Текст книги "Ghost Seer"

Автор книги: Robin D. Owens

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

FIFTEEN

AUNT SANDRA’S LIGHTER voice spoke words that seemed to pierce Clare and coat her bones with ice. “If you don’t accept your gift, you decline and die,” Sandra said. “I watched it happen to Uncle Amos’s brother, who inherited the gift first.”

Clare’s vision cleared to see Sandra’s lips twitch into an unamused smile. “Though Amos’s brother liked the money that came to him with the talent, fine. Just as, I believe, you do.” Her voice softened. “Don’t be hardheaded, lovey; accept the talent, our psychic gift.”

Sandra’s mouth drooped, and her shoulders slumped. She wheezed for a long minute, losing her upbeat appearance, fumbling for a handkerchief. Then she straightened slowly, drew a deep breath, coughed again. Now her expression was bleak, as if her natural optimism had faded. Her gaze fixed directly on the camera.

“I love you, Clare. Please accept the gift, learn to live with it. I know it will be hard for you, harder than it was for me, but please . . . try.” Sandra blinked rapidly. She gulped. “I don’t want to see you hurt . . . or follow after me so soon.”

Clare gulped with her.

Sandra sat up even straighter. “You can do it.” She put a clenched fist over her heart—that old and fading heart. “I know you can.” Sandra lifted her droopy chin. “And I know you can be better than me. You have a good heart, lovey. Use it, let your heart rule your head for a little bit, please?”

Both Clare and her aunt Sandra inhaled at the same time. “Do this for me, first. If you think you really, truly can’t, open the envelope my attorney is mailing you today. There are more consequences for the family, besides your death, if you refuse the gift.”

Tremor after tremor rolled through Clare as she hugged herself.

Sandra cleared her throat. “Enough of that right now.” She gestured to a low and sturdy prairie-style table where her journals were stacked. “I’ve written now and then about my experiences, telling you some stories. And sometimes wrote down what I think the rules to be about our gift, and whatever I recall Uncle Amos telling me.”

“Rules,” murmured Clare.

Sandra smiled wistfully. “I’m sure you’re thinking about ‘rules’ now.” Her fingers fiddled with the fringe of her jacket and her gaze shifted to the side . . . looking out the window, Clare knew. For an instant she grieved that she’d sold that beautiful house . . . but her parents would never settle and her brother lived in Williamsburg, Virginia.

Sighing, Sandra said, “I’m afraid you won’t find my journals in good order, Clare.” Another flex upward of Sandra’s lips. “I’d have done better if I’d been a teacher.” She stared directly at the camera again, “I wanted to be a teacher, did you know?” Shrugging, she went on. “But I made a very good life for myself.” And Clare saw cheer bolster Sandra’s body. She chuckled. “And the ghosts can be very entertaining.”

One last intimate look. “I think that you are regretting not seeing me, feeling guilty. Don’t do that, lovey. We both had lives to live.” She looked to the side, “But John, John Dillinger here, says mine is coming to a close, and I’ll pass in peace and have help all the way to whatever is next. You can do it, lovey. Be well. I love you.” She blew a kiss and the video went dark.

Clare looked at the ghosts, Jack Slade and Enzo, thinking of rules and consequences. “You’ll hurt me if I don’t . . . help you?”

Jack Slade scowled.

Enzo yipped and slurped her cheek with a cold tongue. Of course not.

The . . . universe . . . works in strange ways, Slade the ghost said.

Clare managed a nod.

Jack Slade said, Gifts are given with strings attached. He stared beyond her. I had talents I used, and a sense of justice; sometimes they were great burdens, and I did well at first . . . but I didn’t overcome my problems. He switched back to looking at her. Don’t be like me.

Licking dry lips, Clare asked, “If you . . . if ghosts don’t hurt me . . . what happens to me?”

