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.
âA fine morning, Ms. Cermak.â 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, âYes, a lovely morning for a walk. Itâs nicer in the sun, though.â Theyâd stopped in the overhang of tall evergreens.
âNo doubt, no doubt.â Mr. Poche glanced up the angle of the hill toward the grave site that couldnât be seen. âIâm supposed to meet Kurtus here,â he said smoothly. His opaque eyes gave nothing away, but she thought he lied. Mr. Welliam would have told her of the mediumâs 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.
âMr. Welliamâs gone,â she said bluntly.
Pocheâs gaze flickered. He opened his mouth, but Clare continued to speak through a false smile. âIâm sure he told you that heâs set his jogging route to witness any supernormal activity.â
âAnd was there supernormal activity this morning?â Pocheâs voice held a mocking noteâat Mr. Welliamâs 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. âI donât believe the poltergeist struck at dawn.â She paused. âWhen I arrived, most of the rocks torn from the graves remained balanced on the fence posts.â
He frowned.
âLike Mr. Welliam filmed on his watch last night?â she prompted.
âOf course, of course.â But she saw that whatever heâd done last night, he hadnât paid attention to the video Mr. Welliam had captured of the lost ghost.
Mr. Pocheâs gaze went past her. His smile thinned and became strained. In a low tone, he said, âI recognized your surname last night.â
Clare stiffened, replied with starchy voice herself. âSo Mr. Welliam told me.â
He inclined his head. âYes, indeed. Your aunt made a name for herself in our profession.â
Her fingers ached and she realized sheâd fisted them. âMy great-aunt Sandra,â she corrected.
His eyes flickered. âYes.â Then he cast his gaze down. âPlease accept my condolences on her death.â
Sudden tears backed behind her eyes, along with anger that this manâthis
fraud
âpretended to be a true medium like Great-Aunt Sandra.
âI understand you came into your gift recently,â Poche said, still in a low, mellow intonation. âIf I can help guide you in any way . . .â 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. âI have a spirit guide.â
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 peopleâs money, helping them keep it, grow it.
âBut spirit guides are, ah,
otherworldly
.â Pocheâs face held a sad and serious expression. âThey sometimes donât understand the constraints of the living.â
Clare, you called me, Clare!
Enzo galloped up, his tongue lolling with some of the phantom silvery drool dropping