Ghost Seer (7 page)

Touch it!

She picked up “box of unknown date and origin” and turned the finely grained wood in her hands. It was smooth except for the nicks and chips and occasional bad scratch, with several knots. No latch or other opening showed, and she realized it was a puzzle box. It could have been a block of wood from the heft of it. Frowning, she tried sliding each side of the box as she’d done with the few she’d seen before; nothing happened. But the longer she held it, the more it seemed to have a fizzy sensation on her skin.

You are touching a personal item of the primary ghost you are helping. You are progressing with your gift
, Enzo said, radiating more cold than usual.

Clare stiffened. She’d begun to understand when he was simply a goofy dog, and when he was . . . more.

We had to find a gun for John Dillinger, once
, Enzo said in a lighter tone, ear twitching a bit.
John Dillinger was one of Sandra’s favorite ghosts.

No, Clare was
not
going there, asking no questions, admitting to nothing.

Again she slid her fingers around the box. It wasn’t inlaid with multiple pieces, had no confusing pattern.

One of the auctioneers strolled up and glanced at Clare apologetically. “It
is
a puzzle box,” the woman confirmed. “But we weren’t able to open it, at least without the force it would take to break it.”

“Ah.” Clare nodded, glad to put the thing back down.

The auctioneer sighed. “Not one of our better pieces. We have some lovely antiques tonight.” She gestured at one wall.

Clare wished to appear casual in her interest in the box in case anyone was watching and might bid against her, so she strolled toward the wall of antiques.

It’s Zach!
Enzo barked.
Zach is here!
The spectral dog galloped away.

Now that he mentioned it, Clare’s gaze immediately focused on the tall man leaning slightly on the cane. He held it as if he didn’t need it at all, like it was a prop, though Clare knew better. A pang of pity went through her and she wiped any hint of it from her face.

An elderly woman standing next to Zach said something . . . and bent down to pet Enzo.

Zach’s head angled. He looked down, shook his head, gazed at the woman, then turned and stared at Clare.

Her stomach tightened and she flushed. She didn’t want to talk about Enzo to anyone, especially not Zach Slade.

C
LARE STROLLED TOWARD
the old woman, and the ghost dog that should definitely be a hallucination.

The woman straightened from her walker, which held a light designer bag fastened to the inside front. She offered her hand with a beaming smile and a sly, sliding glance at Zach. “Hello, I hear you’re a friend of Zach’s!”

Clare wet her lips. Zach stood extremely straight, a closed expression on his face. She took the woman’s hand, and the lady’s gray brows zoomed upward. “My, your hands are cold. Only to be expected of one with your gift, though.” She put her other hand over Clare’s and patted it. “Zach, introduce this young lady to me!”

Zach whisked a gesture from Clare to the woman. “Clare Cermak, meet Mrs. Barbara Flinton.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Clare said and a little
ping
went off in her mind. She knew of the wealthy Flintons. She opened her lips to tell her new acquaintance that she was an associate at a prestigious Denver accounting firm and realized that was untrue. Her shoulders slumped a bit.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too. And who is this fine fellow?” Mrs. Flinton braced a hand on her walker and bent down again to stroke Enzo.

Zach’s blue-green eyes darkened, with the green showing more. His brows dipped, though he kept the same expression.

“I don’t know,” Clare said, and caught a fleeting twitch of the lips from Zach.

I AM ENZO!
the ghost dog shouted, jumping up and planting his paws on Zach. The man flinched and Clare stilled. Surely he couldn’t—see? hear?
feel
that imaginary illusion.

“You’re a very nice dog,” said Mrs. Flinton.

Enzo stared accusingly at Clare. She lifted her chin and ignored his dark eyes that looked more like holes than she was comfortable with.

Zach cleared his throat and his gaze slid toward Clare. “We’re here on business.”

“Yes!” Mrs. Flinton straightened. “I’m looking for some family antiques. A few mid-nineteenth-century pieces my mother had.”

“A con,” Zach murmured. Mrs. Flinton didn’t seem to have heard him. Clare noticed hearing aids in her ears.

