Southern Haunts

by Stuart Jaffe

  “I’m guessing the neighbors did something bad.”

  “Not bad, but they did act. The women of the neighborhood got together and started pressuring former Mayor James Hanes to get involved. He had always been a good man to them, and they figured he was their best chance for justice since the current Mayor and Police Chief were clearly playing a game of damage control.”

  “This is like an old version of Heidi Fleiss.”

  “Exactly. And I think the top dogs were wetting themselves, afraid that one of the sisters kept a little black book. Making it worse for them, the editor, Martin, was milking the story for everything he could. Not only because it sold newspapers, but because it fed his zealotry about prohibition.”

  Max’s enthusiasm had washed away all his tiredness. He could see his energy infecting Sandra as well.

  “So what did Hanes do?” she asked.

  “Not much he could do. Especially because the case kept bulldozing along. On the fourth day, Martin published a story in which Sergeant Cofer called himself a scapegoat. He states that his visits to the sister’s house were all official business. He was there responding to rumors of illegal dances taking place, but he never found evidence of any wrongdoing.”

  “Did anybody buy that?”

  “Doubtful. Meanwhile, the police searched for the AWOL sisters. By Day Five, rumors start flying that upward of eight police officers would be suspended and many city officials might be involved. And here’s where things really get interesting — I’m pretty sure Martin had nothing on Day Five. These rumors might simply have been his own desire or some glory-hound feeding him what he wanted to hear. But, on the sixth day, all the high officials close ranks and hush up. Nobody’s talking. So, even if Martin had nothing before, he certainly hit a nerve.”

  “How many of them were going to this whorehouse?”

  Max shrugged. “Maybe all of them. I don’t know. But the next day, an ex-cop revealed that the police were protecting hidden booze and the day after that, the eighth day, two detectives are fired. By this point, ministers and other prohibitionists are putting pressure on the city using their pulpits as weapons. Day Ten comes along and the police arrest a man named Ogilvie who had the hidden liquor stored at the Westover Golf Club. He’s acquitted for lack of evidence. Don’t ask — it was a legal maze that stunk of payoffs and corrupt authority. In the end, twelve days after the start of this whole thing, it all fizzles apart. The officials tighten up and many of the quotes that Martin had published could not be substantiated.”

  “Wait. You mean they got away with it?”

  “Other than those who got fired during the scandal, nobody else had to pay.”

  With the story out, Max flopped in his desk chair and swiveled around as he let Sandra absorb all he had said.

  “I’m missing something,” she said. “I mean, that was a fascinating story, but what does it have to do with the Darian case.”

  Summoning all his remaining energy, he confidently knocked his fist on his desk as he said, “I don’t know. But it happened two doors up from their house in the exact time period we’ve been focusing on.”

  “That’s awful thin.”

  “There’s one more thing — Freddie Robertson. He’s the son of Jack Robertson. And Jack was one of the police officers involved in this case. I even found a photo of him holding up a bottle of Casper whiskey.”

  “What makes Freddie so important?”

  “Because, hon, he’s still alive. We’re going to go talk with him tomorrow, and all my researching instincts are telling me that he’s going to bring everything together for us.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said, but she looked doubtful. Her furrowed brow did not ease as the conversation ended. If anything, Max thought the wrinkles deepened.

  “Something happen today?” he asked.

  “Nothing bad. I got a call from Libby. She said things have quieted down. Shawnee called her and said there haven’t been any more incidents yet. Wayne still refuses to let Libby back in the house, but so far, so good.”

  “That’s a relief. For now, at least.”

  Sandra did not appear relieved. Her hands clenched as she seemed to be mounting her strength for something. Max’s tired brain finally clicked in — this was it. The conversation they had been dancing around finally had no place to escape.

  He could make it easier for her, though. At least, easier to get started. “I found your pregnancy test in the trash.”

  Sandra gazed at him, her eyes searching for his reaction to this news. “Are you upset?”

  “That you hid it from me or that it’s negative?”

  “I didn’t hide it from you. I just wasn’t going to talk about it unless there was something to talk about. But it was negative, so what was the point?”

  “The point is that you want to get pregnant and that’s a big deal for both of us. The point is that just because you’ve got the womb doesn’t mean I’m superfluous in all of this.”

  Sandra sat back, her frown no longer one of worry. Rather, she looked confused. “What makes you think I want a baby?”

  Now, Max looked confused. “I thought ... well, my mother said ...”

  “Your mother?”

  “You don’t want a baby?”

  “You talked with your mother about this?”

  “I’m not close friends with a lot of people who have had babies. You don’t want a baby?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “But the way you’ve been acting lately —”

  “I’m terrified of getting pregnant. I mean I’m not scared of being pregnant or being a mother or anything like that. My fears are about the kind of person I am, we are, and what that means. Ever since we faced the witch Welling and she possessed me, I’ve been worried. I refuse to let my body, especially my pregnant body, go through that again. You see what’s happening with the Darians. No way will I allow that to happen to me. To us. My body belongs to me and only me.”

  “But what about the doctor visits? Are you ill or something?”

