Текст книги "Ghost Seer"
Автор книги: Robin D. Owens
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SEVEN
THE REAL ESTATE agent opened the door of the cab and Clare slid out, nearly shivering with cold. Enzo had accompanied her and the driver had his air-conditioning running hard. She paid the fare and added an eighteen percent tip, and the cab zoomed off.
Arlene, young and Hispanic with a huge smile and incredible energy, chattered about the landscaping of the first house, the curb appeal. At first glance Clare liked the looks of the house, but she admitted to herself that she wanted more charm in a home. Especially since she now lived in a small rectangular structure. She and Enzo followed Arlene through the house. Despite everything, Clare wasn’t about to make a quick decision. She intended to buy only one house in her lifetime—at least until she married and had children. Even then, if she loved the house and it was big enough for a family, she thought she could persuade a husband to live with her.
The image of an extremely sexy Zach Slade rose to her mind and made her whole body warm as she recalled the way he looked at her. Broad shoulders, tall and sleekly muscular, but with a lean look that made her think he’d recently lost weight. An ex–deputy sheriff, and shot. She had enough data to look him up online when she returned home.
In the meantime, she could keep him, and two prospective children, in mind as a “sample” family while she real estate shopped—think of two cars instead of one, or a minivan, and make sure the schools were good . . . not quite what she’d told Arlene already, so she’d do that after this first set of viewings.
Selling Aunt Sandra’s home on the lake in Chicago gave Clare quite a budget. But what should have been fun became wearying. Enzo accompanied her and made comments, lifting his ghostly leg on trees, then walking through them. Did he truly mark his presence somehow? She hadn’t noticed any doggie scent.
Anyway, he was distracting, and she had to watch herself from answering him.
She also felt the chill tingle of presences, knowing that there were ghosts in the house or on the land, but not from her “time period.” She thought she could live with that, though.
How Sandra had lived in a house that had been built in the time period she was sensitive to, Clare didn’t know; the very idea made her shudder.
• • •
“There are cases cops can’t touch,” Rickman said, eyes serious, as he stood leaning against the front of his desk.
Zach hadn’t sat down this time, but moved to one of the office’s windows, staring over the city at the interesting buildings and blocks interspersed with trees. “Yeah, a case the cops can’t touch? Like what?”
“Like an old woman trying to track down her mother’s heirlooms.”
Zach snorted.
“Those pieces mean something to her, Zach,” the PI said in a gentler voice than Zach would have expected from a military officer.
“She lost her mother when she was young, was sent to her father’s relatives. Mrs. Flinton wants the pieces back. They remind her of her home before her mother died.” There was a long pause. “She needs what the psych people call closure, Zach.”
That socked him in the gut. Closure. Something none of his family had gotten.
There was no closing the cold case of the murder of his brother twenty-three years ago. The case of the drive-by shooting of James Slade remained open.
Yeah, Zach had heard a lot about closure in individual and family grief counseling. Knew how the lack of the who and why ate in the gut.
Destroyed a family.
Rickman said, “There’s an auction tonight where Mrs. Flinton believes some of her mother’s antiques might be, but I don’t like the way she was contacted.”
“Scam,” Zach said.
“Yes. So far I haven’t had any luck in finding out deep background on the seller. The auction house says he’ll be there tonight. You’re an observant man, Zach. A hard man, but someone I think Mrs. Flinton might trust just because you come off so straight.”
Zach grunted.
“As I said earlier, I think you could be an asset to my firm.”
Zach had done nothing to make the guy like him. Hardly cared if people liked him. Would rather have respect.
“And I respect you,” Rickman said, like he’d figured out that aspect of Zach’s character, too.
Zach knew he was being influenced by the compliment, but also believed the head of the private investigative firm was sincere.
“Tell me the details.” Zach walked, cane sinking into thick gray carpet, from the window to hitch a hip on the arm of one of the client chairs, the cane helped him balance.
