Spirit Taken Page 4

  “Um, yeah. She called this morning.”

  Cilla felt her eyebrows lift. “Really?”

  Smith glanced over at her, stopping to slide the key from the lock and drop it in his pocket. “Yes. Did you assume she wouldn’t?”

  Cilla grinned. “I hadn’t realized you were taking early morning calls,” she prodded.

  “Yeah, well, Melissa is an early morning girl. She’s cheerful, like that. Besides, she said she had someone she wanted us to meet.”

  They stepped into the relative warmth of the vestibule, and Cilla eased the door closed behind her. “Who is that?”

  “He’s some writer guy. She said he was doing research about hauntings, especially those that have been stopped, resolved. He heard about her house and wanted the details.”

  Cilla scowled. “How did he hear about it? It’s not like what we did was common knowledge.” Cilla knew she was stretching a narrow line in their business. They got most of their referrals through word of mouth, one person telling another about their experience with the job. And while this kind of publicity was a good thing, she didn’t want the business to become an overblown joke. Bad enough they showed up looking like the members of the Adam’s family. She certainly didn’t want it advertised far and wide.

  Smith shrugged. He proceeded her up the stairs and again unlocked the door. He pulled it open and stood aside for Cilla to enter. She swept by him and put her coffee cup on her desk along with a bag of pastries she had picked up at the bakery a few doors down. She stowed her purse in the desk drawer as she did every day and toed off her shoes. A rubber ball rolled out from underneath the desk, and she wished momentarily she had brought Fargo with her.

  “She didn’t say how he knew about her house,” Smith declared, dropping into his desk chair and automatically booting up his computer. “She just mentioned he had. And when she told him about what we had done, he was anxious to meet with us.”

  Cilla dug into the bag and brought out an iced confection with raspberry filling. She tore off a hunk of the pastry and took a bite. “I’m not sure I like it.”

  Smith shrugged. “Melissa didn’t seem to be worried.” He held out his hand, and Cilla passed the bag to him.

  Cilla held her tongue. Melissa was a sweet girl with an easy manner, accepting of people at face value. She wouldn’t have been overly concerned with the stranger unless he had shown some massive homicidal tendencies.

  “Well, tell her not to meet again with this guy until we’re with her,” Cilla said shortly. “I don’t want her getting tangled up in anything more. Especially with what she’s having to deal with at the house.”

  “And what reason should I give her for that?” Smith demanded. “She’s going to think I’m crazy if I go in there bossing her around.” He opened the bag and commenced poking around, searching for something with a lot of sugar and chocolate.

  “I don’t mean to freak her out,” Cilla said, her tone soothing now, “but we need her to be discreet. Who knows what this guy’s real reason is. He might be trying to build a case about how much of a nut she is.”

  “She didn’t seem to think so.”

  “Smith,” Cilla spun her chair in his direction, her bare feet propped on the metal bottom of the desk. “Melissa is an extremely nice girl. She is also very trusting. I don’t want her to get involved in something that will damage our case. What if whoever this is talks her into thinking she’s going insane and ghosts aren’t legitimate?”

  Smith pursed his lips, his face lit by the screen in front of him. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell her not to do anything until we can meet with him too. Is that good?”

  Cilla nodded. “I suppose.”

  She prepared to take Fargo with her to work the next day and opted to drive instead of walk. She realized she was still experiencing a massive sense of dread and couldn’t express why. Now she hoped the dog might help lessen the stress. She opened the car door and gave a quick gesture, and Fargo hopped in the passenger seat. He didn’t like riding in the back when they were alone. He would reluctantly accept the back when Smith sat in the front seat, but he’d rather just lay in Smith’s lap. Not always a comfortable plan for the human he was walking on.

  She closed the door after him and climbed into the driver’s seat. She brought the car in reverse and started backing out of the drive, noting with amusement that her aunt had drifted out on the front porch and was waving as she watered a few potted plants on the stoop.

