Ghost Seer (22 page)

 • • • 

That evening she sat on her front stoop. Most of her personal property was in boxes, ready to move.

Tomorrow she’d have a new view if she happened to want to sit outside on the front porch in the evening. Across a wide street she’d see the beautifully landscaped lawn and garden of a lovely house in the Spanish-influenced style. Not as beautiful as her new home, but nice.

And if she wanted to sit outside in the back, there was the bricked patio, the gazebo, or the lawn. With the twelve-foot-tall redbrick walls, she could make one corner of the yard a small secret garden. That might appeal.

She could have a pet. She slid her eyes toward Enzo, who lay, more transparent than ever, with his paws curled over his belly on the lawn going yellow from her lack of attention over the last week.

She’d like a cat.

A shiny black Mercedes pulled up in front of her house. The passenger door opened and a woman shot out toward Clare. “Ms. Cermak?”

Clare blinked. “Yes?”

Two seconds later the plump middle-aged
weeping
woman stood shaking in front of Clare, waving a photograph at her. “Please, please, Ms. Cermak, contact my Mary and tell me how she is.”

“What?”

“I’m Jennifer Creedy. Our . . . my . . . our daughter Mary. She passed on last month. Please. I need to know—”

C
LARE’S JAW DROPPED.
This couldn’t be happening. She looked around wildly, but who else could the woman be talking to?

“I heard you were a medium. I’ve tried everyone else, heard you were new to town.”

Standing, Clare sidled away from the distraught woman.

“Please, please, I need to know,” the woman pressed.

Know what? Her daughter was dead. From the glance Clare got from the picture, the child looked in poor health but happy. Why would her ghost hang around? Clare didn’t know all the rules yet, but she was certain that her gift didn’t deal with contemporary ghosts. “I can’t help you,” she said.

The soft thud of the other car door sounded and a man in an expensive dark suit, also middle-aged and portly, came up to them. He put his arm around the woman’s waist. “Jennifer, you’re babbling; lay it out for Ms. Cermak.”

“Oh. Oh!” More tears, sobs, and wailing. Clare
felt
her eyes widen in horror.

“I can’t help you.” She tried to back away, but her heels hit the stoop step.

“Shh.” Mrs. Creedy’s husband squeezed her, helped her lower herself to Clare’s concrete stoop. “Just calm down a little.” He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You said we’d take this slowly, and you jump out of the car when it’s still nearly running.”

“Oh, Bill!”

“I’ll talk with Ms. Cermak, why don’t I?”

Face muffled in the handkerchief, Mrs. Creedy said, “All right, Bill. Sorry.”

He patted his wife’s shoulder. “It’s tough.”

But his face hardened when he glanced up at Clare, jerked his chin to have her move with him a few feet away. He looked through the open door as he did so and his lip curled. “I don’t approve of you people. You
leeches
. But my wife needs reassurance. So I’ll give you a grand to tell her what she wants to know. Just do it, you fraud.”

“I’m not!” Clare’s voice rose. “I
don’t
see ghosts.”

Another black look. “You fucking lie.”

Fisting her hands, she fought for control, jutted her own chin up,
willing
back tears and staring at Mr. Creedy with hot eyes. “I cannot help you. I cannot help your wife. And I don’t need your money.”

“Look, woman—” Creedy grabbed her arm.

“You’ll want to let Clare go,” Zach said in a softly dangerous voice.

Creedy stiffened, dropped his hand, and swung around.

Clare hadn’t noticed Zach drive up.

Mr. Creedy flushed and raised his hands. “Fine, fine.” He appraised Zach and dismissed him. That informed Clare the man wasn’t as nearly as intelligent as he thought he was.

Enzo appeared, stared hard at the woman with those unfathomable misty eyeholes. The mantle of the
Other
was upon him.
Tell her it was time for the child to die.

Clare gasped.
Are you crazy! That’s . . . that’s horrible. And trite!

TELL HER. I can see what will comfort her. This will work for her.

Shivering with stress and the chill emanating from the dog, more to share comfort in this surreal experience than anything else, Clare sat down and put her arm around the sobbing woman’s shoulders. “It was . . . it was time for your Mary to die.”

The woman’s head came up. “Really!”

God called her to partake in the joy of being with Him
, Enzo said.

