Ghost Seer (19 page)

“Uh,” she said. Her eyes appeared a little unfocused, and that made a side of his mouth lift in smugness at her reaction to the kiss.

He flipped a hand at her and picked up his bag. “Later.”

 • • • 

Clare showered and dressed, then perused the most comprehensive biography on Jack Slade. The killing and mutilation of Jules Beni took place at Cold Springs Station, now in Wyoming. She spent a couple of hours researching the place and couldn’t find it . . . which made her more determined to discover the exact place, though the ghost of Jack Slade would know easily enough.

So she’d trundle once more back to the Western History room after touring the house she was interested in. Maybe she wouldn’t like the feel of it, or Enzo would be wrong about ethereal inhabitants.

But she loved it. Absolutely loved the place. As she walked through the small mansion it
felt
right.

We resonate well with the residence’s vibrations
, Enzo yipped.
This will be good for us. We will live here and be happy together!

Well, Clare hoped that sometime Enzo would move out, on, whatever. And was it foolish of her to eye the exercise room and the tiny elevator with an eye out for Zach? Not that she could see him bending his pride enough to use the thing.

Enough bedrooms for two personal offices . . . and, down the road in
her
life at least, a couple of children.

Enzo’s nails clicked up the back stairs; Arlene had seen Clare’s interest and knew her well enough to let Clare wander around without any prompting.

The master suite upstairs had a fine view of the country club, not that they’d let an assistant-accountant-cum-ghost-seer in: smooth green lawn, lovely old trees, golf course. Clare disliked the modern master bath with granite in gray and gray painted cabinets. Her least favorite color was now gray.

Look, look at the BIG tub! Big enough for two or three of me!
Enzo thrashed around in the spa bath as if water filled the thing. Great, now there was ghost water?

No, the bathroom furnishings would eventually have to go, but since they appeared to be new she’d live with them a few years until she couldn’t stand it anymore, much like her current house.

One small room off the master suite on the second floor contained a massage table. That might be interesting. She stretched her arms and shoulders, felt tension in her neck.

She’d lingered in the master suite, then descended the stairs again, hand sliding along the original carved wooden railing . . . and through a cool area.

Enzo yipped.
That is the ghost! Sandra could have seen her, but you can’t!

“Thank heavens.” Clare still heard Arlene’s voice coming from the opposite end of the house, wheeling another deal on her phone, so Clare could answer Enzo aloud. “Will you ask her if she’ll be a bother? I love the house.” She rubbed the newel post carved in the form of a large stylized pine cone.

She approves of you! You haven’t looked outside yet! Come here, come here, so I can show you something!

No, she’d concentrated on the inside, didn’t care for the staged furnishings. But she had a few family antiques at her old place and a truckload of Sandra’s coming shortly.

Clare went out the back door off the kitchen, glanced at the built-in grill setup, and thought again of Zach. Following Enzo, she crossed the fancily patterned brick patio to what must have been an early garage. Opening the door, she found a very nice room, a tiny kitchen, and doors that might be to a closet and half bath.

Enzo raced in circles around the room.
Look, look! A perfect consulting area!

S
HE STIFFENED AND
shuddered. “No!”

He stopped and sat in front of her with a shocked expression, the fur over his brow ridges wiggling.
But you must consult.

“Must I?” she snapped. “And I
will not
talk about this right now. Not at all in the near future. Give me a little time, can’t you!”

The doggieness began to be replaced in his eyes, and she turned and walked away, striding across the patio and back into the house.

Arlene came toward her with a huge smile on her face, a smile that faded when she saw Clare’s expression. She swallowed and disappointment flitted across her features. “Ah, then, I’m sorry this didn’t work out—”

Clare guessed she was berating herself for not staying with the client and letting the sale go sour.

“No,” Clare said gently, yanking her emotions back on track, ignoring the silent presence of the dog when he strolled in. “I like this house very much, but the price is too high.”

“Let’s see what we can do,” Arlene said.

Clare and her real estate agent drove to a nearby restaurant and talked numbers. Since Clare wished to move in immediately, she finally decided to pay cash for the house. A huge amount of cash at a figure that caused a lump in her throat but wasn’t what the sellers were asking, so she thought she got a little deal at least. Arlene danced out of the café to push everyone around and get the closing done in three days counting today, which she thought would work. Clare figured she could get her old house ready for sale in a month.

The end of this month approached rapidly and she’d be making a trip to southern Wyoming. Maybe. Deep in the back of Clare’s mind was the niggling thought that maybe the specter of Jack Slade might not be able to find her if she moved. Particularly if it were to a place that was nothing but vacant plain when he’d lived.

On the other hand, the man had managed to set up stations across five hundred miles of open plains, so he was accustomed to the emptiness of the West.

