Текст книги "Ghost Seer"
Автор книги: Robin D. Owens
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
THIRTY
HE RECALLED THAT her car was parked on the street as if she’d wanted people to know the house wasn’t empty anymore. “Wait just a damn minute,” he said.
“Don’t cuss at me!” He winced. His mother had been hard on him and Jim about bad language. One of the last things he’d promised his brother was to keep the cursing mild. He’d kept that promise.
Now he heard the sound of Clare’s sucked-in breath. “Get your stuff and let yourself out.” Her words were rushed. “I have to go. I have to beat traffic.” She opened the big front door and zoomed out.
Following her, he stopped on the front porch, wincing as he noted a neighbor couple across the street staring at them. “Clare,” he called.
She flung a look at him after she opened the car door and set the cooler in the back. Her voice quivered. “I’ll finish examining the ledgers, and messenger them to . . . your company . . . with my notes as to where . . . your client’s . . . property might have been dispersed to . . . for another point of your investigation . . . I’ll send them on to . . . your address . . . when I’m done.” She obviously watched her phrasing because of the listening ears.
Her expression grimaced into a fake smile and she didn’t meet his eyes.
He lingered in the deep archway of the door, though his white boxers and orthopedic shoes must be readily visible, and searched for something to say. Couldn’t find it.
“Good-bye, Jackson Zachary Slade.” One last hard and disappointed glance from her grazed across his eyes. Then her breasts rose with another deep breath; she glanced across the street at the neighbors and walked back to the foot of the porch, this time with a direct stare. “But, Zach, this argument isn’t about psychic gifts, this is about change happening when you don’t want it to, and accepting it and managing change.” She turned on her heel, circled to the driver’s side of her car, and opened the door.
“Are you going to let this ‘gift’ define you? Rule your life?” Zach managed. Screw any show he was giving the couple on the sidewalk across the street; he moved to look at her above the roof of her car.
She gazed at him. “My gift is my life now, Zach. Unlike you, I’ve accepted that I can’t go back to what or who I was.
“You ran away from your previous life in Montana instead of dealing with your change of circumstances there. You never reference in the slightest your weakened leg. Well, you can run away from me, too. Good-bye.” She got into the car, didn’t even slam the door. It closed with a final thunk. A few seconds later she drove away.
Barking came from beyond Zach, passed him, caught up with the car, and then Zach heard a long doggie whine. Enzo was probably saying something to Zach; thankfully he couldn’t understand it.
And they left and the bright day seemed harsher, the sun metallic in its color and radiation. Blue sky brassy. The sidewalks glaring white.
The moment stretched hot and still and breathless.
Instinctively, Zach tensed, waiting for the whir of wings, the caw of crows.
Nothing.
Because he had been on that steep and scary mountain shelf trail, an emotional spot. Now solid ground had crumbled under him and he was free-falling and all he could hear was the wind whistling by.
Ignoring the disapproving neighbor couple, he went back into the house and closed the door. He’d shower and change, then gather all of his stuff that might be here. Ready, once more, to leave another segment of his life behind.
• • •
Clare stopped a few blocks away and let the sobs of hurt and anger wring her dry. She knew there was no chance of Zach coming after her, which was a darn shame. After wiping away her tears and blowing her nose, she shook her head. It was exceedingly odd to think that she had adapted to the change in her life better than Zach, a man who was used to acting quickly in situations in flux.
She flushed again when she remembered seeing her new neighbors come out their door across the street like they were ready to take a morning walk. They’d gotten an eyeful and heard an earful. Not the kind of first impression she’d wanted to make in the block.
Well, they shouldn’t judge whether she was weird. After all, they had a ghost in their attic.
Ghosts. Yes, dealing with ghosts was her life now. Anyway, she had a job to do for the apparition of Jack Slade. She straightened her shoulders.
Enzo whined beside her. You wanted him to help you. Big doggie eyes. I’m sorry he won’t.
“Is that allowed, human help?”
Of course. We could take Mrs. Flinton!
“No.”
She blew her nose one last time and started driving. “I can do this myself. I’m just a little unsure.” She was more cowardly than she’d expected but wouldn’t admit that aloud. Even if Enzo could hear her mentally, or peek into her heart, or whatever, she wouldn’t admit her anxiety in words.
Here’s Jack! Enzo enthused.
The specter stood, drifted, just beyond the front of the car.
Swallowing the last of her tears, Clare put her hands on the wheel; the ghost came up to the driver’s window that she’d rolled down. The morning hadn’t been cool until he appeared.
