Текст книги "Ghost Seer"

Автор книги: Robin D. Owens

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

THIRTEEN

SHE JUMPED AT the voice, the wrong voice, of the wrong man just outside the iron rail delineating the restaurant’s space from the mall sidewalk. Frowning, she tried to recall his name. She’d seen him in the Western History room of the Denver Public Library more than once. He was the research assistant for a professor at a local college. Scrounging through her mind, she at least came up with his first name. “Hello, Ted.” She smiled. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your surname.”

“Mather.” He gave her a wide grin before he wiped a blue bandana across his brow. “Whew, it’s hot today. How can you possibly stand it out here? Must be air-conditioned inside. You should go in there.”

“I’m fine.”

Enzo barked. You should put on your hat.

“I suppose I have a hat somewhere,” Clare grumped. She leaned down toward her briefcase; dizziness had her stilling until she blinked and blinked again.

“Anything wrong?” Ted asked.

“No. Just looking for something,” she said. Her mind cleared and she took out a visor. “There, that should be good enough.” It would cut the glare of the light gray flagstones but still leave her head open to the sun.

You have not been eating well, Enzo scolded. You are fighting me. Us. Your gift. Not eating well. Your health is deteriorating.

“I’m still used to Aunt Sandra’s place in Chicago near the lake. I haven’t been home a full week yet.” And it had been a cloudy summer in Chicago.

“I understand,” Ted Mather said with a commiserating smile.

She’d actually forgotten he was there, a figure nearly too bright in a white polo shirt and beige pants. His hair was thinning and sandy and he had dark brown eyes. He was real, human, and alive, and he had color.

And her sanity was slipping. Her greatest fear.

She shoved that aside, forcing herself to deal with the man. “Can I help you?”

He chuckled. “No, I think I can help you. Can I join you?”

Help her? How?

Right now she began to think she should take any help she could get. From under her lashes, she glanced around the street. Her table was on the corner. No Zach Slade.

“Sure,” she said.

He nodded and moved into the restaurant.

You need food! Enzo said. Order some!

“I’ll be having tea later,” she said.

Hours from now. You didn’t eat dinner last night. You didn’t eat breakfast this morning.

“I rarely eat breakfast.”

“This is a good place for lunch,” Ted Mather said.

“Yes,” Clare agreed, though she hadn’t had anything but coffee here the day before. She looked at the menu. A sandwich might be good. Soup might be better, though, warm her up, and she wouldn’t worry about getting lettuce caught in her teeth if Zach showed up.

The waitress came and Clare ordered tomato soup. The woman gave her an odd glance but nodded and waited for Ted.

He smiled genially up at her. “Just decaf coffee, please.”

“Sure,” the server said, and left.

Ted scraped an iron chair against the flagstones. Clare gritted her teeth at the screech, bit her lip. She was obviously becoming too sensitized to . . . everything. Just when would the rest of those wretched physical tests come in?

“Clare?” Ted asked, now sitting across from her.

She forced a smile for him. “Yes, Ted?”

He beamed at her, reached down into his canvas messenger bag, and pulled out a fifteen-inch cardboard tube. “I got permission to copy this complete map for you. I saw you studying it this morning.”

“Oh, thanks!” She’d used her tablet to take pics of several maps, in sections. Most of them had been the Pony Express trail with the stations marked. The map she liked most didn’t have anything to do with Jack Slade, but it had excellent drawings and the dates that the route of the Mormon pioneers would have hit each stop. Pioneers often stayed at stations of the Overland Stage, including Virginia Dale, Slade’s headquarters and where the other ear had been lost. She shivered.

With a big smile, Ted unrolled a copy of a southwest treasure map.

“Oh,” Clare said. She’d liked the colors of the map, blue and beige, and had glanced at it.

Ted chuckled. “These are mostly shipwrecks and lost mines, not much about the 1863 Overland Stage robbery near Virginia Dale.”

“What?”

He leaned forward confidentially. “I know that’s what you’re curious about.”