  Cilla’s phone trilled, and she drew it out of her pocket. Fargo was dancing in his seat, bracing for the car ride, one of his favorite activities. She sighed and put the car in park. Smith was calling.

  “Hey,” she greeted, reaching her free hand out to pet the dog on his barrel chest.

  “Are you at the office?” Smith voice was a bit breathy, and Cilla wondered if he had been running out of his apartment.

  “Not yet,” she felt a trickle of alarm. “Why?”

  “Good. I wanted to catch you before you got there. Melissa called, and that guy she wanted us to meet is coming by this morning.” He hesitated. “I know we were supposed to put him off, but I was too late. She had already arranged this meeting.” Cilla heard him shuffling something and figured he was snatching a granola bar for breakfast. He was comfortingly predictable. “So, since I couldn’t delay the interview, I thought we might drop by and meet him, check him out.” Cilla heard a car door closing.

  “At the house?” Cilla frowned. She wasn’t sure if she was in the mood to visit the besieged dwelling.

  “Yeah,” Smith’s statement was sounding muffled. Cilla surmised he was trying to drive. He was a fine driver, but distracted driving was never a good idea. She needed to end the call.

  “You want me to meet you there or at the office? I have Fargo with me.”

  “Yeah, come on to the office. I’ll meet you there, and we can ride out together.”

  “Ok, see you then,” she responded and tapped the end call button.

  The drive was short. Since she normally walked to work, it was a convenient thing she lived so close to the office. On the negative side, the parking at that location wasn’t great, so she paused out front of the office, parked illegally, and watched Smith climb out of his old car and lock it. She secretly believed it was a little ironic that he insisted on locking up the thing. He might be better off if someone stole the car, and he got the insurance money for it. That was, she mentally corrected herself, if he had insurance for anything other than liability.

  When he swung open the passenger door to her automobile, Fargo looked at him with eager anticipation, not realizing he would be ordered into the back seat by this new member of the group. Smith climbed in, prodding the dog over until he could get seated, and closed the car door, his glance toward Cilla showing just a shade of remorse.

  “I know you would rather not go to the house,” he began, reading Cilla’s mind a little too readily.

  “It’s fine. I’ll have to go back there eventually,” she countered quickly before he could go on about it.

  They were silent for a long moment as Smith rearranged Fargo’s weight on his lap. He grunted as one paw hit a vulnerable spot, and Cilla suppressed a smile. Fargo started a heavy panting from the seat, accompanied by a wide doggy smile, and Cilla leaned over and pet him on his silky head.

  The mansion loomed like a foreboding set from a black and white movie as they drew up close, all gray scale and weathered stone. Cilla had been there a few times since they had driven the spirit of Ruth out, but today it seemed to be shrouded with a pall of solemnity. Something wasn’t right, and even if Cilla suspected some of it was her own mood, she knew it wasn’t all to blame. Something was different.

  There was a small Toyota parked out front, a sure sign that Melissa was on site, but there were also two trucks parked side by side, their back beds stocked with slabs of wood and huge crates of what might have been almost any construction material.

  Cilla pulled the car up behind Melissa’s automob
ile and placed it in park. They climbed out, Fargo following them to the door, Smith holding his leash loosely. On the front porch, they could hear the rattle and bang of construction from within.

  “Sounds like someone was willing to come in and work,” Cilla remarked. “I’m glad her workers haven’t abandoned her.”

  “Yet,” Smith said darkly. He grabbed the handle and tugged the door wide, wincing as it squealed in protest.

  “That sounds worse than it did before,” Cilla commented.

  “Needs some oil is all.”

  Once inside, they followed the sound of pounding, to the back kitchen. Melissa was standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, utter destruction surrounding her. Whoever had been doing the work had hauled down cabinets and the plaster beneath. Strips of wood showed through like the ribcage of a giant beast.

  “Fargo!” Melissa’s voice rose in pitch, the way people invariably did when they saw babies and dogs. The dog responded with unbridled excitement.

