Yee met Zach’s eyes above the car when he exited the other side and gave him a brief nod. Apparently this guy, Mrs. Flinton’s regular driver from the hired car company, approved of Zach, too.

Zach returned the nod, then stilled as he saw the house—the mansion. The rough-cut stone was gray with occasional flecks of silver winking in the sun, and the fence at the side of the house showed silver-tipped iron spears. Something inside him just surrendered and accepted he’d be living here.

Hunches were one thing—cops and deputies ran on those—but not many of them, including him, believed much in fate.

He scanned the whole area—the drive that wended between stone pillars, huge front yard, portico porch, front walk, and smooth pathway to a side door under a carriage light. No crows.

Keeping pace with a spry Mrs. Flinton, he followed her to the portico and they mounted the three steps of the stone porch at the same time and the wide wooden front door opened.

The woman who looked at Zach might have been as old as Mrs. Flinton, but appeared a lot more solid, muscle and fat. Her gray-shot-with-blond hair lay in a braid around her head; her pale blue gaze lingered on his cane. “Well, come on in, Barbara. Bet you’re pleased with yourself; tea at the Brown Palace!” the woman said in a Minnesota-accented voice.

“I only had one glass of champagne, Bekka,” said Mrs. Flinton in a virtuous tone.

It had 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 A.M.,” Zach said.

Mrs. Magee stopped and glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “Exactly.”

As soon as she turned a corner into the back of the house, Zach closed the door that separated the apartment from the rest of the house. And realized his leg ached like fury.

Leaning on his cane, he scanned the large main room, getting the idea that a guy had lived in it not too long ago. The colors seemed too neutral for a woman. He wondered a little about Clare Cermak. She had that contradictory thing going . . . the bold Eastern European name . . . he wondered if he could do a little research on her . . . and the cool and tidy accountant manner. He could see her in red . . .

Picking his feet up carefully as he reached a faded but thick oriental rug—with fringe, for God’s sake—Zach half fell onto the lushly cushioned leather couch. The audiovisual system was bad: small screen, only about twenty inches, old recording components. The place sounded quiet enough for him, no sense of a large and busy city, that was good . . . if he stayed . . .

His cell rang and he took it out of his jacket pocket, saw it was Rickman. “Slade.”

“I’ve got a little information from the auction house on the con man. And he is a con man.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Name is Lawrence Whistler, or current alias. The guy told our local auction company, Compass, which has a good rep, that he is from Massachusetts and handed them an auctioneer’s license and names of references. He just wanted to use their space on the way to the West Coast to set up his own place. Paid them a fee for storage of his stuff and asked to put his items on consignment in this auction.”

Zach made a disgusted noise. “They believed all that?”

“The license was from one of the schools the local auctioneers went to. I followed up on that; no guy by the name of Lawrence Whistler ever attended. The phone numbers of the references checked out when the auctioneer called them a couple of weeks ago—they aren’t so good right now.”

“Huh. I can just tell Mrs. Flinton that Whistler didn’t check out.”

Stretching, Zach put the cell on the thick padded arm of the couch, leaned down and kneaded at his sore leg, clenching his teeth with pain as he massaged around his ankle.

“That won’t work,” Rickman said. Zach could visualize the man shaking his head. “Aunt Barbara will believe only what she wants to believe, and she really wants these antiques to be her family’s. She’ll insist on going to the auction, maybe even confronting the asshole. Your job isn’t done.”