Zach nodded. “Find out what venues are looking for a Buffalo Bill. Shows, maybe they’re even shooting a movie that would feature that character. I asked people at the museum if they’d had any inquiries about a position and they’re pulling records for me . . .”
“See if the same man has applied for other jobs?”
Smiling, Zach said, “That’s right. You’ve got a good brain.”
Clare relaxed a little. “This sounds like an eminently doable but boring job—”
“A lot of police work is like that.”
“And a lot of people think accounting is—”
“Bo-ring,” Zach ended in a dull tone.
“But necessary,” Clare added. She leaned a little closer, aware her thin robe gapped low. Zach did like looking at her breasts.
“Necessary,” Zach repeated, though he sounded blank.
“Are you going to work here”—she gestured at the table and chairs on the flagstone patio beyond the sliding glass doors, a favorite place where Zach set up his laptop—“or at your office”—she glanced at the clock, a little too late for Zach to make a 9:00 a.m. workday start—“or at your apartment?”
“I’m thinking at Rickman’s. What about you?”
“I think I’ll finish reading Texas Jack’s biography, continue transcribing one of Great-Aunt Sandra’s journals, go to yoga–”
“A regular day.” Zach nodded.
“Yes, now. For me.”
“No personal accounting clients?”
“Probably closer to the first, since the last extension of time to file taxes is October fifteenth. I am hoping to pick up a few. Maybe I’ll do a little networking at yoga.”
“For your accounting business, not your ghost seer and communicator vocation,” Zach stated.
“I think stepping out of the closet yesterday to the Lookout Mountain folks is sufficient,” Clare replied stiffly.
Zach stared at her.
“For this week. Perhaps,” she qualified.
“Uh-huh.” He stood, picked up his cane from where he’d set it, walked over, and gave her a good, thorough kiss that blanked her mind before leaving.
* * *
Christ, he’d worked all day. A long, long day. Far past regular business hours, beyond twilight, sunset, and any other markers of the sun sinking behind the mountains, the Earth rotating into night. Clare hadn’t called, so he figured she hadn’t visited Texas Jack again.
Zach stretched with every step he walked to the elevators, then, once in the basement, down the hall to the parking garage, especially his left leg muscles since he limped heavily.
Not accustomed to desk work, he’d need to change up the physical activity and computer stuff. A couple of other Rickman employees had poked at him while he’d been immersed—told him to take a break and come with them to the gym, but he’d been on the hunt for the poltergeist, and just waved them away. Mistake. He’d also canceled his private lesson in bartitsu, which would have given his body some relief. His instructor hadn’t been pleased. The man worked Zach hard, both of them determined that he’d be as lethal with a stick as with a gun, and his disability would be minimized in his life.
His eyes hurt from staring so long into a computer screen, following wide tracks of trails that dead-ended to tiny, mostly broken links of a weak chain that finally ended at a guy dead for almost two weeks. Both his gut and his mind told him that particular actor was the poltergeist. Nope, the man was defunct for thirteen days. Clare would expect him to be precise.
It hadn’t all been e-tracking. He’d get a name, a phone number. He liked talking, or even better, using the computer program SeeAndTalk with those he questioned. Body language counted, though studying eyes, the look, the dilation of pupils that affected the shade of the irises, lacked something on screen. Better than flying to L.A. or Vegas; Prairie City, Oregon; or even driving to Cheyenne, Wyoming. But it looked like he’d have to fly to Oklahoma City to confirm the death and the identity of their poltergeist.
Nothing like in-person legwork instead of just a feel to nail down the facts of a case. He also wished to see the official records, talk to the cop who’d closed the case. He wanted to speak with mourning relatives of the man in-person to get a real sense of the guy’s personality.
It wasn’t until he’d pulled into Clare’s driveway, exited his truck, and stood in the deep alcove of her doorway that he realized he’d naturally come to her place instead of driving to his own.