It sounded to Clare that the robbery was what Ted was curious about.

“With all that research you’re doing on Jack Slade,” Ted said.

“Thank you for the map,” she said politely. She shrugged. “But you’re wrong about the robbery. It doesn’t interest me.”

“Of course not,” he winked.

“There’s no way such gold could be found today.”

“New technology for locating treasure is coming up all the time,” Ted said cheerfully. “And we’re also discovering more about historical figures, able to trace them and their movements better.”

Where did he come up with that faulty supposition? She began, “I don’t think so . . .”

“For instance, after a hundred and thirty years, Australian bandit Ned Kelly’s body was found in a mass grave. And after six hundred years, King Richard the Third’s body was finally found in England.” He waved a hand. “We’ll know more about Jack Slade soon. It’s only been a little over a century and a half.”

“Slade’s body is in Salt Lake City,” Clare said; the man himself had been an enigma for decades. Most people had taken Mark Twain’s description and stories at face value.

Ted huffed and waggled a finger at Clare. “It only takes time and effort and some money to trace anyone nowadays. Where Slade hid the gold is eminently discoverable.”

She didn’t think so; Ted obviously lived in his own dream world. He’d mentioned money, and Clare now had a great deal of that. Was this a scam? Like that guy who’d tried to con Mrs. Flinton? That sounded more reasonable. She said, “I’m not interested in that robbery, and Slade had nothing to do with it.”

“Untrue!” Ted snapped. His easy smile had vanished. “Jack Slade masterminded the 1863 robbery.”

Clare’s temper wore thin. She pulled out her timeline and nearly slapped it on the table. “When was this gold stagecoach robbery in 1863?”

Ted goggled, licked his lips.

Tapping her timeline, Clare said, “In the winter of 1862 to early 1863 Jack Slade was in Illinois; then he headed to Montana.”

“Plenty of room for error in ‘the winter of 1862 to early 1863,’ and ‘heading to Montana’ from Illinois,” Ted insisted.

For sure, but Clare continued to press, “When in 1863 was the robbery?”

Ted’s chin set. “I don’t know.”

Clare nodded. “Sounds to me that if anyone really wants to do some tracing, he’ll have to do some nitty-gritty research. On more than the Internet.” She took her paper and slipped it back in her briefcase. “Original source research.” And if she believed in ghosts, she had the original source.

But she didn’t . . . quite.

Ted rose. “I know how to do the research.”

Con or deluded man? She didn’t know, and as he frowned, she reined in her temper and said more softly. “There are a lot of legends out there.”

“There was a gold robbery from an Overland Stage coach in 1863 and Jack Slade was behind it, and I’ll prove that.” His pale face with freckles turned red. He looked hot. She felt a little warm herself.

“I’m going to find that gold,” Ted said.

Absolutely futile arguing with the man.

It’s ZACH, Enzo said, wagging his tail. I don’t think I like this Ted. He doesn’t smell right.

Clare wanted to close her eyes at the idea of Enzo being able to smell, but not with a simmering man in front of her.

“Hey, Clare,” Zach said. He stood just outside the iron fence. Though he smiled, his narrowed eyes stared at Ted in that cop look of detailed examination, Zach’s stance dominant, authoritative.

Clare rose. “Hi, Zach.”

With a short nod to her, Ted pivoted on his heel and stomped off, nearly bumping into the waitress with two glasses of water, the soup, and decaf coffee. Which Clare would end up paying for. She grimaced.

“What’s wrong?” Zach asked. He didn’t lean against the iron railing; probably too hot.

Clare waited until Ted strode to the street corner and hopped on the free shuttle that had just pulled up. “Not much.” She gestured to the mug at the place where Ted had been. “How do you feel about decaf coffee, since I’ll be paying for it?”

A corner of Zach’s mouth twitched. “Cheapskate.”

She gave him a stony stare. “I’m frugal.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll be right there.”

