Free Ghost Seer by Robin D. Owens Page A

been more like one and a half before Zach had taken the glass away when she’d confided she was on a limited alcohol regimen.
    “And I’ve brought home a tenant.” Mrs. Flinton stopped moving and gestured from herself to Zach to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Rebecca Magee, may I introduce Zachary Slade—”
    Zach tensed a little to see if his last name meant anything to the new woman; it didn’t seem to, nor had Mrs. Flinton commented on it, so only Clare had made a connection with the old gunfighter.
    Mrs. Magee nodded and Zach nodded back.
    “Mrs. Magee is a friend who takes care of the house and me.” Mrs. Flinton beamed. “We’re Barbara and Bekka.”
    Mrs. Magee snorted, narrowing her eyes at him as her gaze swept him up and down, then she switched her focus back to Mrs. Flinton. “Tony Rickman called and told me about him. I’ve freshened up his suite.”
    “Good, good.” Mrs. Flinton picked up her walker and got moving again, though she slid a glance at him. “Zach’s going with me to the auction tonight.”
    A louder snort, and the housekeeper stepped back, holding the door wide open. “Finally, someone with sense.”
    “You told Tony on me.” That sounded like an often-repeated line to Zach.
    He followed Mrs. Flinton as she sailed into her huge mansion. Eyeing her walker, he figured she could give lessons in movement to him.
    And it occurred to him that he might think of other lessons—like visiting a dojo and relearning some moves—and a whole range of attacks and defenses featuring a cane. He’d have to buy stronger orthopedic shoes, dammit.
    He got a tour of the first floor of the house . . . a little echoey as only three sets of footsteps moved around in the big place.
    Then Mrs. Magee showed him the apartment that was part of the original building but had been the housekeeper’s. He glanced at her. “Where do you live?”
    She smiled smugly. “In the old carriage house.” She flicked a hand toward the back of the building. “Not on site.” Her smile turned warmer when she looked at Mrs. Flinton. “Barbara is nice, but the late Mr. Flinton . . .” She shook her head.
    Abuse? Zach’s face hardened. Mrs. Flinton put her hand on his arm. “No, no, nothing like that. Just a demanding man who didn’t sleep much.”
    Mrs. Magee drew herself to her full height, about five inches shorter than his six feet, four inches, fixed a stare on him, and crossed her arms. “I am not available for meals at two in the morning. Even if I work here.”
    Zach shrugged, gestured to the counter of the small Pullman kitchen. “I can cook.”
    The housekeeper sniffed. “We have breakfast at seven A.M. , lunch at twelve thirty, and dinner at five thirty.”
    “You’ll make enough for three, Bekka,” Mrs. Flinton said firmly. “Just put the leftovers in the main kitchen fridge for Zach. He’s a private investigator and will have unusual hours.”
    Not as bad as cop hours, Zach was sure. And since he wasn’t starting a new job in the public sector—and, yeah, that still stung—he wouldn’t be low man on the totem pole and have to take graveyard shift.
    “Like this evening,” Mrs. Magee said. She flapped her hands at Mrs. Flinton. “Shoo. Go take a rest, you were up at five this morning.”
    Mrs. Flinton pouted again and stumped out, her walker hitting the gleaming hardwood floors loudly with each step.
    “Does she need help up the stairs?” Zach asked, before he realized
again
that he walked with a cane.
    “Elevator down the hall,” Mrs. Magee said, then gestured at the apartment. “Look around, it’s furnished.” Her slightly protuberant blue eyes considered him once more. “And though Mrs. Flinton might consider this a done deal, I know you have to agree, too.” Her lips pursed, went in and out. “I think you’d be good for her, for us. We usually like to have a man in the house.” She whisked from the doorway down the wide hallway.
    “As long as he doesn’t want meals at two