Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) (13 page)

Enzo yipped.
Hello, Dora!

“It’s free period and I’m outside and I can turn my phone on . . . and you’re an approved adult anyway,” Dora said. “So Dad and Mom didn’t block your number during the day.”

“Uh-huh,” Clare said.

“You’re my auntie and an emergency contact.”

Clare winced. Of course she’d drop everything and head for Virginia if Dora needed her, but just like any adult, she didn’t like the idea that Dora might have to call her in an emergency.

Dora grinned. “I guess you looked in the box. Isn’t it a-
mazing!
I made sure it got to you.”

“I’m not too fond of dancing skeletons, Dor-ee.”

Girlish laughter rolled from the phone. “Maybe you can send it back to me, then.”

“Maybe I can. You wanted to speak with me?”

The girl’s eyes rounded, her glance slid away, then back. “Auntie Clare, you sent me—us—a video that GG-Auntie Sandra left for us.”

Clare sat. “Yes, I did.”

Dora hesitated, then said, “You didn’t send all of the videos, did you?”

Clare’s spine stiffened. Great-Aunt Sandra had left a multitude of videos, for various circumstances: to her brother and his wife if Clare went crazy, to Clare’s brother and his wife if Clare had reached the point of no return as her health deteriorated from not accepting her gift and she died.

There had been four videos for Dora—doomed to receive the ghost seer gift after Clare, as it stood now. The thought of a special daughter or son wisped through Clare’s mind.

She answered Dora. “No. I didn’t send all the videos.” She’d only sent the ones that had applied to the situation.

Dora wriggled. “I want to see the ones addressed to me.”

Clare opened her mouth, then changed the negative that immediately came to mind. “I haven’t viewed them, and
if
I view them, I will talk to your parents about whether to send them to you or not.”

Brows down and her lower lip out, Dora stared at Clare. “I want to see them. GG-Auntie Sandra was talking to me about the Cermak Gift, and ghosts.” Dora’s square chin angled up. “She wasn’t talking to
you
about them ’cause you wouldn’t listen.” Dora narrowed her eyes. “But
I
want to learn. I need to know.”

“I’M NOT SURE
of that.” Clare’s insides trembled. She still thought of her psychic power as more of a curse than a boon and wouldn’t inflict it on anyone, let alone her beloved niece.

“Auntie Clare—”

The landline house phone rang and Clare guessed it might be Dennis Laurentine. Enzo flickered, then faded away, obviously not interested in listening to the multimillionaire.

Clare said, “I have a client. I have to go, penyaki—niece. We’ll talk later, latcho drom.”

Dora ducked her head with a serious expression. “Latcho drom, Bibio Clare,” she replied with the standard “good journey.” Her app closed.

With a sigh, Clare answered the phone, glad she didn’t have to look at Mr. Laurentine. She moved to the desk and noted down the time as on the job.

“This is Dennis Laurentine.”

“Hmm,” Clare said, though unlike last night, she thought she recognized his voice. She looked at the readout on the phone. “This is also the same number someone called me from last night.” She couldn’t prevent a smile, but kept it from her tone. “Perhaps we need a password.”

A hiss came over the speaker. Yes, she’d heard that frustrated hiss before from Mr. Laurentine. “I’m paying you six hundred dollars an hour,” he snapped. “You think I’d tell anyone how much you’re hosing me for?”

“I’m not,” Clare said primly. “You signed a contract with Tony Rickman for my services. You’re paying him.” Though she was getting more of the fee than was usual for contract workers. She cleared her throat. “You may tell me to leave at any time.” She paused. “I have bones from a hand, a foot, as well as several toes that I will be glad to leave with you and your men for interment.”

This time the man literally growled. Clare waited. There was a heavy sigh, then Mr. Laurentine said, “Ms. Cermak, would you please meet me in the great hall? Would you like me to send someone to escort you?”

“My pleasure, Mr. Laurentine, and I can find my way there,” she said. “I’ll watch the other doors along the corridor so no one pops out at me”—no one alive at least—“and you’re expecting me and it’s your house so you know how long it takes to get from the jade room to the great room. I’ll be there in just a moment, sir.” And she’d had no idea how being near the end of the hall still rankled.

“At least you’re respectful on the surface,” he grumbled. “See you shortly.”

Like last night, she didn’t hurry, but this time she watched her step extremely carefully on the stairs—and under the eyes of those gathered below—Dennis Laurentine, Missy Legrand, and Patrice Schangler.

Mr. Laurentine posed against the back of a chair near the fireplace, in a space not quite big enough for two. Missy Legrand sat on the high hearth with crossed legs and a tight skirt sliding up to just below her crotch. Patrice Schangler stood near the big double doors.

