Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  “Measurements?” Paxton had swung his chair and was regarding Smith was interest.

  “We found some drastic temperature fluctuations,” Smith agreed. He rubbed his chin with one hand. “And we got some photos of what is likely to be paranormal activity.”

  “Really?” Paxton leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, raised eyebrows creasing his forehead. He looked attentive, approachable.

  Attractive. Cilla found herself frowning. Yes, Paxton was undoubtedly attractive. The crystal blue eyes, the firm jaw, the cropped hair showing one ear pierced with a tiny good loop, he was a handsome guy. And the voice, with that accent, was nice. But did she trust him? Not as far as she could throw him.

  “Our evidence for this one is good,” Smith went on. “And since we’ve already been paid for the job, we’re going to complete it.” His manner was adamant. He was glad to be making this stand, Cilla realized, and was grateful they felt the same way about the project.

  “Perhaps I might be able to help with this situation as well,” Paxton replied. He sounded so darn sure of himself, like he knew something they didn’t.

  Smith was nodding slowly, and Cilla realized she had been pushed out of the exchange.

  “Well, I think we’ll be fine by ourselves,” she interrupted. Her tone was a little grim, but she didn’t appreciate any kind of manipulation. She flashed a glance to Smith, struggling to catch his eye.

  “Yeah, but you said yourself we’re going to have to do a lot of research. If Paxton can help us, it will cut down on the extra time we have to spend in the library.”

  Cilla knew Smith had nothing against a library, but he would rather be on site with Melissa than going through old books. It grated just the same. She didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else to take care of this case, least of all a writer she knew nothing about. A writer who seemed to believe he had all the answers.

  “I would be delighted to be of assistance,” Paxton replied smoothly. “And perhaps when we meet again at Melissa’s home, we can discuss this situation as well.” He was speaking to them both, but his eyes were on Cilla. For a second, she thought she detected a glimmer of mocking amusement.

  Cilla thought about protesting again but realized she would look like a controlling witch if she tried to interfere. Besides, darn it, he was right. They didn’t have time to lose. She supposed now without her permission, Paxton had joined their team. She felt her jaw tighten and tried to suppress her temper. That was fine. Let him look. But it didn’t mean Cilla wouldn’t be watching him very closely.

  Cilla had thought Paxton would be their only visitor for the day, but she quickly realized she was mistaken. The second knock on the door made her jump. Just when she thought she wouldn’t be creeped out by any more tragic stories of the past, she was getting sucked in again. She had been looking through material about the 1937 flood, and the photographs from that time were haunting. Her attention was caught by Mrs. Corning’s statement about Brandon’s office building. Why had it never been successful after the renovation? There had been so much destruction around the city after the flood, construction must have been uppermost on all the property holder’s minds. So the place had been rebuilt. But why hadn’t anyone wanted to work there?

  Smith stood and sauntered to the door, all loose limbs and Chuck Taylor sneakers. He dressed like a high schooler. She smiled wryly.

  Smith opened the door and immediately stepped back in surprise. Cilla could see that Officer Talbot was at the door, a small notebook in one hand, lines of fatigue on his face.

  “Ms. Merchand? Mr. Smith?” Cilla had seen the older man before. Melissa had counted on him as her closest confidant on the force. She had also thought she had seen him at the scene of Brandon’s murder, but he hadn’t been the one asking them questions.

  “That’s us,” Smith answered promptly. “Officer Talbot, right?”

  “Correct,” the uniformed man replied, and nodded to them both in turn. “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, but I’ve been striking out all day, and I thought a of a few questions I might want to pass by the two of you.” He rubbed a tired hand over his brow. “I understand you discovered the body today.”

  “That’s right,” Smith replied, shifting uncomfortably. “Come on in. Have a seat.” He withdrew from the doorway, giving the police officer room to enter the office before closing the door behind the man.

  Talbot nodded and stepped in, sinking heavily into the offered chair.

