Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  “The gate?”

  For me, the way to the next world is through a tall, fancy iron gate. I’ve glimpsed it in the distance now and then. I need you to help me get there, and open it, and . . . and stand and watch while I go through?

  “I can do that.” She could. She would. The Other had accused her of not learning quickly enough, so she’d do whatever she had to so she could close a case. She raised her chin.

  Good! The word reverberated like a chord of multiple tones; one was Enzo’s, one the Other’s. The ghost dog had leapt onto the bed to sit beside her, and she didn’t look at him to see who or what might be looking out of his eyes.

  Instead she kept her gaze on the dead prospector. “You know, J. Dawson, that we think you were killed for your mine.”

  He nodded . . . and morphed in a silvery wave, then Clare noted he wore work clothes, tough trousers and work shirt, an old vest, and heavy, scuffed work boots. His bowler hat was nowhere in sight.

  I can show you my mine, Clare, right now, take you to it with me in this insubstantial state, even show you my memories. I could give the mine to you. Then his dazzling smile faded and his shoulders hunched. Well, I could have if I’d filed a claim, but I’d just found it, a hidden crack in the mountain. Such a thick streak of gold!

  “Wonderful,” Clare said.

  The phantom thinned as if with anxiety. Alas, it was also near the scene of my death, just a few hundred yards along the trail from my other mine. He became more visible so she saw the dark slashes of his brows lower. I was on the right track even with my mine. No doubt I could connect the two.

  “Showing me your mine and the scene of your death and your memories could help discover your killer, J. Dawson.”

  Yes, I will do that. He held out a hand.

  Dread squeezed her stomach because she knew the freezing cold that would come next, the strength that would be demanded of her, and the energy that would be drained from her. She swallowed hard and took J. Dawson’s hand. This would be a sample of what she needed to do to move his spirit on. But the whole thing could be faster and easier than going physically with Zach.

  The phantom’s hand felt like solid ice. An instant later the room dissolved and became the dark and rocky innards of a mountain. A lantern sat on the floor, barely illuminating the place, though Clare sensed the space wasn’t large. As J. Dawson had said, there was little showing it was an active mine; a couple of wooden braces was all.

  He drifted toward the back wall, tugging Clare after him. A gleam showed. Look at how large the vein is, his enraptured whisper came to her mind. He put his other hand on it, and the gold streak was nearly as large.

  “Impressive,” Clare said. She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore, and the chill of holding on to the shade crept up her arm.

  J. Dawson tapped a hole. See, this is where I took out my first two nuggets.

  A frisson went down Clare’s spine that had nothing to do with connecting with J. Dawson in the spirit world and everything she’d learned about greed as an accountant.

  Still smiling, the apparition reached into the watch pocket of his vest and said, I took one, then the other, out and carried them here.

  “What did you do with them?”

  • • •

  A revelation was coming, Zach knew it. He kept his entire body casual. “So, Tyler, you couldn’t propose to Emily on Thursday morning when you asked her to meet you in the clearing.”

  “No, Ms. Cermak was in the room.” His jaw went stubborn. “And who wants to propose in another guy’s guest room anyway? And while you’re on the job?”

  Zach shook his head. “Doesn’t sound romantic.”

  “No, and Emily had to head into town to work.”

  “So maybe you asked her to meet you late that night in that clearing . . .”

  Tyler flushed, hunched his shoulders while he walked. “Those late hours came up unexpectedly. I’d—Emily and me—had plans. But Aunt Patrice discovered that some shelves in the pantry had warped and wanted me to either fix them or find extras in a storage area, or take measurements to replace them. And she wanted it done right then.” Tyler shook his head.

  “Your Aunt Patrice is a formidable woman. Since you mentioned she’s interested in the hospitality business, I would have expected her to run her own hotel or bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Nah. Aunt Patrice doesn’t really need to work. She has family money and money from Uncle Jerry’s insurance. But she has a thing for beautiful things and houses . . . and Laurentine . . .” He turned red when he said that.

  The words the kid said about Schangler’s money rang true to Zach’s cop sense.

  His mind clicked through suspects, considering, eliminating.

