Ghost Talker by Robin D. Owens Page B

novels?
    â€œYou had dime novels, too.”
    Now Jack chuckled.
That I did
.
    â€œBuffalo Bill became a legendary showman. He put together
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West
, with Indian fights and stagecoach raids and such.” Clare shrugged. “The show even toured Europe several times.”
    His whole mood lightening, Jack snorted and laughed hard.
Imagine that. He made such a long career of show business, when I recall talking myself tired just persuading him to stay with the play that first year.
    â€œI guess he found his rhythm,” Clare said, wishing she could find hers. She cleared her throat. “His image of flowing white hair and white Van Dyke mustache and beard is iconic.”
    Though Texas Jack mostly wore a mustache, he’d occasionally sported a Van Dyke like his friends Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill Hickok.
    Again pain radiated from Jack.
White hair
, he murmured, and he stood there, tense, with no props, not his rope nor his cigar.
    Clare wet her lips. Texas Jack had been nearly the same age as Buffalo Bill, and had died at thirty-three. Of course he’d never seen his friend with white hair. He’d want her to ignore his hurt, so she did, rushing into speech before the staff arrived. “Anyway, he told people in Denver that he wanted to be buried up here when he passed on, and the city obliged.” A little more complicated than that, and he and his wife rested under ten feet of concrete because people from the town of Cody, Wyoming, had once mentioned stealing the man’s casket. “He died at seventy.”
    A ripe age
, Jack said, standing casually again, his expression smooth.
    â€œYes.” She paused, and hoped that this last bit of conversation made him more easy with her . . . building rapport with the client, a ghost instead of a person needing an accountant. “I’m honored to meet you.” She wouldn’t say anything more about helping him. “And I’ve enjoyed talking with you.” Truth.
    He swept off his hat in a flourishing bow.
I can say the same.
    Enzo appeared.
And me, too. Good to meet you, Texas Jack.
    Likewise, dog—uh, Enzo.
Texas Jack narrowed his eyes.
Now that I look at you, I see you’re more’n a ghost dog, more like a helpful spirit.
    Enzo pranced around the graves.
Yes, I am. I help Clare a LOT! And sometimes Zach, too.
    Repositioning his hat on his head, Texas Jack said,
And I see a density to you, too.
    Probably the Other spirit, something Clare didn’t want to explain right now. She stepped closer to the phantom of Texas Jack, until she could feel the chill emanating from him, and angled her head to look into the drifting cloud-like ghost eyes, and sent mentally,
I’m glad we conversed and I hope you feel more easy with me, since we will be working together to send you on to where you need to be.
    His face took on a slightly darker color.
A pleasure, ma’am,
he replied stiltedly, then his gaze went beyond her to the plains and his smile returned. Texas Jack shook his head.
Imagine Bill becoming one of the great showmen of the world, and his grave a place to be visited and a sight to be seen.
Jack turned, examining the area, once again staring at the long view across the plains.
Pretty place to be laid to rest, though Leadville is nice, too, and I’ve a hankering to see it and wander a bit there.
He tipped his hat.
We’ll talk some more later, Miss Cermak.
Then he faded away.
    At that moment four people rounded the last curve of the path, then marched up to her, and Clare realized how it might appear that
she’d
been busy messing with the grave site. Raising her hands, she said, “I didn’t do this. It looked like this when I walked up Buffalo Bill trail.” Clearing her throat, she said, “This actually occurred last evening at sunset. Zach Slade and I were called by the Denver Police Department to—”
    â€œShe’s right. The vandalism happened last