With a shrug, Slade said, I don’t know. His strong chin jutted. I haven’t been near a ghost seer in a long time. It ain’t a talent that comes around often . . . at least not around here. He smiled, and there was humor and gentleness and compassion. I’d be honored if you helped me out.

“Out of where?” Clare muttered between cold lips.

His face hardened. This hellish existence of no life, of memories and no reality, of impasse. His eyes narrowed. I listened to the old one speak of your family and your gift, and us.

Enzo barked.

The old one, Great-Aunt Sandra. Clare stared at the ghost; he appeared a little more dissipated, but Slade-the-ghost had not made old bones, he’d lived to thirty-three.

She shivered again. Older than she if she died soon.

Clare lowered her head between her knees. Her heart raced at the threat to her life.

She thought of Zach Slade . . . the sexy man, and ignored Jack the demanding ghost—though both men were tough enough to handle life-and-death situations every day of their life. She was a sissy marshmallow.

And handling life-and-death situations on a regular basis had harmed both of them; she saw that, too, through the black spots floating before her eyes and as her torso went up and down from her pumping breath.

But nobody other than she could save herself. She had to do it.

Alone. Because who would believe her?

If you don’t accept your gift that you can see ghosts, then you will die. And if you don’t help them, you can go crazy, Enzo said.

Clare jerked in a shudder. Exactly what she’d always feared—madness. She was living in it now.

The video clicked off. End of the post-grave “instructions” from weird Aunt Sandra. Clare held on to that appellation as if it were a lifeline rope and she hung over a cliff after an avalanche, pebbles still pinging against her body.

What Sandra had babbled about was what Sandra had believed. This was not the truth. Not reality.

She spoke the truth, and you know it. Deep in your marrow, in the depths of your mind and your heart, you know this, Enzo said.

The alarm Clare had set for an hour before tea with Mrs. Flinton pinged. She stood on shaky legs and rubbed her arms under the long linen sleeves of her blouse. She’d dressed professionally again in a skirt suit but was suddenly sick of that, the past she held on to so strongly.

Heading toward the shower, she stood under it until she felt nearly hot and better, then dressed in a short-sleeved dress with a hem longer than she usually wore to keep her legs warmer. She picked up a sweater just in case Mrs. Flinton’s mansion had air-conditioning.

Clare would be seeing Zach. That was a definite plus, though she still hadn’t taken the time to do a search about him on her computer—later.

So many things she was putting off until later, a new and bad habit, since at work she usually tackled the most distasteful task first. All right, she definitely was fumbling with stuff in her life—but, again, as Dr. Barclay had pointed out, she’d had a lot of stress factors lately.

With a map in hand of the circuitous route she would be driving to Mrs. Flinton’s, she headed out to her car. She’d like a new one but wouldn’t buy until . . . until.

Enzo followed her with no goofy comments and hopped through the door into the passenger seat, and her stomach clenched, feeling very empty. She grimaced. There’d be solid food to soak up the damn acid soon enough.

The drive went well; she must have kept her imagination under wraps because she saw very few apparitions. Five minutes away from reaching Mrs. Flinton’s, she realized she was too early, so Clare drove around a few neighborhoods.

Large shady trees threw shadows over the streets, and she felt nearly warm in the ninety-seven-degree weather. She seesawed back to denial, refusing to consider that her body temperature indicated something was wrong with her. Or that a spectral dog was curled up asleep on her passenger seat.

Then she saw it. Her gaze caught on a bright green-and-white real estate sign first, and she slowed and pulled up in front of the house, holding her breath and hoping Enzo wouldn’t wake.

Slowly, slowly, she hit the lever to move the seat back, hoping the wonky thing wouldn’t stick and would be quiet. She opened the sunroof. Equally carefully, she stood and turned, staring at a Tudor-inspired house of brown brick and roof. It was framed by beautiful bushes and mature trees, with ivy along one side of the house. The exterior wall showed that distinctive plaster and half-timbered wood—surrounding a doorway that was a rectangle with a pointed top. The most charming features were the leaded glass windows, one bowing out round in the front.