Yes, he loved her, was in love with her. He leaned against her door. Last Thursday, when they’d arrived back home from Creede—and big-city Denver was now home, wasn’t that a kick in the ass?—after they’d reached her mansion, she’d given him a key. He’d known the alarm code all along.
Love had moved fast—hell, like a flash flood—swept him away and sunk him. He was a goner. And it couldn’t have happened with anyone except Clare. Conflicted, logically minded but wild gypsy-hearted, shadows-in-her-eyes, always-a-puzzle Clare.
The light in the entryway came on, streamed through the opaque lozenge window, and he stepped back as she opened the oversized, thick wooden front door. She wore his favorite sundress, cotton and old and nearly limp with washings, soft and thin. Unlike the window, the dress wasn’t nearly as opaque as she thought. In a certain light, he could see the shadow above her thighs.
Smiling, she held the door wide. “Are you going to come in, or just stand out there thinking? I have tuna casserole for dinner.”
Tuna casserole, Zach’s favorite comfort food, and she’d found that out about him in less than a month. His mouth watered. “You’ve got me there. I’m in.”
Not inside her, not yet, but that would come, and so would words of love from her.
* * *
“You spent a long day at your office. Did you discover the identity of the poltergeist?” she asked mid-meal. She’d waited until he’d gotten a good portion of great tuna casserole into his stomach.
They sat in the formal dining room, at the end of a long, polished table, opposite each other. Placemats, linen napkins, good not-too-girly china, silverware. Okay, fancy, but all he really cared about was the food. He’d missed lunch, too. Or maybe he’d eaten a dry sandwich from a vending machine; he didn’t even recall.
He finished a bite, then answered her. “Yes, I found the guy.”
They both let out a breath in unison, in relief, and that sharing, that rhythm felt good. “But it wasn’t as easy as I expected. Texas Jack and Enzo steered me wrong.”
Chapter 16
“Really!” She sounded surprised.
He swigged Tivoli beer and wiped his mouth on a colorful napkin of an abstract pattern. “Yep. They both referred to him as new and young. Misleading.”
“Yes?” Oh, he had her now. She wasn’t nearly as curious as Zach himself. Or Mrs. Flinton, Mr. Welliam, hell, even as Rickman or Desiree Rickman, but she had to know the details of the guy now.
“Yes. A better word would have been ‘immature.’” He paused, deliberately, until she gave him a reaction.
Leaning forward in her chair toward him, she repeated, “Immature.”
“That’s right. Texas Jack is, what, thirty-five? Died at thirty-five I mean.” He knew the man’s age but continued to engage Clare.
“Thirty-three. Texas Jack died of pneumonia at thirty-three,” she said, and she leaned forward far enough that he could see the entire cleavage of her breasts, the deep shadows between them. Nice.
“Zach?” she prompted.
He cleared his voice, proceeded slowly. “Darin Clavell died at forty-two. He was nine years older than Texas Jack.”
She blinked and leaned back against her chair. Too bad. “Immature.”
Zach concentrated on the food.
“Immature,” she repeated softly. “Texas Jack left home in Virginia and traveled through the wilderness
, the Wild West, ending up on his own in Texas before the Civil War at fifteen. Became a man at fifteen. Darin Clavell remained immature, not a man, at forty-two.” Her gaze sharpened. “He didn’t have a wife or children?”
“Because those can age you and make you an adult?” Zach asked with amusement. “Nope. Single guy.”
The dimness of the room seemed to shadow her eyes, or maybe she lowered her lashes so he couldn’t see much. Her mouth trembled. “What happened to him?”
Zach shoved more food into his mouth. Man, this tasted good. Clare had an inner cook screaming to be released. His duty, for sure, is to free her.
Meeting her eyes, Zach said gently, “Hard to tell. Accident or suicide.”
“What?”
“His apartment caught fire. He was a smoker. Also apparently drunk or drugged at the time.”
“Marijuana?”