  “You know Melissa, don’t you?” Cilla began, observing the police officer for traces of recognition.

  “Yes, I do. I recognized you from the scene, and after I read your statements, I thought of a few things I’d like to follow up on.”

  “Have you gotten any other ideas about what happened to Brandon?” Cilla asked, swinging to face him.

  “Well, now, I can’t say much you know. Active investigation.”

  “Do you think it was an indiscriminate murder?” Smith asked bluntly.

  “You know, that has been our main question about this whole situation. What would be a motive to kill a nice guy like that?” Beyond the shadow of fatigue was a quick mind, Cilla realized.

  “He didn’t have any enemies?” Cilla was watching the detective with close attention. She was pretty good at reading people, and she thought he was being straightforward with them.

  “As I mentioned, I can’t make any statements about his death beyond saying it is an ongoing investigation. We have not found, however, any other signs of general foul play, vandalism or robbery.” He flipped open to a fresh page in his little notebook. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you.”

  Cilla’s pulse increased. She knew she had nothing to fear. They hadn’t done anything unethical, and they had been as honest as they could possibly be in that situation. Yes, it was uncomfortable saying they were paranormal investigators, but it was also imperative to be genuine. Better that they assumed she was crazy than a liar, or worse, a murderer.

  “We want to help as much as we can,” Smith said frankly. “Brandon seemed like a nice guy. What happened to him was just wrong.” His cheeks looked a little flushed, and Cilla knew he was being equally sincere with his emotions. She felt the same. They hadn’t known the victim well, but his death had left a disturbing shadow.

  “You stated that Brandon called you in because he believed the office was haunted.” Officer Talbot had a pencil poised over the blank page.

  “He approached us first by calling. He said he had purchased a building downtown and wanted to use it as office space. He claimed during the preparation for renovations, he had seen things, heard things.”

  The officer had enough where-with-all to keep his face blank. That was a good thing because Cilla knew she could sometimes become defensive when it came to her abilities. She hadn’t asked for them. She hadn’t wanted to hear the spirits of the dearly departed, but it could not be changed.

  “Can you tell me what he saw or thought he saw?”

  “He mentioned he had seen a figure in one of the downstairs rooms. He thought it was smaller than a full-grown person, but definitely a spirit. He also said he heard noises.”

  “What kind of noises?” the other man’s voice was patient.

  “He said he heard giggling, like a child, and then a grinding sound,” Cilla filled in. “He knew it wasn’t generated by anyone in the building. He had walked through the space and was photographing the rooms. He also captured a few strange shadows in rooms.”

  “You said giggling?” Cilla could see that the older man had made a few notes but was spending most of the time looking steadily at Cilla.

  “Yes, like a child.” Cilla didn’t mention what they had witnessed themselves when they had visited. They weren’t supposed to be there anyway.

  “A child,” Officer Talbot said haltingly.

  A thought dawned on Cilla as she examined the man’s face. He wasn’t looking doubtful so much as concerned. Or alarmed? If he had been working the case, and he had be
en in the office for any amount of time, perhaps he had been a witness as well.

  “Have you heard or observed anything while you’ve been in the office?” Cilla asked bluntly.

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t say that,” Officer Talbot’s eyes had slid to the side as though he was concentrating on the door beyond.

  “When we went searching for Brandon, the day we found Brandon’s body, we thought we heard something strange,” Cilla said, leaning more closely over the desk. “I don’t make up stuff like this. I really believe Brandon might have seen something.”

  “What do you mean? You think some spirit killed him?” Officer Talbot looked disbelieving.

  “No,” Cilla said immediately. “I don’t believe anything of the sort. I do believe that there is an unsettled entity in the house, but no ghost killed Brandon.” She narrowed her gaze on the officer. “I’m not crazy. But I do know there is truth to the paranormal.”

  “Sorry,” the other man responded, working a hand through his hair and exhaling a sigh. “It’s just that I have heard something there, in that old building, and I don’t like it.”

