Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

  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 ha
d 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.

  One of the auctioneers strolled up and glanced at Clare apologetically. “It is a puzzle box,” the woman confirmed. “But we weren’t able to open it, at least without the force it would take to break it.”

  “Ah.” Clare nodded, glad to put the thing back down.

  The auctioneer sighed. “Not one of our better pieces. We have some lovely antiques tonight.” She gestured at one wall.

  Clare wished to appear casual in her interest in the box in case anyone was watching and might bid against her, so she strolled toward the wall of antiques.

  It’s Zach! Enzo barked. Zach is here! The spectral dog galloped away.

  Now that he mentioned it, Clare’s gaze immediately focused on the tall man leaning slightly on the cane. He held it as if he didn’t need it at all, like it was a prop, though Clare knew better. A pang of pity went through her and she wiped any hint of it from her face.

  An elderly woman standing next to Zach said something . . . and bent down to pet Enzo.

  Zach’s head angled. He looked down, shook his head, gazed at the woman, then turned and stared at Clare.

  Her stomach tightened and she flushed. She didn’t want to talk about Enzo to anyone, especially not Zach Slade.

  NINE

  CLARE STROLLED TOWARD the old woman, and the ghost dog that should definitely be a hallucination.

  The woman straightened from her walker, which held a light designer bag fastened to the inside front. She offered her hand with a beaming smile and a sly, sliding glance at Zach. “Hello, I hear you’re a friend of Zach’s!”

  Clare wet her lips. Zach stood extremely straight, a closed expression on his face. She took the woman’s hand, and the lady’s gray brows zoomed upward. “My, your hands are cold. Only to be expected of one with your gift, though.” She put her other hand over Clare’s and patted it. “Zach, intro
duce this young lady to me!”

  Zach whisked a gesture from Clare to the woman. “Clare Cermak, meet Mrs. Barbara Flinton.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Clare said and a little ping went off in her mind. She knew of the wealthy Flintons. She opened her lips to tell her new acquaintance that she was an associate at a prestigious Denver accounting firm and realized that was untrue. Her shoulders slumped a bit.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, too. And who is this fine fellow?” Mrs. Flinton braced a hand on her walker and bent down again to stroke Enzo.

  Zach’s blue-green eyes darkened, with the green showing more. His brows dipped, though he kept the same expression.

  “I don’t know,” Clare said, and caught a fleeting twitch of the lips from Zach.

  I AM ENZO! the ghost dog shouted, jumping up and planting his paws on Zach. The man flinched and Clare stilled. Surely he couldn’t—see? hear? feel that imaginary illusion.

  “You’re a very nice dog,” said Mrs. Flinton.

  Enzo stared accusingly at Clare. She lifted her chin and ignored his dark eyes that looked more like holes than she was comfortable with.

  Zach cleared his throat and his gaze slid toward Clare. “We’re here on business.”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Flinton straightened. “I’m looking for some family antiques. A few mid-nineteenth-century pieces my mother had.”

  “A con,” Zach murmured. Mrs. Flinton didn’t seem to have heard him. Clare noticed hearing aids in her ears.

  Clare met Zach’s eyes.

  “We’re here on business,” he repeated, touching Mrs. Flinton’s shoulder, then nodded at Clare again. “And you? I thought you had furnishings coming from your aunt’s estate.”

  “I do.” Again blood rose in her cheeks as she sent a swift look at the counter, which showed small, uninspired objects like the box.

  Of course Zach noticed her glance. He frowned.

  “I, uh, am acquiring a box for an, uh, out-of-town friend.”

  His gaze sharpened. He’d noted her hesitation, too, and that seemed to pique his curiosity. She wouldn’t have minded except he might want an explanation that she had no intention of giving.