“Maybe, but not legal. I plan on heading out to discover the exact details, see the full official file with all notes if the local cops will help me.”
She stared at him.
“Clare, he didn’t die here in Denver, though he’d visited here, and the museum and the grave site, of course. He died in Oklahoma City.”
“Oklahoma City.”
“I’ve tugged on a few of my police contacts, and if I’m lucky I might be able to see the official file. I want a good feel for his personality so we can gauge how violent he might become when he discovers he’s dead. How to handle him so he’ll go on.”
Clare nodded. “Always the danger of a ghost devolving into a chaotic, evil spirit.”
“I’ll do some talking to neighbors, Clavell’s closest relatives, some cousins. Rickman and Welliam agreed to proceed this way and I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Minimum trip of two days, I think.”
“You’re going away.”
“I’m traveling on business.”
“Of course.” Her spine stiffened. She drank her tumbler full of herbal iced tea. After a moment of relative silence while Zach finished his dinner, Clare graced him with a small smile.
“And while you’re away, I will speak with Texas Jack, though he isn’t interacting with the poltergeist much.”
Alarm flared in Zach. “You won’t send Texas Jack on, will you? Not without me.” She lost all connection with reality, became dangerously chilled, her heart barely beating when she helped one of her major projects transition.
“Unlikely, as I believe we will need the information you gather to confront the poltergeist—Mr. Clavell—and move him on first. Texas Jack sees that as much as his duty as you do, Zach.”
That was his logical Clare. “You’re right.” He nodded and stood, clearing his place setting and taking it into the kitchen and dishwasher.
Clare followed with her dishes. “But I haven’t been able to understand why Texas Jack hasn’t crossed over himself. Until I do, until I try and fix that, or we—Texas Jack and I together—resolve the issues holding him here, he can’t move on.” She sent Zach an irritated look as she started the dishwasher. “He’s said nothing to me of any problems.”
“More fool he.” Zach came over and laid his arm over her shoulders, moved her from the kitchen to the hall and the elevator to the second floor and the master suite.
“He loved—loves—his wife,” Clare said, closing the doors of the elevator and turning into his arms, resting against him.
Another chance for her to tell him that she loved him. Or for Zach to tell her. He kissed her instead.
* * *
Since Zach’s plane left early in the morning, and he kept enough clothes in her house for such a quick business trip, Clare offered the use of one of her carry-on bags.
She walked into her bedroom closet and smiled at the organized space. Only about half full, the tiny room soothed her. As a thrifty person, she didn’t think she’d fill it up soon, despite her new wealth.
Zach came up behind her. She hadn’t heard him due to his trained quietness and the thick carpet, but she sensed him all the same. She gave him the handle of the discreet black bag, and he slid it into the bedroom but remained standing in the doorway.
“The hidden safe is glowing,” he said.
Frowning, she stared at the cedar panel that should have appeared like every other panel in the closet. Zach was right; a faint glow could be seen behind her half-stack of plastic shoe boxes.
“What do you think causes that?” he asked with mock innocence.
Clare believed she knew. But she’d have to move the boxes and open the safe, because Zach’s curiosity would nag them both. She let out a breath through her nostrils. “I think it’s the gift from the universe that I received upon concluding our last case in Creede.”
Zach jingled something in his pocket. She glanced at him. “The big gift, not those.”
“Authentic screw checks are getting more valuable every day. A lot more collectible than when Jim and I got some the last summer we spent here in Colorado.”
It was good that Zach casually mentioned his brother who died at sixteen. He hadn’t been able to do that when they’d first met.
“You and your brother collected Old West brass tokens for time with prostitutes,” she stated.
He grinned. “Sure, we were boys. But I think Jim had one for a bath and a shave, too.”
“What did your parents think?”
Zach’s smile faded and his attitude deepened to its usual intensity. “Dad disapproved of course, but I think he had some, too, from his childhood. Mom thought it was funny.”
