Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) Read online

  Back in the bedroom, he took pen and pad from the side table with the landline telephone and scrawled a message on it, just in case she got back before him and noticed the bottle gone.

  Missing you. Took your little bottle. A kiss will get it back. He grinned as he signed his name. Then he stopped and stretched long and completely, feeling his muscles, and let his smile linger. Yeah, he was in good shape. He felt fine, better than fine emotionally. For the first time since the shooting, he accepted easily that his old life was gone without swearing, without regret.

  Clare had helped him, just like he’d helped her. They’d each met the right person at the right time. Where they went from here, he didn’t know, but he hoped it would be together.

  As he walked to his new truck, that now had plenty of miles on it, he heard a crow caw and hunched his shoulders. The heat of the late morning, which hadn’t bothered him, now sent a trickle of sweat down his spine. Despite himself, he had to look, and found two beady black eyes staring at him from the top of Clare’s wall.

  One crow. One for sorrow.

  His teeth clenched. Damnation.

  TEN

  DRESSED IN HER most expensive business suit, Clare walked into Mr. Laurentine’s home office and blinked. It was about three times the size of her room upstairs, and held a massive wooden desk with marble inlays. The wall behind him consisted of tall bookshelves, nicely filled, and a wide sliding glass door that led to a terrace. The other walls had pale brown wallpaper with a raised design that looked like tooled leather.

  Mr. Laurentine lounged behind his desk in an antique wooden swivel chair. Knowing him, the thing probably belonged to some famous Old Western banker.

  Everything about his attitude showed that he liked his wealth and position. As an accountant, she’d had a few clients like him and had treated them with the deference they expected even if they didn’t deserve it—after all, she represented her firm.

  When he gestured a lazy hand at one of the leather-with-brass-tacks chairs, she took it.

  “I asked around and got a few reports on you,” Mr. Laurentine said as he studied her. “Folks seem to think you’re the real deal, a psychic who can communicate with ghosts and make them go away.”

  Heat painted the back of her neck and cheeks. “I prefer to think that I just have a gift for helping apparitions move on.”

  He swiveled slightly. “I looked you up . . . and your great-aunt Sandra. I’m willing to have you help me with the bones. I signed the contract for a week with an optional additional week.” His mouth pursed and tightened before he continued, “God knows, I don’t want to lose any more staff, and I don’t feel right about entertaining when I have this fucking problem.” He sulked for a few heartbeats. “The leaves have started turning and Curly Wolf is completely rehabbed and ready to show off. I’d planned a huge party for the fall equinox in a little over two weeks.” He scowled at her and drummed his fingers on the desk, his manicured nails clicking on the marble. “I really want him out in that first week, no later than two. Can you get him gone by then?”

  Pressure seemed to compact the atmosphere around her. She’d been accustomed to deadlines in her old job, but didn’t know so much about this one.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “I don’t know.” She lifted her chin. “If you spoke to Tony Rickman about me, you know that I have just come into my gift. I don’t have a lot of experience.” A thought struck her. “You might want to, ah, consult with someone better, more well known than I.”

  He shrugged a shoulder, pointed his right index finger at her. “You’re not off the hook. Rickman negotiated a high fee for your services. I expect you to deliver. And I expect you to be available whenever I have a question.”

  Clare’s teeth clicked together. She shouldn’t have left this negotiation in Rickman’s hands. Now she knew better. “Then let’s get to business. Speaking of questions, I’d like to ask you a few. You only have a minimum of guests now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have any female guests who might be targeted by J. Dawson?”

  “The only one I have who’s sleeping alone is you.” He smirked. “Since Missy Legrand was targeted last night, she’s now staying in my suite.”

  Clare had heard of that actress, though now Clare questioned her taste. “When did you start having problems with J. Dawson?”

  Mr. Laurentine frowned. “Mid-August, last month.”

  Clare continued, “And he’s left bones three times, as follows: once a full skeleton, which you interred and which then vanished from the coffin; a second time a full skeleton, which again vanished after burial. And last night, the foot.”

  “That’s correct,” Mr. Laurentine growled.

  “Any poems or flowers?”

  He stared. “Once, the second time. How did you know? I didn’t tell Rossi.”

  She kept a pleasant smile on her face. “I received a few tokens last night myself.”

  A crack of laughter escaped the multimillionaire, then he shook his head. “At Denver and the DL Ranch. Hidgepath was a busy man—ghost—last night.”

  Clare wasn’t about to tell Mr. Laurentine that she had no idea how ghosts transported themselves. “I have a box up in my room with the bones I received last night. I checked on the . . . uh . . . foot you got and the bones certainly look a lot alike.” She straightened her shoulders. “Would you like me to return the foot to you?”

  “Fuck no,” Mr. Laurentine said. He gestured to a burlap sack. “That’s where I’m keeping the bones.” He scowled. “I paid for a gorgeous coffin for the guy that he apparently doesn’t like, so now he gets a sack.”

  “All right. I think that’s all I need to know right now.” She stood. “I’ll see you later.” She inhaled discreetly and decided not to hide anything from this man she liked less and less. “Enzo?” she called her ghost dog companion. Since Mr. Laurentine seemed to want results, she might as well give him a little sample of how she worked, no matter how it might appear to him.