Clare swallowed. “I need to be going. The sooner this is done, the better. So, uh, sit with Enzo—”
I am getting in the backseat for now! Enzo leapt through the passenger seat to sit behind her. Clare’s slight hitting of the brakes and the little jolt didn’t budge him. Jack Slade passed through the door, through her, which nearly had her screaming at the freezing cold, and folded himself in the seat, appearing uncomfortable. The man had managed five hundred miles of stage line, checked on every one of his stations, must have spent hours in a coach, but looked wary about the car. She just wished he’d disappear.
Proceed. He waved his hand.
“I’m not one of your drivers.”
A small smile curved his mouth. You are now. But I can be a gentleman.
“I know that.” Despite all his problems, she still believed he was more sinned against than sinner. He’d been the law, ensuring that the passengers of his division of the stage line, the drivers, his station people, and the mail were safe, and did that mostly by reputation. His death in Montana—vigilante law—had not been just.
He touched her hand with icy fingers and she shuddered. You have a generous nature. I was a good manager but bad when drunk or bored.
“All right,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Traffic isn’t too bad at this time of the morning, but we’re going straight through the city, so please don’t be distracting.” She turned onto a main thoroughfare toward northern Colorado and Virginia Dale.
The little road trip would be interesting. Everyone said Slade had found a gem of a small valley for his headquarters. Again she wished she’d arranged for a guide, but that would entail waiting until the person left before digging around in the earth for an ear.
All right, she was a weenie about that, too. She’d hoped that Zach would handle the ear.
The ear is in a bottle, said Jack Slade. She suppressed a lurch and tightened her fingers on the wheel.
His mouth turned down.
“What?” Then her mind raced, pulling pieces together. “Oh, the station was once a store and later a community center that had dances.” She could see it. Boys joking around, sneaking the ear out of the glass case during a crowded event, seeing if it could fit into the bottle . . . then, perhaps, wondering how to get the thing out and, if they broke the glass, whether it would be damaged.
She’d have to retrieve it. A ratty ear. Maybe nibbled at by shrews or mice or chipmunks or insects . . .
The ear is mostly intact. It remained dry.
“Oh.” Mostly was a very inexact word.
A while back there was another ghost layer who did not help me.
“I’m helping!”
Yes, you are, and I thank you. His head swiveled as cars moved along both sides of them. I will meet you there, at my former home. I know the way there and back better now, in this time.
He vanished and she felt a warm flood of relief, until she wondered how he’d be when she was actually in an area he’d lived for a while.
• • •
Zach allowed himself some muttering. Damn it, he had been rebuilding his life. He’d gotten a job, hadn’t he? Gotten an apartment.
He’d fallen into the job and apartment.
He’d been working on a case.
That he hadn’t taken very seriously.
He hit his apartment at Mrs. Flinton’s in a foul mood, only to have her knock politely on his door and smile sweetly at him even when he glared at her, guilt that he’d been taking her case easy chomping at him.
“Good morning, Zach!” she chirped, and set her walker too close to him, in his personal space. He knew the ploy but fell back anyway, especially when he smelled bacon and eggs and something wonderful from Mrs. Magee, who stood behind Mrs. Flinton.
“I think he’s had an argument with Ms. Cermak,” Bekka said in her Minnesota accent. “He’s back earlier from her place.”
“And grouchy,” Mrs. Flinton added as she followed him to the breakfast counter separating the Pullman kitchen from the living room. Zach took a barroom stool, nice and plush under his ass. Clare’s breakfast bar had had those high, fancy wooden swivel chairs.
This was so much better. Really.
Mrs. Magee set down the covered dish. “Eat, then rinse off the dish and silverware, leave them in the sink, and I will collect them later.” To his surprise, she kissed his cheek. “I like having you here,” she ended gruffly, then left his apartment.
He looked at Mrs. Flinton. She smiled a too-innocent smile and waved wrinkled-papery-tissue hands. Aged hands. Unlike the callused, strong ones the ghost of Jack Slade had had. A man who’d died at thirty-three. Given his druthers, Zach would like to see his own hands old and wrinkled.
“Go ahead and eat, I know you want to,” she said.
“Impolite when you aren’t eating,” Zach said, raising the cover and setting it aside, trying to discreetly sniff the thick-looking farm bacon and not drool.
“We’ve had breakfast and I’m full; do go ahead and eat, Zachary. But I will put on some tea, thank you.” She went to the electric stove and turned the burner on under the kettle.