And he was. He picked up the mug, snagged the waitress, and handed it to her, and asked for the luncheon special and the check by the time Clare had sat and taken a few spoonfuls of her soup. Rather bland, but that was probably her taste buds and not the food.

“So, Zach, tell me what you thought of Ted Mather.”

I didn’t like him. He has a nasty cloud around him, Enzo said. He’d moved outside the restaurant railing to lie down. Clare tensed every time a person walked through him. No one reacted.

“Who’s Ted Mather?” Zach took off his jacket and hung it over the chair back. The pale blue of his business shirt brought out the blue in his eyes, diminishing the green.

“The guy who was here just before you. He’s the assistant of a local prof I’ve met in the Western History room of the library. Did he strike you more as a con man or delusional?”

Zach’s gaze flickered as he considered, perhaps playing back whatever of the conversation he’d overheard. How much, Clare didn’t know.

“Guy thinks he’s going to find treasure?” Zach picked up the map and laughed. “Delusional. Pretty map.”

“You want it?” Clare asked.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t believe the odds of finding lost treasure are worth the risk.”

The waitress set a big toasted BLT sandwich in front of Zach. “Or ordering the lunch special without knowing what it is.”

“How’s your soup, ma’am?” asked the server.

Terrible. “Fine, thank you,” Clare lied. It didn’t even feel warm anymore.

Zach sat. “I don’t mind a certain amount of risk,” he said around a big bite of his sandwich. He nodded to the server. “Good food.”

I bet it smells good in real life, Enzo said mournfully.

Smiling, the waitress left.

Of course Zach wouldn’t mind risk; he’d been a police officer and probably enjoyed adrenaline rushes. The only adrenaline rushes Clare had experienced were those when she’d screwed up and had to fix a mistake immediately before someone else discovered it.

“When we were talking, I couldn’t tell whether Ted was trying to get me to invest in his gold-finding scheme or not,” Clare said.

“Didn’t impress me as a slick guy,” Zach said.

“No.”

“A con would have had his whole scheme laid out, and answers to any questions you might ask.”

“That’s true.” She sighed and swallowed another tasteless spoonful of soup. She could fall into brooding about her physical and mental health or focus on Zach.

Now that he concentrated on his sandwich, Clare noted the strain around his eyes easing. She hadn’t spent a lot of time with him, but either the man himself or her new sensitivity to everything had her believing that she could tell when his leg pained him or something else bothered him.

“How has your morning gone?” she asked.

He snorted, finished chewing a bite, and said, “Well enough. I filled in the paperwork Rickman needed for my new job.”

“Rickman?”

“Rickman Security and Investigations.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t have a card yet, though I’m sure those are on the way.”

She took a sip of water. “You’re looking better.”

His gaze met hers. “Thanks.”

Dropping her eyes and carefully spooning another swallow of soup into her mouth, this one with a chunk of tomato, she said, “I think having a job agrees with you.”

His lips flattened, and then he nodded and took a huge bite of his sandwich.

“Even if it isn’t the sort of job you want.”

Again he nodded, chewed, swallowed, then said, “Yeah, helping Mrs. Flinton last night felt good. How about you, Clare? We talked about contributing.”

For an instant a whooshing wind blocked out her hearing, and her vision dimmed. Her accounting career seemed like ages ago.

Maybe like more than a hundred and fifty years ago. She was going crazy, but she wasn’t going to tell Zach that, mention that she was holding on to the hope Dr. Barclay offered her or still waiting for her in-depth physical tests.

An image of Aunt Sandra rose before Clare’s mind, wearing one of those cut-velvet scarf jackets, coming toward Clare with a big smile on her carefully made-up face that looked years younger than her true age, wafting the scent of the perfume Clare hadn’t used that morning. That was a memory. Sandra had sent a limo to pick up Clare the summer she’d visited when she was sixteen because Sandra had had a client for her psychic medium business that she couldn’t refuse.

Clare shuddered. No. She would not be like that. No and no and no. She reached out for her water and it tipped.

Zach caught it and righted it.