Clare met Zach’s eyes.

“We’re here on business,” he repeated, touching Mrs. Flinton’s shoulder, then nodded at Clare again. “And you? I thought you had furnishings coming from your aunt’s estate.”

“I do.” Again blood rose in her cheeks as she sent a swift look at the counter, which showed small, uninspired objects like the box.

Of course Zach noticed her glance. He frowned.

“I, uh, am acquiring a box for an, uh, out-of-town friend.”

His gaze sharpened. He’d noted her hesitation, too, and that seemed to pique his curiosity. She wouldn’t have minded except he might want an explanation that she had no intention of giving.

Drawing in a breath, Clare said, “I don’t see any mid-nineteenth-century antiques.” With Sandra’s estate Clare had gotten pretty good at judging furniture. She gestured and continued, “I see some twentieth-century reproductions of mid-nineteenth-century pieces.”

Mrs. Flinton stopped, turned her walker to look at Clare, eyes piercing. “Is that so?”

Clare shrugged. “So I believe.”

The older woman plucked the catalog from her purse, unfolded it, and pointed with a gnarled finger. “It says ‘nineteenth-century sideboard, wardrobe, and wash stand.’” She stared in the direction of one of the auctioneers and lifted a hand. The woman hustled over to Mrs. Flinton.

Indicating the furniture, Mrs. Flinton said, “Is that the mid-nineteenth-century furniture?”

The auction house woman looked at the furniture and frowned. “No. We don’t have any mid-nineteenth-century furniture tonight.”

Mrs. Flinton held out the catalog. “It says here—”

“What!” the woman exclaimed. “I don’t know how that misprint occurred.”

Clare’s attention shifted from the women to Zach, who thrummed with tension. His gaze was focused on a smiling man in a dark blue suit striding toward them.

Everything about Zach’s manner had changed, sharpened. He stood arrogantly, eyes narrowed, ready to take action. Clare stepped away, unsure of him in this mood.

“There’s Mr. Whistler!” Mrs. Flinton said, smiling and gliding with her walker a step toward the man.

Zach took two strides and set himself in front of her.

But Whistler’s toothy smile vanished and his rising hand dropped. He changed paths abruptly, and Clare thought he tried to make it seem as though he’d seen someone he wanted to speak with. He angled away from them, hesitating briefly now and then to drop a word in someone’s ear, then sauntered to one of the exits and left.

Zach began to advance after him.

“Well!” Mrs. Flinton huffed. “Zach, please stay with me.”

Zach hesitated, then stilled. He appeared predatory, nearly straining to follow Whistler. Then he muttered, “The client is always right. I
hate
this. I could’ve had him.”

Mrs. Flinton tilted her head toward Zach, brow wrinkling as if she hadn’t heard. Zach pivoted back toward them with a teeth-gritted smile of his own.

“Hmm,” Mrs. Flinton continued, tapping Zach’s muscle-clenched arm. “Shall we look at that silver I was prepared to bid on, with an expert?” She beamed at Clare.

Clare shook her head. “I’m no expert. You’ll need one of the people who work here.” Even with the crowd, she thought a staff member would be available for Mrs. Flinton. If Clare knew her name and status, so would the salespeople.

As Mrs. Flinton smoothly crossed the room to the silver, she gathered a middle-aged man who turned out to be one of the partners in the Compass auction house. They spoke a little about the silver; the man shook his head at the newly engraved initials on the pieces and pointed out that they were made to look old. Jaw flexing, he apologized to Mrs. Flinton for the quality of the work and stalked off to speak with his partner and brother.

Mrs. Flinton emitted a heavy sigh, moved to one side of her walker, and leaned against Zach. His arm came around her and he said, “I know you wanted these to be your family’s antiques.”

Her mouth turned down in a fierce scowl. “I wanted to hope. It’s mean to prey on someone’s hope. Zach, I want you to investigate where and when and how those pieces disappeared and what might have happened to them.”

He winced. “The trail’s long cold.”

