Cilla nodded. The picture reminded her of the painter Seurat, who’s use of pointillism was widely recognized. The accumulated splotches of paint, when viewed close up, looked like nothing, but merged into a splendid masterpiece when judged at a distance.
This smeared portrait had not been beautiful, but it was powerful, and the face was haunting Cilla. They had determined in their earlier research that John Coulter had never survived to enjoy his new home. He had been attempting to adjust a window in one of the upper rooms and the whole piece had collapsed in on him, the fractured glass from the window panes wickedly sharp, slicing into him. He had survived a limited time after the accident, pinned to the wooden floor, as he bled to death.
“Okay,” Smith booted up his computer, the whir of the fan a soothing backdrop. “Well, we’ll have to pass on that for a bit.” He turned the screen in Cilla’s direction. “I got this email this morning from our assistant.”
“Assistant?” Cilla burst out. “You mean Paxton?” She still hadn’t had an opportunity to confront him about attending Brandon’s burial, or ask him if he had observed the other ceremony when they had put the waxen dolls to rest.
“Pax sent me some information he had dug up. He told us he had discovered some history on Brandon’s building last night. I asked him to just send it to me.” Smith glanced from the screen to Cilla. “He’s not great at the technology side of research. Hates it, he says. But put him in an old library or storage room, and he’s really good.”
Cilla frowned. She wasn’t crazy about having someone working with them who she didn’t completely trust, and she wasn’t going to trust him until she got some answers.
“What did he find?” she replied at last. It wouldn’t do her any good to object. It seemed Pax, a new nickname between the two guys she understood, was going to be around for a time. Best she accepted it.
“Here’s the rundown. The whole district was established as an industrial zone in the 1890s. This particular business was in textiles, mostly making clothing for the working class. It was built in 1910. The industry was progressing smoothly until the devastating flood in 1937. That event marked a significant change for the whole city. Much of the area was submerged, and all businesses were closed. The individuals who lived in the adjacent neighborhoods were evacuated. It was several days before the water went down enough for the proprietors to return.”
He flipped through a few screens. One showed a black-and-white photo of the downtown area, most of the roads flooded with several feet of water. There were candid shots of men in rickety boats rowing their way down between the buildings. The next few images were portraits of destruction, mounds of detritus outside homes, sagging buildings ready to fall down, and the desperate faces of people who had lost everything.
“Most of the buildings in the general vicinity of the office were restored quickly, but this one seemed to go untouched for a longer time. Then, like we learned at the diner, a good Samaritan stepped in and funded the renovation of several of the vacated buildings. The next time it was mentioned was in a deed transfer, one of several Pax was able to locate. No owner held it long in the early days, and ultimately, it was allowed to deteriorate for several years. In the 1960s it was again overhauled and operated for a few years.” Smith had flipped through a few documents that were scanned on his computer. “It was again abandoned in the early 70s and from then, nothing consistent. There were a few notices of individuals adopting it for a temporary location, but no one remained long. When the next bid was made, it had Brandon’s name on it. The place had been sitting vacant for practically two years, but it was almost thirty years since it was renovated.”
“I feel like there is something we’re missing. The building is a big part of it. But Brandon’s cousin said there was something Brandon wanted to show him. I would certainly like to know what that is.”
“Then let’s call him,” Smith countered. “He seemed like he was a nice guy. And he surely would want someone to help find his cousin’s killer. I say we ask him to talk with us again.”
Cilla wasn’t certain what the other man’s response would be if they called him out of the blue, but he was surprisingly amiable and stated he would meet them to talk. He agreed to come to their office since he was doing business in the area, and an hour later, he was at their door.
Carlton Shepherd looked much as he had the day of the funeral, his medium brown hair in an unsuccessful comb over, his suit a little rumpled. Cilla was glad to see him, however.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she declared, steering him in and gesturing to the chair across from her desk. Fargo had gone to the door to greet the man, and Cilla smiled as their visitor bent to pat the dog’s head.
“Sure,” Carlton responded. He sank into his chair, his hand once again dropping to stroke Fargo’s ears. “Hell of a thing. I was following up on some calls for my aunt.”
“How is she?” Cilla couldn’t imagine how her parents, or her aunt and uncle, would be holding up if she had been murdered. Just the thought made her stomach wrench.
Carlton shrugged. “She’s like, like she’s holding her breath. She seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I guess we all are. With Brandon going like that…” he left the sentiment unsaid, but Cilla understood what he meant. With the murder, the investigation would go on, and the mystery, the unfinished business would continue until the perpetrator had been found. And then? Perhaps then they could finish grieving.
“You were talking about how Brandon told you he had seen something he believed proved that the building was haunted,” Cilla began.
“Yeah, he was anxious to show me something,” Carlton began. “But I live up in Indy, and I couldn’t just run down here. Maybe if I had, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe I would know what he was talking about.” His voice seemed to trail off. “You don’t think the murder had to do with something Brandon knew? About the building?”
Cilla had considered it before. The entity which she encountered had been impressive, and she had no doubt it had made itself known to more people than just Brandon. But had the investigation into the spiritual led to his death?
