Free Ghost Talker by Robin D. Owens

ground. To speak with him, she had to turn her back to the parking lot. A fast glance showed her a couple of people getting out of a panel van.
    â€œA fine morning, Ms. Cermak.” Mr. Poche smiled genially.

Chapter 7
    Enzo!
Clare sent the thought, wanting his support. Aloud she replied to Maurice Poche, fake medium and con man, “Yes, a lovely morning for a walk. It’s nicer in the sun, though.” They’d stopped in the overhang of tall evergreens.
    â€œNo doubt, no doubt.” Mr. Poche glanced up the angle of the hill toward the grave site that couldn’t be seen. “I’m supposed to meet Kurtus here,” he said smoothly. His opaque eyes gave nothing away, but she thought he lied. Mr. Welliam would have told her of the medium’s arrival, perhaps even angled for Mr. Poche to be invited to meet Mrs. Flinton. Clare had gauged Mr. Welliam to be passionate about his hobbies and friends, wanting to champion both. Heaven knew he truly believed in ghosts, this particular poltergeist, and Mr. Poche.
    â€œMr. Welliam’s gone,” she said bluntly.
    Poche’s gaze flickered. He opened his mouth, but Clare continued to speak through a false smile. “I’m sure he told you that he’s set his jogging route to witness any supernormal activity.”
    â€œAnd was there supernormal activity this morning?” Poche’s voice held a mocking note—at Mr. Welliam’s gullibility? That irritated Clare. As far as she could tell, Mr. Welliam had consulted with Poche before, and paid him good money for whatever services Poche offered.
    She shook her head. “I don’t believe the poltergeist struck at dawn.” She paused. “When I arrived, most of the rocks torn from the graves remained balanced on the fence posts.”
    He frowned.
    â€œLike Mr. Welliam filmed on his watch last night?” she prompted.
    â€œOf course, of course.” But she saw that whatever he’d done last night, he hadn’t paid attention to the video Mr. Welliam had captured of the lost ghost.
    Mr. Poche’s gaze went past her. His smile thinned and became strained. In a low tone, he said, “I recognized your surname last night.”
    Clare stiffened, replied with starchy voice herself. “So Mr. Welliam told me.”
    He inclined his head. “Yes, indeed. Your aunt made a name for herself in our profession.”
    Her fingers ached and she realized she’d fisted them. “My great-aunt Sandra,” she corrected.
    His eyes flickered. “Yes.” Then he cast his gaze down. “Please accept my condolences on her death.”
    Sudden tears backed behind her eyes, along with anger that this man—this
fraud
—pretended to be a true medium like Great-Aunt Sandra.
    â€œI understand you came into your gift recently,” Poche said, still in a low, mellow intonation. “If I can help guide you in any way . . .” He managed to do a half-bow despite his bulk. When he straightened, he put a soft, heavy hand on her shoulder.
    Stepping back, she sniffled at his frown. She could act, too. Yet her fingers twitched. “I have a spirit guide.”
    His slanted glance held pity and his nostrils flared as incredulity radiated off him. She understood that the false medium absolutely disbelieved in anything supernatural. He thought anyone who
did
accept the paranormal fools and marks to be targeted and conned. Stupid people who deserved to have their money stripped from them by any means.
    Which made a simmering Clare heat close to boiling. Her entire former career had been preserving people’s money, helping them keep it, grow it.
    â€œBut spirit guides are, ah,
otherworldly
.” Poche’s face held a sad and serious expression. “They sometimes don’t understand the constraints of the living.”
    Clare, you called me, Clare!
Enzo galloped up, his tongue lolling with some of the phantom silvery drool dropping