Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  You got it! The thing you didn’t find before and we wanted you to see. Yiiipppyyy! Enzo raced around the room. He sounded as happy as if she’d won the lottery . . . which she’d rarely played, the odds of winning were so poor.

  When she turned the envelope over, she saw carefully pretty cursive writing in silver, surrounded by silver stars and a scattering of glitter, and read, “Auntie Clare!”

  Only one child would address her that way, her brother’s daughter, Dora. Dora, who was slated to become the next ghost seer in the family if anything happened to Clare. Dora, whom Clare was determined to protect . . . from the “gift” and . . . the Other.

  Dora and her father had packed up Great-Aunt Sandra’s house, and now Clare knew who’d included the box in her portion of the furniture.

  With a smile, Clare went to the small desk and took the letter opener from a pottery mug of utensils and sliced open the top of the dramatic envelope. Inside she found a tri-folded piece of pastel paper, and she flicked it open to see: “Great-Aunt Sandra left a note about this box! She said to send it to you and that you’d find it within a couple of weeks when the ‘time was right.’ I thought it’d be cool to include my own note! Use SeeAndTalk to call ME! XXXXXX00000000, DORA!”

  Rolling her eyes, Clare stared at the computer, where she could do some work on Curly Wolf . . . then at the bed . . . then at Enzo. “You think I should call Dora?” she asked.

  Yes, yes, yes! he yipped.

  Clare wasn’t so sure. She could use her tablet—since she didn’t have her top-of-the-line new phone—and leave a message on Dora’s cell in good conscience that she’d tried to reach her niece . . . Clare had a niggling suspicion that she might not want to hear what Dora had to say.

  Still, she sat down and logged into SeeAndTalk and pinged Dora’s number but her niece didn’t answer. It was two hours later in Williamsburg, Virginia, and a school day. Enzo appeared disappointed.

  Clare sent a brief report to Rickman Security and Investigations regarding her conversations with J. Dawson Hidgepath and Dennis Laurentine.

  When she continued to check her uninspiring e-mail, the phantom Lab bounded through the sliding glass door, off the balcony, and into the air, where his grays faded and he matched the blue of the sky and disappeared.

  He was gone, and she was finally alone. Her shoulders relaxed from a high line of tension, and she closed her e-mail and left the desk.

  Stiffly removing her clothes, she slipped into a nightshirt, and left the drapes open so she could see the sun and the sky and the wisping clouds. She snuggled into bed and plunged into sleep.

  • • •

  The first thing Zach did was check out the ground around the door that had been left unlocked.

  The terrace showed the marks of a lot of traffic. Where the terrace ended, there were signs of trampling around, but he noted a rough path to the edge of the hillside then around to the left of the house—east. He followed it to the woods, eyes sharp for disturbed pine needles, until he found the break in the barbed wire fence where a thin person could squeeze through.

  Checking, he saw that it wasn’t electrified, and muscled through the opening. Parallel to the fence were ruts in the grass and dirt. It had rained yesterday, and he squatted and stared at the wide tire tracks that belonged to a big and heavy truck. One of the tires had picked up a nail or a screw, something that had damaged the tread. Plenty of trucks in ranch and farm country. A tingle at the top of his spine told him he should pay attention to this.

  As he stood, he saw that the truck tracks overlaid a line of narrower ones both before and beyond the wide tires. These came from a smaller car, and left less of an impression.

  He took pictures of both sets with his phone, though he was sure the sheriff’s department had already done that. Didn’t look like they’d taken any casts.

  With a shake of his head, he went back through the fence, called Rossi to tell the ranch manager it needed to be fixed, and headed out.

  Zach drove to the Park County Sheriff’s Department in Fairplay, where he met with the man himself, a white-haired, lean, and tough guy who appeared to be near the end of his career. Zach introduced himself, gave the man his card from Rickman Security and Investigations—suppressing his wince as he did so—and took the chair the sheriff indicated.