As Clare walked up to him, Mr. Laurentine said, “You found more bones?” His smile was false, his eyes laser-like.

Clare nodded. “Do you have cameras in the house?”

He gave her a wintry smile. “Of course, but I don’t have them on except during large house parties. I suggest you leave the investigation of your accident to the sheriff and Slade. And did the ghost of J. Dawson accompany his bones?”

“I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“You saw him last night. What did he say about his hauntings?”

“We didn’t speak about that. We spoke of death and transition. Would you like a report of the conversation?”

Mr. Laurentine flinched. “That’s not necessary.”

Clare inclined her head. She didn’t want to lower herself to the chair and jar her ribs so she sat on the rounded leather arm of a chair that faced the double doors.

“Shall we adjourn to your office to speak about my fee? I’ve started an itemized spreadsheet of my hours on and off the job—”

He jerked his head in a negative. “Fee’s set. I called you down to meet someone, a new guest.” He smiled with real pleasure. Missy Legrand stiffened and turned her head slowly to stare at him. “She’s on her way up from the guardhouse.”

Patrice Schangler shifted in place near the door, ready to open it when needed. But she missed her cue. The doors were flung open and one of the most stunning women Clare had ever seen strode in. She wore tight, faded denim jeans, a long-sleeved red top with inset white lace against gorgeous café au lait skin, and high-heeled boots of dark brown leather that came up to her knees.

Her face showed the beauty of mixed races, with long and slightly tilted deep brown eyes, arched black brows, and long black hair with hints of mink brown.

In general, Clare liked her body, thought of herself as womanly, soft with full breasts, a narrower waist, curvy hips. This woman was leaner, with defined muscles, and an air of complete competence. Clare suddenly wanted to have a body like the new guest’s, though it looked like it would take a lot of work.

“Hello, Laurentine.” The newcomer inclined her head toward the multimillionaire. She turned to look at the housekeeper, who nearly vibrated with intense emotion. “Hello, Patrice. Can you have my duffel taken upstairs, please?”

The moment and the atmosphere turned into one of those crystal-clear stage-like scenes for Clare . . . knowledge screeched along her nerves that the three other women here had slept with Laurentine.

She hoped her face revealed none of the shock or distaste, but she did fade back a step, drawing the new arrival’s attention. The unknown lady flashed Clare a smile full of fun that nonetheless showed perfect white teeth.

Missy Legrand had stiffened and strolled over to Mr. Laurentine, threading her arm through his the instant he pushed away from the chair. He disengaged and sauntered a few paces to embrace the striking woman.

Clare was not surprised to see how easily the newcomer evaded him, but managed a kiss on his cheek, and caught his hands with her own.

“It’s good to see you, Desiree,” Mr. Laurentine said. “What brings you here?”

Of course she’d be named Desiree.

“Why, Dennis, you always said I could drop in on you anytime. I needed a break from the city.”

Clare blinked. Desiree’s voice was higher than Clare had expected; she’d thought she’d hear low and husky. Clare wondered which city she needed a break from, Los Angeles . . . New York . . . Paris. The woman had a slight accent Clare couldn’t place.

With a smooth move like dancing or martial arts, Desiree turned and slid away from Mr. Laurentine and slipped one of his arms around Missy’s waist, then stepped out of the man’s reach. Desiree winked at the actress.

Missy’s brows rose and her lips twitched upward.

“Like I said, I needed a break,” Desiree said with a smile at Missy, then gave the same smile to Clare, who blinked.

“And to keep an eye on things,” Desiree ended.

A disdainful sniff came from Patrice Schangler, who was fiddling with her diamond watch, and jolted Clare into recalling the woman was there.

“I’m not paying you, am I, Desiree, as a security consultant?” asked Mr. Laurentine with an edge of suspicion in his tone.

The woman laughed. “Not this time.” Her brown eyes sparkled, and with a lilt of glee, she said to Clare, “I’ll bet no one’s shown you the highest lookout point on the ridge, have they? Come on, let’s take a walk.”

Clare blinked as she realized that “keeping an eye on things” might refer to the assault on her last night. “You’re correct. I haven’t explored any of Mr. Laurentine’s estate.” She didn’t move.

Another laugh from Desiree, with head tilted back and beautiful throat shown, though Clare sensed the woman still observed everything from under her lashes. When she finished the rippling laugh, Desiree held out a long, fine-boned hand to Clare. “I’m Desiree Rickman. Tony is my husband.” The laughter in her voice smoothed into a proud smile.

Clare finally noticed a thin, engraved gold band on Desiree’s left ring finger. “Oh.”

