Clare paced around the lower floor of the carriage house, looked at her cell that hadn’t rung, let alone lilted with the tune she’d programmed for Zach, then ran upstairs to the empty bedroom space and back down for a little exercise.
After making another cup of coffee, she sat down and began reading again and finally found it.
Oh, owie, OUCH! Those last transitions—those ghosts—mean as snakes. Of course they would be, and for some reason, John was no use whatsoever. He simply froze when it came to deal with the maelstrom of those seven spirits!
I seem to have gotten a tear in my own spirit, my etheric body. It hurts! I’m not sure exactly how this happened, but it must have occurred when I fought those mad specters. Nasty things. I swear some of them had sharp teeth and long yellow nails that felt like claws!
I’m rubbing the spot now, a shallow rip, like a long scratch, from the ball of my left shoulder straight across to my breastbone. Owie, it hurts. Rather a cold ache, too, and I have noticed that when John or those needing to cross over are around, the injury throbs and might not be healing.
This will take some thinking on. If I can’t practice my business without hurting, I must stop for a while. Then again, it’s been a while since I took a good long break. Maybe soaking myself in the sun could help the wound and I should go somewhere warm. Heaven knows, Chicago in February is not warm even at the best of times.
Jal and Viva and their children are in the South of France. That sounds fabulous, and I need to become closer to little Clare, since I think that precious girl will be my heir.
At least I think the family is in the South of France. They were Tuesday, but they might have moved on by now . . . Those two have itchy feet.
Clare could almost hear her great-aunt’s sigh. One Clare had often exhaled herself. She’d hated all the traveling around, getting settled in a place, then heading off again on a whim or after some dramatic clash, more likely for strange quarters with strange people. The memory of her peripatetic childhood made all her muscles tense, and she leaned back, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scent of this place all her own. One her parents—still nomadic—probably didn’t know of. Yet.
Sunlight, dry Denver weather, the hint of Sandra’s perfume that Clare loved in the fabric of the furniture, all came to her nostrils and soothed her.
Opening her eyes, she skimmed down to the next unread paragraph.
John, who disappeared last evening as soon as we left the small grassy area, has apologized profusely for just standing there. He said the continual echoing sound of machine guns and the cycle of seeing the men fall reminded him of his own death that, I understand, he doesn’t like to think about. We shouldn’t have come so close to the day of the actual massacre, I suppose, but it’s always better to pay attention to dates. And how was I to know until I got there that it was the moon phase that mattered for those particular ghosts!
February. Massacre. Chicago gangsters. Had to be the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre of Moran’s North Side gang by Capone’s South Side men. Great-Aunt Sandra had handled the transition of those ghosts? That impressed Clare, and no wonder they’d been violent.
As far as John and I can tell, the only thing that will heal this scratch is time.
Clare turned the page to look for more information on the wound, and found the next entry to be six years later. No doubt another journal picked up where this one left off, but who knew when she’d find it?
Standing, she stretched, leaned over, and let her body fold naturally. Turning her wrist, she checked her watch. If she hurried, she could make the next beginner yoga class. She’d feel better after that, and maybe she’d continue to make friends of a more open mindset than her old ones . . .
* * *
After class, when she pedaled her bike back into the garage, she found Enzo sitting and grinning on the step into the house. Already humming with good vibes from yoga, the sight of him added to her pleasure. “Hey, Enzo, good to see you.”
I love you, Clare. He hopped to his feet and ran toward her.
“I love you, too.”
You don’t need me as much, so I can explore when I want?
Reaching down, she petted his head. “Absolutely.”
Thank you, Clare. I WILL be there when you help Texas Jack move on. For ALL of your cases.
“I’m sure,” she murmured.
Enzo wagged his tail, grinned. That’s my job.
Hers, too.
* * *
Zach worked in the conference room on his laptop, with Tony Rickman watching at his elbow. Mutual trust or not, Rickman had the security clearance to access more databases than Zach, and sat and observed Zach’s searches for info on Maurice Poche.
Rickman, like all his operatives, came from a military background and did security evaluations, alarm systems, and body guarding—ah, personal protection. Zach thought the “investigations” portion of Rickman Security and Investigations was mighty thin. That is, the investigative department of the business was Zach himself, though he didn’t know whether Rickman had had anyone on the payroll before him.
As it was, Zach explained his theories, processes, and actions to Tony and the man took notes and followed along.
None of the more esoteric databases had data on Poche, but the FBI files revealed a gold mine—several previous personas and scams, though no arrests. In those particular cons, Poche had targeted seniors for financial investments and there hadn’t been any who’d actually wanted to testify against him.
He’d hit Denver about eight years before and began building his “entertainment” career steadily. His website looked good, professional, and his consultation prices were steep enough to make Zach’s brows rise and Rickman give a low whistle. Welliam must have dropped a bundle.
The Denver Police Department kept an eye on Poche, but so far he hadn’t stepped over any lines.
A deep background search by Zach and Rickman only took twice as long as it would have if Zach had done it by himself. But Tony—who was excellent in the security area but had never done any investigation—was a good student and learning the ropes.
Then Zach, Rickman’s only trained investigator, did some phone work with his local police contacts. Give-and-take about the poltergeist situation up on Lookout Mountain—no, the police did not want to open a case on that formally—and some talk about Janice Schultz. She’d graduated from the Denver Police Academy three years before and was considered a solid, if not brilliant, cop.
During the long shooting-the-breeze session, Rickman had taken a couple of calls, then nodded to Zach and left for his own office, working on Sunday, as usual. But Zach figured that often happened to a man with his own business if he wanted to grow it.
When Zach finished with his little investigation into Janice Schultz—born and raised in Denver—he did a few minutes of quick and dirty research on Texas Jack Omohundro. Enough to follow Clare if she talked in detail about him, and enough so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself if he actually talked to the frontiersman himself, which he planned on doing, maybe even that evening.
Late afternoon had gone and he headed home for an early dinner with Clare.
* * *
The next morning, Clare awoke as light filtered in the long western windows framing the French doors to the balcony. Too late for dawn or to reach Lookout Mountain in time to watch the poltergeist throw another tantrum at Buffalo Bill’s grave.
Clare glanced at her bedside clock and blinked. Late, indeed. The day must be cloudy because the time read after eight. She just stared. Even a month after she’d given up her accounting job, she’d rarely awakened at such a late hour. The thought sifted from the depths of her mind that sleeping in could be an advantage to her new career, a luxury.
When Zach mumbled and his arm around her waist tightened, delight at staying in bed burst through her. She turned in his arms to face him,
snuggled under his chin, and murmured, “How come you don’t wake up at the same time in the morning?” He could, she knew. She’d never been with a man so disciplined in mind and body.
“Worked different shifts,” he mumbled, his hand going to her bare butt. Her sleep shirt had ridden up again. “My last shift was night—” He ended and she felt him tense, no doubt remembering the shooting.
So she distracted him by sliding her hand to his morning erection and stroking it.
He awoke fast and demonstrated his excellent motor skills until she screamed with pleasure and felt him follow her into the shattering sky of ecstasy.
Yes, setting her own schedule of rising and bedtime was a serious advantage of her new life.
* * *
They played in the shower, too, then ate quiche and ham and fruit in the sitting room beyond the master bedroom and bath. They’d nearly finished when Zach’s phone, facedown on the table like hers, rang.
She narrowed her eyes at the Sousa march. “You’ve started assigning ringtones for the new people in your life.” More often than not, she’d heard a standard buzz from his cell.
“Yep.”
“Who’s that?” Though she could guess.
“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.”
Chapter 11
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.
Ghost Talker Page 9
