Clare thought they’d have to redo the whole grave site and shook her head at the cost.
“I didn’t see the poltergeist last evening, either. My gift is quite limited.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” She eyed him. If you didn’t know he believed in the paranormal, you couldn’t have told. Once more dressed in an expensive jogging suit of blue jacket and trousers, he seemed full of enthusiasm and vigor, enjoying the cloudless bright blue sky and the crisp air of the Sunday morning.
“You haven’t joined the Denver Parapsychological and Psychic Association,” he chided.
Clare suppressed a shudder and her smile turned brittle. “I, ah, am new to my gift, and am still becoming accustomed to it.” She inhaled and the scent of fresh air and pine soothed her. “I’m not sure I’m ready to join such a group.” She could barely stand the new-ageiness of her beginner yoga class.
“You should!” he assured her, the true-believer gleam returning to his eyes. His white brows rose. “Don’t you want to be as well known and respected as your great-aunt?”
She shifted her feet and shot him a glance. He continued to look mostly harmless, though his gaze showed sharp intelligence.
“How do you know of my great-aunt?” she asked.
Mr. Welliam’s smile widened. “Maurice recognized her name last night.”
“Oh,” she said, and wondered just how long Poche had been doing this medium con man business. Great-Aunt Sandra had died less than a year ago, though the Cermak ghost seer gift hadn’t been inflicted upon Clare until about a month ago, when she’d wrapped up the last of Sandra’s estate. She still didn’t know the actual timing of that, along with being unclear on most—much—of the guidelines of her new psychic ability.
Enzo stared up at Mr. Welliam and sent to Clare mentally, I don’t remember seeing that man you met last night when I was with your great-aunt Sandra.
Clare replied mentally, I didn’t think you saw him last night.
Enzo sneezed. I was around a little. Boring. Didn’t like the nasty-smelling man. Bad man.
“No, I don’t want to be like my great-aunt Sandra,” Clare responded to Mr. Welliam. And those words came out too forcefully, so she tried to soften the sentiment. “I’m not ready to be a medium.” She tried a self-deprecating smile. “The most I’ve been able to handle is being a consultant with Rickman Security and Investigations.”
“Yes, Rickman.” Mr. Welliam’s brows wiggled. “He’s the godson of Barbara Flinton. I’ve heard of them, particularly Mrs. Flinton, as she has a reputation for handling ghost transitions, too.”
As far as Clare was concerned, Mrs. Flinton—Zach’s landlady—and Mr. Rickman—Zach’s employer—were appealingly subtle and discreet about whatever gifts they had. Both were much better company than that dreadful Maurice Poche, who had latched on to Mr. Welliam.
Impulsively Clare said, “I’m having brunch with Mrs. Flinton this morning. Would you care to join us?”
Mr. Welliam appeared surprised, then broke into a wide grin. “I would love to.”
Clare nodded and glanced at her watch. “We’re meeting at ten at the historic Flinton mansion. I’ll call and let her and her housekeeper know to expect you.”
“Thank you! I should change.”
His jogging suit didn’t have a smudge or stain and appeared brand new, though for that generation, it could be thought too casual.
“And I must get some flowers,” he muttered. “Excuse me. I’ll see you later. Thank you for the invitation.” He waved a hand as he picked up speed and jogged past her down the asphalt path. She figured he’d be taking the Buffalo Bill Trail along the hill to other paths and his home.
He knows all the paths around here, Enzo said with admiration in Clare’s mind. I will follow him!
Fine, she replied telepathically.
Not hearing any more discussion from those cleaning up the grave site, she sauntered down the incline, skirting the tree in the middle and rounding a corner to find no Mr. Welliam in sight. He moved fast. Frowning, she thought less of her recent conversation with Texas Jack and more about how toned Officer Schultz had looked. Especially when compared to Clare’s not-very-fit body.
At twenty-six, Clare needed to exercise more, but just considering jogging—no. She much preferred yoga, but she hadn’t been to the class very often. Still, Zach worked out at the gym in his office building, and took lessons of his own in cane fighting, some old-time system called bartitsu.
Her new vocation also proved more physically challenging than sitting at a desk in an accounting office. This wasn’t the first—or even the fifth—time she’d been hiking in the mountains during the last twenty-eight days. Just as her car had been replaced by a Jeep, she had to toughen up.
Since time had progressed to a decent hour, she made a call as she went down the path to the parking lot. Clare had anticipated that she’d reach Mrs. Magee, but she put her through to Mrs. Flinton. And Mrs. Flinton had heard of Kurtus Welliam, that he was interested in psychic gifts, and a little gullible, but she’d be glad to have him to brunch if Clare had invited him.
“I like him,” Clare said simply. “I think you will, too.” She paused. “And I hope to get him away from Maurice Poche.”
Mrs. Flinton gave a ladylike snort. “That Maurice Poche. I was more involved in the society before he came eight years ago, but I can’t abide the man.” She lowered her voice as if imparting a confidence. “I think Zach would call him a fraud.”
“Zach did.”
“We’ll be glad to see you and Zach, dear,” the woman ended in a chipper tone. “It will be the four of us—you and Zach and Mr. Welliam and me.”
“What about Mrs. Magee?”
“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.
Chapter 7
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 excep
t 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?”
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