Ghost Talker Page 7

  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.”

  Chapter 8

  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 f
licked 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.”

  Chapter 9

  “Clare, talk to us,” Zach said.

  “Yes, the evil ghost hurt me.” She put a hand over her ribs under her left breast and Zach suppressed a wince. He’d forgotten she’d cracked ribs less than two weeks ago. Her new career had been hard on her.

  She stood, then crossed to the coffeemaker in the kitchen, always kept primed, and punched the button. While it took a minute to brew, she paced the length of the living room.

  “That’s all you’re going to say, Clare?” pressed Desiree.

  “I don’t know anything about spectral wounds,” Clare said tersely. “I don’t know how they heal or how long they take to heal, I don’t know how or what or who can mend them.” She jutted her chin at Desiree. “You, and Mrs. Flinton, and Mr. Rickman for all I know—because I know he has some sort of psychic gift, too—might all know a whole lot more than I do.” For an instant, she clasped her hands tightly in front of her. Zach would have preferred to see his gypsy lady wave them around. She still needed to loosen up. He’d work harder on that.

  “Good points,” Zach said mildly, focused his attention on Desiree. “Neither Clare nor I know about such wounds, though Clare can feel it and you can see it. How much more do you know? What are the consequences of such a wound? Can she live with it for the rest of her life, just a little rip in that etheric body you mentioned?”

  Desiree sat up straight. “Not sure.” She hesitated. “I’m sure my husband doesn’t have such information either.”

  “Uh-huh,” Zach said.

  The comforting scent of strong coffee wound through the room along with the sound of liquid decanting into a four-cup pot. Clare returned to the kitchen, got down another DPD mug Zach kept there, and two fancy flowered cups of thin china for herself and Desiree. When she brought them in on a little tray, he understood that she knew how Desiree liked her coffee, too. Another sign the women were close.

  “So,” Desiree said, after Clare had settled into her chair. “Shall we ask the dog?” The woman’s eyes gleamed.

  Before Clare could answer, Zach did. “Sure.” He raised his voice along with sending a mental shout. “Enzo!”

  Two seconds later the Lab sat, tongue dangling from his muzzle in a happy grin, just in front of Zach. Clare smiled at the dog. Desiree gave no notice he was there.

  “Hey, Enzo, can you take a look at Clare’s spectral wound for us, please?” Zach asked. To his surprise, the ghost mutt sort of hunkered down and slunk around in a turn.

  Enzo shot a glance at Clare, then back to Zach. It’s still there, he nearly whined. Then he hopped to his feet and headed over to Clare, sat beside her and not on her feet as usual, and just did one quick lick of her bare calf in loving support. Then he lowered his head, whined even more, I’m sorry I got caught and you had to rescue me and got hurt, Clare! I’m SO sorry! The phantom even faded a bit.

  Clare rubbed Enzo’s head. “It’s not your fault I got hurt,” she said aloud for Desiree’s benefit.

  “Do you know anything about spectral wounds, Enzo?” Zach asked.

  The ghost Lab wagged his tail halfheartedly. No, I don’t, Zach. I don’t know about hurts like this, Clare.

  We could ask the Oth— Zach began mentally.

  No. Clare snapped the word through Zach’s mind. Enzo flinched. I do not wish to speak with the Other. He demands things of us—favors and such—every time we call on him.

  Not exactly true, but Zach let it go.

  Clare put down her cup on a coaster on the table nex
t to her chair, and angled toward Desiree. “I’m sorry,” Clare said quietly. “Enzo doesn’t have the knowledge to help in this way.”

  “It’s your health,” Desiree insisted.

  Zach frowned, but wounds did take a while to heal. Perhaps this was no different.

  Sighing, Clare said, “It hurts, but it’s not bothering me too much.”

  Uh. Huh. Zach watched her. She tried to convince herself as much as Desiree and him. But he wouldn’t push, not in front of Desiree. He’d wait.

  “I must continue with my, ah, standard process, fulfill the demands of my gift and calling.” She aimed a considering gaze at Desiree. “Do you think you could do a little research for me on spectral wounds? After all, you are the one who can see them.”

  Desiree swigged down her coffee, set it aside on the thick rounded arm of the couch. Clare nearly winced. Good thing the sofa was rugged brown leather.

  “You’re right, the spectral wound falls in my purview.” A decided nod from the woman, and her brow lined slightly. “And since you and Zach are so busy with this case, I can ask Barbara Flinton to help me with the ghostly or spectral side of this matter.” She rose.

  “Oh, Desiree, thank you!” Clare jumped to her feet, rushed over, and hugged the smaller woman. “Thank you. You relieve my mind.” Truth throbbed in Clare’s tones.

  Zach stood and walked to the short hallway at the end of the living room that led to the door to the rest of the mansion. He opened it wide and gestured to Desiree Rickman. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  Desiree grinned at him as she hurried out.

  Closing the door quietly and firmly, Zach turned back to Clare. She’d returned to her chair, sagging against it, her hand at her side.

  Zach stood loosely, as if anticipating a fight. Not a physical bout, but he’d be going head-to-head with Clare. Well, their arguments kept life interesting.

  She continued to rub her side.

  “You lied,” he stated flatly. He let his face fall into the most intimidating cop expression he had, and rumbled with his most menacing tones—an expression and voice he’d never pulled on Clare, that he’d never thought to use on her, would ever use on her. “You lied to Desiree and you’re lying to me.” He rolled a shoulder. “I can tell from the way you’re acting that the wound is giving you trouble. Is it getting worse?”