Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  Baxter grunted. “Not many do.”

  And not that she’d need to collect anything. If life continued as it had, Enzo or the Other would be dropping off rare items as “payment from the universe” every time she helped a ghost pass . . . to wherever.

  They approached the large double doors, and Clare hurried to open one for Baxter. He just slanted her a look and pulled open the other and they went through together.

  A tall woman with a straight spine and pale blond and silver hair in a braided coronet came forward. She wore nice black slacks and a navy shirt. Her expression was stern. She nodded to Baxter. “Thanks for helping out.” Then she gestured and a tall and gangly young man came and took Clare’s suitcase. “Tyler, take that to the jade guest room,” said the woman.

  “Will do,” Tyler said.

  “Good meeting you, Clare,” said Baxter. “You’ll probably see me around.” With a last nod he loped from the building.

  “You must be Clare Cermak,” the woman said. “I’m Patrice Schangler, the housekeeper.” She didn’t offer her hand.

  “Yes, I’m Clare.”

  “We were not told how long you might stay,” Patrice said.

  Clare eyed Patrice. The Schangler name was mentioned in the cemetery records, so she was probably hired locally . . . though Clare couldn’t know whether Schangler was the woman’s maiden or married name. But it was easy to sense the distrust since it showed in her stance and her attitude.

  Mr. Laurentine had said that J. Dawson’s bones appearing had spooked some of the locals and cost them jobs. So would Patrice Schangler welcome Clare more if she knew Clare was trying to get rid of the bones-appearing phenomena?

  Perhaps because she wasn’t an accountant at a prestigious firm anymore and her gypsy blood might be welling through her a bit, Clare wanted to see this woman’s reaction to the truth. “I’ll be here until I help J. Dawson Hidgepath move on.” She paused. “And ensure he stops leaving his bones in women’s beds.”

  The housekeeper looked startled and a hint of something else appeared in her eyes. Fear? Discomfort? Wariness? Clare couldn’t gauge the flash of emotion.

  “Ah,” the woman said, and looked her up and down. Clare got the impression the housekeeper hadn’t expected her to be so up front about her task.

  “I imagine you want the bones,” Ms. Schangler said.

  Clare flinched. “Yes.”

  The corners of the woman’s mouth curved in a tiny smirk.

  “Yes,” Clare repeated to remind herself this was now part of her life and she should darn well get accustomed to it. “Yes.” She took a quick breath. “What kind of bones are they?”

  NINE

  “THERE’S A COMPLETE foot,” Ms. Schangler said.

  “Oh.” Clare wet her lips. “Were there any flowers or a poem?”

  The woman stopped smiling, sent Clare a sidelong look. “I wasn’t told.” Reluctantly, she added, “There was a heap of dust on the sheets.” Ms. Schangler sniffed. “Missy Legrand insisted that the sheets be changed early this morning. Such a fuss!”

  Well, of course. “The actress?” Clare asked.

  “That’s what she calls herself, though she hasn’t been ‘working’ all summer long. She’s been here.”

  With a quiet breath, Clare glanced around the huge great room as she followed Ms. Schangler across the area.

  Naturally, the room showed Mr. Laurentine had spared no expense. Several sitting areas were delineated by Native American patterned rugs and grouped brass-studded leather furniture in earth tones. The polished floor was hardwood; the rounded log walls gleamed. So did the three-person-wide wooden staircase that led to the second floor. At the top of the steps was an equally wide corridor open to the room below with another carved balustrade.

  They went through a door that seemed reserved for staff, and the area beyond looked less like a movie set and more like a workplace.

  “I put the bones in the second pantry,” Ms. Schangler said.

  Clare became diverted by thoughts of antique bones being close to food she might be eating and, worse, how she was going to carry the bones to her room, and the fact that she’d left J. Dawson’s chest with the other bones in the trunk of her car. She stiffened her spine.

  The second pantry looked to be mostly for storage of canned goods—both store-bought and homemade. Clare was impressed by the amount and variety of the food, enough for several people to eat if they were snowed in for a couple of weeks.

  Sturdy built-in shelves painted beige and some cabinets ranged every wall, getting the maximum amount of space usage.

