Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

Clare stared at him. She saw and talked to ghosts. How would she know? “No,” she finally said.

  “Fine.” He treated her bruised cheek and checked her ribs.

  His assistant came in. “It’s pesticide. I’m not sure what kind, though.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  CLARE GASPED. “PESTICIDE doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s not. You stay right there while I check this out. Lie down.” He strode from the exam room.

  Clare slid down onto the table, contemplated the beamed ceiling, and took stock of herself. Her heartbeat felt fine and steady; her breathing was regular. She didn’t feel terrible. Alternating between the freezing chill of helping ghosts transition and walking in the direct sun in the heat of the day at high altitude hadn’t helped whatever had ailed her.

  Or had it? Who knew exactly what physical harm—or good—ghost laying could do her? Great-Aunt Sandra had died at ninety. Clare visualized the family tree. Great-Great-Uncle Amos had died in his mid-nineties, too.

  • • •

  The sheriff’s car picked up Zach along with the crate of bottles and Desiree Rickman’s sack. Hawburton excused himself to get back to his ranch, Laurentine decided to stroll back through Curly Wolf and up the regular paved drive, and Rossi accompanied him. Laurentine and Rossi would meet the deputy at the house.

  Zach was fine with that—it gave him time to fully brief the deputy sheriff, a woman he’d met before, on the bottles and the walk, Clare’s sickness. He told her everything he could remember. She recalled the pesticide incident.

  At the house, she secured her vehicle with the evidence and went in to speak with a hovering and pale Patrice Schangler.

  He headed toward the doctor’s office, heart thumping hard. Poisons were tricky things. He’d had one case when he was a city cop, studied up on some of them. Knew about drugs, both legal and illegal, and they messed with your head and your body.

  The outer office held a desk, a laptop computer, old-fashioned file cabinets, and a couple of client chairs. Beyond the desk were a wall and a closed door. He strode over and opened it . . . saw Clare looking . . . all right. Okay. He let out a big but quiet breath. She still wore her clothes, though they looked loosened. She smiled at him, a smile he’d seen her give no other person. God, he cared for her. A lot.

  “Does she need a hospital?” he asked.

  The doctor whirled, scowled, but didn’t reprimand him and said, “I don’t believe so. They can’t do any more for Ms. Cermak there than I can do here. I’m perfectly competent to handle this case.”

  “Okay.”

  “I would prefer for her to stay here in the house to rest, and for me to observe. If there is any bodily twitching, tremors, or convulsions, call me at once.” He pulled out a card and wrote a number on it. “This is my private cellular telephone.”

  Zach took the card, entered the number into his own phone, and stuck the card in his jacket pocket.

  “So was it a pesticide like the previous incident?”

  “That’s right. Based on the tests I’ve done so far on the water, the pesticide in Ms. Cermak’s bottle was in powder form, old and a relatively small amount,” Dr. Burns said.

  “Your best opinion,” Zach said. “Was this a fatal dose or not?”

  Dr. Burns shrugged. “If she’d drunk the whole bottle, and quickly . . . it could have been very bad. Very bad.”

  Clare stared at them wide-eyed.

  “As it is . . .” He shook his head. “I think if we watch you closely for any symptoms . . .” Once again he moved close to Clare, stuck his stethoscope on her skin, and listened. “No irregular breathing or heartbeat.” He checked her reflexes. “Your muscles seem all right, no extraordinary twitching. How does your face feel?”

  “No longer numb.”

  “Fine.” He looked at Zach. “We’ll treat the symptoms.” He disappeared a minute, came back with a needle, and gave her a shot. “This will help.”

  “I want to take her up to bed,” Zach said.

  Clare smiled; the doctor scowled. Zach raised his hands. “To rest.” To be in an easily protected room.

  The doctor hunched a shoulder. “Go. I’m continuing my tests.” He scowled at Clare. “You were lucky.”

  She nodded.

  Zach put his arm around her and said to Burns, “The deputies will want to speak with you and take the bottle.”

  The doctor grimaced. “If they must.”

  “Yes, they certainly must. Please copy me with any report you do on the solution.” Zach took his old card, which stated he was a deputy of Cottonwood County, State of Montana, out of his jacket pocket, scratched out his title—which was becoming a little easier to do—and added his personal e-mail.