“I don’t know. I wish we knew what he was talking about,” Cilla sighed. “Do you have any ideas?”
“What if they were photos?” Smith spoke for the first time. “What if he had taken a picture of what he wanted Carlton to see? Like he had some pictures that he showed us. Maybe they would still be on his cell phone?”
Carlton was shaking his head. “His phone is gone. We searched all over the office and didn’t find it. The police went through his car.”
“What about his home?” Cilla was glancing between the two men.
“That I don’t know,” Carlton responded.
A loud knock sounded at the door, and they all startled at the sound. Fargo rose and let out a series of resounding barks.
Smith rose and swung open the door. Paxton stood in the doorway, a fine mist of rain beading his coat and hat.
“Ah, is it raining again?” The question was largely unnecessary, but Smith looked surprised. Carlton must have beaten the rain by a few minutes since he had arrived at their doorstep completely dry.
“Just started,” Paxton confirmed, his musical accent coloring his words. He swept his fedora off with a flourish. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Smith here said you were going to be having a bit of a meetup, and I didn’t want to miss it.” Fargo had quieted, but now he was greeting the newcomer with equal enthusiasm. Paxton bent to pet him, a slight smile on his face.
Cilla sent Smith a look meant to give him a clear warning, but Smith avoided her gaze. For some reason, Smith liked the man and felt he would be able to help them with this mystery. Cilla figured she was going to have to give up on complaining about his involvement.
“Carlton Shepherd, this is Paxton Williams. Paxton is a researcher, and part of our team.” She watched the two men shake hands. “Mr. Shepherd was trying to help us figure out what was going on with B
randon before his death. He’s Brandon’s first cousin. But I guess you knew that.” Cilla sent an accusing glare toward Smith before looking back to the other two men.
“I did. I am truly sorry for your loss.” Paxton’s tone sounded subdued and earnest.
“Thank you,” Carlton replied, but he looked uncomfortable saying it.
“We were discussing Brandon’s call to Carlton when he suggested there was something he needed to show him,” Smith broke in. “And I wonder now, could he have left his cell phone at home?”
“Why would he not have taken it for our meeting?” Cilla asked.
“Maybe he forgot it,” Smith countered, shrugging.
“Hmm, Brandon could be forgetful. There is a possibility that he left the phone at home.” Carlton’s eyebrows were furrowed. “Do you want to go check out his house?”
Cilla was struck speechless for a moment. She hadn’t anticipated Carlton would be so forthcoming with them.
“That would be great,” Smith replied promptly, evidently much quicker on his feet than Cilla. She was glad he had taken up the conversation.
“I’ve been over there once before. My aunt wanted me to look through some things. Brandon was an only child, you know?” He faltered, and Cilla could practically see it as the magnitude of the loss struck the other man again. “I’m guessing I might be the one to go through his house to get it ready to sell too.” His shoulders slumped at the comment, as though thinking of the weight of the responsibility.
“I would be happy to assist,” Paxton spoke up.
Cilla glanced at him but read only concern in his patrician face. His fierce blue eyes met hers.
“We would help too,” Cilla assured Carlton, pulling her gaze away from Paxton’s arresting face. “And I’m sure Brandon had some other good friends. Maybe together we could spend a few days and get it done.”
Carlton looked grateful, and Cilla realized Paxton had said the perfect thing in coming forward to help. Going through a loved one’s belongings was invariably painful. To do so after a murder would be worse.
“We can go on over, and you guys can take a look around. I’ll talk with my aunt about when we need to get the house cleaned out. It’s a rental property.”
They agreed to ride together to Brandon’s home. Carlton assured them it was only a ten-minute trip, and Paxton volunteered to drive. His car was a rental, a sporty sedan with a big price tag, and Carlton rode up front with Paxton to provide directions. The rain had again stopped, but the clouds hung heavy and low. Cilla slid in in the back of the car and exchanged glances with Smith. This was an unexpected development, but not a bad one. Carlton had even welcomed Fargo’s company, and the dog was happily sitting on the back seat between them.
They snaked their way through traffic and merged onto the interstate. Cilla watched the cars zip by and marveled at her life. How many other women were riding in a posh rental car with three men, two of them virtual strangers, expecting to go into a dead man’s house and look for clues? She squinted and shook her head, watching as they exited onto Taylorsville Road. A few blocks down, past some of the more commercial areas, was a neighborhood tucked back behind a border of trees. Brandon’s home was a single-story ranch in the midst of a nondescript subdivision. The homes had been established sometime in the 1960s, brick fronted and conservative with concrete front porches and flower beds that were past blooming. With the somber clouds framing the little house, it looked sad and abandoned.
Paxton pulled into the driveway, and they all clambered out of the car. As was her habit, Cilla stayed back, standing very still in the front yard, the wind sweeping at her hair as she concentrated on the scene in front of her. Fargo remained at her side. She felt like he was doing the same thing she was, reaching out with their unique sense, searching for hints of the paranormal.
She felt nothing. Cilla glanced at the dog, and when he looked toward her, she nodded.