  “Watch him,” Cilla warned. “I don’t want him stepping on any nails, and he might knock you down if he gets too excited.” She was beaming as she said it, enjoying the dogs obvious pleasure.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t do that,” Melissa murmured, rubbing Fargo’s ears, bending close to let him cuddle against her “And we’ll keep him in this cleared area, away from the debris.” After a moment, she straightened. “Thanks for coming by. I think you’re going to like to meet Paxton, and I have a lot more to show you here.”

  “How did you contact him?” Cilla asked, stepping over the rubble on the floor. She tried to keep her tone neutral.

  “He came here to the house while I was cleaning some things out. He said he had heard of my problem,” she glanced at Cilla, a small forced smile on her face and shrugged. “He acted like he collected stories of hauntings.”

  “I heard that some workers were involved,” Cilla said, keeping her tone easy. “Has anything else happened?”

  Melissa let her smile droop and fine lines appeared between her arched brows. “After the accident, I’ve had several guys refuse to come back.” Melissa seemed to avoid the second question. “And they want their money. I could pay them, but I’m afraid I’ll end up with a lot of half-finished work. I feel like it’s all coming apart.”

  Cilla shook her head. “No, it’s not. We can go back to the investigation. There has to be a reason the activity has flared again. And once we know the who and the what, we can try to get rid of it.”

  Melissa put her hand to her back, bending gracefully to stretch the muscles. Cilla looked around the kitchen, noting the relatively careless disarray.

  “What happened here?”

  “That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you all about,” Melissa admitted. “I had guys in doing the tear down,” Melissa pointed out. “They had gotten a lot done, but then something strange started happening.”

  “What do you mean?” Smith leaned over and picked up a sizable slab of plaster, tossing it into a waiting rubber garbage can.

  “Pieces started falling on their own,” Melissa admitted. “It was insane. At first, it was just the dust that stirred up, but then some fine splinters of plaster began dropping. It felt like a minor earthquake, and with the age of the house, it scared me to death.”

  “Oh,” Cilla said, peering around at the wreckage.

  “Then the workers started to get panicked, I was too. They pushed me toward the door. I think they thought it was an earthquake, or the end of the world was coming. But when we got outside, it all stopped. It was over, just like that. All was calm. The weather was perfect, barely a breeze. There was nothing to give any indication of what might have caused the destruction.”

  A bang from the front of the house made them all startle. Fargo let out a few deep chested barks, sounding like a big and scary dog, but remained at Melissa’s side.

  They could hear the even footsteps of someone crossing the foyer and continuing down the corridor.

  “It’s him. Paxton.” Melissa’s smile came more naturally, and she started out of the kitchen, still stepping gingerly, Fargo scrambling on her heels.

  “Melissa.”

  Cilla was staring at the newcomer as he strolled through the entryway. He didn’t look like any writer she knew, but then again, she didn’t know many authors.

  “Paxton Williams, this is my friend, Smith,” Melissa began while Fargo began an intense examination of the other man’s shoes. “And this is Cilla. She’s the brilliant lady who put the spirit to rest.”

  Cilla winced. Not the way she was normally introduced, but she wasn’t going to correct Melissa.

  “I am so glad to finally meet you,” the tall man with the crystalline blue eyes and fedora greeted them, sweeping the hat from his head, revealing dark hair cut short. A polite smile, complete with straight white teeth, came to his lips, but didn’t touch his eyes. He wore a close-cropped beard and mustache which seemed accentuate the sharp jaw. His shirt was loose, a cream button down that was tucked into well tailored dark slacks. Cilla had a moment of concern as she watched the dog sniffing one pant leg and then the other, wondering if this guy would be comfortable with a few dog hairs on his clothes. But then the newcomer bent down and commenced scratching Fargo under the chin, winning a friend for life if Fargo’s expression was any indication.

  “And who is this handsome fellow?” The accent was British, Cilla thought. She wasn’t good with regions in the UK, though, so she estimated she only had a fifty-fifty shot.