The house stood two and a half stories, maybe three. More of a smallish mansion than a house.

She wanted it.

In this neighborhood, it wouldn’t come cheap. No little plastic box with the info hanging on the low brick wall in the front, a wall that towered to twelve feet along the sides. Nope, no tacky plastic box revealing stats on a place like this.

She snapped pic after pic with her phone, found the location and address on her maps app and took a shot of that, then e-mailed it to Arlene with the text, I want an appointment ASAP.

Breath coming quick in excitement, she slipped back down into her seat.

Enzo opened his eyes, and for an instant she saw depthless holes and shuddered. Then he perked up and hopped to his feet, front paws on the top of the passenger seat and head out the sunroof.

Is that our new home? Oh, it IS. It IS! You found it! I will go check for ghosts of your time period. He slanted her a quick reproachful look. I don’t know why you don’t want to live with ghosts.

She ruthlessly shut the sunroof. He leapt out of the top of her car.

Hadn’t she just decided not to purchase a new car? Foolish to consider a house now, with a new threat hanging over her head.

She didn’t drive away. Rubbing her chilly goose-bumped arms, she jerked the seat forward again. The house would be more than a million, wouldn’t it? Probably. More than two?

Her throat tightened at the thought of so much money being tied into real estate . . . even though something like this would hold its investment value.

She wouldn’t pay two million dollars for this. Outrageous.

She lied. She’d pay almost anything for that house. It was right.

And Aunt Sandra’s house, a few blocks from Lake Michigan, had sold for just under five million . . .

Enzo zoomed through the car door and hopped onto the seat, eyes gleaming. It does not have any ghosts from your time period. His tail wagged. It is BEAUTIFUL.

She wondered what the kitchen looked like.

Her phone alarm beeped, set for fifteen minutes until tea with Mrs. Flinton.

Settling back into her seat, she buckled up again and pulled out into the quiet street, pondering what the dog would think was beautiful.

Exactly on time, Clare parked her car in Mrs. Flinton’s circular drive and got out, feeling a little relieved. This place looked even more expensive than the one she was thinking of buying . . . all right, the house she’d fallen in love with. She pushed her seat against the wheel and bent over to pick up the bouquet she’d picked up at a flower shop for Mrs. Flinton. Figment of her imagination or not, Enzo killed flowers. Better they look a little wilted with heat now than black from frosty cold.

When she straightened, she saw Zach Slade. Though he wore dark glasses, a smile edged his mouth and she figured he’d been staring at her butt. She couldn’t stop returning that smile any more than she could quash the leap of her heart, the squeeze of it and the excitement that poured through her at the sight of him.

It’s ZACH! Enzo shouted mentally.

Zach flinched.

Enzo ran up to the man, raced around him, but Zach gave him no more notice. Something she should be able to do. The man must have a steely mind.

She shut and locked her door, and when they walked toward each other she impulsively held out her hand, felt a glow around her heart when he caught it and squeezed. Since she had the flowers and he a cane, they circled in a little playful dance until they walked hand-in-hand to the door, where a woman in a flowered apron awaited them.

Zach closed his fingers over Clare’s icy ones. Nearly flinched in shock at the cold. The temperature had to be in the midnineties! He slid his narrowed gaze toward her. She looked thinner, her cheeks holding a hollowness that hadn’t been there before, as well as dark smudges under her eyes. Whatever shadows had shown in her eyes when he’d met her before seemed to have gotten the better of her, eating at her.

All his senses prickled in a hunch that those shadows and the decline in her appearance weren’t from a physical sickness . . . and in their meetings before she’d been on the solid side of normal, emotionally. Not a physical problem. Not an emotional one.

A multitude of caws hit his ears, and he glanced to the telephone line to see a row of crows. He tried to ignore them. Tried not to count.

Seven. Seven for a secret, Not to be told.