“You can start with Mama and Papa’s last housekeeper, Mrs. Langford. She was young and came from a long-lived family. She might still be alive, or have relatives who might know.” Mrs. Flinton stared up at him, her eyes a deeper blue than Clare had noticed before. “And you can work with computers, too, right?”

“Yeah,” Zach said.

With a firm nod, the elderly lady said, “You’re part of Tony’s company. I’ll let him know that I want you to work on this for me.”

Zach had gotten a position already? What kind? A sliver of envy stabbed Clare. He had something interesting to do with his life. She . . . didn’t. And where was Enzo? Not that she’d missed him. She scanned the room and saw him sitting next to the box, apparently guarding it.

“Now we can see what interests Clare, here,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“No, really . . .” Clare began.

But Mrs. Flinton was off.

Zach reached down and clasped her fingers, causing her to glance up at him.

“Your hands
are
cool. Plenty of people here to generate warmth, but the air-conditioning is on, too.” He grimaced. “Not much drop in the temperature in the nights nowadays.”

“No.” She liked the feel of his hand, callused in places she wasn’t familiar with—from carrying a gun? Using it? Probably. She liked the tingles that went through her at his touch, too.

Most of all she liked the interest in his changeable blue-green eyes. They’d been hard when he stared at Whistler, but his gaze seemed softer now. He touched the thick strap of her sundress. “Pretty Clare.”

“Thank you. I’m naturally tan.”

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

For the first time that evening her blood heated to warm her. She nearly closed her eyes, the sensation felt so sweet. Her lashes lowered and she smelled him . . . man, and a hint of leather and just Zach. Very, very nice.

“Thanks. I find you very, very nice, too.”

Her head jerked up and her eyes popped open. She’d said that “very, very nice” aloud?

His lips had turned up in the first genuine good-humored smile she’d seen from him that evening.

Enzo yowled, and words formed in her mind.
The auction will be starting soon!

With a sigh, Clare moved away from Zach’s lips, so close that her own had tingled with anticipation. This was not the time or place to kiss him. And she didn’t want to show him the box or lie to him about it.

Mrs. Flinton aimed a wide smile at them, and to Clare’s pleasure, Zach tucked her hand between his side and elbow. He certainly was warm.

They crossed the room. She understood his slow pace and noted that he lifted his left knee more, only noticeable if you paid attention. His slow progress didn’t bother her, and all the rest of his movements were executed with muscular grace. She wondered how much effort it cost him to try to walk normally—and how small her problems seemed when she considered his. Well, maybe losing your mind wasn’t small, exactly, but she had hope that could be beaten . . . eventually. For right now she’d give in to the figments just to have her mind quiet so she and the psychologist could fix it.

Mrs. Flinton looked down at the box. “Interesting,” she said.

“How did you know what Clare was looking at from across the room?” Zach asked.

“The dog told me.”

Clare stiffened and attempted to school her face into the blandness that matched Zach’s voice, even as Enzo had risen to his feet and was rubbing himself on her bare legs. She couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“The dog?” Zach said. “You mentioned him before.”

The silvery-gray illusion that was Enzo sat in front of Zach and lifted a paw, though he looked at Clare.
She can hear me if I shout. And he can hear me if I try hard, too. You should tell him about me.

She wouldn’t.

Mrs. Flinton lifted her chin and answered, “The ghost dog accompanying Clare.”

Zach said nothing; he leaned on his cane and stared down at the box. “Junky box.”

Clare’s shoulders tensed, and she moved them to relax the muscles. “I know.” She pressed her lips together, then said, “But I promised I’d buy it, and I keep my promises.” Even to apparitions of her own mind. Maybe there was something in her that wanted this particular thing. Most of the events in her life lately had taken on a dreamlike quality. She hadn’t ever been the sleepwalking sort, but that could be another, a
different
, problem she was suffering. Maybe there was something in the box that
she
had lost and needed. It might even have belonged to Sandra at one time.

Plenty of other options than Jack Slade, the gunfighter who was a “real” ghost.

One of the staff clanged a bell.

Zach stepped away from the table, and Clare realized a couple of her fingers had curved into his sports jacket and she let her hand fall. “Shall we leave?” he asked Mrs. Flinton.