  “This is Fargo. He’s part of their team,” Melissa responded, casting a fond gaze on the canine.

  Cilla raked Paxton with her gaze. She felt an immediate impulse to distrust him, much as she would any member of the press. She tried to examine him, searching for something shifty in his eyes. She didn’t like her own natural urge to be suspicious, but she felt justified in this situation. Melissa had been through enough with this house. And Cilla had suffered at the hands of the media. Cilla was hoping this guy wasn’t going to use them just to write a good book.

  Paxton strolled to Melissa’s side and put out his hand, long fingered and graceful. Smith took it, but Cilla could plainly see a shadow cross his expression. Was he feeling uncomfortable because of something he sensed in this man or was jealousy rearing its head? The handshake was just a beat too long, and Cilla saw Smith’s fingers go a little white as he added some pressure. Paxton’s expression, still stoic, didn’t change, but for the first time a glint of amusement flashed in his eyes. When he turned to greet Cilla, hand still outstretched, she considered treating him to a vigorous shake, echoing Smith’s none too subtle warning, but decided against it.

  Then he took her hand. Cilla had experienced visceral responses at other stages in her life, but they were few and far between. As she had often told her challengers, she wasn’t a dime store psychic who could read cards, or even people. She sometimes wished she had the gift to help solve crimes by just touching objects or reading the truth on someone’s face. But she couldn’t.

  There were a few occasions, however, and they were exceedingly rare, that the touch of someone sent a thrill through her, the slip of knowledge so primitive and so deeply rooted that she would forever regard that person in a different way with heightened clarity and certainty.

  She realized with a sense which was as mysterious and instinctual as it was irrefutable, that this man was two things; he was troubled, and he was special. He would not, she knew, deliberately hurt her or Melissa. It was not in his nature. He would, however, go to the ends of the earth to succeed in his plan. That realization was equally frightening.

  Cilla’s eyes flew to his light ones, irises a glittering blue, and she knew he had felt something as well. The blank expression, an easy mask, had frozen, and his expression looked stiff and false, as though his skin was just a plastic coating over his fine bones.

  She released his hand as swiftly as she could without thrusting it away. She could feel her face heat, not with embarr
assment, but with a heightened emotion. It was, at least, not the shaky thrill she felt when she met with a restless spirit, an apparition.

  Smith seemed to detect some of the discomfort and blurted out, “So I hear you write books.”

  Paxton seemed to move with difficulty, his face losing some of the fixed expression, and nodded. “It’s not my full-time job,” he admitted, “but one I have always wanted to do.”

  “What do you do as your full-time job?” Smith’s tone was still a little too sharp.

  “I am in finances,” Paxton replied, deliberately vague. “I understand that you do commercial art as your main occupation?”

  Cilla watched this exchange with interest. Smith seemed determined to question the guy, and after her momentary shock, she was letting him. Her mind caught up in the connection she felt, and she was struggling to recall when it had been so compelling.

  The realization dawned on her, harsh and painful. Brandy Mae was twelve when Cilla met her, three years younger than Cilla herself. Brandy had been one of the many kids who rode the bus home with Cilla, a combination of high schoolers and middle schoolers crammed on a bright yellow bus every morning and afternoon like clockwork.

  Brandy Mae had kept her hair in braided pigtails and carried a backpack emblazoned with a cartoon unicorn, the pink threads of the edges fraying with wear. Cilla hadn’t spoken to her but a half dozen times since she started riding in November, and on that January morning, there were no extra seats. She paused next to Brandi Mae, scarcely cognizant of the younger girl, her emotions still muddled from a disagreement she had had with her then best friend, Jazmyne.

  Brandi looked up at her with pale grey eyes and smiled, showing a gap between her two front teeth. Cilla had dropped next to the girl, swinging her book bag to rest at her feet, her knuckles barely grazing the pale flesh of the other girl’s upper arm, and it happened.

  “Cilla?” Smith had an odd expression on his face, somewhere between concern and aggravation.