  Her dog loped through the wall and bookcases behind Mr. Laurentine, rushed up to her, and rubbed his chilly self on the fronts and the backs of her calves. Hi, Clare, hi! I was back in the town.

  “Did you see J. Dawson Hidgepath?”

  The dog shook his head. No, but he might not be here. He likes the night. And this isn’t the place where the real town was.

  “Maybe I should go to the old cemetery, then.”

  Road trip! yelled Enzo and galloped through the wall in the direction of the parking lot and Clare’s car.

  She lifted her gaze from where the dog had been to Mr. Laurentine. He studied her like she was some strange bug.

  “I’m going to check out the original cemetery of Curly Wolf.”

  Mr. Laurentine shrugged negligently. “You do that. I don’t have a man there anymore, but you’ll notice the cameras in the trees and on the fence near J. Dawson’s new grave.” Mr. Laurentine’s smile was wintry. “No one has bothered to steal the cameras, though I think everyone in South Park knows of . . . the situation.”

  “I understand,” Clare said.

  “Do you?” He slapped his desk. “I sure the fuck don’t. What I want, Ms. Cermak, is results.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “That’s what I intend to provide.” She let her own lips form a cool smile. “For J. Dawson and you.” She turned on her heel and went back up to her room to dress in jeans and hiking boots more suited to walking around an abandoned graveyard.

  ELEVEN

  ZACH DROVE TO the History Colorado Center and went to its library. He began digging into Curly Wolf and the untimely death, murder, of a guy called J. Dawson Hidgepath.

  When he sauntered out of the building, he knew he’d gotten as good a handle on the conditions surrounding the prospector’s death as Zach thought could be found in Denver.

  He’d contacted the Park County Archives and had discovered that they had an old journal of the sheriff’s from the time. As far as Zach was concerne
d, that was pure gold. Unfortunately the pages were use-gloves-delicate and hadn’t been scanned, nor had the full content been transcribed.

  Zach had corresponded with the archivist and gotten an e-mail with the few pages that were available. From what he read, the man sounded like he’d been a good sheriff, factual and no nonsense, and as far as Zach knew, this guy had been the one to handle the “accidental” death of J. Dawson.

  Since the archives were open only upon request and for a few hours on Friday, which happened to be tomorrow, Zach had made an appointment for the next day. He already knew he wanted to be where Clare was.

  • • •

  Later that night, sitting on the terrace, Clare watched the shadows deepen from evening to night as the sun sank over the mountains.

  Missy Legrand had Mr. Laurentine to keep her warm. They cuddled together in a large reclining lounge chair near the outdoor fireplace.

  At dinner there’d been Clare, Ms. Legrand, Mr. Laurentine, the rancher Baxter Hawburton, and a couple of other men who were business acquaintances of Mr. Laurentine.

  The dinner itself featured gourmet French food. As soon as the meal was done, the businessmen had excused themselves to walk down to Curly Wolf, along with one of Mr. Laurentine’s men as a local guide. Clare got the idea they were there for the night only. Mr. Hawburton had left.

  Clare had gravitated with the others to the terrace, not wanting to visit the ghost town, especially in twilight. She’d had enough exercise that day pushing through tangles of bushes and climbing up and down the hill of the old Curly Wolf graveyard. She’d found no ghosts except Enzo and let the serenity of the place infuse her.

  It had rained, and when she’d returned to the ranch, two huge delivery trucks had taken up most of the parking lot. She’d arrived at the door with a wet umbrella and muddy shoes. Ms. Schangler had met her, told her the mudroom was at the back, and stated that if Clare wanted her car moved, to give her the keys or car fob. Clare had, and was informed that her fob would be on a hook in the second pantry. She should really retrieve it.

  When another ripple of low laughter came from the couple, she wished Zach were there . . . that she shared a fire with him. Her lovely new house had an outdoor fireplace, but the weather had been too warm to use it.

  Something to look forward to. Despite the fabulous night before and this morning, despite their conversations, doubts about their relationship had seeped in with the dusk.

  They hadn’t contacted each other more than once or twice when he was on his trip to Montana, and that was both their faults. She’d remained a little shell-shocked from accepting her gift and laying—sending on—her first major, powerful ghost. It had taken more than a few days to process those experiences. And mixed up with those events was the sex and rocketing relationship with Zach. So when he’d been gone, he’d pulled back, and she’d let him, and pulled back herself.

  She didn’t want the same thing to happen with this trip. She’d call him.

  Standing, she didn’t bother to excuse herself to the couple entwined on the lounge and went up to her bedroom.

  Enzo materialized in his dog bed and lifted his head. I am out here, Clare, looking at the stars and smelling all the night smells!

  “Good for you.” She smiled.

  I will stay out here and guard you tonight.

  That gave her pause. “Are there . . . inimical ghosts out there?”

  He stood and a doggie shrug rippled down him. There is a bad ghost but not one you could help, too fresh.

  Clare shivered. She had no experience with “bad ghosts.” She’d barely heard of them and only knew they held more negative energy than regular ghosts.

