Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  He turned that striking blue gaze in her direction. His expression was purposefully blank. Cilla felt a wave of impatience.

  “You are aware that I haven’t hidden anything from you. Contrary to my original inclination, I have let you go with me for our investigations. You’ve been privy to more than I had intended. Now you’re holding back.” Cilla had stopped, her hand snaking out to grab Paxton’s arm which felt stiff beneath her fingers.

  “What are you doing back here?” The question came from a bearded man coming around the side of the house, his work boots cutting through the grass.

  Cilla dropped Paxton’s arm and stepped away from him, huffing out a sigh. The moment was broken, and she doubted she would get a better opportunity anytime soon.

  “We are friends of the homeowner,” Paxton replied smoothly, approaching the other man with long steps. “And you are?”

  “Cornell,” the man replied shortly. “I’m here to check the gas lines. And from what I understand, no one is supposed to be on this property.”

  Cilla nodded shortly. “We were just leaving,” she countered.

  They rode back in relative silence. Cilla thought about challenging Paxton, but his jaw was set, and she suspected he was in no mood to talk. She felt much the same, irritated and frustrated, and her temper was being held in check by a thread. A shouting match, mostly on her part, would not help her discover Paxton’s true goal in helping them. Instead, she bit back her words and looked blindly out the passenger window.

  In the office, they found Smith seated at his desk, studying a few small objects laid out on the top in place of his usual computer. Cilla closed the door after them and hesitated.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have the photos Brandon took,” Smith said nodding toward his computer that was now in place on Cilla’s desk. “And I have the objects we found at the office.”

  Cilla walked over and stood next to him, looking between the picture pulled up on the high definition screen and the objects.

  “A tooth,” she said faintly. “You can see how that might happen after time. The tooth probably fell out when the bones were moved.” It still made her feel squeamish. It had, after all, been a child.

  “And here is the button,” Smith declared, leaning over to zoom in on an area which should have been where the ribcage had been covered with a shirt. The fabric had not fared well, but the button was intact.

  Cilla leaned over and studied the button. The carving on the top looked so familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She rubbed her eyes.

  “What happened at the house?” Smith glanced from Cilla’s expression to where Paxton appeared entranced by the objects before him.

  “Nothing,” Cilla said shortly. “We were run off by some guy looking at the lines.” She cast a quick glance over to where Paxton continued to ignore them.

  “Then nothing?”

  “Nothing,” Cilla agreed.

  She was still pondering the nothing as she unlocked the door to her home. Her aunt was in the back yard. She could hear the distant chiming of music and smiled to herself. She needed this. She needed to be with people who knew all her secrets, all her hidden talents. Her smile faded. Perhaps they didn’t know it all. She was learning more about herself with every passing day, but there was that one thing, that one secret that she held close.

  She slipped into the house and dropped her purse on the little side table, pausing to glance at the glossy pile of junk mail. Someone had gotten the envelopes and ads from the box but hadn’t sorted it yet.

  She scooped up the stack and carried it with her into the kitchen. Out the back window, she could see her aunt leaning over some tiny plantings she was trying to cultivate. She wasn’t sure what they were. Her aunt was notorious for the hybridizing of various species to refine their effects.

  Cilla dropped the mail on the table and froze. The sheets and envelopes shuffled and spread, and Cilla stared. She had seen the logo thousands of times before. Moss Inc owned a collection of high end boutiques which had blossomed into a string of shops. The profits had spread, and the name had become a household regular.

  The Moss Inc logo was a bright turquoise blue M against a lemon-yellow background. But if the colors were removed, the emblem repeated in black and white, it would look like the carved initial on the button found in the makeshift grave of a child.

  Cilla and Fargo were both shivering a little when they made it into the office the next morning. The moderate warmth of Indian Summer had been swept out with a wind dropping down from the north bringing with it sprinkles of rain and a chill to the air.