  “Like giggling?”

  He looked up at Cilla under brushy eyebrows. “Like a little kid laughing.”

  Cilla felt the air rush from her lungs. It was consoling in one sense. Here was an objective observer who was seeing the same things Brandon had claimed to see, and what Cilla suspected they had witnessed.

  “Do you know if Brandon’s business partner knew anything about this?” Smith asked the question.

  “No.” Talbot leaned back in the chair. “We talked to his partner. He’s been out of the country for the last four weeks. He was planning on coming back to help with the building and the business next month. He said Brandon only gave him good news. Said the building was going to be an excellent investment. They were going to get their money back with renting the rooms.”

  “So Brandon never admitted what he saw to his partner.” Cilla looked thoughtfully at Smith.

  “He may have figured he didn’t want to scare the other guy off. It would be tough to call someone long distance and say the building you bought was haunted. The building you both have sunk a pile of cash in and plan to make the basis for your new business venture.” Smith shrugged. “He was trying to handle it himself. Maybe that’s why he paid in cash and up front.”

  Cilla nodded slowly. “But could any of this have an association to his murder?”

  Officer Talbot looked between them. “I am not dismissing any of the possibilities. People have killed for less.”

  Chapter Nine

  Cilla flung open her closet and peered inside. She had several black outfits, lacy, beaded, elaborate, all meant to be worn as part of her Queen of the Dead persona. For a funeral, though, she would need something that didn’t stand out too much. She wanted to blend in. She was, after all, not one of the usual mourners for this event.

  She ultimately settled on a long black skirt, a white top, and a pair of conservative black flats. She swept her hair into a bun on top of her head and added classic white pearl earrings. She surveyed herself in the mirror noting she did not look like a crazy psychic that saw phantoms and went into haunted houses for fun. She looked serious, stable. Good.

  Her aunt was the kitchen table, elbows on the top, sipping tea from one of the many handmade pottery mugs that they stored in the open front cabinet by the sink. This one was painted in vibrant oranges and yellows.

  “Well, don’t you look,” her aunt’s eyes swept down the costume, “funeral like.”

  Cilla barked out a laugh. “Great! That was the look I was going for.”

  “Then you and Smith are going to go to the funeral and look for suspicious people milling about?”

  Cilla cocked an eyebrow at her aunt. She had told both her aunt and uncle about the recent occurrences, and together, the older couple had been doing some digging themselves, falling into the roles of amateur sleuth with just a shade too much enjoyment.

  “We are going to see if we can talk to some of Brandon’s friends, mostly. We’re not trying to pick out a murderer, just see if it had anything to do with the building and the ghost.”

  “Just watch yourself,” her aunt scolded. “If it does have to do with that old building, then you being there might tell the murderer you haven’t given up.”

  Cilla pursed her lips thoughtfully. That was true. If they were recognized, they might be stepping from the frying pan into the fire.

  “I’ll ask Smith what he thinks.”

  “At least wear a hat and sunglasses,” Aunt Prissy continued. She stood and bustled to the back room where they had collected odds and ends, mostly gloves, hats, mittens, and the occasional walking stick. The array had increased over the years, but her aunt couldn’t bring herself to get rid of the stuff despite their lack of wear. “Here you are,” she announced after a few seconds, emerging with a black broad-brimmed hat. “And you have sunglasses.” She strolled to Cilla’s side and plunked the hat on her head. “There, that’s much better,” she exclaimed.

  Cilla turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror to the side of the door. It was framed in clusters of old shells, smooth glass pieces, and multicolored marbles that captured the light like a magic trick, reflecting it in a glittering rainbow on the opposite wall. The girl looking back at her was indeed hard to recognize. The brim hid her dark hair, and her face was shadowed. She doubted her own mother would notice her with this addition to her wardrobe.

