Ghost Maker

by Robin D. Owens

Rickman sat up, a gleam in his eyes. “Rifle.” He frowned. “It didn’t feel like a well-used weapon—“He stopped, glanced at Welliam, who sent back a bland smile.

  “Guess everyone knows of my talent,” he said gruffly.

  His wife came over and patted his shoulder. “Mine, too. I’m an aura reader.”

  She speared a stare at Zach. He figured she already knew but was making him confess aloud. “I have a touch of foresight.”

  “You all know I help ghosts transition,” Clare said loudly, drowning out his voice and stepping on his words.

  “I have a bit of this and that,” Mrs. Flinton chirped.

  Rickman clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Tell me more about this rifle.”

  “One of the numbered iron-framed Henry rifles made at the beginning of the Civil War—”

  “Eighteen sixty,” Clare added.

  “Damn near unique. Doesn’t look like it was used much. As far as I can tell, there’s about ninety percent original blue on the barrel.”

  “My God,” Rickman breathed.

  Clearing her throat, Clare said in a low tone, “Another like it has an asking price of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars online.”

  Even Mrs. Flinton blinked at that.

  “For a gun?” Welliam asked.

  “Very special weapon. First successful lever gun. Most of the Civil War Henrys issued to Northern troops were brass framed, and the later Winchester was based on the Henry,” Rickman said. “May I see it?”

  Zach glanced around the large backyard. A twelve-foot brick wall separated the house from its neighbors, but the home to the north had a balcony that could overlook them. On the other hand, they sat on a covered patio, and twilight shed deep shadows. When he met Clare’s eyes, hers had a question in them, and he understood that she was letting him make the decision as to whether to show the rifle to their friends.

  Their friends. Yeah, both he and Clare had become friends with these people.

  He brought the weapon down in its case, handling it carefully due to the near-pristine condition. Continuing to watch Tony Rickman as he brought the rifle out, he saw the man brace. For vibrations? He was that good? Or the rifle was that saturated with impressions? As he drew nearer to his boss, Rickman reached inside his jacket pocket and drew out a pair of extremely thin gloves. Not latex, but silk maybe. Zach knew silk had some effect on some talents. Clare’s ancestral ghost-killing knife had an embroidered silk outer bag. He didn’t think a silk headband or hat would stop him from seeing crows, though.

  After Rickman put the gloves on, he held out his hands for the weapon.

  “What are the gloves for?” Zach asked. “Do they dull or amplify the, uh, vibrations?

  Rickman’s face went impassive.

  Desiree giggled.

  Zach shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not ex-military like you. Cop strata is more lenient than military ranks, boss. We all have curiosity and are encouraged to use it. Also not like the military, I’m your investigator, I’ll always have questions and I’ll always ask.”

  Welliam, who also watched, seemed to quiver with interest.

  Clare sat still, observing.

  Rickman shrugged. “What I get depends on the object.” He checked the weapon, murmured wordless approval.

  They all looked at Desiree, as if asking her to add to Rickman’s comment. She kept mum.

  After pivoting and sighting the rifle at the weather vane on Clare’s carriage house, Rickman lowered the weapon and shook his head. “Excellent tool.” He moved through the open sliding glass door to the brighter kitchen and inspected the rifle in more detail. They all followed.

  Rickman turned the weapon over, looked where the rounds went—not loaded. He checked out the original wood cleaning rod situated in the butt, and continued his explanation of his psychic gift. “My gloves act as a filter. They’ll dim the static of impressions I’m not interested in, but let me boost those I am.”

  Zach nodded. “Like mine and Clare’s.” He paused. “But then we probably haven’t left any heavy emotions on the piece since it didn’t arouse anything major for us.”

  Rickman glanced at Clare. She raised her brows. “I don’t usually care what I get from the universe, but as an experiment we asked Enzo for a gun. This showed up. It’s interesting looking enough, for an antique rifle. Zach’s right, I experienced no intense emotions the few times I handled it.” She gave a little cough. “I don’t think you’ll find any deep vibrations from Zach, either.”