She shouldn’t have brought up his parents—the father he disliked and was estranged from, the mother who lived in an expensive mental health care facility in Boulder.
“Your mother looked very good Saturday when we visited.”
Zach’s tension eased. “Yes, she did. I think she’s getting better, more coherent. Maybe becoming more serene.”
“I think she likes you visiting her more often.”
“Yeah, that’s why I moved back to Colorado.” Absently he jingled the five tokens that Clare had found on her dresser Friday morning. Pulling one out, he looked at it and Clare did, too. About the size of a half dollar, it said, Orleans Club, Good for One Screw.
“Hard to read in the dim light from the bedroom,” Zach said, but he didn’t flip the light switch, instead he stared at the panel. “Still glowing yellow around the edges.”
“Enzo?” Clare called.
I’m here, Clare! The ghost dog appeared from wherever he’d been. Clare had last sensed him in the backyard chasing live squirrels. The Lab charged through her, freezing her calves, and all the way through the closet, then slunk back through the far wall. She ignored his shamefaced look at overshooting the mark as he sat and wagged his tail.
I love you, Clare!
“I love you, too, Enzo.”
He barked and shouted at Zach. I LOVE YOU, ZACH!
“Love ya, Enzo,” Zach replied, then put a hand on her shoulder as if to see the dog better.
Clare gestured toward the safe. “Can you see what’s glowing in the safe?”
Beside her, Zach snorted and muttered, “Yeah, send the dog to do the dirty work.”
She turned her head and met his eyes. “Enzo, ah, probably has an affinity for it.”
No, I don’t. Enzo shook his head. It is a real thing, a thing for the living to deal with. Solid.
“It’s creepy,” Zach added fake helpfully.
“I know that,” Clare muttered under her breath.
It IS creepy, Enzo whined.
Phantom dog and very live lover stared at her.
“Oh, all right. It’s my responsibility. I understand that.” Still, she let her lower lip protrude. She’d gotten over her distaste of bones, but this object instilled another whole level of repulsion. Moving farther into the closet, she sat and carefully shoved
the shoe boxes aside, clearing the space before the panel that concealed the safe. Working the secret levers in the correct order, she slid the cedar away from the safe door and opened it.
Her upper lip lifted as a not-quite-physical, more-like-spiritual odor curled into her nostrils. Nasty smell.
Yes, the new addition to the safe since Friday morning glowed. She should have rid herself of it that very day, but her wish for a good price had gotten the better of her. She didn’t touch the facedown photo frame with her hands but used an old, stained potholder near the safe she’d tucked there for the very purpose.
Pulling it out, she swiveled to hand it to Zach, who had both hands tucked in his pants pockets. “I don’t want it,” he said.
She gritted her teeth, then smiled. “Why don’t you take it to the vault at Rickman Security and Investigations?”
He rocked back on his heels. “Pretty sure even Rickman would consider it creepy.” Zach jutted his chin. “Let’s look at it again.”
Clare felt that seeing it once was enough—not because of the image, but because of the implications. Suppressing a sigh, she turned the portrait over.
Zach gazed at it without expression. “I think when you did the research on it that you said it was only the second extant signed photograph of Jesse James.”
“That’s right.” Clare stared at the words above the autograph, and read them, throat rough. “‘To my good friend, Bob Ford.’ Jesse James signed a picture of himself and gave it to the man who’d murder him. I think Ford might even have asked for it.”
Shaking his head, Zach said, “Yeah, creepy.”
She shoved the framed photo at him. He grabbed a folded knit scarf from the shelf above the hanging rods and took the picture.
“Hey, I like that scarf!” Clare protested.
“Too late now,” Zach said. “You throwing me out of your bedroom, Clare?”
Chapter 17
She raised her brows. “Consequences of your own actions, Zach. You wanted to see what glowed.” She pointed to what he held. “It was that. Now I want it out of my house. So I’m throwing you out of my closet and asking you to take it to Rickman’s.”
Ghost Talker Page 13