  Patrice Schangler was local and had family attachments to Curly Wolf, but had enough money and Zach had seen her work, and work hard.

  Dennis Laurentine wasn’t local, didn’t need any money, and liked wheeling and dealing to get that money.

  And that left only one suspect, didn’t it?

  TWENTY-NINE

  J. DAWSON’S IMAGE rippled and he wore the very nice suit once more and his bowler hat. I bought the suit and the shirt and the hat the night before I died. Of the finest quality.

  A notion began to coalesce in the back of Clare’s mind. “And you paid for the suit with . . .”

  With the first nugget I pried out of my new mine. He rolled the nugget he held in his fingers, a grin on his face. It was the prettiest gold I’d ever seen. So pure!

  It gleamed yellow, not as ephemeral as J. Dawson. “I hear you,” Clare said. “So you hadn’t bought items with a nugget like that before.”

  He shook his head. No, and I never shopped at the most expensive store either. His flirtatious manner was back. Only when I bought a trinket or two for my ladies as gifts, but I couldn’t do that very often.

  “I understand. It’s a very interesting mine,” Clare said, looking around the small cave-like space again, and now that she couldn’t feel her arm up to her shoulder, she had to move this along. Clearing her throat, she said, “And could you show me the trail to your mine?”

  Her fingers were squeezed hard with searing cold. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she said.

  I kept the new mine secret. His shoulders straightened, his expression turned serious. I will show you where I was killed. That’s what we need to find out before you can lay me.

  Clare choked. “Lay you?”

  There are such things as ghost layers. Ghost seers and ghost layers. He winked.

  “Uh-huh,” Clare said. “I prefer ‘ghost seer.’”

  J. Dawson’s chin jutted. “Ghost layer” is the proper term in classical literature.

  Enzo piped up, vanishing from the bed to appear and rub against J. Dawson’s leg. Yes, because ghosts float or haunt so they need to be laid to rest. Ghost layers.

  We don’t have to rest, J. Dawson said.

  Clare kept her imagination absolutely blocked. “The trail, J. Dawson?”

  And suddenly they were there, on a steep ledge, and she was falling, and yanked back. “Eeep!” Clare let out a squeak.

  You have to be nimble-footed, J. Dawson said. It’s a mountain goat trail.

  “I see that.” The place was still gray shaded, but she saw a wide panorama, including other holes—other mines—in the opposite slopes and rocks, and flowers that would bloom in July but not September. “I’m in your time?” she asked.

  Yes, in my memories, he said. He gestured behind them, and Clare carefully turned on the trail. He pointed. See that small dark crack above those trees? That’s where my secret mine is. He pointed farther up along the path. And that’s where my older claim is. He float-walked toward a slightly wider spot. This is where I was ambushed and killed and my nugget was stolen, though the killer could not hold on to it. I FELT it in reality and pulled it in here, into this gray nonexistence. He began to sound sad with an edge of scary, so Clare asked, “You were going home from your mine?”<
br />
  Yes. I had spent time in my old mine, getting ready to close it up, moving some of my tools to my new mine. And, ah, working around the entrance of the new mine to, ah, camouflage it until I had time to get ore samples and file a claim. His feet shuffled in the path. I liked looking at the gold vein, and once I began working on it, the loveliness would be gone. I was done hiding the entrance and picking some flowers and had just straightened up when SOMEONE HIT ME ON THE BACK OF THE HEAD AND THREW ME DOWN THE MOUNTAIN! It came out a roar that shivered and nearly splintered the scene before her.

  • • •

  “So, were you outside Thursday night? Maybe proposing to Emily?” Zach smiled at Tyler Jorgen. They’d reached the clearing, dappled with sunlight and shade, dotted with wildflowers. “Right here?”

  “Yeah. Right here—” Tyler stopped, turned even redder.

  “It’s pretty now. Thursday night was mild. Must have been nice.”

  A long sigh from Tyler. “Yeah, yeah, it was.” Everything about the young man brightened again. “Big moon, though not full. Soft light. She looked beautiful. I just gave her a little diamond, but she said yes!”