  Ms. Schangler pulled out a drawer and lifted up the first worn thing Clare had seen in the house, a stained tea towel, probably used as a rag. Clare heard the scratchy clatter she was afraid she’d become familiar with. The housekeeper placed the bundle atop the counter and briskly unfolded the cloth before Clare could brace herself. She swallowed hard, staring down at the bones, which appeared a lot like the finger she’d seen the night before—colors of white and ivory and brown areas that, presumably, dirt had marked.

  The housekeeper stood quietly but Clare thought the woman sensed Clare’s discomfort and was amused.

  “A foot?” Clare asked faintly.

  “Yes.” Ms. Schangler lifted her brows. “Do you want me to arrange them for you?”

  “No need. So the bones don’t bother you? And them appearing in beds doesn’t bother you?”

  The woman shrugged. “The bother is the screaming and carrying on over a lot of old bones and the disruption of my household.”

  “I understand,” Clare said. “You live here, manage this lovely house year round?”

  “That’s right.”

  So Ms. Schangler would think of the house as more hers than Mr. Laurentine’s, Clare bet. “You don’t wonder where the bones came from?”

  Ms. Schangler shrugged again. “J. Dawson Hidgepath’s legend is old and comfortable around here, along with Silver Heels and other ghosts of South Park. Mr. Laurentine likes the stories of Curly Wolf and Fairplay and South Park City and the rest, so we all know them.”

  “You think J. Dawson is back?”

  The housekeeper laughed. “No. I think some very alive human put the bones there.”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts?”

  She sniffed, stared with more than a little contempt at Clare. “And I don’t believe in fakes who pretend to talk to them, ‘help them move on.’ Charge an arm and a leg”—she glanced at the jumbled bones—“and a foot, for some scam.”

  “Ah.” Clare considered calling Enzo for backup, but who was she to rock someone’s world with proof that ghosts were real? She hadn’t believed in them herself a month ago. Ms. Schangler might not be susceptible to feeling ghosts anyway.

  And if Tony Rickman in Denver continued to find Clare consulting jobs, she’d better become accustomed to attitudes of contempt, like a lot of other new things in her life that came with the gift to see ghosts.

  “What do you want to do with these?” Ms. Schangler poked the small pile of bones. Her elegant, live, and healthy finger contrasted sadly with the bare and brittle sticks. A delicate diamond and platinum watch flashed on her wrist. Clare figured she must be working in a supervisory capacity if she wore such a thing.

  “Ah, um,” Clare said. “Do you have a sack?”

  After lifting her eyes upward, the housekeeper opened a tall door and removed a canvas bag, the type Clare used for grocery shopping. “Thank you. I’ll bring it back.”

  “See that you do.” With a gesture, she indicated that Clare should precede her back toward the main portion of the house. Just before they got to the staff door, Enzo charged in, followed by J. Dawson.

  The ghost dog barreled straight through Ms. Schangler and Clare. Sorry, sorry, Clare! Did you call me?

  “Not really,” she muttered, keeping an eye on the housekeeper. Talking to herself—and Enzo—in public made her wary. But the housekeeper’s attitude had dropped away. She appeared
shaken.

  J. Dawson doffed his hat at them. He stepped around Ms. Schangler, but she still shrank away from the chill. The hallway was definitely a few degrees cooler than a minute before.

  Excuse me, good woman, said J. Dawson. Good morning, Clare. He beamed and nodded to the bag. I see you have my foot.

  Reflexively, Clare glanced down at the apparition’s feet, both encased in tough work boots.

  Good morning, J. Dawson, she sent mentally.

  I can’t hear you, Clare, the phantom said roguishly with a side glance at the housekeeper, who’d paled.

  Clare stopped a sigh. “Good morning, J. Dawson,” she said aloud. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t leave your bones as a gift anymore.”

  He smiled, tilted his head. I do not recalling agreeing to that.

  “It would make it easier—” Clare began.

  GOOD MORNING, CLARE! GOOD MORNING, LADY! Enzo shouted as he pranced around them both. I FOUND J. DAWSON DOWN AT CURLY WOLF!

  Ms. Schangler didn’t actually bolt, but she hurried through the door without a backward look. Since the woman had left Clare in the housekeeper’s domain, Clare was pretty sure she’d felt something.

  Enzo sniffed. I like the smell of her.

  “You always say that of people who can sense you.”

  Because it is true.