  Cilla was still groggy from her late night, and she was hoping Smith might have taken pity on her and brought her some coffee.

  Her wish was answered, but it wasn’t Smith who bribed her with the hot strong brew. Paxton was already in her office, a sleek tablet on Smith’s desk next to a pile of ragged notebooks and loose copy paper, his hat lying next to it on the scarred wooden surface, when Cilla pushed through the door.

  Fargo, the traitor, left her side with a surge of delight and dashed toward the man without an ounce of apology. Cilla approached more slowly, giving Paxton time to proffer the cardboard cup with the iconic green emblem on the side.

  “Thanks,” Cilla muttered. She wished too late she had worn something a little more professional. She hadn’t any plans to leave the office for the day, so she was wearing frayed jeans and a black tee shirt with long sleeves that reached the middle of her hands. A set of apple red lips were emblazoned across her chest. It was perfect for the cold day, but she felt like a high schooler. It didn’t help that her feet were encased only in a pair of matching red fluffy socks. She had toed off her boots just outside the office door as was her routine.

  She took the coffee, eyebrows raising when he reported, “And an extra shot of caramel and cream.” He noticed her expression and smiled slightly, his white teeth shining against his beard. “Smith gave me the order.”

  “Where is he, anyway?” Cilla asked.

  “He said he had a stop to make on the way in.”

  Cilla glanced at the door, suddenly suspicious.

  “Your lovely landlady let me in the building and in the office. I assured her I was going to behave myself.” Paxton tilted his head and assessed her with shrewd eyes. “Still in the proverbial doghouse, am I?”

  Cilla slumped in her chair and took a grateful sip of coffee. She grunted noncommittally. She was still irritated with him, but for now she had bigger concerns on her plate. She insisted she didn’t want Smith to come to her house the night before as soon as she had made her discovery about the button. But now, she was sure there was something to it and was eager to share.

  “I’m going to let it slide for now,” Cilla responded in a muffled voice. “I’ve got more to worry about. But I will make one thing clear. Our agreement still stands.” She looked up at him pointedly. “Nothing you have learned here through our investigation gets publicized without my say so.

  Paxton nodded. “Smith told me you had had a breakthrough last night.”

  Cilla huffed out a sigh. She wasn’t surprised Smith had told Paxton what she found. They were as thick as thieves.

  “I believe so.” She glared at him as if daring him to disagree.

  He studied her, one well shaped eyebrow lifted. He even had long eyelashes to go with those extraordinary eyes. Cilla made a face.

  “The button we found in the wall,” Cilla began. “Smith has it in his desk drawer.” She made a gesture to the wooden desk where Paxton was sitting. “Top one.”

  Paxton slid open the wooden drawer and peered inside. He plucked out the little plastic sandwich bag, the items looking all the more macabre laid out in the modern container. He opened the bag and brought out the button. “I suppose it’s too late to be worried about fingerprints.”

  Cilla nodded. “Put it here,” she commanded, pointing to the top of the desk.

  She watched him drop the button on the wood
en surface and position it, so they could see the carved top.

  She bent and dug into her voluminous purse, tugging out the advertisement she had found the night before in her mailbox. She flipped the paper over, so the emblem was angled the same way the button’s carving was positioned and pointed.

  “Look familiar?”

  “They appear to be the same,” Paxton said, drawing his chair closer to examine the ad.

  “They are the same,” Cilla affirmed. “The letter M on the button matches the logo perfectly, down to the curve on the outside.” She pointed to the area she mentioned on the glossy sheet.

  “I agree,” Paxton responded. “But what do you think this means?” He was frowning. “I recognize this,” he continued, “but I’m not sure what the relation is.”

  “Luckily, I’ve done some research,” Cilla replied archly. “The M is for Moss, the founding father of Moss Inc.” She cocked her head. “Not being from here may put you at a disadvantage, but trust me when I say, this company is renowned in the area.” She pointed to the button. “This logo is immediately recognizable around here. That’s why I got in touch with Smith so quickly. Anything to do with the Moss family would make a significant sensation in the news.”