“We’re talking about several pieces of expensive furniture and an antique silver plate service for six, complete with punch bowl and other fancy items. The thing is, when pressed, Mrs. Flinton doesn’t have a strong recollection of the exact pieces.”
“They could be new and made to look like antiques. If they were engraved—” Zach began.
“Yes, that could be forged. The con could be anything from just scamming her for the money she’d spend at the auction, to setting her up for more sales, to getting a foot inside her door to rob her. We did the security on her home, but she only has one full-time person in her place, a housekeeper nearly as elderly as she.”
“Sounds like the seller who contacted her is a real confidence man,” Zach said.
“That’s right. All you have to do is attend the auction with her, keep your eyes open.”
“I can look at the stuff, but I’m not an antiques expert by any means.”
“Look at the seller and any accomplice he might have. The auction house is clean, but they allow consignment sellers. You’re a people person, you can spot cons.”
“Why me?” Zach asked. “You must have other . . . operatives.”
“Actually I don’t have one right for this job. Some of my guys like a lot of danger in their lives, a lot of action. A simple case like this wouldn’t interest them—and most are ex-military more than ex-cop. Different mind-set. That matters.”
“Yeah.”
“You ready to meet Mrs. Flinton?”
“You’re offering me the job?”
“That’s right. And it looks like you’re interested. Beats sitting around, doesn’t it?”
“And you want to see how I work. Work with clients and with you. Handle myself.”
Rickman just did a one-shoulder shrug at Zach’s stating the obvious. “Now let’s have you meet the client.” He reached over and pushed a button on his desk.
The door opened. Too late now to give voice to second, third, hundredth thoughts about taking the job.
But if he didn’t like the client—a client, not a victim . . . or was she?—he’d walk away.
Rickman straightened and Zach slid to his feet. She came in leaning on a walker. The tall woman, dressed in a quality but dated pantsuit, wore her thin silver hair in a wavy style. Her carefully made-up face showed a far-too-innocent expression for a woman of her years.
Her gaze went straight to Rickman as she took one careful step, then another. “Are you sure this is a scam?”
Tony inclined his head, gesturing to Zach. “May I introduce my associate, Zach Slade? He’s an ex–deputy sheriff and policeman. Zach, what’s your professional opinion of the setup?”
Angling toward her, Zach said, “I believe someone is playing on your sentiments to line his pockets.”
Her lips quivered. She really should be less wide-eyed at this time in her life.
“With your permission,” Rickman said, “I’d like Zach to accompany you to the auction tonight.”
Now her blue eyes narrowed as her gaze fixed on Zach. She clumped toward him, chin stubborn, and held out a white hand with blue veins showing beneath. He took her fingers, felt a warm, strong clasp.
“Oh!” She grinned, and while her hand clamped around his, her glance went to Rickman. “I should have known you wouldn’t have given me to one of your regular guys, Tony.” She met Zach’s eyes. “You have a touch of the sight, don’t you?”
What the hell did that mean? The back of Zach’s neck itched. He shot Rickman a narrow-eyed look and got a bland expression. Just what kind of place was the PI running, and just what had he and the sheriff discussed about Zach? “No, I don’t have any sight,” Zach said.
Mrs. Flinton removed her other hand from her walker and wrapped it around Zach’s. “You’re in denial, are you? You’ll be fine with me. I promise.” Her silver brows twisted a bit. “Hmm.” Again she smiled at Rickman. “You said Zach just got in from Montana?”
“That’s right,” Rickman said.
She smelled of a light floral fragrance that Zach hadn’t associated with old ladies until now. Clare Cermak had had a more exotic, spicy scent that had teased his nostrils.
“You can stay with me. I have a huge old house in Cherry Creek.”
“Mrs. Flinton—” Rickman began.
“I don’t think—” Zach started at the same time.