Clare would never believe such words if something happened to her child, never. She didn’t have such faith.

But Mrs. Creedy’s gaze had latched onto Clare. Being serious was not a stretch, nor was keeping her voice soft. “God . . . God called Mary to partake in the joy of being with Him,” Clare said, and hoped she wasn’t struck down for saying words she didn’t believe, couldn’t understand herself.

Mrs. Creedy’s expression eased.

“You should talk to your minister about this.”

“That’s what Bill says.” Mrs. Creedy turned to look at the men.

Zach stood with deceptive casualness; something about the way he held his stick showed Clare that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it as a weapon.

She stood and urged the middle-aged woman to rise with her. “Well, your husband knows you the best, doesn’t he?” She groped for more words of solace,
hated
this; it all made her feel fake. Terrible! “You have your husband, too. He is grieving, too.”

Zach’s face paled and his lips thinned. He’d be remembering his brother.

“Cleave to your husband, give and take comfort from him,” Clare said thickly, hoping against hope those were the right words to say. She thought of the photo and how cheerful the little girl had looked, summoned up standard sympathetic sentiments. “She . . . was . . .
is
 . . . joyful.”

“Yes, yes she
is
!”

Clare straightened to her full height. “Go in peace and with peace in your hearts.”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.” Clare had done nothing.

Mrs. Creedy turned and took a stumbling step to the car. Zach set his free hand under her elbow, helped her to the vehicle and opened the door. “Just you sit and rest, now,” he said.

The guy reached into his jacket and came out with a wallet. Clare moved close to him. “Don’t you give me anything. I don’t want it, and I certainly don’t deserve it.”

His eyes narrowed and his head tilted.

“
Take care of her.
Show a little sensitivity. Don’t bring her back, and don’t give my name to anyone. I’m not in the medium business. Just go away.” She flapped her hands. “Go. Now.”

With a shake of his head, he stuck his wallet back into his pocket and went to the car.

They drove away. Clare sank to the stoop again and put her head in her hands. “No, I am absolutely
not
doing any darned consulting! That was horrible and I didn’t know what to say and I couldn’t help them anyway!”

“He’s not grieving.”

“What!” She lifted her head and glared at Zach.

“He didn’t abuse his daughter, but he wasn’t interested in her.”

“How do you—cop instincts?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen plenty of loss and I’ve been on the inside of a family who lost a child. I don’t think Creedy wanted the kid, and he won’t miss her.”

“That’s awful.”

Zach shrugged and lowered himself to sit beside her.

“How did they get your name?” he asked.

The question jolted Clare. “I . . . I don’t know.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

Zach put his own arm around her and drew her closer.

“Cold?”

“Enzo . . .” Had she ever told Zach that Enzo wasn’t
just
a ghost dog? She didn’t think so, and this whole scene made her want to be as normal as possible. “Enzo said he knew what to say to Mrs. Creedy.”

Zach grunted, then repeated, “How did they get your name as a medium?”

Clare winced. “I’m not a medium! I don’t like that word.”

“What do ya wanna call it?”

“Ghost . . . ghost seer, I guess. Would Mrs. Flinton have told them about me?”

“Doubtful. She must have gone through similar scenes.”

Shuddering again, Clare said, “So despairing and desperate.”

“Yeah. You’ve kept your life pretty level,” Zach said.

She pivoted to face him, glare at him. “Have you forgotten all the crap I’ve been through lately?” Flinging out her arms, she said, “This wouldn’t have happened to me without my
gift
.” Tilting her chin, she said, “And maybe I like my life easy . . . as an adult. And as an adult I can
choose
an easy life.” She inhaled deeply. “Yes, my former life disintegrated around me and I’ll be rebuilding it. I’m dealing with the change. I’m handling it.” She
was
. “But I prefer to craft it according to my own plans.” That sounded good.

Enzo yipped.
You are doing good!

“Thank you, Enzo.” She met Zach’s eyes. “But I won’t be hanging out a shingle as a medium. Not like Great-Aunt Sandra did. And I certainly didn’t get the word out—however the word of something like this spreads—that I was open for business. I don’t want to be, or be seen as, some sort of fraud.”

You are NOT a fraud!
Enzo hopped around her.
Sandra wasn’t either!

“I want to take this slowly, what’s wrong with that?” Clare demanded.

