Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  “You need a vest.”

  Clare blinked. “A vest? I don’t wear vests.”

  “Kevlar,” he spat out.

  She frowned. Even she, who didn’t watch crime shows, would know what that meant. “A Kevlar vest!”

  Zach went to the side table with unopened water bottles. He wrenched the cap off one, drank it half down, gave it to Clare.

  “I’m not budging on this,” he said. He needed to do more investigating, talk to the deputies in person in Fairplay, and he had an appointment with Tyler Jorgen to talk to him about Clare’s fall before the boy started work later this morning.

  She wouldn’t want to stay in the room. Also, he figured either J. Dawson or she would wish her to visit his mine. What a mess.

  “You should wear body armor. It’s the smart thing for you to do.”

  “Really, Zach—” She scowled back at him, crossed her arms over her middle, her fingers spread instinctively to protect her ribs.

  He pulled out his phone. “I can get a vest by tomorrow through Rickman and have it messengered up.” Then he slipped his phone back into his pocket, pivoted on his heel, his knuckles tight around his cane. “No. I’ll ask Desiree, as a trained operative, if she has one.”

  “What?” Clare said. “No!”

  But he ignored her, went to the door, opened it, and said, “Stay in here.” He left, locking the door behind him.

  Clare simmered with anger. She wouldn’t be stuck in this room again all day long. How was she supposed to help J. Dawson move on just sitting in a darn room? So far, she’d had to be in a place significant for the ghost. Even though some of them could move around, the time and the place must be right.

  Not for me, J. Dawson said, appearing before her with a slight smile. I am different.

  “Different, how?” she asked.

  And Enzo was there, too, looking especially doglike today with no hint of the Other, which was a relief.

  I moved my bones around, J. Dawson said proudly.

  That makes a difference, Enzo nodded in an exaggerated manner. I, we, Sandra and me, never knew anyone who could move his bones around. Enzo’s tongue came out as he panted.

  “Probably never met anyone who wanted to do that,” Clare murmured.

  But I would like to show you . . . and perhaps Mr. Slade, my mine.

  Zach returned then with Desiree, who carried two vests—one was light colored and thinner, the other big and black and looked heavy.

  “Hi, Clare. I’m happy to help.” Desiree smiled.

  Clare studied her. “We are not at all the same size.” Desiree was petite; Clare was five foot seven, with a longer torso and more bust.

  “They’re standard, not personally tailored to me, so I haven’t worn them too often.”

  “I called Rickman and bought one for you,” Zach said.

  Her mouth flattened and she stared at him. “How much?”

  “They aren’t cheap. But if your gift is going to continue to stir up controversy in the present, you’ll need it.”

  “Pretty much my last priority for spending my money,” Clare said.

  “So I would imagine,” Zach said.

  Desiree gestured to Clare to stand up. Zach set aside his cane, took the large black vest, and dropped it over her shoulders. He adjusted the shoulder tabs and the wide Velcro waist straps.

  “I feel squished.” Her breasts smashed down, pressure on them as well as her ribs now. She scowled, tried moving, and didn’t like it at all. There was also a faint but noticeable smell of Desiree’s sweat. Ick.

  “It’ll do the job. Overt vest . . . goes over your clothes, and should stop a rifle bullet,” Desiree said.

  “Thanks,” Clare said dryly. She hadn’t felt so uncomfortable in ages, and she could already feel the heat building up under it. “You might not want this by the time I’m done with it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Too sweaty.”

  “That’s all right. I know how to wash it.” She began to sit in Zach’s chair and he handed the off-white vest to her. “Thanks for your help, Desiree.”

  With a roll of her eyes, she accepted her dismissal, but at the door she stopped and tossed Clare a serious look. “Use it, Clare.”

  Desiree left.

  Clare began to open the waist straps.

  “Was J. Dawson here?” Zach asked.

  She paused. “Yes, how did you know?”

  He rolled a shoulder. “Standard stuff, a chill to the room. I don’t think Enzo cools it down that much.”

  Enzo barked. Zach tensed.