He didn’t wait another second and dug into the cheesy scrambled eggs.
A couple of minutes later, he helped Mrs. Flinton onto a stool next to his. She sat with a straight back as she drank some tea she’d taken from his cupboard that smelled floral.
He sipped at the last of the coffee in his go-cup that he’d poured in Clare’s kitchen and frowned.
“It will be all right, dear boy.”
He grunted, then made himself answer in words. “Thank you, Mrs. Flinton.”
“Even though you’ve been spending time with Clare—and I do want to see her new home, it sounds wonderful!—are you happy living here, Zach?”
Forcing himself to focus and ignore a little, niggling worry about Clare in the back of his mind, he met Mrs. Flinton’s blue eyes and said. “Sure.”
She smiled and patted him on the cheek. “Well, we didn’t take much time to become accustomed to each other at all, did we? Just almost a week of little adjustments.” Her pink-lipsticked mouth curved and her blue eyes twinkled at him. “I would very much like you to stay here with me and Bekka.” Mrs. Flinton glanced over her shoulder at the open door leading to the hallway. “She likes you, too, as she showed. You should be honored; she isn’t a demonstrative woman.” Mrs. Flinton laughed. “You can always determine whether you’re in her good graces by the food she gives you.”
Zach had already noticed that. He was getting full and balanced meals, cupcakes for dessert, and good bottles of wine that he wouldn’t mention to Mrs. Flinton. But that wasn’t what had his gut tightening. “Nearly a week?” How could time go that fast? Over the past months, especially when he’d been in the hospital, in a wheelchair, on crutches, the seconds had crawled with near-eternal slowness.
“Yes, dear.” Another pat on the cheek.
Almost a week. That meant at least a week since he’d visited his mother. His belly clenched harder. Acceptable that he didn’t visit often when he didn’t live close, but he was in Denver now and she was in Boulder.
He had to go see her soon. Dread seeped into him. He didn’t tell himself it would be easy, get easier, as he had when younger.
“So, Zachary?” Mrs. Flinton asked. Her gaze had turned quizzical as if she understood he’d zoned out.
He took a stab at an answer. “I’d like to stay.” To his surprise, that was the truth.
Her face cleared. He’d answered correctly. She mentioned a price that would get him a sleazy flop for eight hours.
“Daily?” he asked.
She slipped down into the cage of her walker and looked shocked. “Of course not, Zach! Monthly.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do that.” Thinking of the ads he’d seen, he countered with a standard Denver rent, managing not to wince, though his salary if he stayed on with Rickman would cover it.
Mrs. Flinton crossed her arms. “That is far too costly, Zach.”
“I can afford it.”
“And I can afford to let you rent the apartment for what I feel is right for us both.” She sniffed.
So he spent the next five minutes negotiating his rent upward, until they reached an agreement and she left his new place clunking down the hall with her walker. Then he closed the door behind her, slid onto the leather couch—nice and wide and long—and let his instinct rule to marshal his thoughts before he went on another round of interviews for Mrs. Flinton’s case.
He’d have to visit his mother, soon. A fleeting thought that he might be able to take Clare slithered through his mind before he winced and recalled that they were done. Too damn bad because he could see Clare with his mom; they’d like each other, and bringing Clare along sure would ease the whole thing for him.
He rubbed his chest, hurting inside.
• • •
During the trip, Clare kept the windows up, the air-conditioning on. Enzo cheerfully remarked on the beauty of the country. He hadn’t gotten out much when he was with Great-Aunt Sandra; people had come to her.
“Didn’t she have any quests like this?”
The dog hesitated. Not so much. You should read her journals.
Clare wanted to bang her head against the wheel; of course she couldn’t while driving down a two-lane highway at seventy-five miles an hour. “I’ll get to them,” she muttered. One she was reading was entertaining but had little helpful information.
Of course you will read them.
An idea occurred to her. “You might be able to tell me what journals I should start with.”
The air in the car simply changed.
I might, said a hollow mind-voice from Enzo.
No, she was not looking over to the Other. “Never mind.” She’d just passed the sign for Virginia Dale, the abandoned café and post office. Down the hill she saw a widening of the road and a brown marker. Checking the mirror—no one was behind her—she slowed. Yes, the sign said POINT OF INTEREST. That had to be it.