Her set chin lifted. “I insist. I have a housekeeper’s suite that’s been converted into a street-level walk-in apartment that would be fine for you. My own living area is in the main wing on the second floor. We can talk about a reasonable rent later, when you take me to tea.”
Zach’s stomach rumbled.
She appeared triumphant. “There! You’re hungry, too.”
Rickman pushed away from his desk, plucked Mrs. Flinton right out of the cage of her walker, and she let Zach’s hand go. He let out a grateful breath.
“Come on, Aunt Barbara, let’s take this a little slower, eh? Give the guy some room.”
“I want to give him a whole apartment!” she said.
Zach retreated to the window overlooking the plains. His day was turning downright weird.
Rickman hauled giggling “Aunt Barbara” out of his inner office. A young Asian guy who moved like a martial artist, dressed professionally, came and picked up the walker, then nodded to Zach.
“I’ll meet you at the Brown Palace in a half hour, Zach!” Mrs. Flinton called back, her fingers waving above Rickman’s shoulder. “Mr. Yee, I have a new tenant for the ground floor.”
“Sounds good. I will call the Brown Palace and make an appointment for tea,” said Yee.
“Aunt Barbara, Yee—” Rickman began.
Zach had made a mistake in not closing the door. Mrs. Flinton, now solidly back on her walker, stared at him. “Zach Slade, you can’t tell me that you aren’t staying in a motel. Not even a hotel here in Denver, but”—her eyes became distant—“in the northern suburbs.”
He wasn’t going to admit she was right; good guessing on her part, though.
“Yee will escort you to the Brown Palace, Aunt Barbara. I’ll see if Zach can make it.”
“See that he does. He’ll be good for you, Tony, and your business, and me. And we’ll certainly be good for him.” She jerked her head in a nod toward Zach, then at Rickman, glanced at the young blond woman manning the reception. “I’ll see you later, Samantha; have a good day.”
“You, too, Mrs. Flinton,” Samantha piped.
“Maybe Samantha might like tea—”
A jolt went through Zach; was Mrs. Flinton setting him up with a girl, too? A girl, not a woman. Clare Cermak was a woman.
“No,” Rickman said. “The last time you took Samantha to ‘tea’ she got drunk on champagne and missed the rest of the day.”
“Really, Tony, you are such a poor sport.”
“Uh-huh.”
Yee opened the outer door. “Come on, Mrs. Flinton. The Brown Palace is waiting for you.” He smiled a charming smile that worked on the old lady. She turned and moved away with more grace and less sound than she’d shown before.
The outer office door closed, and Rickman came in and closed his inner door.
“Aunt Barbara?” Zach questioned.
Rickman took the chair behind his desk. “An honorary aunt, friend of my grandmother’s.”
“A very unique individual.”
Rickman’s eyes had gone a thoughtful deep gray, and something moved in his gaze that Zach couldn’t put his finger on. “She likes you. Thought she would. And she’s right much of the time. You going to tell me you aren’t holed up in some motel in the northern ’burbs?” he shot back.
Zach gave him a flat stare that had no effect on the man. Zach needed to do that background search he hadn’t bothered with before on Rickman. Zach had been so sure he wouldn’t go private.
“And am I expected to pick up the tab for tea?”
Rickman stared. “Got under your skin, didn’t she?”
Zach shrugged.
“Let her pick up the tab,” Rickman said. His smile was crooked. “We’ll be giving her the friends-and-family rate.” A few heartbeats of silence. “Your consulting fee will be the one we discussed before.”
Which meant Rickman himself would take the discount hit.
Zach didn’t contradict him. He’d see whether he could work for the guy. Going private left a bad taste in his mouth.
Rickman grinned, showing his teeth. “Go have tea.”
• • •
Clare and Arlene managed to finish looking at all four houses before rush hour traffic started at three P.M. and Arlene dropped Clare back off at her house. She and Arlene discussed each place on the way home, and more of what Clare was looking for. Clare ignored Enzo’s comments from the backseat.