  “And you believe this old button is an artifact from the family which founded the business,” Paxton added, catching her meaning.

  “Exactly. I’ve heard of the stores forever. I just didn’t know anything about the people behind the company. So,” she nodded toward the ad again, “I’ve been looking up the history of the family, and I feel sure I know at least part of the story.”

  Paxton pinned her with his gaze. “Do tell.”

  The Moss family had started out as a hard-working immigrant family who changed their name from Moskov to Moss when they settled in their new homeland. And they were the picture of the American dream as they took the budding textiles business from a small manufacturer to a string of stores.

  “By all reports, the family was successful,” Cilla noted. “I mean, there were a few tragedies, just like in most families.”

  “But there was one that got your attention,” Paxton added, giving her a sidelong glance.

  “Oh, yes. In 1937, the only son of the heir apparent disappeared. It was during the flood in 1937.” Cilla glanced at Paxton’s face and felt a jolt when she realized he was studying her instead of the evidence in front of them.

  “Do tell,” he muttered.

  “There were two brothers set to inherit the business, but the oldest, Peter, was married with a son. The old man, and founder, had slated for the older brother to take over the business when he retired and the other son, Adolf, to work in a different capacity. The plans were for the inheritance to continue on through the line. But then a tragedy happened. The older brother’s only child was reported missing. The boy was not yet four years old. His Uncle Adolf, and this is the younger brother, claimed he had taken him to stay with some relatives out-of-town due to the flooding. The relatives stated they never saw the boy, but the uncle insisted the boy was left there with one of the household help.”

  “And this was during the flood?”

  “This was while much of the city was being evacuated. There were many people reported missing. The emergency services were overwhelmed. It was chaos.”

  “Then the uncle supposedly took the child for his safety and traveled outside city limits. He said he left him with someone?”

  “Yes, and according to him, he rushed back to town to help protect the property owned by the family.”

  “And the child?”

  “He was never seen again.” Cilla picked up the button in her hand, letting it roll over in her palm. Had the wealthy child of the successful family been wearing a coat with this button attached? And how had it, and his remains, ended up in the basement of a virtually abandoned building?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Smith looked uncomfortable in the dress slacks and button-down shirt which completed his disguise. Not, Cilla observed, that it was much of a stretch. He looked like just another twenty something office drone. But they wanted to appear inconspicuous. They were going to attempt to interview the descendent of the original Moskov founding father.

  Cilla didn’t have great aspirations, however. It seemed everyone who had been alive during the Great Flood of 1937 was gone. Both the father of the child, Peter Moskov, and the uncle, Adolf, had lived to ripe old ages. The older brother Peter had been 88 when he passed, the younger following his brother in death just three years later at 89. The older brother had never fathered another offspring, so the company, as well as the corresponding wealth, had gone to Adolf Moskov, and in time, his sole offspring. Christopher Moskov had changed his name when he reached early adulthood, just before taking over and re-branding the business. The remaining Moskov heir, now Christopher Moss, was approximately 70 years old himself, but still an influential man. His name and face had been all over the papers, as the reputation of the business, and the family itself had gained notoriety. It was all good, however. The Moss company had a long history of charitable works, revitalization projects in the city, and support of the local aid.

  By all accounts, Moss was an extremely busy man, and if the repeated but unanswered phone calls were any indication, there wasn’t a great probability that he would agree to see them.

  That didn’t mean that Cilla wouldn’t try. She was dressed in her business attire, more librarian and less mortician. She had bullied Smith into both going with her and leaving Paxton out of the adventure. She was positive that although she and Smith were fairly forgettable, especially if they tried, the handsome Paxton with the silky voice and arresting gaze, would draw too much attention.