Across the cattle gate the road was dirt and washboarded. She took it slow, her palms dampening despite the cool air coming from the Other-cum-dog. The directions, printed out and copied to her phone, had said the drive would take two hours and forty-five minutes. It lied. She was there in two hours. She swallowed, not really appreciating the mountain view, the wide meadow, the rocky outcroppings. She came to a fork and a yellow gate and stopped. Yes, this was the place, onward. The road became a narrow passage. She could see this road as the main stage line, pretty much a one-car deal. Maybe she’d better get an SUV. She didn’t like SUVs.
She turned a corner and could see the station. Shock!
There was a house, a ranch, buildings, whatever just below the station, on the other side of a barbed-wire fence.
Heart thumping, she crept along the road, hoping no one saw her, would come greet her . . . anything. Why in tarnation had she worn a floral shirt? She should have stuck to natural beige or brown, should have bought a beige or brown shirt. At least she had a straw cowboy hat.
At another open barrier, she read the sign. Of course it said not to disturb or take anything, gave the penalty. It specifically mentioned no digging. She swallowed.
And right there, in the middle of the open space by the large wooden sign, stood the ghost of Jack Slade. Yes, if anyone found her digging she could get in deep trouble. She’d say she was looking for the GPS cache? Putting one down? Maybe that would be all right.
But her mouth had dried.
There’s Jack! Enzo yipped with the enthusiasm of a ghost dog, not Other spirit.
“I see him.” His standing by the sign that lied about him just seemed too sad. Yet such things would be part of her life.
And she was accepting the change in her life, and doing it darn better than Zach. She pulled up before another log house that research had told her was built in 1909, and wished her car were beige, too, instead of black. Even a white car would be dirty with dust by now and less noticeable.
Zach wouldn’t be letting the proximity of people shake him. He’d act as if what he was doing were all right and proper.
She was so not Zach Slade.
As she got out of the car, the heat struck her. Anyone with sense would be inside.
Enzo shot through the car and behind the building, nosing one of the outhouses.
Welcome to Virginia Dale. Jack Slade beamed. Isn’t it beautiful?
It was, except for the ranch that looked scruffy, the ranch that hogged the stream that had had Slade building the station in the first place.
Did you really name it after your wife? Clare tried out a little mental telepathy to the phantom.
Yes, my beautiful and strong and fiery Virginia. She waits for me beyond the curtain, you know.
Clare didn’t know, and didn’t know whether he knew or sensed it or just hoped. She didn’t ask.
He turned and stared at the plank building undergoing restoration. Our life here was exciting and challenging. He shook his head. I did much better when given a tough job than when things ran smoothly. That was when I began to drink more, from the boredom and the pain.
“Uh-huh.” Now he wanted to be chatty; just great. With gritted teeth she walked down to the sign. “Just where is the bottle, and how far down is it?”
THIRTY-ONE
NOT FAR, ABOUT two feet. He hovered over an area behind the sign.
She was absolutely in the open with nowhere to hide. The closest place would be a group of rocks, but they were behind another barbed-wire fence. She circled a clump of prickly pear cactus and looked at the spot the ghost indicated. At least it was under grass and not one of the hard-packed dirt trails.
I have been loosening the soil day and night, the ghost said.
“You know the passing hours?” Clare asked.
I am aware of the waning of the moon. It will be just after the new moon and very dark at Cold Springs the day after tomorrow.
“When I’ll have to put the ears back on Jules Beni? Is he a ghost, too?” Her voice had risen and she shut her mouth. She’d read somewhere that high voices carry farther, are easier to hear. She’d be making that trip alone except for ghosts, too, and it was wise to do it at night, she guessed.
If you don’t follow through on this quest, it will be bad for you, Enzo said, with big, sad eyes.
All evidence said she’d go mad. Her lips felt numb. “What will I have to do?”
Jack Slade answered, The scene when I walked up to Beni’s body against the corral post and cut off his ears—my worst, deliberate act made in cool blood—repeats again and again throughout the day of my crime. You will see it, feel it, as I do, experience it with me. But this time when I see the holes where his ears were, we will put the ears back.
“Oh, joy.” She shifted feet. “I still don’t know where Cold Springs is.”
I can take you there. There will be no digging, like here.
“We should get on with that. You loosened the soil, you can do that? Affect the environment?”
This was my home, land I chose and named, even though I did not own it.
“Oh.”
It was a job that took will and determination and concentration. A fleeting smile, and, yes, the apparition was denser here, more defined. I was good at my job that took those qualities.
“Extraordinary,” Clare said.
Yes. I was also good with risk, when sober.