  Sandra rubbed her face. “Oh, honey, I’m fine. I’m sorry I worried you so much.”

  “Still worried over here. What’s with the doctor?”

  “I was looking into getting my tubes tied. If you’re okay with it, I want to make it you and me forever. No kids. Just us, fighting the ghosts and holding on to each other.”

  Max walked around the desk and stood before his wife. His thoughts jumbled with his spinning emotions like a ship flipping in the water as it fell into a whirlpool. He would sort through it all later. For now, his wife needed his assurance that they were fine. And they were. He had his answers, and while part of him had warmed to the idea of fatherhood, his love for Sandra far outweighed any feelings toward a non-existent child.

  He sat on Sandra’s lap. She let out an oof but laughed. “Mrs. Porter, if I weren’t so dead tired, I’d take you to the bedroom right now.”

  “Well, Mr. Porter, you are dead tired. And you smell worse than a wet dog. So, go shower and get some rest.”

  They kissed. Max pressed his forehead against hers, looked into her eyes with warmth, and then stood. But before he could reach the door, Marshall Drummond appeared behind the desk.

  “Great news,” the ghost said and whisked straight through the desk. “I know where we can find Floyd Johnson.”

  Max perked up. “You’ve got him?”

  “I found him. See, this is where a network of contacts comes in handy. They all came back empty-handed.”

  Sandra chuckled. “That sure is handy.”

  “Doll, let me tell you, no news can be very significant. Without a single ghost in the Other finding any hint of Floyd Johnson, that told me he wasn’t in the Other. But based on the information I had about him having a tragic death, I thought it wasn’t likely he moved on. That and the fact that several of my contacts reported having seen Johnson in the Other previously.”

  Exhaustion took the better part of Max’s patience. “Get to
the point.”

  Drummond dismissed Max’s tone as he turned toward Sandra. “Floyd Johnson must have found out someone was looking for him. He’s hiding.”

  Understanding crossed Sandra’s face. “He’s a ghost that hasn’t moved on and doesn’t want to go to the Other. He’ll be near his grave.”

  “Exactly,” Drummond said and floated backwards with pride.

  Max tipped an imaginary hat. “Good work. Now, I’m going to sleep.”

  “What? We should go out and talk with him.”

  “Not tonight. I need rest. Plus, I have no desire to face a ghost in the middle of the night. Especially a ghost that’s trying to avoid us. And we have an important lead with a guy named Freddie Robertson. Sandra can fill you in, if she wants to stay up. I’ll talk with Robertson first thing in the morning and then visit your ghost.”

  Drummond swished across the room to block the door. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Sorry. Only Sandra gets to share my bed.”

  “Cranky-tired and still a smart ass.”

  “I try.”

  “I’m coming with you tomorrow.”

  Before Max could say a word, Sandra interjected, “That’s a good idea. I’ve got a follow up with my doctor, so you should have Drummond along. Don’t want you to face any of this alone.”

  “Yeah, listen to your wife. Besides, how are you going to talk with Floyd Johnson when I’m the only ghost you connect with?”

  “Relax,” Max said. “I was going to say it was a good idea. Drummond should come along.”

  A brief pause. Then Drummond said, “Oh. Okay, then. See you in the morning.”

  Chapter 19

  DAY FOUR

  The following morning, Max contacted Freddie Robertson. He found the man quite agreeable to a meeting.

  “At my age, any company is welcome,” Robertson said over the phone.

  He suggested they meet at the Geeksboro Cafe, a little place off Battleground Avenue in Greensboro. It was a colorful coffee shop with a massive projector and screen showing old black-and-white movies. Secondhand sofas and reading chairs lined the walls while long tables occupied the main floor space. Several people sat at them and played various board games — most of which Max had never seen before.

  “What kind of place is this?” Drummond said as he spied over the shoulder of one player.

  “It is called Geeksboro Cafe. I’m guessing these are the games geeks like to play.” Max glanced at one wall filled with shelves of board games. Titles like Catan, Carcasonne, and Resistance drew his attention.

  “This is nuts.”

  “No nuttier than sports fans that cover themselves in team colors and know every statistic down to the shoe size of every player. These are just people who really like ... whatever these games are. Besides, we’re not here to play. We’re here to interview a guy.”

  A voice called from the back. “Max Porter?”

  Drummond clicked his tongue. “Guess we found him.”

  Short and bald, Robertson had the heft of a man who had regularly worked out in his younger years, but now all that muscle had turned against him — drinking a six-pack or two each day probably sped up matters. Still, for a man in his nineties, Freddie Robertson looked remarkable fit.

  He waved them over to a small room in the back. Painted blue, it had game tables as well and another sofa. With the lunch rush not yet in swing — Max had no idea if this place even had a lunch rush — the back room was empty. Perfect for their conversation.

  “You have any trouble finding the place?” Robertson asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Why don’t you go get yourself something to drink? I’ll wait.”

  “No, thank you. I’m here to talk with you.”

  “Well, I need something to drink. I’ll be right back.”

  Robertson walked out, and Drummond uttered a curse. “I feared we might be running into one of these types.”

