-Wembly, and it’s public.” She spelled out the hyphenated names.
“Thank you,” Clare said. “I should, ah, hand off this report to Zach today.”
“Oh! Such progress. And you must come to tea again, soon.”
“Soon,” Clare promised. “Thank you, good-bye!” She clicked off, feeling sweaty again. Putting her phone down on the kitchen table—which she was giving away—she drank half the tumbler of lemonade.
Still hot, she took a paper towel, dampened it, and wiped her face and neck.
You did not say “hello” from me, Enzo accused, sitting next to her, pouting.
Clare jolted. “Sorry.” This dichotomy of having her new life impinge on her old seemed to be discombobulating her brain.
She accessed the online genealogical program, found the names of the people who’d “bought” the furnishings of Mrs. Flinton’s childhood home. Several of those lines had grayed-out “living offspring,” but Clare could give the names of the parents, and grandparents, to Zach and he could do the rest. Meanwhile, she leaned back in her chair with a sense of contentment at a job well done.
She chuckled. Rather a new way of thinking of “forensic accounting.”
• • •
That evening she sat on her front stoop. Most of her personal property was in boxes, ready to move.
Tomorrow she’d have a new view if she happened to want to sit outside on the front porch in the evening. Across a wide street she’d see the beautifully landscaped lawn and garden of a lovely house in the Spanish-influenced style. Not as beautiful as her new home, but nice.
And if she wanted to sit outside in the back, there was the bricked patio, the gazebo, or the lawn. With the twelve-foot-tall redbrick walls, she could make one corner of the yard a small secret garden. That might appeal.
She could have a pet. She slid her eyes toward Enzo, who lay, more transparent than ever, with his paws curled over his belly on the lawn going yellow from her lack of attention over the last week.
She’d like a cat.
A shiny black Mercedes pulled up in front of her house. The passenger door opened and a woman shot out toward Clare. “Ms. Cermak?”
Clare blinked. “Yes?”
Two seconds later the plump middle-aged weeping woman stood shaking in front of Clare, waving a photograph at her. “Please, please, Ms. Cermak, contact my Mary and tell me how she is.”
“What?”
“I’m Jennifer Creedy. Our . . . my . . . our daughter Mary. She passed on last month. Please. I need to know—”
> TWENTY-SIX
CLARE’S JAW DROPPED. This couldn’t be happening. She looked around wildly, but who else could the woman be talking to?
“I heard you were a medium. I’ve tried everyone else, heard you were new to town.”
Standing, Clare sidled away from the distraught woman.
“Please, please, I need to know,” the woman pressed.
Know what? Her daughter was dead. From the glance Clare got from the picture, the child looked in poor health but happy. Why would her ghost hang around? Clare didn’t know all the rules yet, but she was certain that her gift didn’t deal with contemporary ghosts. “I can’t help you,” she said.
The soft thud of the other car door sounded and a man in an expensive dark suit, also middle-aged and portly, came up to them. He put his arm around the woman’s waist. “Jennifer, you’re babbling; lay it out for Ms. Cermak.”
“Oh. Oh!” More tears, sobs, and wailing. Clare felt her eyes widen in horror.
“I can’t help you.” She tried to back away, but her heels hit the stoop step.
“Shh.” Mrs. Creedy’s husband squeezed her, helped her lower herself to Clare’s concrete stoop. “Just calm down a little.” He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You said we’d take this slowly, and you jump out of the car when it’s still nearly running.”
“Oh, Bill!”
“I’ll talk with Ms. Cermak, why don’t I?”
Face muffled in the handkerchief, Mrs. Creedy said, “All right, Bill. Sorry.”
He patted his wife’s shoulder. “It’s tough.”
But his face hardened when he glanced up at Clare, jerked his chin to have her move with him a few feet away. He looked through the open door as he did so and his lip curled. “I don’t approve of you people. You leeches. But my wife needs reassurance. So I’ll give you a grand to tell her what she wants to know. Just do it, you fraud.”
Ghost Seer Page 21