Enzo, who’d been sniffing around the old pump, galloped up faster than a live dog. Clare is not a risk-taker.
“No joke,” Clare muttered. “Let’s get this thing started. I want to be out of here. I’ll go get the spade”—she wished she’d purchased some sort of sturdier shovel—“and some liquid.” When the phantom began sinking into the ground, maybe loosening the soil, she turned hurriedly away so she couldn’t see the strangeness, caught herself, and sauntered back up to the car, though her body had tightened with nerves. Quick movement caught the eye.
And she’d have to pray that no one else wanted to visit the station while she was about her business.
This was her life now. Doing things she didn’t want at the beck and call of wretched ghosts.
Or going mad.
She got the camp shovel out of the back of the car along with all the liquid she had. She could always stop somewhere on the way home and buy more.
It is as soft as I can make it, Jack Slade said in her mind. He inclined his torso. And I thank you for your help.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered.
She emptied her water and her iced tea, then poured the beer on the ground, ignoring Slade’s wince.
With one last scan of the area and seeing no one in sight, she crouched down and levered up the dry grass and some soil, working at it slowly, carefully trying to spread fresh and damp earth along the ground near her instead of piling it. She fell into a rhythm and stopped when her body began to protest the activity. Standing, she walked toward the cool shade cast by the building and surveyed the land. Still no activity at the ranch; perhaps it was one of those deals that did most of its business at certain times during the year. The stream appeared cool and flowing and lovely.
She rolled her shoulders, wiped her face and neck and palms with her bandana, and headed back to her hole. Just a little longer, she hoped.
Grunting as she stooped again, she continued with her task, keeping an eye out for people on the ranch. It was down the hill, and some buildings might block her, but she felt far too vulnerable.
“The least you two can do is tell me if anyone is watching or coming.”
Jack Slade shook his head. Not fond of risk.
“No.” And here she was, talking aloud again, had been all morning, to no one anyone else could see.
You must take some risks, now and at Cold Springs. Jack Slade drifted a little, hesitant. Cold Springs is on privately owned land.
Cold Springs sounded wonderful right now, a nighttime trip, driving under a huge sky of rarely seen stars and maybe the Milky Way, which couldn’t be seen in Denver . . . the pretty images ground to a halt. “Privately owned land. I’ll have to trespass.”
Yes, Slade said.
You can do it! I will be with you! I can keep watch! Enzo barked.
“You both do know that ranchers in Wyoming have guns?” Clare said.
Slade’s nostrils widened as if he snorted.
“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re the original badass gunman, Slade, but I’ve never even held one.”
It is too bad that Zach won’t be with you, Enzo said.
The springs are gone, along with the old station house. It is now very close to a farmed field.
“Yes, I’ll miss Zach,” Clare snapped, more hurt than she cared to admit even to herself. She dug deep with her spade. “Farmland, great. Even Wyoming farmers have guns.”
Clink.
You’ve got it! Enzo bounced around her.
“I think so,” Clare said, digging more carefully now, widening the hole around the angled bottle made of dark glass. Five minutes later she’d retrieved the thing. The bottle was dark green bordering on black and nine inches long. She brushed clinging dirt off it.
“I can’t see through it!” she said, frustrated.
The ear is in there, Jack Slade said.
Enzo poked his face into the bottle. Yes, it is there, a human ear, a little shriveled and almost whole.
“Eww.” She laid the bottle in the grass, took her blue bandana from her pocket, and wiped her face, then the object of her quest. Gently, she shook it, thought she felt a little shifting dirt. As far as she was concerned, the ear was good enough for now.
We did it! We did it! We did it!
“Yes,” Clare said, tiredly.
She spent long minutes putting the dirt back in the hole, arranging the grass again, making the evidence of disturbance minimal.
When she returned to the car, all she wanted was a bath. She toyed with driving into Fort Collins and renting a room, but she ached to be in her new home with her belongings. That was the payoff for her gift to see ghosts, and it was almost sufficient.
Wrapping the bottle in paper towels, she maneuvered her car seat back and forth to wedge the bottle safely under the wonky seat, not wanting the filthy ear-holding object in her cooler. Desultorily she ate a couple of small chicken strips and an egg and wished she had a drink to go with her food.
“Leaving now,” she muttered, knowing that both Jack Slade, who’d disappeared into the station where he’d lived, and Enzo, amusing himself by passing through the large jumble of rocks, could hear her.