  “Neither of us tried it out,” Zach said.

  Welliam and Mrs. Flinton crowded close around Rickman, but neither asked to touch or hold the rifle.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Mrs. Flinton asked breathlessly.

  Clare’s spine stiffened and her face sculpted into austere lines. “Zach likes it. I think I’ll let him keep it.” She opened her mouth, maybe to say something about how Zach had really liked her last client, Texas Jack, too, but shut her lips. He went over and kissed them, kept an arm around her waist.

  “If you ever want to sell, I’m in the market,” Rickman said.

  “It doesn’t have a written provenance. My, ah, gifts from the universe, the Powers That Be, the PTB, aren’t that magical. So far all four have been from the time period I’m sensitive to and worth from five figures to seven. I know one request—this rifle—was honored, whether that will remain true, I don’t know. I also know that the ghost I help can request a certain item or type of item be given to me. I know that my spirit guide, Enzo, has delivered the gift on one occasion. The object chosen by the phantom for me was the least valuable. The Henry rifle is on the higher range, but the most collectible was the coin I received for helping my first ghost transition. That might have been a special reward to show me that accepting my psychic ability would be profitable for me.” While Clare ran down the facts about the situation, she dished out the chocolate mousse she’d made for dessert.

  Rickman slid the gun in its case, and Zach moved it to the entry hall next to the elevator.

  “Thank you for sharing your information,” Welliam said.

  “Welcome,” Clare replied. She swept the others with a glance. “And though I am keeping detailed records, especially for my successor—”

  “And because your predecessor didn’t,” Welliam put in.

  Clare’s glance sharpened. “I’m of a personality who is precise. My great-aunt Sandra, not so much.” Clare’s voice quavered.

  “My apologies”. Welliam actually bowed a little.

  Clare swallowed. “What I meant to say, and in fewer words, is that my records are my own.” She shot Rickman a glance. “And I’ll be factual on cases I might solve for others, but it doesn’t mean everyone can pester me about my talent. I like my privacy.”

  “We only want to help, dear,” Mrs. Flinton said.

  “It’s about time,” Zach said.

  They had dessert, the chocolate mousse topped with strawberries, back out on the bricked patio. A cold front full of dark gray clouds had rolled into Denver. For the first time in days, the temperature hadn’t reached seventy degrees, and now it couldn’t be more than in the mid-fifties. Before they’d come out again, Clare had put on a large, colorful shawl in a bold pattern reflecting her gypsy heritage. That didn’t fool Zach; she felt the cold more than the rest of them, even the older couple.

  So as soon as Mrs. Flinton daintily ate her last bite and placed the silver spoon in the crystal bowl, Zach said, “Let’s get down to it.” He nearly growled the sentence, since he’d seen Clare discreetly rub her side.

  He gave Desiree Rickman one of his cop looks—only a little more intimidating than she deserved, because he still didn’t trust her to do something completely off the wall that he’d have to handle somehow.

  The woman sat up and raised her perfectly arched brows. Yeah, she was a loo
ker, but that didn’t mitigate the fact that she did things that made no sense. Clare had a less exotic loveliness, gypsy instead of mixed Asian, but Clare was utterly dependable, and certainly prided herself on her rationality. Zach could always count on Clare, whereas he thought Tony Rickman found himself chasing after his wife, playing catch-up. Even now the man watched her with half-closed eyes and an amused smile as if wondering what she’d do next.

  Nope, definitely not what Zach wanted in a woman. He snagged Clare around the waist as she came back from clearing the dishes, and drew her onto his lap. She sat straight, too, when he’d rather she leaned against him.

  “So, Desiree, as a person who can see auras, you told us last week that you were concerned about Clare’s spectral wound,” Zach said.

  “That’s right.” Desiree Rickman nodded. Her eyes narrowed a little in the dim overhead light as she stared at Clare. Desiree’s lips pressed together, then she said, “The injury isn’t healing as quickly as I hoped, and it looks as if it . . . it is thicker because it tore again and closed up.”