Secrets. Usually he wanted to know secrets, especially ones that made a woman go from appealing to compelling.

Not now. No.

He heard the wings of birds as they flew away, but dread sifted through him.

Dropping her hand that he’d warmed with his own, he touched her lightly on her back—her cool back, not damp from sweat—as they took the few steps up the portico to the door.

He said, “Clare, this is Mrs. Magee. Mrs. Magee, this is Clare Cermak.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”

Clare handed the bouquet to her. “A pleasure to meet you, too.”

“Come in, come in!” called Mrs. Flinton from the dimness inside.

Mrs. Magee stepped back, and Zach and Clare walked into the wide entry hall.

Clare sighed. “You don’t have air-conditioning on.”

“No.” Mrs. Flinton held out her hands. “The house was built to be cool enough in the summer, though my husband had the place retrofitted for air-conditioning, of course.”

“Of course,” Clare said.

Zach had discovered that both of the ladies he lived with, like most elderly, weren’t fazed by the heat, so the house remained in the low eighties except for his apartment.

“I’ll put these in water.” Mrs. Magee bustled away with the flowers.

Clare was hesitating in taking Mrs. Flinton’s hands, and Zach knew why. Finally courtesy demanded it, and Clare put her fingers in Mrs. Flinton’s, squeezed briefly, and showed her a fake smile.

Mrs. Flinton’s brows winged up. “My dear, you do need tea. Come along.” She turned and whisked down the hallway into a parlor that was more feminine than the one she’d led Zach to the day before.

A sofa, a love seat, and two chairs upholstered in a pastel floral pattern formed the main sitting area, but a café table of iron curlicues in green with a glass top was set for three. Steam furled upward from the spout of a large teapot, in nearly the same pattern as the furniture.

Zach hesitated.

A dog barked and he frowned. Neither of the old ladies had pets.

“What was that?” he asked.

Clare looked over toward the table. “Enzo!”

“Enzo?”

Clare flushed. Her gaze flittered to his, then back. She bit her lips, now the plumpest thing on her face. Moist, pretty lips. She gave a crack of laughter, her shoulders slumped. “It’s Enzo,” she repeated.

“The ghost dog,” Mrs. Flinton said firmly as she glided to the table. She sure handled the walker a lot more gracefully than he did his cane.

Now Zach repeated flatly, “The ghost dog.” The one Mrs. Flinton believed followed Clare and she’d denied before.

She swallowed, then rubbed her hands. “Yes. The ghost dog.” She sighed. “Oh, Zach.”

He braced himself. He knew that tone. She was gonna unload on him.

SIXTEEN

HE SAID, “I don’t believe in ghosts, Clare.”

She stared him in the eyes, her own hazel eyes showing more brown than green. “Zach, neither do I. That’s the big problem here.”

And thunk, the atmosphere eased as the “secret not to be told” was revealed.

“Your seeing ghosts and not believing in them is a big problem. But I do believe and can help you.” Mrs. Flinton nodded and waited by her chair.

Zach moved forward to seat her.

She smiled up at him and said, “Surely you’ve seen odd things in your life as a law enforcement officer.”

He stared at her. What did she think she knew about him? Had she noticed when he saw the damn crows? The older woman remained serene under his glare. But he couldn’t really disagree with her. He’d seen plenty of screwy things. Some explainable, some not. Even omitting all the damned crow sightings. “Maybe,” he grumbled.

Mrs. Flinton nodded.

Clare pulled out her own chair and slipped in opposite the elderly lady, which left the final chair for Zach, his back to the door. He moved around the table, tapped Clare on the shoulder, and waved to the other place. “Please,” he said.

She frowned.

Mrs. Flinton stood and placed the napkin she’d taken from her plate on the one opposite her. “I didn’t think, Zach. You’ll want to sit where I am, yes?”

Clare stood slowly, blinking at him.

The dog barked again and he tensed, then ignored it.