She dredged up a smile and a wave for Arlene but had to concentrate to pick up her feet instead of shuffle along the sidewalk. She actually considered a nap, especially since she’d have to attend an auction that evening. Of course she considered skipping it but didn’t think Enzo would let her do it.
She plunked her leather bag that contained the books on Jack Slade next to a comfy old wing chair and sank into it, a little hungry but too weary to eat.
Enzo sat in front of her looking like an old black-and-white photograph. He scratched his ear with his hind leg. All right, an early silent movie.
I did not like any of those houses, Clare. The ghosts were not friendly.
Ignoring that she didn’t believe in ghosts, she pulled the knitted afghan from over the chair and pulled it around her. Weird. The house should be hot.
Clare, are you listening to me?
Sleepy, she muttered, “You’ve been talking all darn day.” Even when she’d been focused on Zach, Enzo’s comments had buzzed in her mind, not that she recalled them much.
I LIKE Zach Slade. He smells right!
Oh, yeah, Enzo had said that, had danced around the table, had checked out the guy—well, she had, too.
Jackson Zachary Slade wasn’t her usual sort, obviously more of a physical guy; just the way he moved showed that, even with the cane. She did like looking at his shoulders—hair a little longer and shaggier than she normally preferred, but it had looked good on him. His hair appeared silky, and black with tints of dark brown. He had strong features with prominent cheekbones and a skin tone that could indicate that trace of Native American blood he said he had. His eyes were a changeable blue-green, and the heat in those eyes as he looked at her had her own blood dancing a Gypsy beat.
A sexy, interesting guy who’d listened to her, and, even better, liked what he saw in her.
There’d been an enticing physical attraction, a hum in the air that promised heat.
Smiling, she wiggled a little and pulled the afghan over her shoulders, eyes nearly closed before she realized a pair of translucent gray trouser legs stood before her chair and she jolted awake, clutching the blanket close.
There he was again: Jack Slade, looking enough like the drawing to be identified by it. Which was rather interesting because the portrait hadn’t been completely verified as the man.
“Jack Slade,” she said.
He made a short bow.
“I met someone with a name like yours today.”
The ghost bridled. What?
“His name is Jackson Slade.” Now that she could compare them, the current Jackson Zachary Slade didn’t look a bit like the vision her imagination painted before her.
My name, said the ghost, is Joseph Albert Slade, but his expression turned softer, sorrowful. My lovely wife never bore a child; I never fathered one. The shadows darkened in his eye sockets. I don’t believe much of the Slade line in Illinois persisted, either. He waved a hand, as if that were unimportant, as if anything other than his own personal problems were unimportant.
“Did you kill Jules Beni?”
Jack’s smile was fierce, showing a white gleam of teeth. He ran his fingers over his pocket-watch chain, then put his hand over one of the areas of his torso that showed the lead that had remained inside him. Jules Beni had been the one to ambush and shoot Jack.
“Did you kill Jules Beni?” Her voice was shriller than she liked, but her throat was colder.
EIGHT
NO. THE APPARITION shrugged. I put a reward, dead or alive, on Beni’s head. The money was considerably more for him alive. My men killed him. He was dead when I got to the Cold Springs stage station.
“Much of your life is nothing but legend,” Clare murmured, flipping mentally through the facts, trying to figure out what next she’d ask him to satisfy her curiosity.
You promise you will get the box tonight? he insisted.
Her mind went to how much money she had. A fortune. She should easily obtain the box. “Yes.”
Good. We will talk later, then. A brief smile from him had her nearly smiling in return. The gunman was not an incredibly handsome man, but not an ugly guy by any means. “There’s no need to bother on my account,” she said.
But he’d vanished and the cold diminished, and she tilted sideways in her chair. Surely she’d dreamed that visitation? Dreamed them all?
Maybe.
She hoped.
