Free Ghost Talker by Robin D. Owens Page B

to the ghostly Lab.
These guys are NOT interesting.
Circling Poche, Enzo let out a string of barks that sounded a little like laughter.
You are showing this stupid man. There are many, many ghosts in Denver for you to help!
he told her gleefully.
    Clare sighed. She met the cameraman’s eyes briefly, but didn’t twitch her lips up in a fake smile, nodded to Poche, then hurried down the path. “Later,” she called. Then she crossed the parking lot, empty except for the truck that had a local television station logo on the side, Poche’s Mercedes, and vehicles that must belong to the staff.
    She shuddered. She didn’t
want
to be filmed, especially publicly, and muttered under her breath at the irritation that Mrs. Flinton had made up and circulated those business cards for Clare.
    Watching her feet as she headed down the short flight of steps and the narrow one-person dirt-with-jutting-rocks path along the side of the hill, she glanced at her watch. Someone had opened the gate at the end of the drive early for the van—or for Maurice Poche.
    Forty minutes later she walked into her home and the scent of newly brewed coffee. She and Zach took their coffee seriously.
    She loved that he kept his black hair a little shaggy for her, though now his shower had slicked it down. He looked at her over his mug, the same DPD mug he’d used last night, so he’d washed it.
    Blue green eyes sharp, he asked. “What’s the news?”
    So she poured her own cup of French-roast coffee, joined him at the breakfast bar, and told him of Texas Jack and Maurice Poche. Tilting her head, she kept her gaze locked with Zach’s, enjoying the flush of attraction skimming through her blood, feeling
more
, tenderness and love, sinking into her bones. “It occurs to me,” she said, “that those two men are complete opposites in terms of character and honor.” That particular quality had become important in her life, in dealing with both lingering ghosts of the Old West who valued the concept and the man sitting next to her.
    Zach understood honor, had his own code, and he kept to it. She considered herself as having rules to live by and didn’t like breaking them. Most of the time Zach’s honor and her rules lined up pretty well.
    But Zach frowned. “I didn’t get as far as I’d like tracing our friend Maurice Poche last night. I’ll have to dig a little deeper.” Zach stared at her. “He didn’t threaten you?”
    Clare sniffed. “He doesn’t think I’m worth threatening. I’m a credulous fool.”
    â€œA weak-minded sucker.” Zach smiled. “Same difference.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Time for us to head out to Mrs. Flinton’s. Good thing, too; I’m starving.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows. “Barbara Flinton and Kurtus Welliam. I wonder who can out-charm the other.” A thought occurred and he narrowed his eyes, knew his smile had taken on an edge.
    Glancing at him askance, Clare said, “What else are you thinking?”
    â€œI’m thinking that between the three of us, we can bend Welliam’s thinking about Poche.”

Chapter 8
    When Zach pulled into the circular drive, a large, pristine white SUV had already parked. Mr. Welliam exited the vehicle, dressed in a tailored suit that flattered him. His white hair looked more stylish than Clare had seen before. He held a large bouquet of flowers clearly
not
purchased from a grocery store, and that impressed Clare with his resourcefulness.
    He grinned at them and waited to join them as they walked to the portico and the front door.
    Zach knocked in a pattern he had for the older ladies and Mrs. Magee, the housekeeper, opened the door and stepped aside. Zach kissed her cheek, and Clare hugged her—though neither she nor Mrs. Magee were as demonstrative as Zach and Mrs. Flinton.
    Turning to Mr. Welliam, Clare introduced him to the