He was staring at her. “Clare?”

Enzo was barking. He slipped through the rail and sat beside her with dark more-than-big doggie eyes.

Her mouth was dry. With focus, she got the water—why had they put ice in her drink?—and sipped. Then she summoned up enough calm to meet Zach’s gaze. “I still have work on my aunt’s estate.”

She held on to that thought, hard, and took one steadying breath. “I’m hoping I don’t have to go back to Chicago anymore, and I’ve been working nonstop on it for some time, but I think I only have a few last things to do.”

Even as she spoke, her smart phone played music. She dipped her head. “And that’s notification that a package has been delivered to my house, probably from Sandra’s lawyer.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He reached out and took her hand.

The simple touch and connection staggered her. A spurt of tears stung behind her eyes as her phone continued its mathematical progression through a Bach concerto that she’d once liked.

Clare shifted her shoulders. “I didn’t understand Aunt Sandra much, and she didn’t understand me . . . but there was love.” Once upon a time, before Clare had been embarrassed by her great-aunt. And Clare could admit to the love, now, aloud to a stranger who was getting under her skin.

“No one would expect you to be related to a psychic medium, Clare,” Zach said gently.

She got what he wasn’t saying. “You checked me out.” All right, she’d been going to Google him, but Zach obviously had a lot more resources than she.

“Mrs. Flinton gave your name to Rickman. He was . . . concerned . . .”

“Since she invited me to tea today after meeting me in public for an hour last night.” Clare nodded.

“Yeah. So Rickman checked you out and sent me his file.” Zach’s bluish gaze held hers. “And I was curious and didn’t resist temptation.” He squeezed her hand and his voice lowered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to resist much temptation when it comes to you, Clare Cermak of Gypsy extraction.”

A fluttering low in her abdomen, sexual tingles, rushed through her. She was alive and had a fascinating man interested in her. Enough, for now, to focus on.

The music from her phone cut off.

“Go ahead and check,” Zach said, releasing Clare’s hand far too soon, picking up the second half of his sandwich, and munching some more. Clare could only envy his appetite.

She looked at the tracking app and noted it was from Aunt Sandra’s attorney, then frowned at the note he’d attached, her stomach sloshing more with acid than the small amount of soup she’d had.

“What is it?”

For a moment she choked, glanced at him with a half smile. “We keep asking each other that.”

His cheek creased in a long dimple as he smiled, too. “We’re learning each other. What’s up?”

“Aunt Sandra’s attorney said that the package contained videos.”

Zach put down his sandwich. “Was she the type who’d leave a personal video for you?”

FOURTEEN

YES, YES, YES! shouted Enzo, up on his feet and running around, barking. Yes she made a talking picture for you, Clare. Yes she did! He came over and laid his head on her thigh.

Clare hadn’t needed his input to know. “Yes. And not only for me. He probably shipped one to my brother and his family, maybe individually for him, his wife, and my niece. I don’t know . . .” Another grimace. “I probably have my parents’. They keep on the move.” She looked at Zach. She’d like to stay with him, but . . .

Let’s go see! Enzo said, then more quietly, You need to watch yours.

“Go.” Zach echoed Enzo. “You and I will see each other in about three hours at tea, right?”

“Yes. Thank you for paying for my soup.”

He stared at her half-empty bowl. “Doesn’t look like you ate much of it.”

“I’ll do better at tea,” she replied lightly.

He nodded. “And I’ll tell Mrs. Magee to make something more substantial than cucumber sandwiches.”

Clare blinked. “You know about cucumber sandwiches?”

“Mrs. Flinton reminds me a little of my maternal grandmother.” His expression closed down.

“Ah.” Clare rose and lifted her bag to slide it over her shoulder. She’d already tucked her purse inside. The bag didn’t contain as many books as the last time she’d visited the library.

Zach thrummed his fingers on the table, still looking at her. “Did you do an online search for me, Clare?”

“No.”

His stare was sharp. “Do it.”