  “Enzo’s still here,” Clare said.

  Zach sat in the other chair at the table and stretched out his legs. “What did J. Dawson have to say for himself?”

  “I might be able to help him move on anywhere, not just at his mine.” She finally got the straps pulled back, and the vest shifted enough to lift it, though her ribs protested.

  Then Zach was there, removing it. “He mentioned the mine, then?”

  “Yes.” She wiggled. “I don’t like this.”

  “I want you to wear this vest every time you’re outside this room.”

  She sent it a disparaging glance. “I don’t think so. It sure wouldn’t have helped before.”

  “Might have in the fall down the stairs.”

  “So you think a ‘hunting accident’ would be easiest?” She shuddered.

  “Yeah. Cop instinct.”

  She recalled him talking about birds, a wedding, and it had come to pass. “Nothing a little more solid? No little precognition bit?”

  His face went stony. He looked away, back at her again. “This is about protecting you. Not about me. I don’t want to talk about me.”

  “No precognition?” she pressed.

  “Logical, cop instincts,” Zach bit off. “That’s how I’d do it.”

  Wonderful.

  “Promise that you’ll use the vest.” He moved to stand and wrapped his arms around her, loosely caging her. It should have felt stifling since she was still irritated, but she felt shielded. She didn’t want him to shield her.

  He continued, “And you are absolutely going to wear it if J. Dawson comes through with the location of his mine and we go to find it.” Zach paused. “You think he remembers well enough?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Abandoned mines are extremely dangerous and there are plenty of them around. If he misremembers which damn one was his, you could be in trouble from other sources besides your attacker.”

  “I know.”

  All of his body touched hers. His scent drifted to her, the warmth of him heated her from the inside out, and his breath stirred her hair.

  “I don’t want you going with J. Dawson to his mine alone. Promise me that, Clare. Promise you’ll wait for me.”

  Clare wanted to. Instead, she said, “You know ghosts can be . . . urgent. And this is my primary assignment.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “PROMISE ME, CLARE,” Zach demanded.

  “I could be in dire straits if I refused to help J. Dawson. It might be that I can only send him on at the location of his mine.”

  “Or on the damn path he fell from.” Zach pressed against her. “You have a right to think of yourself, too. Make sure you put him off until I can go with you. Promise. Don’t be stupid.”

  That had her stopping her words and saying instead, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry,” he grumbled, not sounding like it. He turned her around in his arms, skimmed a hand from her hair down her shoulder, then her side. “I hate seeing you hurt. Even thinking about you hurt makes me crazy. Use the vest.”

  That sounded true enough to make her heart pitty-pat with affection . . . until a thought struck her. “Do you have a vest?”

  He stilled. “No. It was the department’s.”

  “Then you need one, too.”

  She saw his jaw flex. He stepped back. “All right. I’ll order one—”

  “For future cases.” She nodded. “And you will wear it if y
ou’re a target in any case.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Lifting her chin, she said, “Do it now, and I promise I’ll wear the darn vest.”

  “And you’ll call me before you go out to follow J. Dawson to his old mine and you will meet me before we go there and we will go up together?”

  A calculating look came to his eyes and she knew she’d given away too much in this deal. Well, she wasn’t sure she’d care to hike a steep mountain path and explore a mine or two on her own anyway. “Fine. And I’m not stupid.”

  “No, you aren’t.” He picked up the vest and put it on the table, straightening it so it lay flat. “Thank you.”

  “Order the vest. And I want your word that if I need to go to J. Dawson’s mine, it’s a priority with you, too. You put aside anything else.”

  He hesitated.

  “Okay, agreed.” He punched a number. “Rickman, about that vest order, I need one—” Zach stopped, listened. “All right. Later.” Zach turned to Clare. “We’ll have the vests tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yours will primarily be bulletproof. Mine will be body armor, capable of deflecting a knife, too.”

  “Good.”

  His phone beeped. “Time for me to talk to Tyler Jorgen.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Clare said, then told him about her encounter with Tyler and Emily.