• • •
Zach could have stopped the gentle steamrolling of Barbara Flinton, but the old woman was as soothing as Clare Cermak had been exciting—as soon as he’d firmly stopped any talk about woo-woo stuff from Mrs. Flinton.
As he listened to her stories, her persuasion that she needed the antiques that were being offered that night at the auction house, his own past rose. No, he didn’t think he’d ever find out what happened to his brother, Jim, and that would be a continuing ache.
But he could make sure that no one conned this old lady.
And he convinced her to listen to him that night at the auction, even as she pressed him to “just take a peek” at the apartment she had vacant. “Perfect for a young man like you, with a separate entrance so you can have private visitors.” She winked at him.
He figured that Rickman had probably put a security cam over that entrance, especially if no one was using the apartment now.
When her driver texted that traffic was beginning to pick up and they should end their tea, Zach paid for the meal and helped Mrs. Flinton into the hired Mercedes, then gave in to her entreaties to go home with her. His car was safe in a parking garage, and he sure didn’t want to fight rush hour—rush three hours—to head north out of the city, especially since he’d only have to turn right around and come back for the auction.
The car pulled into a quiet circular drive in Cherry Creek North and parked. Yee came around to help Mrs. Flinton out and hand her the walker, then told her when he’d return to pick her up for the auction.
Yee met Zach’s eyes above the car when he exited the other side and gave him a brief nod. Apparently this guy, Mrs. Flinton’s regular driver from the hired car company, approved of Zach, too.
Zach returned the nod, then stilled as he saw the house—the mansion. The rough-cut stone was gray with occasional flecks of silver winking in the sun, and the fence at the side of the house showed silver-tipped iron spears. Something inside him just surrendered and accepted he’d be living here.
Hunches were one thing—cops and deputies ran on those—but not many of them, including him, believed much in fate.
He scanned the whole area—the drive that wended between stone pillars, huge front yard, portico porch, front walk, and smooth pathway to a side door under a carriage light. No crows.
Keeping pace with a spry Mrs. Flinton, he followed her to the portico and they mounted the three steps of the stone porch at the same time and the wide wooden front door opened.
The woman who looked at Zach might have been as old as Mrs. Flinton, but appeared a lot more solid, muscle and fat. Her gray-shot-with-blond hair lay in a braid around her head; her pale blue gaze lingered on his cane. “Well, come on in, Barbara. Bet you’re pleased with yourself; tea at the Brown Palace!” the woman said in a Minnesota-accented voice.
“I only had one glass of champagne, Bekka,” said Mrs. Flinton in a virtuous tone.
It had been more like one and a half before Zach had taken the glass away when she’d confided she was on a limited alcohol regimen.
“And I’ve brought home a tenant.” Mrs. Flinton stopped moving and gestured from herself to Zach to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Rebecca Magee, may I introduce Zachary Slade—”
Zach tensed a little to see if his last name meant anything to the new woman; it didn’t seem to, nor had Mrs. Flinton commented on it, so only Clare had made a connection with the old gunfighter.
Mrs. Magee nodded and Zach nodded back.
“Mrs. Magee is a friend who takes care of the house and me.” Mrs. Flinton beamed. “We’re Barbara and Bekka.”
Mrs. Magee snorted, narrowing her eyes at him as her gaze swept him up and down, then she switched her focus back to Mrs. Flinton. “Tony Rickman called and told me about him. I’ve freshened up his suite.”
“Good, good.” Mrs. Flinton picked up her walker and got moving again, though she slid a glance at him. “Zach’s going with me to the auction tonight.”
A louder snort, and the housekeeper stepped back, holding the door wide open. “Finally, someone with sense.”
“You told Tony on me.” That sounded like an often-repeated line to Zach.
He followed Mrs. Flinton as she sailed into her huge mansion. Eyeing her walker, he figured she could give lessons in movement to him.
And it occurred to him that he might think of other lessons—like visiting a dojo and relearning some moves—and a whole range of attacks and defenses featuring a cane. He’d have to buy stronger orthopedic shoes, dammit.