“Yes, Mrs. Flinton,” he said, then met Clare’s eyes. “I don’t like sitting with my back to the door.”

“Oh, I understand.”

Mrs. Flinton smiled. “You don’t watch a lot of crime shows, Clare?”

“No.” Her gaze flicked to Zach, and she did that smile-and-glance-from-under-her-lashes thing that had lust zipping through him. Bad idea to act on the attraction.

“Bekka Magee and I do. Zach, you’re right-handed, so you want your right hand to be toward the door and not the window. Are you armed, dear?”

“Not right now. This is mostly habit.”

Mrs. Flinton stopped staring at his jacket as if she wanted to see his rig.

“Oh,” Clare said softly, and moved to the center chair with her back to the door.

Zach’s instincts didn’t like that at all, that someone coming in could target her first. To his inner shock, he realized he’d prefer Mrs. Flinton in that chair.

He seated Mrs. Flinton, then Clare, then took his own place, ignoring a yip and a cold draft around his legs.

The scent of food teased his nose, and a couple of seconds later Mrs. Magee came in with a big tray. Zach started to rise, then stopped. He couldn’t handle that tray as well as the older woman, couldn’t help her. Bile burned in the back of his throat.

Mrs. Magee dished out the soup, laid halves of a big sandwich on each plate, and left after accepting thanks from them all. Mrs. Flinton poured the tea.

Even though the meal was much like his lunch, Zach didn’t feel he could leave. He did manage to sidetrack Mrs. Flinton from ghosts to crime shows every time she brought up woo-woo stuff.

Clare picked at her food and occasionally said something that wasn’t in reply to either Mrs. Flinton’s or Zach’s comments, and that weirded him out. But now and then he found himself staring at the curve of her cheek, the form of her lips, a discreet checkout of her breasts. Still extremely sexy to him, physically, and even though he knew what was behind the secrets in her eyes, he remained intrigued with her.

Teatime stretched until he could barely stand it, couldn’t even glance outside the window because now and again he saw a black bird flying.

At last, Mrs. Flinton dabbed at her mouth and put her napkin down. “I think I will rest a little. Why don’t you two walk in the gardens?” Mrs. Flinton asked with a big smile. “Enzo, why don’t you stay with me awhile.”

“I’d like that,” Clare said, and she and Zach left the room. But by the time they’d reached the back door, she knew he’d put an emotional wall up between them. He didn’t touch her, no matter how casually.

Her heart sank. She’d blown the relationship with him by acknowledging Enzo. Stupid!

When he opened the door and said, “I don’t think this thing with us should go any further,” she just swallowed and nodded. How could she blame him for thinking her crazy? She would have taken a huge step back from him if the circumstances had been switched.

“I understand,” she said, her voice husky. Her smile was bright and false but the best she could do. “I’m glad you’ve found a good job and a good home, Jackson Zachary Slade.”

“Thank you; sorry it happened this way.” His voice held a little roughness she didn’t bother to analyze.

She ducked her head to keep her tears from showing and walked through the back door into a lush and lovely garden, and strode down pretty red sandstone flagstones set in thyme . . . until she heard the screen door shut.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed her, she pulled a tissue from her purse and heaved a couple of sobs into it before she got hold of herself. After one last blowing of her nose, she glanced around and saw a grape arbor not too far away with a bench and a blue gazing ball on a stone pedestal. Something she’d like in her own yard . . .

No. She couldn’t buy a house if she’d be dying soon; it would be the height of irresponsibility, to make her brother deal with such paperwork, even if she closed this week—have him sell two houses. And she had to face it, her health was bad. She wasn’t eating, barely slept, was cold all the time. Because she didn’t accept her psychic gift, a gift that had run through her family’s Gypsy blood for generations—the gift of communicating with ghosts.

No. That wasn’t real. Ghosts weren’t real. How could she believe that? Not at all logical.