  “Interesting. The closest stairs lead to the east side entrance of the house.”

  Clare grimaced. “Yes. I’m at the opposite end from the parking lot.” She arranged the pillows, took off her shoes, and gingerly settled on the bed. “I’ll see if I can speak to J. Dawson.”

  “You don’t leave the room without the vest.”

  She sighed. “I don’t leave the room without the vest.”

  He leaned down and kissed her thoroughly and left her with a warm feeling and the hope that she would be recovered enough for sex that night . . . maybe even that afternoon.

  • • •

  Zach headed downstairs, stopping to look at the view over South Park, simply so beautiful it hurt his heart. Yes, he was back home in Colorado. He heard the tones of Laurentine pontificating and continued through the great room and the west hallway to the side entrance.

  Much as he disliked Laurentine, he didn’t think the guy was the one targeting Clare. The man was not local, and he was used to making his money through wheeling and dealing. Zach didn’t see him with a pickaxe and dynamite.

  Tyler Jorgen was waiting for Zach at the edge of the parking lot, appearing nervous. Zach tried a disarming smile, held out his hand for a shake. The kid took it, and his grip was firm though his palm slightly sweaty.

  “Congratulations again on your engagement,” Zach said.

  Tyler grinned. “Thanks. So, like, what do you want to talk about?”

  “Just some follow-up questions about Thursday night. Why don’t we walk east a little?”

  Some of the cheer of the boy faded. “Walk east?” He glanced at Zach’s cane. “You sure?”

  “Yes.” Zach gestured and began circling around the back of the house. Both front and back walls had a lot of glass, but Zach had noted that the housekeeper tended to keep her eyes on the main door and the great room.

  “I usually go in through the west door,” Tyler said.

  As did most people other than Laurentine. “Humor me.”

  Shrugging, Tyler said, “Sure.”

  “So what do you do for Laurentine?” Zach asked.

  Another quick smile. “I’m a Tyler-of-all-trades. Whatever small jobs that need to be done that the ranch or Curly Wolf caretakers need help with. Feed the stock, handyman, I’m learning carpentry from my uncle Deke, Aunt Patrice’s brother, and I’ve helped with a little of the restoration. Always something to be done in Curly Wolf . . .”

  “I bet,” Zach said easily.

  “Bellboy,” Tyler finished. “I think that Aunt Patrice would like me to go into the hospitality business, but that’s her thing, not mine.”

  “And your hours?” Zach asked.

  The boy grimaced. “Whenever I’m needed. Strictly part-time and flexible.” His blue eyes met Zach’s. “I’m a good worker.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I’m saving up for college. Emily’s going to CSU in Fort Collins, and I don’t want her there alone. She got a scholarship, but I don’t—didn’t—study like her, so now I gotta work harder for the tuition. The family will help, of course, but it’s mostly on me, and I’ve gotta show good faith.” He shrugged. “That’s life. Mr. Laurentine pays well.”

  “That he does . . .” Zach gauged his witness. “For an ass—for a guy with specific ideas that don’t always make sense. Not always an easy employer.” It was a statement.

  The boy slid his eyes toward Zach. “I hear you. Aunt Patrice’s tough.” His eyes widened and he stared at Zach. “But fair. Very fair.”

  Zach nodded. “I got that from her.”

  They passed under Clare’s balcony but he heard, smelled, sensed nothing. A bird squawked and his shoulders tensed, just a magpie screeching at a chipmunk.

  They rounded the corner of the house, and Zach continued on down the faint path toward the breach in the fence, walking on soft dirt and needles beneath tall evergreens. Tyler looked at him uneasily but Zach kept a bland expression.

  “So tell me about Thursday. You were here during the day and the evening?”

  “Yeah, different times. One of the servers called in sick in the morning, so I helped with breakfast, with taking Ms. Cermak’s bag upstairs, and with lunch.” He glanced at Zach, who kept his gaze on the barely there trail.

  “Yes, Clare told me about meeting you and Emily.” Zach shrugged. “No big.”