Respect showed in his eyes, a corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Nothing. Word did get out, though. I wonder if they have your phone number, too.”

Blood simply drained from her face. “I’ve had my cell off.” She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt, glanced at it. “Fifty calls.
Fifty!
”

His smile became sardonic. “You’re the new sensation.”

“To heck with that!”

“Clare,” Zach said reasonably, taking one of her hands. “Who could have known about you?”

“I don’t know!” She jerked her hand away so she could rub her temples, then dropped her fingers and went back into the house. After Zach came in, she closed and locked the front door, then stomped to the backyard and the little concrete patio and picnic table.

“Who did you talk to about . . . your gift?” Zach asked, taking the seat opposite her.

Enzo barked. Zach looked in his direction, then away as if uncomfortable. The man had been great with the Creedys, but Clare got the idea his patience with paranormal stuff was wearing thin.

So was hers, but this was her life, now.

She turned her mind to the problem. “Like I said, Mrs. Flinton, Bekka, you . . .”

“Not us,” Zach replied.

“The only one I told about the ghosts was Dr. Barclay.”

“I can’t see that guy breaking client confidentiality.”

Clare shrugged. “His assistant and receptionist might have heard something while I was coming and going, but I don’t know . . . and I don’t know whether they’d gossip about that or not.

“Pretty juicy gossip, seeing ghosts. And one or the other of them could be a believer . . . unlike Barclay.”

Zach nodded, “Unlike Barclay.”

Clare sighed. “Maybe they thought that me seeing ghosts wasn’t illogical and a mental problem, but a . . . a real psychic gift.” The admission still felt bitter in her mouth.

“Could be.” Now Zach shook his head. “Useless talking to them, they wouldn’t admit discussing a patient.”

“No.”

“Anyone else?” Zach asked.

“I didn’t tell anyone else.” She grimaced. “Maybe someone at the auction house—”

“I don’t think so.” Zach grinned. “You were acting a little strange, but so were other people.”

“Oh.”

“Want some lemonade?” He came around and kissed her.

“Yes, please.”

“Right.”

“Um,” Clare said. “I can’t think of anyone else, unless, of course, the ghosts told someone,” she ended with forced humor.

Zach paused by the door, shook his head, and went inside.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so, either,” Clare muttered, petting Enzo, who closed his eyes and leaned against her.

When Zach came out again, he carried a beer and a glass of lemonade on a small tin tray in one strong hand. “Why don’t we wind down.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Eat in a while, and later . . .” He smiled slowly.

Her heart began to pick up beat. “Absolutely.”

 • • • 

She was up before dawn, moving what furniture she could and arranging it and organizing her boxes for the local movers to take from this fifties neighborhood to the more charming twenties one across town.

Zach had opted to sleep at his own apartment after another bout of sex, and that was fine with her since she liked to supervise her own way.

If all went according to her plans, her property in this place would be moved in the morning—the real estate agents had been happy to give her the code to her new home as soon as her first cashier’s check had cleared—Clare would attend the closing, and the huge truck bringing her share of Great-Aunt Sandra’s antique furniture would show up at the new place in the afternoon.

Clare hurried to the door and opened it, then set up the box fan, trying to minimize the heat. This would not be pretty, with her and men sweating during physical labor. She hoped the movers actually showed up on time at seven thirty
A.M.
for all their sakes. She truly didn’t think it would take very long if they were efficient, and they’d
promised
efficiency, the reason she’d chosen them, since they certainly weren’t the cheapest company out there.

A small square newspaper lay on her stoop, the tiny neighborhood paper. She went out and scooped it up, and hurried into the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker, one of the items she’d take in her car.

As she waited for the brew, she glanced at the paper, froze.

What is it?
asked Enzo, just appearing.

She just wanted to point to the headline, but figured even a supernaturally intelligent ghost dog couldn’t read. So she forced her lips to say the words of the banner and first paragraph:

BREAKING NEWS! THE GHOST, WAITING BRAVE, IS GONE!

Two evenings ago, for the first time since our little neighborhood was founded, a member of the local Paranormal Research Society phoned in that the Native American ghost who lingers on Purple Ridge has passed on to his just reward. Apparently, several people note his presence each day, particularly in the evening, and were surprised to find his shade missing Saturday at dusk.