Was it more logical that she was simply going insane, that some humongous disorder she’d had all along was now wracking her when she’d come into a nice fortune? How sane was that belief?

The pressure bearing down on her all day began to crush her. To break her mind and spirit. Broken in two, one part her old logical self, another part Gypsy instincts and heritage shrieking for freedom.

This had to stop!

 • • •

Zach left the house for an interview regarding Mrs. Flinton’s antiques, his mood foul. He walked past Clare’s car in the driveway. A very sensible car that an accountant would drive, just as he’d noted before. How had she gone off the rails so badly? Cold slipped along his spine. If that could happen to a solid woman like Clare, and in such a small amount of time, Zach’s whole worldview might be sliding into another focus again, like a kaleidoscope.

He’d never liked kaleidoscopes . . . changing before you got a handle on the picture.

Realizing he’d hunched over, avoiding scanning the area because he’d see some damn crows, he stood tall, moved even slower, scrutinized the neighborhood. All fine.

He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension, but there remained an ache in his heart where he’d already put Clare and hopes for a connection with her. Since he’d recently been in her presence, his body had a low-level lust ache, too. Irritating that the first woman he’d been attracted to since he’d gotten shot was . . . too far gone into bizarre.

Which made him wonder if he’d be able to live with Mrs. Flinton after all, since she seemed to believe in the weird and illogical.

Opening his car door, getting in, and slamming it shut behind him, he figured he’d finish her case, then reexamine the living arrangements.

 • • •

Clare scrubbed the last trace of tears from her face.

This insanity or ghost business or whatever had to stop!

Now.

Forget Dr. Barclay and whatever time schedule he might have her on . . . that probably included heavy-duty medications or some inpatient treatment somewhere. She had to deal with this now. The sooner, the better.

Today.

She would have to commit herself to one path—fight the illogic of ghosts, the craziness of what was happening to her to her last ounce of strength, or give in to the illogical fact that there were ghosts. She could feel her mind crumbling, her body deteriorating.

How to do that? But just with the question, her mind clicked into planning.

She’d confront her fears, confront ghosts. There were plenty of ghosts in Denver, and time enough today to do that. She wouldn’t wait for night. She’d need a good map. Would there be a map of persistent haunts in Denver? The library might have one.

When she did research in the library for a map of where known and active ghosts could be found, she’d pay special attention to anything downtown in easy walking distance. She didn’t dare go in a car; too dangerous.

The sooner she did this, the better, and driving to the library could be iffy in terms of safety, too.

Anticipating the courtesy from Mrs. Magee and Mrs. Flinton that Clare could leave her car here, she called a cab to come pick her up, then walked back into the house, ready to get on with her life and face the future.

Enzo greeted her as soon as she went through the door. His tongue was dangling. For the first time since he’d shown up, she stared at him. Definitely Great-Aunt Sandra’s Lab, with a little something extra in the eyes. “Hello, Enzo, I’m going to meet my fate.”

He gamboled around her. You believe in ME, in US, in ghosts. In your GIFT!

Perhaps.

This is right, you will see. Mrs. Flinton can help you like I do, too. It’s good we all met.

Clare thought of Zach and her heart twinged. There had been . . . more than a possibility for a good relationship with him. She stopped a sigh and straightened her back.

Mrs. Flinton entered the hallway, smiling, no doubt in response to Enzo’s barks. Clare nodded to her.

“I am a logical person, Mrs. Flinton.”

“I know that this is difficult for you, dear.”

Almost, almost, she sounded like Great-Aunt Sandra, able to answer questions Aunt Sandra . . . no, nothing about the family gift, and that was very important. Perhaps Mrs. Flinton might know about “gifts” in general. But Clare wouldn’t ask right now.

She forced a smile, though it twisted on her. “I’ve decided that I must decide on which flavor of craziness to embrace—the fact that I’m cold and dying and insane, or that I can see ghosts.”

“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Flinton hurried to her and leaned over her walker to embrace Clare. “You aren’t going crazy.”