She ate the last bit of croissant, leaving a fifteen percent tip because the place was mostly self-serve, and waited for the cab outside the restaurant. She’d like living in the area, though it would be faster to get around by bicycle than walking. They said you never forgot how to ride a bike, and maybe she would learn that firsthand. She’d like one with a good-sized basket.

As she waited, she realized she wasn’t as cold, and Enzo seemed to feel like he didn’t have to stay as close to her as he had. He hadn’t brought up the idea of consulting again.

Still, if she tried, she could feel his location in her mind, like a chill spot in a certain direction.

She’d accepted that she could see ghosts. Other people had that same gift. It had been described throughout history; she wasn’t alone.

The cab drove up and she got in. Enzo caught up and galloped into the backseat with her, grinning and panting.
See, see! You are better now.

Clare
had
noticed that there seemed to be a lot fewer phantoms on the streets heading back into downtown.

Mostly you will see people you can help at this time
, Enzo said.

Is a time element always involved?
Clare asked, glad she’d also slipped one of Aunt Sandra’s journals into her briefcase so she could come up to speed on the rules of this new life of hers.

The dog nodded with no hint of that huge
Otherness
that sometimes spoke through him. The huge, weird, strange, awesome
Otherness
. She wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but did want to avoid whatever
it
was if at all possible.

When she left the cab at Civic Center Park, she enjoyed the simple green and yellow of the day—green trees and grass and yellow sun. All right, there was blue sky with huge white cumulus towering-castle clouds, and the gray of the flagstones, the multicolored library and the odd angles of the art museum. None of which she’d been able to appreciate much since she’d gotten onto this roller coaster of strange.

This time when she walked through the park to the library, no ghosts pressed around her. Nobody curtseyed or tipped a hat, sauntered or strolled with her. Except Enzo. He heeled like a real dog.

The ghost must also want to pass over
, he said.
Some are afraid.
He sighed gustily, spraying droplets of vanishing, ectoplasmic goo all over. See, she was accepting this with so much grace she could make jokes. Ha. Ha.

Enzo accompanied her into the library for once, and for an instant she thought he’d abandoned his doggie ways, but he ran back and forth along the long entrance hallway barking his head off. It was interesting seeing who reacted to him. The security guard in the entryway had given him a squinty-eyed look.

Clare took the elevator to the Western History room accompanied by Enzo and nodded to the faces becoming familiar. Ted Mather smiled at her, and a bit of relief released from her. It was hard to work in a tense environment, so she was glad he’d agreed to disagree with her.

She zeroed in on finding Cold Springs, but despite her newfound skill with the materials, she couldn’t locate the place. When Arlene called to give her the appointment for closing on her new house, Clare decided to quit and went to a salad place near the library and art museum for lunch.

She was finishing up her sparkling water in the courtyard when she was approached by the ghost of a little girl. Clare choked. Feeling good for a few hours had lulled her mind into forgetting her new circumstances.

When the child, surely under ten years old, looked at Clare, her eyes were like silver fog, glints in mist.

All right. Clare could do this. She could help the little girl . . . move on. Pass over. Walk into the light, whatever.

You can DO this
, enthused Enzo.

Clare sat straight and smiled at the apparition, hoping she didn’t look scary.

But the little girl bounced over to her. Not like any kind of walking. Clare swallowed. “Can I help you?” she asked softly, not moving her lips much. A lot of people had taken a break in the courtyard.

Nodding, dark curls bobbing, the girl said,
Have you seen my hoop? I need my hoop before I can go.

Clare cleared her throat and thought of the one “rule” she knew about this whole strange mess. “Did you . . . um . . . die late in the summer one year?”

The girl’s eyes slid in Clare’s direction. Wasn’t she supposed to ask about death? Did that bother them? She didn’t recall that it had bothered Jack Slade, though it been a while back that she’d mentioned it.

“I’ll look for your hoop,” Clare said. She blinked and blinked again, trying to slip into that other “sight.” The girl was much more defined than anything else . . . buildings rose, wavered, vanished . . . and what happened when there was more than one set? Clare didn’t know what had been here
when
the girl had been here.

I lost my hoop and my life when the moon was nearly dark
, the girl said suddenly and from right beside Clare’s knee. Clare started.

“Oh.” There was timekeeping and timekeeping. A monthly ghost? Who knew? And Clare suddenly wanted this
over
. With another big breath, keeping her own eyes narrowed to focus that other world, she scanned the area. Yes, a hoop! A wooden hoop, about half the size of the girl, who, Clare saw, held a small stick. All right. She could do this.

You can do this!
Enzo cheered.

Getting up, focused on the light gray hoop, Clare scuttled through real people and ghostly shades. Those who weren’t ready for her help? Weren’t at a time when she could help? Later, she’d think about all that stuff
later
. She had a job to do right now.