  “One of what types?”

  “This guy — he might have something tell us, he might not, but I guarantee he’s going to string it out as long as possible. He’s lonely, and he’ll do anything to have this conversation fill up his day.”

  “He’s said two words to us. How do you know this already?”

  “What he said, the way he said it, and the fact that he went to go get a drink when, if you look at the table right there, he’s got a half-cup of whatever that orange stuff is.”

  Max glanced at the table and saw the cup. This was one reason Max needed Drummond. The dead detective saw the things that Max’s untrained eyes often missed.

  “Well, we’re here and we need to get something out of this guy. We’ll just have to try to make it as fast and direct as possible.”

  Drummond chuckled. “Good luck.”

  Max’s interrogation techniques, his observation skills, all the things he needed to be a good detective, had improved much since he had met Drummond, but he had hoped the ghost would offer more than Good luck when the time came.

  Robertson returned, sat, and sipped his coffee a moment. Then before Max could launch his first question, Robertson smiled and said, “So, tell me Mr. Porter, you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any children?”

  Max knew he paused before saying No and he wondered if Drummond or Robertson had noticed.

  “Well, if you ever do have children, you make sure to raise them right. Make sure that they’re not going to abandon you when you get old. I can tell you, I never thought it to be true. Never bothered much to check out my old man when he was in his last years. Here I am and my kids don’t want to have anything to do with me. I feel sad about it. I’m not mad at them. I caused it. But there you have it. Be good to your kids, give them love and support, all that kind of crap.”

  Max saw an opening and took it. “It’s actually your father that we wanted talk with you about.”

  Robertson’s scalp wrinkled as he raised his eyes. “What’s my old man got to do with anything?”

  “I’m writing an article about a house in Winston-Salem and your father’s name came up. Not many people are still alive from that time period, and I thought you might remember something, might be able to help me out.”

  “Is this about that brothel?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  Drummond moved in. “Careful, Max. Don’t tip your hand.”

  Robertson sipped his coffee and said, “There ain’t that much else that my father’s name would’ve shown up on. He was a good cop, but he never really got involved in any big cases that made the newspapers — except that one.”

  “I see. Well, yes, I am interested in that house and that story. Not trying to cause any trouble for anybody, mind you.”

  Robertson’s mouth broadened into a smile. “Why would it be any trouble? Unless you think my father was guilty of something.”

  Max could not read Robertson’s tone. It seemed pleasant enough, but the words had a bite that troubled him. For Drummond’s part, the ghost stared hard at Robertson but offered no solutions.

  Inspiration struck. “I’m sorry, Mr. Robertson, clearly this was the wrong subject to bring up. I’ll be on my way.”

  As Max stood, Drummond snickered. “Smart move. You keep learning more and more from me.”

  Sure enough, before Max had fully risen, Robertson’s said, “No, no, stay. It’s no problem. I’d be happy to share the stories.”

  Max settled back. “What do you remember of that time? Anything about your father?”

  “Oh, I didn’t see my father much. I was a little kid, and in those days, my father had no time for little kids. He walked his beat, got his paycheck, took care of his family — I’m pretty sure he got plastered every weeknight. But he never hit me. Least not unless I’d done something to deserve it. But I was a pretty good kid, so he didn’t have cause to wallop me. He didn’t beat my mother, either. So, we did pretty good for that time.”

  “Did your father ever talk about the incid
ent when you were older?”

  “I told you, I never spent much time with the old man. That kind of stuff never really came up.”

  Max hesitated, flummoxed by Robertson’s inability to provide useful information.

  “He knows something,” Drummond said. “Listen to the way he’s answering your questions. He’s giving very specific answers, very narrow, and not expounding. He’s trying to avoid lying but he’s omitting things.”

  Max reviewed the conversation so far. Robertson seemed content to sit in silence and sip his coffee. Finally, Max said, “You said you had stories to share. If you don’t know anything about your father, then what would those stories be about?”

  Robertson set down his coffee. “Did I say that?”

  “You did. Perhaps they’re about your mother. Did she work at the brothel?”

  “Do not go insulting a man’s mother.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that kind of work. Maybe she was a maid and cleaned the rooms.”

  “My mother was an angel and would never set foot in such a place.”

  Drummond nodded. “I’ve seen many a Southern man defend his mother, and I can tell you that this man is speaking the truth.”

  “Then what?” Max asked. “I can’t sit here all day.”

  Robertson watched his twiddling thumbs as he spoke. “Well now, hold on. I do have something that might be of interest to you.”

  When Robertson failed to talk further, Max prodded, “I’m listening.”

  The elderly man continued to focus his interest on his fingers. However, Max could see that this time, Robertson wasn’t stalling. Rather, his memories flooded over him, and he searched for a way to express whatever caused his mouth to tremble.

  At length, he said, “First thing you should understand — back then things were tight for us. The Great Depression hadn’t happened yet, but we struggled. Every kid did his or her part to help the family. So, even though I was just a tyke, I had my responsibilities. I joined a group of older boys who mowed lawns, trimmed hedges, stuff like that.”