  “Too fresh a ghost?”

  A little older than you. Enzo barked loudly enough for Clare to cover her ears. See, he is afraid of me. He goes away!

  “Good job.” She retreated to the bed and flicked on the table lamp. Soft light flowed through the green Tiffany-style shade. She took her phone from the charger, gave it her password, then pressed Zach’s number.

  He answered immediately. “Hey, Clare.”

  Everything in her warmed. “Hello, Zach.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “I’m here.” She paused.

  “What?”

  “I’m wondering if it’s whining to say that the housekeeper doesn’t like me and Dennis Laurentine is a jerk.”

  Zach chuckled. “It was obvious in Rickman’s office that Laurentine is an asshole,” Zach said.

  She found herself smiling.

  “Who was the lady whose bed J. Dawson violated? And who was she sleeping with?” Zach asked. She could hear him moving around, and sounds like dishes. Since she hadn’t been to his apartment, Clare couldn’t visualize him, and that was a pity.

  “Missy Legrand.”

  A long whistle came over the phone. “That so?”

  “Yes, very so. She’s sleeping with Mr. Laurentine.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “No. How was your day?”

  “Easy. I just did research on J. Dawson. Everyone lists his death as accidental.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, but . . . you’re interested in my day.”

  “I am interested in you and your day . . . and your cases.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve never talked to anyone, any woman I’ve been with, about my work before. Even in this PI business, it’s not going to be all roses.”

  “Roses with thorns,” she said. “And this isn’t the first case we’ve discussed, you know.”

  “Mrs. Flinton’s was hardly a case at all.”

  She continued, “And you listened plenty when I was going through the ghost stuff.”

  “That was fascinating.”

  Laughing, and feeling lighter just talking to him, she said, “I’m glad you think so.”

  “You’re okay?” he pressed.

  “I’m fine. Let me tell you about this place; it’s gorgeous.”

  They talked another half hour, and when they hung up, a sweet warmth suffused her. They were developing a relationship, more than sex, with solid respect and friendship.

  She changed and slipped into bed and began to read a history about mining camps. It didn’t mention Curly Wolf or J. Dawson, but it did go into the everyday life of boomtowns based on the extraction of silver and gold.

  Sometime later, her telephone pulsed with the tone she’d assigned to Dennis Laurentine and she jerked awake. “Hello?” she asked groggily.

  “Meet me now,” the man said.

  “Now? In your office?” But she was talking to air. Grumbling, she dressed fast in jeans and a sweater and stuck her feet in her new loafers.

  When she exited her room, she noted that the lights in the house had been turned down, and it felt as if she had the huge place to herself.

  Clare paused in the upstairs hallway looking over the great room, leaning for an instant against the polished and sturdy walnut balustrade. She didn’t see Mr. Laurentine and wondered about his urgent call. Had J. Dawson left his bones in Mr. Laurentine’s bed? She shivered.

  These weren’t the business hours she was accustomed to, and she disapproved. If they had to adjust her fee so he didn’t feel free to call her around midnight, they certainly would.

  Or did he think that because she communicated with ghosts, she did most of her “work” at night?

  Clare gave a hollow laugh. If only the spirits who visited her would restrict themselves to set hours instead of drifting in at any old time, she’d be much happier. Always thinking that if she turned around a new specter would be behind her, expecting help, spooked her nerves.

  Again her phone buzzed. Without looking at it, she straightened from the rail and turned toward the staircase and hurried down, the carved pinecone newel post like silk under her testing fingers. She’d—

  Her foot slipped on something oily.

  She fell. The first thump knocked the breath from h
er. Then she tumbled down the stairs, covering her head with her arms.

  TWELVE

  SHE LANDED AT the bottom of the stairs, gasping, shuddering with fear and adrenaline pumping through her, huddled on her side in a nearly fetal position.

  Clare! Enzo was there, staring down at her with a deeply concerned doggy expression. She turned her head, relief flooding her that her neck worked.

  Then Enzo’s muzzle shut and depthless eyes surveyed her, the Other spirit.

  Panting, spots swirling before her eyes, she tried to rip her gaze from the entity’s, and couldn’t.

  Clare Milena Cermak, the bass tone rumbled through her brain, and her eyes widened more than she’d ever thought they could go. She wanted to wet her lips but couldn’t even move her tongue and her mouth was dry, dry, dry.

  It is not your time to die. We have much for you to do.

  A tiny niggle at the back of her mind wondered what this “we” business was. Her thoughts coalesced enough for her to shoot him a question. Not my time?

  No. A slow and stately nod of the ghost dog’s head that Enzo could never manage. One of the conditions of the pact we made with your ancestress when we asked you to help was that we would advise you when your death was imminent, as we did with Sandra. Do you wish this?

  Yes, she replied without thinking . . . not that she was doing much thinking, her vision was going dark. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even flop around like a fish, and she needed air!

  BREATHE! the Other commanded. The ghostly Labrador’s mouth opened and touched her own. Warm, sweet-meadow-summer-flowers air pushed into her: throat, chest, lungs, bringing with them a serenity she’d never felt before, such a lovely feeling that tears welled from under her shut lashes.