  “I suppose,” the doctor grumbled.

  “There’s no one who wants to get to the bottom of this matter and out of your hair more than I do, Doctor,” Zach said.

  The man stared at him, nodded, then took his card.

  Zach ached to pick Clare up, hold her, and carry her up to their room. Couldn’t. Even with his good shoes and braces, he limped a bit.

  “That grinding isn’t good for your jaw or teeth,” Dr. Burns said to him.

  “I know it. Clare, honey, can you walk?”

  She looked at him, all soft expression, beautiful clear and unwavering eyes, mass of curly hair that she didn’t suppress anymore, making her downright beautiful.

  “Sure,” she said. She slipped from the table and walked slowly toward him.

  “How do you feel?”

  “All right.”

  “Can she eat as usual? I don’t think she had lunch.”

  The doctor nodded. “I’ll have someone bring up a light omelette.”

  “Thank you,” Clare said. She held out her hand to the doctor. “Thank you for all the care you’ve given me, Dr. Burns.”

  His face eased from deep lines. He took Clare’s hand. “You’re welcome. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will.”

  He shot a look at Zach from under lowered brows. “You take care of her, too.”

  “I will.” He linked fingers with Clare. God, her palm in his felt good! They walked without speaking to the outer office; Clare opened the door to the corridor. After they went through, he glanced both ways. No one else was in the hallway, though there seemed to be a little commotion down to their left in the great room at the end of the hall.

  “We need to discuss J. Dawson, maybe speak with him, too. You up for that?”

  Her hand tensed in his, then relaxed. “Yes. I don’t want to touch him, though.”

  “Where’s Enzo?”

  “I don’t know. He took off when the Other appeared and scolded me for not learning fast enough, not reading Great-Aunt Sandra’s diaries enough.”

  “Bullshit,” Zach said. “You’re moving fast enough in the ghost seer stuff.”

  Clare looked up at him with surprise. “You don’t use language like that.” There was a question in her voice. Since they were moving slowly and still some paces away from the great room, he gave her the truth. “One of the last things I promised my older brother was not to curse. You only cuss mildly, too.”

  Her smile was ironic. “Because every other word out of my parents’ mouth is foul. They are not Rom in that.”

  And her parents had hurt her with their selfishness. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back.

  “Something else we have in common,” she said, as if she needed to total up something in a “Shared Qualities” column. He wondered if she had a “Too Different” column for them, and he didn’t like the thought of that.

  They reached the great room and found much of the staff, Laurentine, Missy Legrand, and Desiree Rickman gathered around a happy teenage couple, a boy and a girl.

  “Do you know them?” Zach asked.

  “Yes. The boy is Ms. Schangler’s nephew, Tyler Jorgen.”

  Zach glanced at his watch. “He’s early for work.”

  She tilted her head. “Is he?”
>
  “Yeah, he’s the only one of the staff who was working at the time of your fall that I haven’t spoken to. I need to talk to him now. Who’s the girl?”

  “His girlfriend, Emily Johnson.” Clare paused, a little frown line twisting between her eyebrows. “I didn’t tell you about meeting them, did I?”

  “No. You can do that later.” They’d taken several paces to the gathering when it struck Zach—he recalled the crows he’d seen. “Crap. Wedding,” he muttered.

  “They’re too young to get married,” Clare said.

  But Zach got this terrible feeling in his gut that the crows—and he—were right. What a wedding had to do with him and Clare, he didn’t know.

  When they walked up, Tyler met Clare’s glance a little defiantly. “We’re getting married.”

  Zach had the idea that the only reason Clare didn’t blurt out something negative was because she’d had a few seconds’ warning. She smiled, but it wasn’t one of her best. “Congratulations.” Then she said, “You’re lovely together.”

  The young man’s brows wiggled at the word lovely, but the girl beamed. “Thanks, Ms. Cermak.” She nudged the boy with her elbow.

  “Thanks, Ms. Cermak,” he echoed.

  “Congratulations,” Zach said.