Enzo barked. No you are not going crazy, you just have a gift!

“I am. I can feel my mind—” Clare stopped and sucked in a sharp breath. When she got her voice under control, she said. “I’ve decided to confront my fears, to confront the ghosts. I’ll find a map and figure out where the worst ones might be and go there to see them. Either they are real or I am beyond sanity and should admit myself to a mental health clinic, rest home, something, and wait for death.”

Mrs. Flinton looked startled, held Clare tighter with her thin and fragile arms. Then she stepped back and shook her head. “No, dear, I don’t think it’s good to go on your own to confront ghosts. I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”

Clare lifted her chin. “Nevertheless, that’s my plan.”

“Let me get Zach to accompany you. You know, he has a gift, too. He has a touch of the sight.”

Almost, that statement distracted Clare. “No. I should do this myself.” No matter how quivery her insides were.

SHE WILL HAVE ME! Enzo yelled.

“I don’t think that will be sufficient, dear doggie,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“We’ll be fine,” Clare said. “I’ve called a cab to take me to the library. They must have books on ghosts of Denver.”

“I daresay,” Mrs. Flinton said, frowning.

“May I leave my car here? I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” She knew her smile now held a touch of wildness or craziness and didn’t care. “If I can.”

“Of course you can leave your car here,” Mrs. Flinton said. “But I heartily advise against—”

Mrs. Magee appeared. “There is a taxi outside for Miss Cermak.”

Clare said, “Thank you, Mrs. Magee. Thank you, Mrs. Flinton, for all you have done. I’ll . . . I’ll see you later.”

“Wait! Clare, can you call me when you’re leaving the library before you go to . . . on your mission?” Mrs. Flinton called. Clare pulled open the heavy door but looked over her shoulder at the two concerned women.

She swallowed. “All right.” Then she exited, paying no attention to the irritated—worried?—conversation she left behind.

During the cab ride Clare organized her purse to make sure pen, pencil, and paper were at hand to whisk out when needed . . . and a quarter for a locker if she had to use a special room for research. But surely books on ghosts were more popular and less rare than the materials she’d looked through on her quest to learn about Jack Slade.

If she was efficient, and she prided herself on that, she could get in and out of the library quickly, before happy hour really got rolling, and be home before downtown locked in rush hour. That was the best timeline, best-case scenario, and now that she’d determined what to do and had a plan, optimism suffused her.

She logged on to the library’s catalog with her phone and flicked through it, noting with a smile that several of the more than a dozen ghost/hauntings books were in the Western History room. She recalled that Aunt Sandra had mentioned a couple of books on ghosts and psychic medium gifts on her video while Clare had been in shock, but she didn’t remember enough of their titles to look them up. Odd titles she’d cringe to be seen with.

When the taxi pulled up, she gave the cabbie a twenty and didn’t ask for change. Enzo informed her that he would play in the park. He sounded optimistic, too.

But as she pulled open the library door, her spirits deflated a little. The place was so cold! Perhaps not to most people, but the air-conditioning reminded her all too vividly of how her health had been declining. How it would continue to decay unless something was done.

Well, she was doing it. Right. Now. She pulled her sweater around her and buttoned it up, wishing it were heavy wool, no matter how odd that would have looked.

She took the escalators up to the pretty reading room that soothed her, went straight to her usual table, filled out a couple of call slips for noncirculating reference books, and handed them to the usual librarian who helped her.

The woman greeted her, smiled, took the slips, and handed them off to a volunteer docent to retrieve the volumes. Clare headed to the stacks, gathered another two books, and took them to “her” table.

She passed Ted Mather, who seemed focused on his laptop, transcribing notes from a dusty book, though she’d seen how his shoulders had stiffened when he’d caught sight of her, his darting glance to her, and maybe even felt his irritation with her. So she didn’t bother to greet him. Like Mrs. Flinton had said, Clare was on a mission.