  The office in Louisville was only a subsidiary of the primary headquarters based in Nashville. Cilla had read up on the company and knew the essential operations had left Louisville in the eighties. This had not, however, included the CEO. Apparently, the boss had opted not to leave his hometown.

  The venerable old building off Broadway in downtown Louisville had housed offices since it was erected. The front doors, carved with glass panes, were closed but not locked. Cilla pulled the heavy panel open and she and Smith stepped inside.

  The marble floors were pristine. The building, although old, had been kept in perfect condition. It even smelled of a lemony polish. They paused in the front foyer, noticing hallways stretching in both directions.

  “Well?” Smith was standing on the slick marble shuffling from one foot to the other.

  “When in doubt, go left,” Cilla said, feigning certainty. Smith wasn’t convinced, but he followed her anyway. When they found the offices in the hallway locked up tight, they headed the other direction but were stopped in the foyer.

  “Can I help you?” The man was middle-aged but in good physical shape, brawny arms crossed over a barrel chest. His uniform was starched into stiff creases and he looked like he hadn’t smiled in a very long time.

  “I was looking for Mr. Moss,” Cilla proclaimed, adding what she hoped was a dazzling smile.

  “Mr. Moss is not taking visitors,” the man replied stiffly.

  Cilla batted her eyes, trying her best to appear both approachable and nonthreatening. She was accustomed to giving people the creeps with her side job, and she doubted this man would understand her bizarre career choice.

  “I have left several messages with Mr. Moss. My friend and I,” she gestured to Smith where he stood awkwardly next to her, “are graphic designers.” She tried to force a pleading note in her voice. “We would love to discuss with Mr. Moss a project we could prepare for him. At no cost of course, just to get our name out there.”

  The man pinned her with sharp dark eyes. “Mr. Moss is not taking visitors. Let me escort you out.”

  Cilla felt her lips tighten, the smile slipping. It would have been so much easier if he had just agreed to see them. The few questions she had could have been answered in a half hour of his time.

  The man reached ou
t, one hand gripping her elbow just a little too tight.

  “Hey,” she exclaimed, before catching herself. “That is not necessary.”

  The man ignored her complaint, his fingers tightening, making Cilla sure she would have marks later.

  “Let me go,” she ground out and heard Smith fumbling behind her.

  “You need to take your hands off her,” he declared, his tone thick with fury.

  The man ignored them, pushing through the door with Cilla in tow. As soon as her heels hit the pavement, she felt the grip ease.

  “Mr. Moss has no interest in speaking with you,” the man added, tone flat but eyes glittering. “And don’t think we don’t recognize precisely who you are.” He turned neatly on his heel and headed back inside, leaving Cilla and Smith gaping on the sidewalk.

  Cilla was gulping in breaths, outrage and anger warring inside her.

  “What now?” Smith said, his eyes still glued to the now closed door.

  “Now?”

  “Are we heading back to the office?”

  Cilla spun on him and glared, fire in her eyes. “What do you think?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “I think I should have worn more comfortable shoes.”

  “If Mr. Moss thinks he’s stopped us, he’s dead wrong. I say we check around a little. See what kind of man we’re actually dealing with.”

  They poked around the outside of the building, progressively expanding their circle, calling on the adjacent offices and restaurants, convenient stores and little shops. They asked polite questions to shopkeepers and wait staff, hoping they might catch a hint of why the old man wouldn’t see them. As they approached the office, Cilla tried to keep her eyes open for any shadows behind the darkened windows.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she stepped into the alley and pulled out the gadget. The number wasn’t familiar, but she had reached out to several people, and she didn’t want to miss a possible tip.

  She hit the green answer button on the screen and heard the disconnected voice of a woman at the same time an increasing rumble of an engine seemed to drown out the sound from the phone. At the rumble, she jerked her head up to see the dark low shape of a sedan take the corner of the building much too fast. Cilla froze, the sound of the phone now completely masked.