  “I’m going to put away your foot, J. Dawson,” Clare said, trying not to hear the impossibility of her own words. She cleared her throat. “I brought a box to hold the bones.”

  It is a good box! Enzo wagged his tail. I will show you! He darted out.

  J. Dawson lifted his bowler an instant, then put it back on his head. My thanks, Clare. He sauntered after Enzo.

  Clare held the canvas bag gingerly as she walked. She found Ms. Schangler, stiff-backed, awaiting her near the main staircase.

  The housekeeper nodded, then pivoted toward the stairs. “I’ll show you to your room.” Her posture remained inflexible, and Clare decided the woman was trying her hardest not to believe in ghosts.

  Clare’d been there, done that, and failed.

  Once up the stairs, they turned left. Enzo materialized at the end of the corridor. Hi, again, Clare! Hi, lady! We’re staying here?

  This time Patrice Schangler gasped and hopped back, bumping into Clare, who had to steady her. They both fetched up against the wall by the door to her room. Ms. Schangler was made of strong stuff, however, and pushed away from Clare immediately, her spine a ramrod. From a pocket she took a key and slipped it in the brass door lock, then swung the door open and gestured for Clare to enter.

  Enzo slipped through the wall. It’s beautiful! Though it doesn’t have a dog bed. Do you think we could get a dog bed, Clare?

  Ms. Schangler flinched.

  I have one in the backseat of the car, remember? Enzo had decided last week that he’d wanted a bed or two. I’ll bring it in.

  Yay!

  Though it had to be one of the simplest guest rooms, the chamber was spacious and beautifully furnished. The walls were a delicate green. “Ah, the jade room.”

  The housekeeper’s lips tightened. “All the rooms are named after minerals or jewels.” Her eyes shifted as if she watched Enzo barrel through emerald-colored curtains.

  Clare supposed that Mr. Laurentine had a gold or diamond suite. She said, “It’s beautiful. Thank you for your help, and thank Mr. Laurentine for his hospitality.”

  With a curt inclination of her head, the woman said, “We are serving lunch now. It is a buffet in the breakfast solarium and served from eleven thirty a.m. to one p.m. Dinner is at six thirty and dress is business casual. Breakfast is from six a.m. to nine a.m. Pajamas are not allowed.” She turned on her heel and left.

  Enzo’s head popped through a curtain. There is a balcony, Clare! Can I have my bed on the balcony?

  “Let me see.” She opened the heavy curtains to see translucent shams of a light gold, pulled those back to reveal the sliding glass door. After opening the door and the screen, she stepped out onto the balcony.

  There was a sharp dip to a small, deserted valley below her, but filling her vision, up and up, were a couple of rough-hewn mountain peaks, all bare granite at this time of year. The air, though, was fabulous, warm and pure. Above the mountains showed the bright blue and cloudless sky.

  We should go down and see Curly Wolf, Enzo said.

  “Not yet.” She’d put that off as long as she could. “I’m hungry.” She checked her watch. “And I have a meeting at one p.m. with Mr. Laurentine.”

  Enzo whined and lifted a paw. Zach didn’t come.

  “I miss him, too.” There, she’d admitted it aloud. “I’d like him to be here.” She wanted to call him, tell him that she’d arrived safely, but he hadn’t asked her to and he was probably at work. She had an ironclad rule that she wouldn’t text or call anyone who might be working. But her fingers stroked her phone, itching.

  Rustling noises came. Clare whirled, scanned the room. “Did you hear that?” she asked Enzo. “Is it a ghost?”

  Someone suppressed a chuckle . . . from the closet on her immediate left. This guest room was set up more like a hotel room than anything else, definitely not how she’d have done it. “Come on out,” she said, her voice calm. “If I open the closet door and you pop out at me, I won’t be pleased.”

  The door slid open and a blond-haired, blue-eyed teenage girl stepped out, looking guilty and highly anxious. Her gaze darted around the room, didn’t quite meet Clare’s. “Please, please, ma’am, don’t tell on me. I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “What are you doing here, Miss—”

  Now the teen tried a winsome smile, showing deep dimples and beautiful teeth, but her fingers twined together and she shifted foot-to-foot. “Visiting my boyfriend.”

  “The young man who brought up my luggage?”