She lifted her chin, kept her eyes matched with his. “I’d rather hear your story from you.”

He scowled. “Not a story, facts.”

“Of course.” She softened her voice. “But I’d rather talk to you about whatever you went through. We’re learning each other.” She repeated his words.

Now his gaze pierced her. “Then you’re going to have to open up more, too, Clare.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Yeah, I thought so. See you later.” He picked up the sandwich.

“Later.” But she didn’t like ending on this note, so when she moved around the table, she came close to him and kissed him on his high cheekbone by his temple. “Thank you for the meal.” She followed a racing Enzo out of the restaurant and around the corner, keeping her back straight, her stride smooth. She didn’t look back at Zach, thinking he might have his cop-examination face on.

As she walked the few blocks to a hotel where she could catch a cab, she contemplated what she hadn’t told Zach. The lawyer was sending Aunt Sandra’s “journals.” He called them “journals,” but stated she’d called them “experiences and instructions for Clare.”

Like the video, “instructions for Clare on how to deal with her Gift.”

 • • •

She gave the cabbie a twenty percent tip, her pride stinging a bit from Zach’s “cheapskate” comment and the fact that the taxi sure wouldn’t pick up anyone in her neighborhood at this time of day when people were at work. Not like he would have if he’d driven someone to the airport.

The vehicle had been too cold, as usual.

On her stoop she found two stacked medium-sized boxes. Just how many journals did her aunt have? Blinking away tears, she recalled the loops of Aunt Sandra’s overly elaborate cursive writing that Clare had trouble reading.

Another wearying challenge.

Oh, oh, OH! It smells like Sandra! Enzo said, and his eyes looked watery, too. As far as Clare knew, dogs didn’t cry.

Grumbling, she picked up the heavy boxes using her legs, not her back, braced them against the house as she opened the screen door and unlocked the front door, then staggered in and set them down near the coffee table. When Enzo joined her, she said, “Maybe you should, ah, pass on, like Sandra.”

No, he said.

She sank onto the couch, head drooping into her hands. This whole thing wasn’t working well, trying not to talk to him and believe he didn’t exist. But she didn’t want him to exist. Didn’t want Sandra’s life.

It was easier to think she was going crazy, though that had her hyperventilating. Now tears did leak out of her eyes, dribbling warmth onto her fingers. After a minute she got up and started water for peppermint tea, then got a box cutter and opened the well-packed carton from the attorney.

The whiff of scent—more than just the perfume Clare had been finishing off—that consisted of Sandra’s lotions, the incense she used during her sessions, wafted around Clare, and she sat down on the floor and wept.

It is sad we are left behind, Enzo said. For once he didn’t come up and lick her or move into her body, making her even colder, and for that she was grateful.

“You can go on to be with her!” Clare assured him through sniffs, groping for tissues in her bag and blowing her nose.

No. You need me.

But she damn well didn’t want him. Didn’t want this. Even with all the money that came with this, this . . . stuff . . . that was tearing her apart. It had been only five days since she’d left Chicago and started seeing strange things. Not very long in general terms.

Long enough for her to doubt her sanity.

Anger warmed her, and she gulped back lingering tears and took out the inventory sheet. One line engendered dread: Twelve journals with miscellaneous dates in each volume. Hell!

Frowning, Clare pulled them out, one by one, all with colorful covers. She picked up one with a fairy dancing on the breeze that she remembered from a childhood visit. It fell open.

On the left hand of the page was a date ten years ago, on the right, about six and a half. Totally random entries, great, how was she supposed to research that! Then a sentence caught her eye:

I think Clare must be my heir. She doesn’t think much of me, but that doesn’t matter. Or perhaps it will be a child of hers or Tucker’s.

Goddammit! Clare dropped the book, opened the second box, and rooted around for hard copies of whatever Sandra had recorded. Lots of videos, one for each of her parents and them as a couple, one for her brother, her brother’s wife, their little girl, and her brother and sister-in-law as a couple and them as a family. Finally one for her, at the bottom. Why hadn’t the lawyer’s office put it on top?