  “Good job,” Zach said. He continued to walk beyond the clearing toward the break in the fence. Tyler lagged after him. “Did you see a truck near where Emily usually parks?”

  “Yeah. Big, red thing.”

  “Who does it belong to?” Zach was sure he knew, but didn’t want to lead the witness.

  “Huh?” Tyler scratched his head. “I should know, shouldn’t I?”

  “I think so.”

  Tyler gnawed his lip as they came into view of the fence that had been repaired. “Yeah. I know the truck. It’s just not the one he usually drives.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A head bob. “Yeah, we know it. Emily was peeved that it was in her spot, both when she pulled up and when I walked her back to her car before leaving myself.”

  “Who, Tyler?”

  The young man stopped and looked at the fence, at Zach, his eyes showing misery, fear. “Baxter Hawburton. He’s been behind all this, huh? But why?”

  “Nothing I can prove yet. But you’re helping—”

  “I don’t know—”

  “He’s hurting my woman, Tyler.”

  Tyler gulped. “Yeah, I guess he is.”

  “You didn’t tell the deputy sheriff about this.”

  Both of Tyler’s hands went through his mop of blond-brown hair. “The deputy woke me up. Woke us up. I forgot. Didn’t think about it.” He stared at Zach. “Didn’t really think about it until now.”

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind.”

  “Yeah.” Tyler dropped his hands. “Yeah, I did. Emily and I did.”

  “No one from the sheriff’s department spoke to Emily?”

  Tyler pokered up. “She doesn’t need to be brought into this.”

  “Not right now,” Zach agreed.

  “I don’t want Emily hurt either.”

  “Best if we pick Hawburton up to ask him a few questions then.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “The sheriff or his deputies, and me.”

  Relaxing a little, Tyler said, “That’s all right then.”

  “Trust me, I’m not going to do this on my own. Have you seen Hawburton today?”

  Tyler’s phone pinged. He flinched, turned back toward the house. “I’ve gotta get to work.”

  Zach stood, too, but repeated, “Have you seen Hawburton today?”

  The kid looked upset, his mouth set, then he said, “Yeah. I saw his old black truck driving up the road behind the ridge.” He hesitated. “That’s a circle road, and the only turnoff is the back way up to the ridge lookout.” Tyler flicked a hand toward the place Zach had met Clare and Desiree the day before.

  Zach’s blood froze. Perfect for a sniper.

  “Later,” Tyler said.

  Zach jerked a nod. “Thanks,” he said, and slipped the kid a fifty. “For your wedding fund.”

  The young man appeared surprised and flushed, muttered, “Thank you,” and took off at a jog back to the house.

  Zach couldn’t even croak a reply. He tapped Clare’s speed-dial. No answer.

  • • •

  She should wait, keep J. Dawson tethered to reality through her grip, but the cold from her fingers clasped with his was sliding from her shoulders down her chest. Soon it would reach her heart . . . and then what?

  “What happened next?” Clare asked.

  I died . . . but I stayed. I was so shocked that when the road appeared to the gate, I waited too long and it faded and I missed it.

  That’s not quite so, said the Other using Enzo’s form.

  All right! I was angry. I was furious that just when I’d found a good mine with a rich vein of gold, just when I would have enough to buy a house and pretty things for my Annie . . . or Lily . . . or Sarah, someone killed me! I wanted to hunt HIM down and kill him!

  And you tried, the Other stated.

  Yes. But I was not successful. In life, I could have found him, taken my vengeance, but not in the half life, in the grayness. That became despair.

  You held on to your anger too long, decades, said the Other. And to what you found in life . . .

  My nugget, my bones. I also sensed that no one truly missed me. Not one of the ladies I had wooed with flowers and poetry.

  “So you visited them and left them your bones,” Clare said.

  Yes, and I took my bones to others. The iciness took on agitated movement, a wind swirling.

  Clare thought of the gate image he’d spoken of. “And then the road to, um, ‘going on,’ disappeared.”

  Enzo barked and she believed he was only phantom dog now. Because the Other felt she had a handle on the issue? Whatever, she couldn’t stay in this cold space much longer.