  The couple nodded. Zach saw that the only person who seemed less than pleased was his aunt, Patrice Schangler. Families. Still, something about the subtle way the couple interacted struck Zach as a good match now . . . and that they might be able to grow and stay together.

  Shifting from foot to foot, Tyler stared at the multimillionaire. “Emily and I want to get married next June. Would you . . . would you let us say our vows in that nice little meadow off to the east of the house? The one surrounded by pines? We’re not going to have a big ceremony.”

  Mr. Laurentine grinned and puffed up, taking on the aspect of a benevolent uncle. “Of course, of course.”

  “Oh my God!” squealed Emily. “Thank you so much, Mr. Laurentine.” She flung herself at him and hugged him, kissed his cheek. “This is so amazing!”

  “Congratulations again,” Zach said, then continued, “Mr. Jorgen.” The young man flushed as if he wasn’t usually called that. “I’d like to speak with you regarding the night Clare fell.”

  Tyler frowned. “Sorry about that, Ms. Cermak, anything I can do—”

  Laurentine moved close to the youngster and laid a heavy arm around his shoulders. The kid tensed. “Nonsense, Slade. What we need to do now is talk about the wedding. Isn’t that right, Tyler?”

  He flushed. “Yeah, sure.”

  The girl looked thrilled. “Oh. Oh. Oh! How wonderful.” She gazed at the teen with tears filling her eyes. Young Jorgen stood tall.

  “Please come and see me in Clare’s room after you’re done, Mr. Jorgen.”

  The young man met Zach’s eyes, his own a clear blue. “Yeah, sure.”

  “We’ll discuss the wedding in my office, where we won’t be disturbed,” Laurentine said, moving in that direction and keeping his arm around Tyler.

  Zach projected his voice. “Mr. Jorgen is the only one I haven’t spoken with about Clare’s fall.”

  “You don’t need to talk to him now, Slade,” Laurentine said, his jovial manner replaced by irritation. The girl looked back at Zach nervously as if he might wreck her wedding plans. So he kept quiet. Tyler had slowed his steps, though.

  “Besides, a deputy sheriff already talked to Tyler, didn’t he?”

  Tyler perked up. “That’s right. They woke us—me up at two a.m.”

  No, Zach couldn’t barge in right now. And he didn’t feel like hovering around Laurentine’s door to nab the kids when the couple came out . . . if they didn’t leave by way of the terrace. Dammit! He wanted, needed, to spend time with Clare, and figure out more about her accident. And J. Dawson’s death that might be the wellspring of the current problems. Clare could talk to ghosts, find out more from J. Dawson about his murder. Murder could echo through the years, smearing names and reputations.

  “Zach?” Clare asked.

  He needed to make sure she was fine physically and emotionally. In private, just the two of them.

  “It can wait,” he said, hoping that was true. There was no one for him to depend on in this investigation, no backup except Clare, and she was injured. Rossi had his own job and wasn’t an investigator. Nor was Desiree Rickman. “Come on, Clare. Your food will be waiting.”

  “I am hungry,” she said.

  “Let’s talk about Hidgepath, I’m sure all the present troubles link back to his murder,” Zach said. “Nothing happened until you were on the scene and folks knew you could talk with ghosts.”

  Desiree Rickman detached herself from the group. “I’ll go with you.” She smiled at Zach. “I’m a good bodyguard, too.”

  “You just think most of the action here is with Clare and me.” Zach gave her a hard-eyed look . . . and it actually seemed to affect her . . . for five seconds.

  Then she smiled and said, “Sure.” She came close and lowered her voice. “And you two are more my people than anyone else here except Rossi.”

  They’d reached the steps, and he took the stair rail side and reluctantly dropped Clare’s hand. Desiree crowded Clare a little as she took the wall side. Zach approved. They wouldn’t let Clare fall again.

  By the time they reached the door to her room, Clare was tired . . . but as if he’d heard them talking about him, a gray-toned figure stood outside it, dressed in a nice suit and his bowler hat. Beaming at a few small ivory-colored bones at the bottom of the door.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ADRENALINE SURGED THROUGH Clare as she studied them. “J. Dawson! Really!”

  He shrugged.

  “What’s going on?” asked Desiree Rickman, appearing fascinated.