  “The wound tore last night,” Clare replied matter-of-factly, “when I helped a phantom transition.”

  Desiree blinked and Zach saw her suppress an expression of envy. That surprised him. Clare disliked her gift and, if given a choice, would have loved something as life affirming as being able to see the auras of those alive.

  Enzo yipped, cold moved through Zach’s legs, and when the ghostly Lab spoke in Zach’s mind, he thought the dog directed his thoughts only to Zach. The woman smells really good, very strong psychic gift. She would like to see me, but she can’t since her talent is only for the living, and is mostly a passive power. She respects Clare because her ghost seer gift is active and the results very important.

  Zach sent a telepathic, Huh, back to Enzo, then swept his hand through the coolness where the dog’s head should be. That is an interesting and wise observation. You are learning, Enzo.

  A short bark. Yes, I am. The more time I am here, and the more people I meet and mix with, the better I am getting. It is good to be here and I learn EVERY DAY!

  Good to know the minor spirit was growing.

  “And, Desiree, you were going to research who can help Clare?” Zach kept on topic.

  She grimaced. “I asked all around, used all my contacts, but no one knows anyone in the region who’s good at curing spectral wounds. I’ve been up and down the Front Range looking at auras, too. Maybe find a new psychic who doesn’t know she’s psychic but has such a gift.” She turned her head toward Mrs. Flinton and Welliam.

  The older man cleared his throat. “I’m on the board of the Denver Parapsychological and Psychic Association and I called an emergency meeting last night.”

  Zach couldn’t imagine that bunch being efficient. “Nobody knew anything more than they’d told us.”

  Mrs. Flinton coughed daintily. Everyone stared at her and she grinned, her manner perky, as always. “You know, Clare, how you said you and I and dear Desiree should have a girls’ weekend away?”

  “Yes.” Clare’s expression softened.

  “I have been exploring local spas and resorts.” She sounded extremely pleased with herself. “I have a few talents of my own,” she said modestly, but swept a flirtatious gaze at Welliam, who took her hand and lifted her fingers to kiss them. He made it look smooth, and Zach might try it with Clare sometime.

  Since the old lady waited for prompting, Zach did so. “And you found something out about Clare?”

  Chapter 9

  She shifted on the floral cushion on her seat. “I got a . . . feeling . . . perhaps even a touch of the sight when I was in Manitou Springs.” Her old face folded into serious lines as she stared at Clare, and her voice dipped so low they could barely hear her. “I think you will find the person or entity you seek there.”

  Zach hadn’t told anyone about a good ghost being able to heal Clare, so he stared intently at Mrs. Flinton, but far be it for him to disbelieve her. “Maybe a good spirit can fix the bite of a bad one,” Zach said.

  Yes, yes, yes! Enzo bulleted around the yard. We knew about the good ghost, but we needed to tell everybody, he said mentally over the Zach-Enzo private channel.

  Zach didn’t much like the idea of sharing with all and sundry.

  And the sounds of the name she said, Man-i-tou Spur-ings! They are GOOD sounds, they went through me and sounded right, and vibrated like Clare!

  “Good enough for me,” Zach said. “We’ll head out tomorrow for a first look. How about it, Clare?”

  “It’s good to take action.” She frowned. “Manitou Springs is a tourist town west of Colorado Springs and near the Garden of the Gods?”

  “That’s right,” Rickman said, and Zach got the idea he had contacts there. Zach didn’t, though if this case went the same way as all the others, he would by the time he and Clare closed it. Too damn bad the case was Clare.

  She still muttered, half under her breath. “I’m pretty sure the whole town is designated a historic district.” Her shoulders slumped a little. “Probably a historic district from the time period of the Old West, my time period.”

  Smugly, Mrs. Flinton quoted the motto she’d created for Clare’s business, “‘Have ghost? Will travel. Specializing in ghosts of the Old West.’ I had thought of saying ‘the Wild West’ but decided against that.”

  “Though it sounds that most of Clare’s cases include a touch of the wild,” Welliam said.

  Zach grunted.

  “How far is Manitou Springs, and how long would it take to drive every day?” Clare muttered.