“Let’s walk and talk,” Desiree said, exuding charisma. Clare felt like she was sinking into a vat of effervescent syrup for the third time and going under. In no way would she be able to keep up with this woman.

“All right,” Clare said, but glanced down at her frothy sundress and sandals. “I need to change clothes and shoes.”

“I’ll wait.” Desiree put her hands on her hips, pivoted on one of her high heels, which Clare had no doubt the woman could stride up any hiking path in existence in.

Turning slowly and studying the room, Desiree Rickman said, “Dennis, your house looks great. I didn’t visualize this when I saw the plans five years ago.
Very well done.
”

Mr. Laurentine beamed. “Thank you. Let me, uh, us, show you around. Patrice?”

“I have work to do. I’ll get your bag.” The housekeeper slipped from the room. Mr. Laurentine shrugged, made a sweeping gesture. “Take a good look, Desiree.”

“I’ll be right back,” Clare murmured. Yesterday, she’d have taken the stairs fast. Now she scrutinized each step before she set her foot on it.

When Clare returned to the great room, Desiree Rickman was talking to Rossi and the man who Clare recognized as the main caretaker of Curly Wolf, and a security guard. Clare was sure Desiree drew a small crowd of men—anyone—within her range. She had that kind of charisma, and seemed a sociable sort.

Desiree nodded to Clare. “Let’s go. You’ll love the view.” With a smile for her admirers, she strode out the door and Clare trailed after her dubiously.

Once they were away from the house, Clare felt Desiree’s scrutiny but said nothing as they walked up the hill. The path wasn’t too arduous an incline and was wide enough for two. Most of the way had a rising hillside to her left and a steep drop-off to her right. Desiree took the outside.

Fifteen minutes later, they’d hiked up and along the ridge to a craggy point that was only slightly taller than the house. There Clare found a bench had been set in concrete atop a rock outcropping. The seat was wood, the arms and back were curlicued iron, showing the initials DL in the top. Any small trees and brush that would have blocked the view of South Park basin had been cleared. The wide mountain valley rolled out in front of them, showcasing the north fork of the South Platte River, which wandered through the yellow-grassed landscape.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?” asked Desiree.

“Yes.”

To the right, and below them, she could see the peaked roofs and false fronts of Curly Wolf, then the winding and manicured drive from the DL Ranch into the valley, then South Park itself.

Desiree said, “I wanted to introduce myself to you and welcome you to the Rickman Security and Investigations family.” She met Clare’s eyes. “And let you know you can trust me, in every way.”

Desiree sat first, and Clare looked out at the view and soaked in the quiet before taking a seat. If she couldn’t trust Tony Rickman’s wife, whom could she trust? But not in every way.

Enzo?
she asked. The dog appeared and zipped around the woman sniffing.
I like her, Clare!

Clare wasn’t sure that was any recommendation.

She smells good!
Enzo barked, then laid his chill body on Clare’s feet.

To Clare, despite Desiree’s beauty, the woman smelled slightly astringent. Clare brushed her hair back from her face so she could get a whiff of her own perfume, the one that called to her gypsy heart and made her feel sexy.

As she studied Desiree with a sidelong glance, which the woman knew about and seemed fine with, Clare figured that Desiree was the type Zach would usually choose: muscular, able to handle herself in any situation, thought fast and well on her feet . . . Most of those qualities Clare lacked.

Desiree stretched out her legs, seemingly casual, though she felt alert next to Clare as Zach so often was. Clare let the fresh air, the warmth of the sunlight, slip serenely through her, aware of Desiree but letting silence spin between them. A few more breaths and a meditative state began to envelope—

Desiree’s feet twitched. “Wow,” she said, turning her head to meet Clare’s eyes. “You do that pretty well.” She continued to consider Clare. “There’s a lot under that uptight accountant look of yours, isn’t there?” Another smile showing perfect teeth.

Clare responded with a stingy smile of her own. “Meditation is a new process for me. Due to circumstances.” She ignored the slur. Somehow, even in jeans and a silk shirt—well, all right, it was a button-down shirt with a collar she’d had forever and was soft and . . . but the collar
was
buttoned down. Yes, her image hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought, especially as much as she
felt
she’d changed. She slid more into a slouch. Desiree laughed.

Words escaped Clare’s lips. “So you’re Tony Rickman’s wife.”

“Oh,
yeah
,” Desiree said, returning her stare to the view. Her smile moved into a grin. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

“I didn’t notice,” Clare said politely. She hadn’t paid much attention to the man, and her main impression was big, tough, older than she, and authoritative.

Another ripple of laughter from Desiree. She nudged Clare with her elbow. “Good.” And with a sigh, the woman’s manner became quieter, not so much look-at-me! Did she reel in the charisma somehow?