“Okay, c’mon boy,” she declared briskly. Paxton and Smith had followed Carlton to the front stoop and were waiting for him to unlock the door. Cilla stayed a few steps behind. In the doorway, she stopped, the dog halting next to her. She again glanced toward him. Nothing. He rolled his eyes toward her and wagged his tail.
Inside the house, the air felt stale and unlived in. Just a few days without an occupant had made the atmosphere feel closed. Cilla didn’t notice anything negative, no whispering spiritual presence. That didn’t mean she felt good about the visit. Brandon had resided here for almost a year, and he had left his mark. The furniture was traditional, a beige couch, a chair with a broad plaid pattern, and a rectangular coffee table loaded with magazines and a few video game disks. There were three framed pictures on the wall, all family portraits. One showed Brandon as an adult, flanked by his mother who Cilla recognized from the funeral, and an older man who might have been his father, or some other close relative. Cilla hadn’t seen the father at the funeral.
The other two pictures were snapshots, one of a class picture with a handful of young men in graduation gowns, most likely the college closing ceremony. The other was a picture of Brandon, Carlton, and another younger guy with an uncomfortable smile and a shock of dark hair.
“That’s Jake,” Carlton said, as he followed Cilla’s gaze. “He’s our other cousin. He’s out of the country right now. He couldn’t make it back for the funeral.” He was frowning, disappointment in every line of his face.
“It looks like you all are close.”
“We were.” Carlton shrugged. “When Jake moved away, we didn’t see him for years at a time. It’s been almost a year since he’s last been home.” Carlton shook his head. “We had been doing a project together. Restoring a classic car. A 1963 Chevrolet Corvette.”
“Nice,” Smith breathed.
“Wanna see it?” Carlton seemed anxious to share this treasure.
“Yeah,” Smith said instantly.
“Maybe after we look around for the phone,” Cilla interrupted.
Paxton didn’t comment either way.
“Sure, sure,” Smith agreed. “Do you want to split up and look around?”
“Cilla and I can manage the living and bedroom,” Paxton volunteered.
“Oh, okay,” Carlton responded. “We can go check out the kitchen and the spare room. I think he was using it as an office, anyway.”
“Perfect,” Smith agreed. “I’d like to check out his computer.” His eyes skated toward Cilla. “And we can check out the garage just in case he left something there.”
Cilla stifled a comment. If Smith was so eager to look at the car, then she might as well let him do it. She needed him to concentrate on the case, and if all he was thinking about was the vehicle in the garage, he wasn’t going to do his finest work.
“Just go out there first,” she said wearily. “Maybe he will have left some papers out there.”
Smith grinned, and Carlton looked almost happy. Cilla felt better about her decision. Carlton had had a few really awful days. He could do with a break.
The two of them were out the back door before she could change her mind. Cilla turned to Paxton where he stood in the middle of the living room, his hands thrust in the pockets of his jacket. His blue eyes looked blank, but Cilla could practically hear his mind churning.
Cilla studied him. “Don’t you want to go out and look at the car too?”
Paxton shook his head. “Although I am a fan of classic automobiles,” he replied in that smooth accented speech, “I was glad to have the opportunity to speak with you.”
Cilla eyebrows went up. She busied herself straightening Fargo’s collar and wrapping the leash loosely in her hand. “Oh?”
“I noticed you and your companion there were hanging back as we came into the house. I wondered if it had anything to do with any metaphysical elements that might be lingering here.”
“Ghosts you mean?”
“If you like,” he acknowledged, those blue eyes directed on her expression.
“I haven’t f
elt anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Were you trying to get a sense of it, though?”
She peered around the dim chamber, sad despite the sunlight filtering through the window. “Yes. I always do. I always try to get a read on a place before I go in.”
“Melissa said Fargo is sensitive as well?”
Cilla looked at the Paxton directly. He had taken off his hat, and his hair was a little tousled. He looked handsome and serious, a little distant, as though he was standing just on the other side of a window and was looking in. Cilla didn’t trust easily, and it would take more than a pretty face to change her mind.
“Fargo is,” she admitted. That fact was already out of the bag. No way she was going to pull it back in. “He detects spirits before I can, usually,” she went on. “He doesn’t seem to be alarmed yet.”
Paxton nodded. “I can see that,” he answered, an eyebrow going up.
Cilla grimaced and patted the dog. “He’ll let us know if anything changes.”
“Do you expect it to?”
Cilla huffed out an exhale. “Let’s take a look around,” she replied, evading the question.
Together they went into Brandon’s bedroom. It was a typical man’s room, a few spare socks scattered on the floor, an abandoned pair of running shoes, a belt draped over the doorknob of the closet. His bed was made, score one for Brandon. Cilla knew her own wasn’t and made a pact with herself to start doing that in the mornings whether she felt like it or not.
On the bedside table was a digital clock, the loop of a cord for charging his cell phone, and a scattering of change. Cilla walked toward the table, noticing the drawers were closed. She quickly opened one and looked inside. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what this guy kept in his bedroom but was relieved when she saw the reading material was mostly magazines about classic cars. She flipped through them quickly, seeing no loose papers or notes.
Spirit Taken Page 11