  “From here?” Rickman asked, then looked like he did the calculations in his head. “About seventy miles, probably an hour and a half if traffic’s good.”

  Traffic usually wasn’t good. Clare would time the trip anyway, once they drove it.

  Clare frowned. “Doable to commute, I guess.”

  “What!” Mrs. Flinton gasped, and put a hand on her flat chest draped in pink silk. “Three hours of driving and”—she waved a hand—“working on top of that?” Shaking her head, she said, “I’m not convinced. There are many old and beautiful hotels in Manitou.”

  “And haunted,” Mr. Welliam added.

  Closing her eyes, Clare rubbed her forehead. “Just what I don’t need. I don’t think I could handle renting a room in a motel in Manitou, not even being at a newer chain instead of a bed-and-breakfast. I’ve never stayed, long term, in a place full of ghosts from my era. In Creede, the ghosts of the mining town were—are—all gone. It might be hard to eat, and if I slept . . . I hate to think of the ghosts that might creep into my dreams.” She shuddered.

  “You have a point,” Desiree said. “Though I agree with Mrs. Flinton. There are some very charming places in Manitou Springs.”

  Hunching a shoulder, a gesture Clare might have picked up from Zach, she said, “Don’t care. I think a nice, standard hotel out by Colorado Springs’ airport should do me—us—just fine.”

  Mrs. Flinton shook her head. “Clare, for such a charming woman, you let your penchant for thrift dictate too much of your life. Live!”

  “Live a little,” Clare murmured.

  “Live a lot!” Mrs. Flinton insisted.

  Clare stood, her face, her whole body tense. “I’m trying to do that. Live.” She drew in a long breath and lifted her chin, made a sweeping arm gesture. “I bought this house, a beautiful home that spoke—speaks—to me.” She came over to Zach and leaned against him. “I’ve found and am working at a significant relationship with a wonderful man.”

  “Awww,” Desiree said. Mrs. Flinton sighed as if at the romance of it all.

  Zach didn’t think Clare’s actions romantic. She should have stayed on his lap and said that she loved him. He frowned, recaptured her, and brought her back.

  Rickman got up and went to his wife, picked up the smaller woman fro
m her chair, tossed her up, caught her, and set her on her feet. “Time to go.” He sent Zach a look. “We’ll talk in the morning. After normal business hours.” Nodding to the older couple, who’d also risen to their feet, he herded them into the kitchen and to the front of the house. “We’ll show ourselves out. Set the security after us before you go to bed.”

  “I always check,” said Zach, at the same time Clare said, “I always do.”

  She moved to rise, but he held her tight. “Don’t you trust them to leave on their own?”

  “It’s polite to see them to the door.”

  “You’re tired, and I want some peace and quiet. Stay with me, lover.”

  She raised her voice. “Great having you over!”

  Soft-footed, Tony came up to her. He sent a glance at Zach, who kept a half smile on his face, but watched Tony from under lowered eyelids. Clare approved. As far as she was concerned, Tony Rickman always needed watching. She and Zach made a good team. On the whole, this gathering had gone well.

  After dipping into his jacket pocket, Tony offered her a small flash drive. She blinked. “What is it?”

  “You’ve probably checked Zach out online.”

  Clare rose and stood with a straight spine. That really wasn’t any of Tony’s business, but she didn’t want to ruin the evening by saying so.

  “This is my file on him.” Tony smiled. “If you’re curious.”

  All right, she reluctantly had to admit, if only to herself, that she was and she didn’t know what all would be in that file. The jobs and places he’d lived before coming to Denver, for sure, and, yes, she’d like to know that. She looked at Zach. Perhaps he’d stiffened a little. He said nothing.

  So she shrugged and didn’t take the drive. “Zach will tell me what he wants to when he wants.” Though he’d told her to look on the Net several times before she actually had, and found a video of the immediate aftermath of his shooting, along with newscasts about that long continuing mess of a situation.

  Meeting Tony’s eyes, she said, “It’s nicer and less formal learning about each other as we go along.”