The wooden hoop lay on the ground. Could she touch it? Clare didn’t know, but she curved a hand around it. . . . like closing her fingers around a searing dry icicle. She clenched her teeth and straightened, feeling like she was ripping the object away from sticky ground.

A loud squeal came:
I can see it! I can see my hoop!

There came little pattering footsteps and the girl grabbed the hoop. More ripping, this time like a layer of flesh from Clare’s palm as she released it. Tears stung her eyes at the pain. Setting her hands on the top, the girl jumped through the hoop, feet first. And disappeared.

Hoop and girl rippled in a shocking burst of color in what had become a sepia beige-and-brown world, then vanished.

Clare stood panting, her mind spinning. “Enzo?” she croaked.

Yes, Clare?

Clare settled her mind to pluck words from the chaos.
Are there other, um, beings than ghosts?
She wasn’t sure where that idea came from. But she was trembling now.

Yes, Clare
, Enzo said in that deeper-than-doggie voice he used sometimes.

“O-kay.”
Like you, for instance?

Perhaps. And like the one your great-aunt Sandra called John Dillinger.

“Clare, are you all right?”

It was Ted Mather who’d put his arm around her shoulders . . . and that was when she realized she was swaying. Darn it!

He didn’t smell or feel right, so she made sure her feet were under her and drew away. Her right hand still curled against pain, she took the couple of paces back to the bench she’d been sitting on that still held her bag. No one else had taken the spot and it didn’t look as if anyone had stolen anything. How much time had passed? To her it seemed like just a few minutes, but it could have been any amount of time. Any at all.

Her heart thundered, pulse rushing in her ears.

Ted followed. “You haven’t been looking good lately.”

For sure a clammy sweat covered her, too. Would that always happen? She used a controlled fall to hit the bench, swung her body around more as if she were a puppeteer than by control from her brainpan. She put her feet on the ground, straightened her spine, made her face pleasant, and looked up at Ted.

Not for long, since he dropped down beside her on the bench and she bit the inside of her cheek not to protest.

“I think I might have a summer cold.” She tried a cough, and it came out far too easily, and racking.

He frowned. “You should be home.”

“I’m in the midst of moving.” To her delight, her offer had been accepted and Arlene had set up the closing rapidly . . . three days. Clare had checked in with her brother, who’d been packing up the moving trucks from Aunt Sandra’s house—had Clare only left there a week ago? And he would have the truck bring everything to the new place on the same day.

She
should
be working on the move. She should be sorting stuff in her old home—the sentimental and valuable to keep, everything else to go to one of the thrift stores. She hadn’t packed her house with items . . .

“Clare!” Ted demanded her attention.

She twitched up a smile. “Yes, you’re probably right. I should go home.” She stood, and even though it wasn’t ladylike or professional, she needed a good stretch. Since she was a weird ghost-seeing person with no job, she had little image left and really worked her muscles, reaching her arms toward the sky.

Maybe she’d take up yoga. Great-Aunt Sandra had loved yoga.

After shifting her shoulders and shaking out her feet, she
did
feel more like herself—her changing self. Still, she managed a sincere smile at Ted. “Thanks for your concern, Ted.”

He offered her a bottle of unopened mandarin orange fizzy water. “Here, I got you this.”

“Thank you.” She twisted the top off, and drank deeply. “Very good, thank you.”

Shrugging, he said, “I didn’t want you to think I was a loon about that stage robbery. You’re right, I have to check better sources.”

She was the loon. The taste of the water went flat and her eyes went beyond Civic Center to focus on the skyscraper that had held her old office. Right now she
yearned
for some nice books to balance. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said. Quitting her job hadn’t been one. She feared she wouldn’t be able to function in an office environment anymore, and someone else had needed her job to survive. She didn’t.

She wasn’t quite sure what all she needed to survive, but money wasn’t an issue anymore.

“You’re quite welcome for the water,” Ted said, but he looked disgruntled, as if he didn’t like her daydreaming.

“I feel much better. I think I must have made a turn in this sickness.” Not a sickness, not a craziness, just an affliction for the rest of her life. And she’d break up the time packing boxes with genealogical research. Aunt Sandra had lived into her nineties; what of the others who accepted the gift?

Ted’s deepening scowl impinged on her. “Thanks again. Take care,” she said.

“Yeah. Will we see you in the Western History reading room soon?”

He was
not
hitting on her. No such vibes, and even the thought . . . ewwww.

She’d have given him another cough if she hadn’t just said she thought she was getting better, and all too easy to start coughing and not quit. Instead she shook her head. “No, I think I’ll rest at home. I left the desk in the Western History room tidy enough.” The librarians and docents preferred to reshelve books themselves.