Slade didn’t appear, but when she passed the rocks on the way out of the gate, Enzo slipped inside the vehicle and sat upright in the passenger seat, and it didn’t even faze her. He looked at her, his head wrinkling. There are graves behind the rocks. Not many, but one of them was a baby.
“What a wonderful thing to hear. Any ghosts?”
No, they are long gone.
“Fabulous.”
• • •
Oddly enough, the Flinton case looked like it would break wide open, with the newer bunch of leads on the furniture and antique silver. Clare’s examination of the books, particularly the receipts, showed whom many of the items had been sold to. And though they’d been lost for decades, Zach felt an urgency to find them, give Mrs. Flinton closure, at least.
But throughout the day he felt a persistent itch between his shoulder blades and thought about the argument he’d had with Clare.
When he was downtown working, he got hungry and avoided both restaurants he’d met Clare in . . . but he bought an e-copy of the main and massive biography of Jack Slade that Clare had a half dozen bookmarks in.
Interesting reading. The story drew him in, though he skimmed it since he knew the general details of Slade’s life. He paid particular attention to Virginia Dale. There were no pictures of the place in the book, but he found some online.
As he closed his tablet and finished his drink, he tilted his chair back and considered what he’d read. Joseph Albert Slade’s story was tough in so many ways. Yeah, he might have suffered from PTSD, but the guy sure hadn’t handled himself.
A trickle of pride welled in Zach. He’d done better, all around. Might never be the success the original Jack Slade had been in his heyday as a division manager of the stagecoach and Pony Express, but Zach wouldn’t be shooting up saloons, begging for forgiveness, and strung up by a vigilante committee either.
By early afternoon he wanted to call Clare. Not really to apologize. More like just to make sure the trip had gone okay.
And had she found the ear?
Yeah, sure, that was truly a burning question.
But they’d made a deal not to check up on each other . . . words that echoed hollowly in his mind from a couple of days before. So it would be pushy if he called, especially since though her words bugged him, maybe even really got under his skin and stuck like barbs in his brain, he didn’t want to talk about it.
And that deal was Before. Before she dumped him. Before he left and accepted the dumping.
An hour later he’d found Mrs. Flinton’s antiques, about three quarters of them along with the silver set. So he met with her and Rickman in Rickman’s office.
They sat in a well-appointed conference room that looked out over the mountains. Only Zach glanced at the panoramic view of brown hills and gray peaks that held tiny streaks of snow on their faces—the weather had been hotter than usual up there, too, though not as bad as in Denver.
“Zach?” rumbled Rickman, obviously wanting backup for a quietly sobbing Mrs. Flinton. “Why don’t you go over it again?”
He’d given one report, and he didn’t think Mrs. Flinton could hear him well over her “happy tears,” but he limped over to the conference table and the pics Rickman had printed from Zach’s phone.
“Clare found notations in one of the ledgers that seven pieces, including the silver set, were sold to a family friend. And those stayed together for a couple of generations. I found them in a garage. Sorry the photos aren’t great.”
Mrs. Flinton swallowed and lifted tear-blurred eyes to him. “They look like they’ve been cared for.”
“In general, yes, but the lady I talked to said they’d been her mother’s and grandmother’s and those ladies had used them.” He cleared his throat. “The Arvada neighborhood is upper middle class, and the woman didn’t seem to know what the items were worth.”
Rickman rubbed his new buzz cut. “The sale looks to Clare like it was legal?”
“Yes, sir.”
After blowing her nose in a fancy handkerchief, Mrs. Flinton lifted her chin and said, “I want them back.”
“I think a check would make the current owner very happy. Neither she nor her children want the furniture, but keeping it together might mean something to them.” Like her great-aunt Sandra’s had meant to Clare and her brother. All still in the family.
Sitting up straight, Mrs. Flinton nodded. “And they’d know where the pieces were and that they’d be cherished.” She blinked. “Do you think she’d welcome an appraiser?”
“If you paid for it,” Zach said.
“You think she might shop around for another buyer if we sent an appraiser?” Rickman asked.
Zach leaned on the table, glanced at the grainy photos. “She’s a nice lady. I don’t think so. They’ve just been sitting in one side of her triple garage for a couple of years. I’m sure she’ll run it by her family, though, her husband and her three girls, but I anticipate they’d sell. I was up front about the whole deal, seemed a case to be that way.”
Mrs. Flinton took out her smart phone from her bag, scrolled through her contacts. “I have an appraiser I trust. You can contact him and the lady and set up the appointment?”