  “Okay, this works,” she agreed. She slipped off the hat. “I’ll put it on when we get there. I don’t know how well it would fit in the car.”

  Her aunt smiled. “You’ll have to tell me if you find out anything when you get home tonight.”

  Cilla nodded her agreement and grabbed up her bag.

  The weather was nice, and the drive was a pleasant one, a trip she had taken hundreds of times. She picked up Smith from his home twenty minutes later. He was dressed in a conservative pair of dress slacks and dark button-down shirt. His hair was slicked back with some mysterious gel, darkening it to an almost brown shade, and he had replaced his normal round lensed glasses with some older ones. With the square framed glasses, an unshaven jaw that gave him just a hint of rugged masculinity, and change in hairstyle, even Cilla had to give him a second glance. Cilla figured her aunt must have called to warn him they were going incognito to the ceremony. She smothered a smile.

  Brandon’s family had chosen the most conservative arrangements for their son. There was a short visitation in the morning followed by a brief funeral service at the same location. Immediately after, they would have the burial. All of it was taking place on the same grounds, a one stop shop for funerals, so to speak.

  It wasn’t a bad idea; nor was the funeral home lacking. There were the traditional rooms set up with flowers and pictures, but the casket was closed. Cilla almost regretted coming when she saw the devastated expression on the woman in the corner, no doubt Brandon’s mother, who was just making it through the ordeal by the skin of her teeth. Her pale face and red-rimmed eyes would haunt Cilla later.

  Cilla and Smith lingered on the peripheries of the throng. The funeral home was packed, so beyond getting a brief glimpse of the polished wooden coffin at a distance, they didn’t venture any further into the room with the deceased. Instead, they wandered into the outer rooms where the lounge and kitchen were laid out, filled with food for the family and friends. She and Smith hovered there, listening in on conversations and generally seeking to be inconspicuous.

  Cilla wasn’t wearing the hat or sunglasses, but when she saw the crowd, she almost wished she had. There were plenty of strangers here, plenty of possible killers as well. She didn’t see Officer Talbot but wondered if one of the suited men by the door was a member of the police force, present at the funeral home for the same reason they were there, listening in to comments and watching emotions wash across faces.

  When the party broke up, the mourners were ushered into a
line to say goodbye to the deceased, and Cilla and Smith retreated to their car. They observed as the assembly gradually trickled out. The hearse was used to transport the casket the short drive to his ultimate resting place, and Cilla gestured to Smith as they followed the procession on foot.

  They hung back together as the casket was slid from the vehicle and the suited pallbearers maneuvered it into place. The crowd milled around the sheltering tent until they reconverged in messy rows encircling the casket. The minister, provided by the funeral home, stood over the coffin and using a well-thumbed prayer book, delivered the final blessing in a low bass. It was blessedly short. There were a few muffled sobs, and Brandon’s mother was led away by a younger woman as the minister concluded his prayers. The crowd seemed frozen in place as she departed, finally scattering as the last of the family members filed back towards the waiting cars.

  Cilla glanced up when she saw a stranger strolling in their direction.

  “Were you one of Brandon’s friends?” The man asking was easing into middle age, a little round belly and gradually receding hairline showing his age.

  “Yes,” Cilla said quietly. “We didn’t know him long but…” she left the rest unsaid.

  “I know. I’m Brandon’s cousin, Carlton Shepherd. My aunt isn’t up to greeting anyone, but I thought I would say something. I’m glad you came.”

  Cilla felt a slip of guilt. They were here mourning the deceased, but moreover, they were here to snoop. She had seen the same man making his rounds at the funeral home. He apparently was the designated member of the family, taking care of the niceties as well as some of the arrangements.

  “I’m Cilla. This is my friend Smith.” She took Carlton’s hand, noticing a slight trembling in his fingers. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Brandon was a great guy,” Cilla said, feeling the words were so inadequate for the emotion.

  “He was,” Carlton shook his head, his brows furrowed, his lips in a tight line.