  Zach talked the talk and limped the walk, dropped names of people he knew: his old boss in Montana, Wyoming peace officers, and Denver policemen. None of these seemed to overly impress the guy and Zach liked him for that . . . though the sheriff had one of his deputies take note of the names to check them out.

  Even with his most persuasive manner, Zach didn’t get all the notes regarding the case. He did get the opinion that the sheriff thought the best thing for Clare and him to do would be to leave the DL Ranch and return to Denver—advice he’d have given if he’d been in the sheriff’s seat. The general idea was that the “trap” set for Clare was to scare her away.

  Zach couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more . . . or that Clare might be a threat because someone believed she could contact J. Dawson, and something from the past was carrying over to the present.

  The sheriff himself had advised Laurentine to up his security, probably in a smoother manner than Zach or Rossi, because the man lived near the multimillionaire and was a public servant.

  It occurred to Zach that he’d been more abrasive now that he wasn’t a deputy, and that was a change he liked—to be able to speak and act more the way he wanted than was politic. Even now the sheriff was speaking to him because it was polite to do so, not that he wanted to.

  Definitely a check in the plus column of going private.

  When the deputy walked back in after having made the calls to his references, she appeared impressed in spite of herself and told the sheriff, “He’s good.”

  That opened the man up enough to have him reveal the list of the witnesses they’d talked to—everyone Zach had, though a deputy had awakened and gotten a foggy nothing of interest from Tyler Jorgen, whom Zach hadn’t spoken with yet.

  He offered Clare’s authorization to retrieve her phone and her signature was compared to the one when they’d confiscated it. They were through with any investigation regarding her telephone.

  They’d found that the calls had been placed from the DL Ranch landline and the one Clare had answered had lasted under a minute. They’d gotten the exact time of the call, short minutes from when Rossi reported they’d heard Clare scream and discovered her.

  Zach put the phone in the satchel he carried his tablet computer in, stood, and made a comment that he was headed to the Park County Archives to read a former sheriff’s diary. That sparked a good discussion, and Zach casually mentioned J. Dawson and the probability he might have been murdered, which had everyone talking and throwing out opinions.

  When he left, he thought he’d made himself welcome and was happy he’d formed some new connections.

  The trip to the archives in Bailey and the reading of the sheriff’s journal, which the volunteer archivist had marked for Zach, went smoothly.

  The fact that the sheriff put down that he had a gut feeling about J. Dawson’s death hadn’t surprised Zach. But the lawman had nothing to go on, even after he sniffed around. J. Dawson had fallen and been found quickly, dead, and some flowers drifted down with him. The pair of prospector brothers who’d heard his last cry figured he’d been picking flowers for one of the recently arrived women in town.

  There were only a couple of notes. After his death, no one filed a claim on J. Dawson’s mine. The sheriff had visited the mine and it hadn’t looked like much. Nothing had shown on the narrow, rocky trail that might have indicated foul play.

  Skimming the rest of the entries, Zach got the impression that there was so much going on in Curly Wolf that even a conscientious sheriff would have to move on pretty damn fast to other, more significant, matters.

  The guy couldn’t take time from his job just because of a gut feeling that something
was wrong with the accidental death of a lightweight, and J. Dawson had been considered a lightweight. A dreamer.

  A romantic.

  Zach understood constraints of time and money and manpower and the press of other cases for damn sure, but it always hurt to let a case go when you knew there was something hinky about it.

  He didn’t have to do that anymore. He could almost taste the sweetness of that thought on his tongue. He had enough money from his disability pension and his savings, from the consulting job, that if something crossed his path that felt just plain wrong, he didn’t have to walk away from the case because of practical realities.

  His mind spun with that knowledge. He wouldn’t ever have to walk away from a case.

  True, he didn’t have the badge to force people to talk to him . . . and he might have to smooth out his manner now and again . . . and he didn’t have authority to go where he might need to be, but a cop needed a search warrant.

  Still, there could be a workaround to that, too. If there was enough reason for it. He’d have to make sure he wouldn’t turn righteous vigilante, which was a damn slippery slope.