  Zach put his arm around Clare’s waist. “J. Dawson Hidgepath is here.”

  Desiree crossed her arms, her mouth turning down. “And I can’t see him.”

  “Where do you get your bones?” Clare asked.

  He shrugged. They are with me, here. Then he frowned. Or perhaps I put them somewhere else in the space around me.

  She recalled what Enzo had said when they’d visited Geneva Slade. “Ah, in-between?”

  Some may call it that. I’ve heard the spirits say so. It may also be where I am . . . not life, not death . . . LIMBO! His voice rose to a ghostly shriek.

  Clare jerked, put her hand to her ribs, and swallowed. “Please don’t do that.”

  He stopped, stared. You are hurt! More hurt than you were.

  “An accident,” she lied. She didn’t want to get into everything with J. Dawson, though irritation throbbed through her in time with the hurt in her cheek.

  Desiree squatted on her heels and still looked gorgeous. She stirred the bones with her forefinger. J. Dawson must be running out of small bones and these didn’t look like any Clare recognized.

  “Ossicles,” Desiree said.

  “Left ear,” Zach added.

  Of course they’d know.

  “Eeeep!” The sound came from a female staff member who stared at the bones. The tray with Clare’s omelette tilted, slopping coffee. With a burst of energy she didn’t know she had, she lunged forward and caught it, steadied it.

  “Sorry, sorry,” the woman said, her eyes filling.

  Desiree scooped up the bones in her palm, hid them, and gave a bright smile. “All gone from view.”

  The server bobbed her head.

  “Thanks so much for bringing me a bite to eat,” Clare said.

  The woman drew a shuddering breath, nodded again, turned, and hurried away.

  “I hope she stays,” Clare said.

  “Hard to say. Dennis said he’d been losing staff,” Desiree said.

  J. Dawson watched with amusement.

  Zach slid the key in the door and pushed it open, gesturing for Clare to pass by with her tray. “Eat that while it’s hot.” Then he blocked the door so Desiree couldn’t get through.


  “This is private,” he said.

  “I can help!”

  “No.”

  Desiree said, “Doesn’t Clare get a vote?”

  “Clare is tired and needs to eat and sleep.”

  Which sure wasn’t what he’d said to her. Clare put the tray on the table and dug in. It was rude to eat when no one else was, but she was starving and the omelette was delicious!

  Desiree leaned around him and her voice became louder. “Clare, what you did for the Graws, mother and son, was very impressive.”

  Clare looked up from her food. “Thank you, but you’re still not coming in.”

  “Don’t you think Zach is being high-handed?” Desiree pressed.

  “Yes. But that’s between him and me. I want to eat and bathe some aches out and sleep.”

  “Oh, well.” The other woman hesitated. “Is J. Dawson Hidgepath still here?”

  “No,” Zach said at the same time Clare said, “Yes.”

  “I suppose you want to talk to him alone.”

  Neither of them answered her.

  “But can you point me to where he is? I’d like to see him.”

  Clare thought Desiree might want to touch him, so she said, “J. Dawson, the lady would like to shake your hand.”

  Zach moved aside so Clare could see the interaction.

  J. Dawson bowed, offered his hand. Desiree stared in his general direction. Then he moved forward, through her. His shoulders slumped when she gave no indication of his presence.

  “You just can’t sense ghosts, Desiree, sorry,” Zach said. “Come on in, J. Dawson.” Then he shut the door.

  “What about these ear bones?” Desiree shouted through the door.

  Zach opened it a bit and held out his hand. Clare heard the little clicks as the three bones were poured from one hand to the other. “Later, Desiree.” He closed the door.

  Clare glanced up. “Put the bones on the desk and I’ll take care of them later.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes. The bone box is on a shelf in the closet. J. Dawson, make yourself at home.”

  This is a very nice room. He sounded impressed.

  Zach dropped the ear bones on the desk, went to the curtains, and jerked them closed, making the room so dark that Clare turned on the light on the table. She didn’t like being away from the natural light, perhaps a holdover from the ghosts. Except for Enzo, she didn’t think the ghosts ever saw or existed in natural sunlight, or moonlight, just shades and shadows and tints of grays.