  “You weren’t very good as an evil ghost,” Clare said. Mostly he’d been disgusting, but she wouldn’t tell him that if he hadn’t figured it out.

  I loved life, he said mournfully. I had so much to live for, and I wanted to stay, too. My future was assured.

  “Not anymore.”

  Another gusty sigh whipped around her, piercing her with ice shards. All right, now she could see the reason for wearing body armor. Or at least thick velvet scarves that kept her warm, like Great-Aunt Sandra had.

  No, not anymore. I lost my understanding of living, my verve. I lost my anger at who killed me, and got trapped.

  She bottom-lined it. “So you’re ready to go on.”

  His ghost solidified, a determined specter. Yes. When I know who took my life from me, I am sure the mists will part and I will see the gate again.

  Enzo said, Yes, you will. For sure!

  “So maybe we can determine who did it,” Clare said. And if they figured out who killed J. Dawson, it could lead to who was hurting her. With cold lips, she said slowly. “Can you show me the scene of your death in more detail?”

  The focus improved and Clare saw a small gleam, not the same gleam as the gold nugget. Keeping her teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter, she asked mentally, What’s that, J. Dawson?

  What? He hovered above the trail, looking down the steep and rocky slope where his body had been pushed.

  She pointed a finger trembling with cold. Her body had begun to shudder, but if she let go of J. Dawson’s hand, would she be thrown back into her own time without finding out what the gleam was? Or perhaps be trapped here?

  J. Dawson squatted. It’s a button. He scowled. I know this button.

  Clare did, too. She’d seen one like it before, but not as a button, as a bolo slide.

  It’s the button of the man who sold me my new clothes. What is it doing here? He wasn’t much of a prospector. He kept a SHOP.

  Realization came into J. Dawson’s eyes as they met Clare’s. I gave him a good gold nugget. He followed me that day, didn’t he? He came up behind me and killed me. FOR GOLD, J. Dawson spat. For MY gold.

  Hawburton! J. Dawson roared and vanis
hed.

  “Hawburton,” Clare said at the same time and released his hand and crumbled into the pillows.

  Enzo looked down at her, worry in his expression. Then she pushed upright, keeping her torso stiff so her ribs wouldn’t hurt as much. She felt sort of sweaty but not really, more as if she should be sweaty from the effort. And she just knew her hair was a fuzzy mass. She ran her fingers through it and little bits of ice broke off. “Good grief,” she croaked, and wondered what her new job would do to her hair. Perhaps she should look into getting conditioner made for especially arctic climes . . . was there a product like that?

  Aloud she stated her conclusion. “Hawburton’s ancestor killed J. Dawson. I suppose that Hawburton also laid those traps for me.” Darn it, she’d liked the guy!

  The pillows felt warm under her. “I suppose it was a family secret that the elder, maybe the first, Hawburton here murdered J. Dawson. And Zach is no doubt right. The villain—the current Hawburton—knows about the mine.”

  Feeling better able to move, she rotated her neck, shook her arms out . . . Enzo licked her cheek and it felt cold, so she knew she was recovering. “Enzo, what is J. Dawson’s state of mind?”

  Tilting his head, Enzo was silent as she pushed herself to her feet, swayed a little, but remained standing, just to move the blood around in her.

  He is angry, but not scattered, and not devolving.

  “That’s good.”

  It is very good. People who were murdered and become ghosts have a great chance of deteriorating and becoming very, very, VERY bad.

  “I think you said that before.”

  Enzo nodded. It is something you MUST remember.

  “Okay.”

  The spectral dog looked off into the distance. J. Dawson will be fine. He went to the mine and went to the store in Curly Wolf, but of course Hawburton is not there.

  “Probably lived in peace and prosperity all of his life.”

  J. Dawson has found THAT Hawburton’s grave and is cussing, but his curses mean nothing because the man’s soul and spirit are long gone.

  “Grrr,” Clare said and for an instant had an urge to deface a gravestone. Of course she wouldn’t but it didn’t seem fair that the guy had gotten away with murder for so long. She asked a philosophical question—one she’d been avoiding asking Enzo or the Other, “Um, Enzo, did he . . . did he pay somehow?”