She readied the video, went back to the sofa, and sat down. Enzo came to her feet, looked up at her, and whined. With a huge sigh, she patted the sofa and he leapt up and settled next to her, not draping himself over her legs, thank goodness.

Clare pressed the play button on the remote.

Sandra, with her orange hair, blue eyelids, pink cheeks, and red lipstick, looked old and sick and scrawny, stabbing Clare with guilt that she’d avoided her great-aunt for so long . . . just saw her on holidays when Clare’s parents were in the States, or when Clare went to her brother and his family’s. Clare had actually been the one who visited Sandra the least once she was an adult—and had been all the more surprised that she’d been named as Sandra’s heir.

Enzo wagged his tail and grinned. She looks GOOD!

Great-Aunt Sandra wore her favorite silk and cut-velvet scarf-jacket, deep blue with a sequined peacock and long tasseled fringe.

“Dearest Clare.” Sandra smiled, showing perfect and natural teeth. “It’s your weird great-aunt Sandra.” She laughed. “Bet you didn’t know that I knew you kids called me that.” She raised her red-brown penciled-on brows, but her eyes remained merry. “All the kids.” She paused and her old, soft face fell into folds. “As those of my generation spoke of my great-uncle Amos as ‘eccentric.’” Shaking her head, she sighed, then looked directly into the camera, with the wealth of her home showing behind her. Clare was suddenly reminded just how fabulous it had been to play in that house. Hide-and-seek had been amazing, and Sandra had been absolutely marvelous in her childhood. Clare swallowed hard.

She wondered if Sandra had ever wanted children, or if her “gift” had prevented her. Was that why Sandra’s house was so large? She’d expected to marry and have children?

Zach came to Clare’s mind. She could see him as a loner, for sure, even though yearning for him, his touch, his lips, his body in bed with her bloomed inside her, made her ache.

Would it be an addition of crazy to complicate her life with an affair with him? Probably.

Could she get emotionally hurt? Oh, yes. But Clare began to think that grabbing whatever she could of life, living it to the fullest, was worth any pain.

“By now you’ve had your gift a while and know that ghosts aren’t a figment of your imagination, and that they aren’t going away.”

Oh, no. No, no, no! Clare’s thumb slid over the remote, but Enzo knocked it from her hand. A solid object. Her mouth dropped open and she stared, and though he appeared like the dog she’d kept seeing with her peripheral vision, he stood on the couch and his eyes were that otherworldly dark with knowledge that squeezed her lungs empty.

Sandra’s voice jerked Clare’s focus back to the video, where she saw the hazel eyes she’d inherited go steely and the red lips thin. “And, lovey, brace yourself, because I have more bad news and this will come as a real shock for someone as repressed as you are.”

Clare tensed.

“There are great benefits to helping ghosts transition . . . both emotional and financial . . . the universe rewards you.”

Ha, ha, ha. Clare would snort, but the woman had died wealthy . . . and Clare had found out how her parents could afford to globe-trot—from a trust Great-Great-Uncle Amos had set up for his nephews and nieces.

Would she be doomed to being a spinster aunt, too? She really didn’t want to embrace the lifestyle of the eccentric or weird.

“Listen close, lovey. There are great rewards, satisfaction, and fulfillment that come with our gift.”

Maybe for others, but Clare doubted that for herself.

“But there are also costs.”

Oh, yes, the acid coating Clare’s stomach was back.

“And the greatest threat, the greatest cost comes if you don’t accept your destiny, if you ignore the ghosts.”

Cold seeped into the room as the specter of Jack Slade, short and slender, solidified in the doorway to her bedroom, staring at her with an inscrutable gaze. Enzo settled next to her, looking nearly solid. Listen! he commanded in that low reverberating tone, glare fixated on her.

Dizziness had her tilting, her mind swimming, and she finally took another breath, drew it deeply.

Listen. It came like the rumble of the beginnings of a mountain avalanche that would destroy her life.