  Clare would help keep him honest, and honorable.

  He looked at the general information on Curly Wolf that the archivist had printed out, studied it for a few minutes, absorbing the facts.

  “Are you done?” the archivist asked.

  Zach blinked. He probably hadn’t moved in the last few minutes. “Yeah. Can I take pictures of Sheriff Benson’s journal entries with my phone?”

  She frowned. “No flash.”

  He nodded. “All right.” He tried a smile. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Thanks for setting aside this time for me. You’ve been a great help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  • • •

  The insistent chirping of a baby bird, along with the cold sweep of a ghostly tongue across her face, woke Clare.

  It’s Dora! Enzo’s drool might vanish before it hit any floor or rug, but it dripped on Clare’s face like thawing ice just fine.

  She jerked up.

  Dora wants to talk to you! Enzo said.

  Yes, the chirping bird was Dora’s call signal on SeeAndTalk. Clare lunged from the bed for her tablet on the desk, accepted the call. “Just a minute, Dora.”

  “Okay, Auntie Clare. I’m walking out of school to the commons courtyard, so I’ll get you better. You sound a little fuzzy.”

  Not just because service was iffy in the mountains, even with the big satellite dish that Dennis Laurentine surely had. Clare had been gone in sleep. And—three hours!—had passed.

  She hurriedly dressed again, put on her light sundress in yellow and peach hues—the house was warm and the outside temp was mid-seventies.

  To clear her head a bit, Clare took her tablet to the balcony and looked around. With a deep breath, and standing outside in the mountains on a weekday morning, she knew she was blessed that she never had to work again. Even the thought that she had a gift that wouldn’t let her rest seemed tolerable . . . Perhaps, just perhaps, in this moment, she could identify a little with her parents. They’d spent their whole lives doing nothing but living on a trust fund and enjoying moving from pleasurable moment to pleasurable moment.

  “Hello, Auntie Clare!” Dora said.

  Clare jerked, tore her gaze from the thin white clouds ribboning the blue sky, and said, “Dora? Aren’t classes going on?” But Clare smiled at Dora’s round and cheerful face, surrounded by the straight and dense dark brown hair that Clare envied her. Their complexions were the same, a natural tan due to their heritage.

  Enzo yipped. Hello, Dora!

  “It’s free period and I’m outside and I can turn my phone on . . . and you’re an approved adult anyway,” Dora said. “So Dad and Mom didn’t block your number during the day.”

  “Uh-huh,” Clare said.

  “You’re my auntie and an emergency contact.”

  Clare winced. Of course she’d drop everything and head for Virginia if Dora needed her, but just like any adult, she didn’t like the idea that Dora might have to call her in an emergency.

  Dora grinned. “I guess you looked in the box. Isn’t it a-mazing! I made sure it got to you.”

  “I’m not too fond of dancing skeletons, Dor-ee.”

  Girlish laughter rolled from the phone. “Maybe you can send it back to me, then.”

  “Maybe I can. You wanted to speak with me?”

  The girl’s eyes rounded, her glance slid away, then back. “Auntie Clare, you sent me—us—a video that GG-Auntie Sandra left for us.”

  Clare sat. “Yes, I did.”

  Dora hesitated, then said, “You didn’t send all of the videos, did you?”

  Clare’s spine stiffened. Great-Aunt Sandra had left a multitude of videos, for various circumstances: to her brother and his wife if Clare went crazy, to Clare’s brother and his wife if Clare had reached the point of no return as her health deteriorated from not accepting her gift and she died.

  There had been four videos for Dora—doomed to receive the ghost seer gift after Clare, as it stood now. The thought of a special daughter or son wisped through Clare’s mind.

  She answered Dora. “No. I didn’t send all the videos.” She’d only sent the ones that had applied to the situation.

  Dora wriggled. “I want to see the ones addressed to me.”

  Clare opened her mouth, then changed the negative that immediately came to mind. “I haven’t viewed them, and if I view them, I will talk to your parents about whether to send them to you or not.”