  Tyler sighed, nodded at the trees ahead. “That’s the clearing where we want to be married. She wasn’t supposed to be in the house that morning, but I’d asked her to come. It was a real pretty day and I wanted to propose, but then I got too busy and she came to our meeting place and Ms. Cermac was there and . . .”

  All of Zach’s senses tingled with the prospect of new information. Vital information.

  • • •

  Clare sat on the bed, legs stretched out, with one pillow supporting her cracked ribs, the rest of the pillows her back. She sighed, then wished she’d thought to open the door to the balcony and let in some fresh air. Zach didn’t like her near the sliding glass door, but the house was built on a ridge with no others in easy distance. If she were the type to parade around in the nude, she could do it . . . though when she recalled the twenty-four hundred feet a rifle bullet could travel, she decided her lover had a point.

  Wiggling a little to get completely settled, she breathed in the pattern that Enzo had taught her. Her phone made a drum-whisk sound and she scowled at it. She’d assigned the noise to Mr. Laurentine and was having second thoughts about it . . . but she wouldn’t have to put up with it for long.

  “Hello, Mr. Laurentine,” Clare said.

  “I’d like you to walk down to Curly Wolf with me,” the multimillionaire said with a lilt in his voice. “I’ve had a report of a new ghost haunting the morgue.”

  “From whom?”

  Mr. Laurentine chuckled, “From a reliable source. So what do you say?”

  “Ah. I say that I’m currently conversing with J. Dawson Hidgepath about moving on, and would you like me to curtail that?” She infused the question with perfect sincerity.

  “No. That’s fine.” Mr. Laurentine cleared his throat. “How long do you think this will take? Perhaps when you’re finished? I really don’t think you gave Curly Wolf enough of your attention,” he said.

  She figured that what he meant was that she hadn’t enthused enough over his prize. Glancing at the face of her phone, she said, “I believe I’ll be done within the half hour.”

  “Fine. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

  Clare suppressed a sigh. “All right.” She wasn’t sure whether she’d go or no
t, but just getting out of the house and into the early fall sunshine sounded good, and she was getting better at tolerating Mr. Laurentine.

  “Later,” Mr. Laurentine said.

  She turned off the phone and placed it on the side table. J. Dawson? she called mentally.

  At your service, he said, appearing by the bed and bowing.

  “Ah, good to see you,” she said.

  Thank you.

  “I’d like to talk to you about moving on and”—she paused, eyeing him—“your, ah, demise,” she ended in a whisper.

  He nodded.

  “Do you need me to go to your mine?” May as well get that concern out, so she’d know whether she needed to call Zach. And she hoped the way was still passable and not too difficult to hike, and that she wouldn’t have to break many, or any, laws to get there, like trespassing.

  You don’t have to come with me physically to a certain place, Clare, J. Dawson said. I have not been tied to a place, or even one memory, not even the memory of my death. He smiled sadly. I have been a roaming ghost. If I was tied to a place, it would have been where my bones were interred. Now his mouth quirked. But they couldn’t keep me down.

  Clare groaned at the pun but relief sifted through her. With her last case she’d traveled to areas of Colorado and Wyoming.

  So, different strokes for different ghosts. It occurred to her that she needed to start a log book with a list of details, then cross-reference it to a complete report she’d write of the case.

  Clare? J. Dawson prompted. His expression had turned worried, and his ghost had begun to flicker agitatedly. You WILL be able to help me, won’t you? The distressing manner of my death didn’t put you off an association with me, did it?

  “No. Of course I’ll help you.”

  His shy smile returned, and she liked him all the better for the unstudied charm of it. He sat on her bed, leaving no impression. Taking off his bowler hat, he placed it beside him, slicked back his hair. If we try hard, you can see my memories. He sighed and Clare felt a chill puff of air. I am tiring, Clare, and ready to go on . . . but at the same time, I am afraid to let go of what little existence I have. His eyes were dark and appealing. I need to find my murderer, and need you to help me go on. It will be easier for me to leave if I am not alone, if you accompany me to the gate.