He got a tour of the first floor of the house . . . a little echoey as only three sets of footsteps moved around in the big place.
Then Mrs. Magee showed him the apartment that was part of the original building but had been the housekeeper’s. He glanced at her. “Where do you live?”
She smiled smugly. “In the old carriage house.” She flicked a hand toward the back of the building. “Not on site.” Her smile turned warmer when she looked at Mrs. Flinton. “Barbara is nice, but the late Mr. Flinton . . .” She shook her head.
Abuse? Zach’s face hardened. Mrs. Flinton put her hand on his arm. “No, no, nothing like that. Just a demanding man who didn’t sleep much.”
Mrs. Magee drew herself to her full height, about five inches shorter than his six feet, four inches, fixed a stare on him, and crossed her arms. “I am not available for meals at two in the morning. Even if I work here.”
Zach shrugged, gestured to the counter of the small Pullman kitchen. “I can cook.”
The housekeeper sniffed. “We have breakfast at seven A.M., lunch at twelve thirty, and dinner at five thirty.”
“You’ll make enough for three, Bekka,” Mrs. Flinton said firmly. “Just put the leftovers in the main kitchen fridge for Zach. He’s a private investigator and will have unusual hours.”
Not as bad as cop hours, Zach was sure. And since he wasn’t starting a new job in the public sector—and, yeah, that still stung—he wouldn’t be low man on the totem pole and have to take graveyard shift.
“Like this evening,” Mrs. Magee said. She flapped her hands at Mrs. Flinton. “Shoo. Go take a rest, you were up at five this morning.”
Mrs. Flinton pouted again and stumped out, her walker hitting the gleaming hardwood floors loudly with each step.
“Does she need help up the stairs?” Zach asked, before he realized again that he walked with a cane.
“Elevator down the hall,” Mrs. Magee said, then gestured at the apartment. “Look around, it’s furnished.” Her slightly protuberant blue eyes considered him once more. “And though Mrs. Flinton might consider this a done deal, I know you have to agree, too.” Her lips pursed, went in and out. “I think you’d be good for her, for us. We usually like to have a man in the house.” She whisked from the doorway down the wide hallway.
“As long as he doesn’t want meals at two A.M.,” Zach said.
Mrs. Magee stopped and glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “Exactly.”
As soon as she turned a corner into the back of the house, Zach closed the door that separated the apartment from the rest of the house. And realized his leg ached like fury.
Leaning on his cane, he scanned the large main room, getting the idea that a guy had lived in it not too long ago. The colors seemed too neutral for a woman. He wondered a little about Clare Cermak. She had that contradictory thing going . . . the bold Eastern European name . . . he wondered if he could do a little research on her . . . and the cool and tidy accountant manner. He could see her in red . . .
Picking his feet up carefully as he reached a faded but thick oriental rug—with fringe, for God’s sake—Zach half fell onto the lushly cushioned leather couch. The audiovisual system was bad: small screen, only about twenty inches, old recording components. The place sounded quiet enough for him, no sense of a large and busy city, that was good . . . if he stayed . . .
His cell rang and he took it out of his jacket pocket, saw it was Rickman. “Slade.”
“I’ve got a little information from the auction house on the con man. And he is a con man.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Name is Lawrence Whistler, or current alias. The guy told our local auction company, Compass, which has a good rep, that he is from Massachusetts and handed them an auctioneer’s license and names of references. He just wanted to use their space on the way to the West Coast to set up his own place. Paid them a fee for storage of his stuff and asked to put his items on consignment in this auction.”
Zach made a disgusted noise. “They believed all that?”
“The license was from one of the schools the local auctioneers went to. I followed up on that; no guy by the name of Lawrence Whistler ever attended. The phone numbers of the references checked out when the auctioneer called them a couple of weeks ago—they aren’t so good right now.”