  Brows down and her lower lip out, Dora stared at Clare. “I want to see them. GG-Auntie Sandra was talking to me about the Cermak Gift, and ghosts.” Dora’s square chin angled up. “She wasn’t talking to you about them ’cause you wouldn’t listen.” Dora narrowed her eyes. “But I want to learn. I need to know.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “I’M NOT SURE of that.” Clare’s insides trembled. She still thought of her psychic power as more of a curse than a boon and wouldn’t inflict it on anyone, let alone her beloved niece.

  “Auntie Clare—”

  The landline house phone rang and Clare guessed it might be Dennis Laurentine. Enzo flickered, then faded away, obviously not interested in listening to the multimillionaire.

  Clare said, “I have a client. I have to go, penyaki—niece. We’ll talk later, latcho drom.”

  Dora ducked her head with a serious expression. “Latcho drom, Bibio Clare,” she replied with the standard “good journey.” Her app closed.

  With a sigh, Clare answered the phone, glad she didn’t have to look at Mr. Laurentine. She moved to the desk and noted down the time as on the job.

  “This is Dennis Laurentine.”

  “Hmm,” Clare said, though unlike last night, she thought she recognized his voice. She looked at the readout on the phone. “This is also the same number someone called me from last night.” She couldn’t prevent a smile, but kept it from her tone. “Perhaps we need a password.”

  A hiss came over the speaker. Yes, she’d heard that frustrated hiss before from Mr. Laurentine. “I’m paying you six hundred dollars an hour,” he snapped. “You think I’d tell anyone how much you’re hosing me for?”

  “I’m not,” Clare said primly. “You signed a contract with Tony Rickman for my services. You’re paying him.” Though she was getting more of the fee than was usual for contract workers. She cleared her throat. “You may tell me to leave at any time.” She paused. “I have bones from a hand, a foot, as well as several toes that I will be glad to leave with you and your men for interment.”

  This time the man literally growled. Clare waited. There was a heavy sigh, then Mr. Laurentine said, “Ms. Cermak, would you please meet me in the great hall? Would you like me to send someone to escort you?”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Laurentine, and I can find my way there,” she said. “I’ll watch the other doors along the corridor so no one pops out at me”—no one alive at least—
“and you’re expecting me and it’s your house so you know how long it takes to get from the jade room to the great room. I’ll be there in just a moment, sir.” And she’d had no idea how being near the end of the hall still rankled.

  “At least you’re respectful on the surface,” he grumbled. “See you shortly.”

  Like last night, she didn’t hurry, but this time she watched her step extremely carefully on the stairs—and under the eyes of those gathered below—Dennis Laurentine, Missy Legrand, and Patrice Schangler.

  Mr. Laurentine posed against the back of a chair near the fireplace, in a space not quite big enough for two. Missy Legrand sat on the high hearth with crossed legs and a tight skirt sliding up to just below her crotch. Patrice Schangler stood near the big double doors.

  As Clare walked up to him, Mr. Laurentine said, “You found more bones?” His smile was false, his eyes laser-like.

  Clare nodded. “Do you have cameras in the house?”

  He gave her a wintry smile. “Of course, but I don’t have them on except during large house parties. I suggest you leave the investigation of your accident to the sheriff and Slade. And did the ghost of J. Dawson accompany his bones?”

  “I haven’t seen him since last night.”

  “You saw him last night. What did he say about his hauntings?”

  “We didn’t speak about that. We spoke of death and transition. Would you like a report of the conversation?”

  Mr. Laurentine flinched. “That’s not necessary.”

  Clare inclined her head. She didn’t want to lower herself to the chair and jar her ribs so she sat on the rounded leather arm of a chair that faced the double doors.

  “Shall we adjourn to your office to speak about my fee? I’ve started an itemized spreadsheet of my hours on and off the job—”

  He jerked his head in a negative. “Fee’s set. I called you down to meet someone, a new guest.” He smiled with real pleasure. Missy Legrand stiffened and turned her head slowly to stare at him. “She’s on her way up from the guardhouse.”