  The girl gave a short nod. “Ms. Schangler’s nephew, Tyler Jorgen.”

  Clare studied the bed.

  “Not making love! Not here! We wouldn’t do that! But Ms. Schangler said I distracted Tyler and I couldn’t come anymore. But I had to see him.”

  Enzo barked and sniffed around her. She has a young smell.

  She IS young. Clare sent this to the phantom dog’s mind, glad she’d recalled to do so before speaking aloud. Since Enzo didn’t looove her scent, the girl must have little psychic power . . . or whatever he sensed most with his nose. And being young, her emotions drove her more.

  The door opened behind Clare, catching her in the shoulder. “Ouch!”

  “Ohmygod. Ohmygod,” said Tyler Jorgen. “I’m so sorry! God!”

  Clare rolled her shoulder. “It isn’t bad. Don’t worry about it.” She moved from the hallway that held the bathroom and the closet to the medium-sized bedroom.

  Slanting a glance at the girl, Clare said, “Though you’d better leave. And don’t come back. At least to this room.” They hesitated.

  “I won’t speak to anyone here about this,” she said. She waved a hand. “Just go.”

  “Right, right.” Tyler nodded quickly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He stepped into the room, snatched the girl’s hand, and tugged. “Emily, the coast is clear, we can take the stairway down and be out the east side door without anyone seeing.” Just before the door shut, his eyes met Clare’s. “Thanks a lot, Ms. Cermak, for not telling on us.”

  “Thanks!” echoed Emily.

  The door shut quietly but firmly, the latch catching. Since this was second from the last room and opposite the east set of stairs, it was no wonder the couple met here. Clare did a quick survey of the bed and bathroom, but they didn’t look used. The young people had been endearing . . . though if Mr. Laurentine and Ms. Schangler had impressed Clare as being of a generous bent, she might have said something about the two she’d surprised. She shrugged and began to unpack, and took her phone from her purse and put it on the table. Maybe Zach would call her.

  • • •

  Zach reluctantly prepared
to leave Clare’s amazing house . . . not that he didn’t have a nice apartment, because he did. But it sure didn’t come with a hot lover who could cook in and out of bed. Nope, more like two old ladies, one really wealthy Mrs. Flinton, who cheerfully intruded on his business and personal affairs, and one Mrs. McGee, who gave him good food and occasional trenchant advice.

  He wanted to be with Clare. Missed her the minute she walked out the door to head to the mountains . . . while he was stuck in Denver.

  Mrs. Flinton was right, though—it had been a mistake to pull back from her the six days he’d been away. He’d only texted Clare a couple of times, hadn’t taken time to call and talk. Just . . . everything had been too intense.

  For Clare, too, he suspected. Somehow they needed to catch their balance in this . . . relationship. Figure out where they were going, or wanted things to go.

  He was too deep into this affair, the more-than-an-affair already, in just two weeks.

  They’d had a day together before he’d had to leave for Montana. He wanted more. There was just something about Clare that resonated . . . filled . . . the hell with specifics. He just wasn’t done with her yet.

  She presented a puzzle he had to study, to untangle, to plumb.

  The thing of it was, he was sure she thought of herself as simple to understand, but beneath that logical accountant was a gypsy heart—and man, did he want to learn about that woman. Who she might be.

  A small tingle slithered along his spine at the thought that they wouldn’t have met, that he wouldn’t have noticed those depths in her eyes, if he hadn’t been shot.

  Washing his coffee mug in the kitchen, he deliberately took the stairs to the second level and the master bedroom. He wore the loathed brace as well as the orthopedic shoes, had his cane.

  On impulse, he went into the walk-in closet and looked at the shelves that held Clare’s perfume . . . two scents, one light and citrusy that a professional woman would wear, the other rich and exotic, the one that accented her own womanly fragrance. The bottles she’d inherited from her great-aunt Sandra.

  In front of the various bottles, lined up by size, was a tiny sample-size deal. Zach removed the bitty stopper, sniffed. His senses clenched at the remembrance of Clare in bed, this smell mixed with her own, though there didn’t seem to be any liquid in the thick glass container. With Clare gone, he had to have it, so he’d make damn sure to give Clare a gift or two to keep with her to remind her of him. She’d reciprocate and he wouldn’t be sneaking into her closet and sniffing her perfume.