“Huh. I can just tell Mrs. Flinton that Whistler didn’t check out.”
Stretching, Zach put the cell on the thick padded arm of the couch, leaned down and kneaded at his sore leg, clenching his teeth with pain as he massaged around his ankle.
“That won’t work,” Rickman said. Zach could visualize the man shaking his head. “Aunt Barbara will believe only what she wants to believe, and she really wants these antiques to be her family’s. She’ll insist on going to the auction, maybe even confronting the asshole. Your job isn’t done.”
Zach grunted, then decided that a phone call needed more than a sour expression, like words. “All right.”
“Keep Aunt Barbara away from Whistler. We don’t know who he is or whether he’ll get violent if the deal goes bad.”
“Right.”
“And walk in with that cop arrogance, use that cop gaze on him.”
“What?”
“You know what I mean. Your whole attitude is ‘cop.’ One of the reasons I hired you. Most of my men can really intimidate—you know they’re bad dudes the minute they step into a room—but you have the cop style. Better for scaring the crap out of some people.”
Zach laughed, and didn’t hear much bitterness lacing it.
“You are a deputy sheriff, a peace officer, Zach. You always will be.” A pause. “My business . . . and my guys need you.”
Zach’s mouth fell open. He had no doubt that Rickman had some ex–special forces men in his business. He respected those men—well, those not associated with his father, the Marine.
Silence hung, then he heard Rickman’s huffed breath. “Different approaches to problems. Just take care of Aunt Barbara tonight, all right?”
“You got it,” Zach said, and Rickman cut the call.
A hard ball of tangled emotions loosened a little in Zach’s chest, unraveled a little more. The first thread had come undone when Clare Cermak had looked at him with appreciation in her eyes for a man she might like to have sex with.
Now Rickman had actually said Zach was needed at a business.
Just as he was, bum leg and all.
He leaned back on the couch, letting the cushions prop him up. A thin gray line of exhaustion edged his vision. He didn’t want to nap, to fall asleep. To be lame.
Because if a healthy and well-functioning Jackson Zachary Slade could screw up his life so badly, what could a lame one do? Not only to himself, but others?
He let his eyes drift shut just for a few seconds.
And he was sucked back into the darkness of nightmares. Again.
• • •
Clare and Enzo were only a little early to the auction, about twenty minutes before the event took place, and more people than she expected milled around the room.
Enzo led her directly to the box and it looked even more scratched and battered than the picture on the website; not at all impressive.
This is Slade’s box! Enzo sounded thrilled. He nosed at it, but the dampness on his muzzle didn’t smear the light yellow-tinged wood. Touch it, and you will be able to tell!
“Yes?” she said doubtfully, then snuck a glance around to see if anyone had seen her talking to herself. So hard sometimes to not answer Enzo. Surely a box that had existed since before 1864—the year of Jack Slade’s death—should have looked more valuable. In fact, someone should have recognized it as more valuable. Apparently not.
Touch it!
She picked up “box of unknown date and origin” and turned the finely grained wood in her hands. It was smooth except for the nicks and chips and occasional bad scratch, with several knots. No latch or other opening showed, and she realized it was a puzzle box. It could have been a block of wood from the heft of it. Frowning, she tried sliding each side of the box as she’d done with the few she’d seen before; nothing happened. But the longer she held it, the more it seemed to have a fizzy sensation on her skin.
You are touching a personal item of the primary ghost you are helping. You are progressing with your gift, Enzo said, radiating more cold than usual.
Clare stiffened. She’d begun to understand when he was simply a goofy dog, and when he was . . . more.
We had to find a gun for John Dillinger, once, Enzo said in a lighter tone, ear twitching a bit. John Dillinger was one of Sandra’s favorite ghosts.
No, Clare was not going there, asking no questions, admitting to nothing.
Again she slid her fingers around the box. It wasn’t inlaid with multiple pieces, had no confusing pattern.
