by Stuart Jaffe
“Something inside you knows I’m right. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have taken those papers.”
“Thanks for that, too. I’ve committed a serious crime, stealing evidence, so now I can improve my life by going off to jail. I’m sure Sandra would love visiting me, only talking through a phone, seeing me bruised and beaten — you know I’m not tough enough to stand my ground in jail. They’ll rip me apart.”
“Max, please, you’re acting hysterical.”
“I am not going to get involved in this.”
A car pulled up and backfired — Sandra. They had needed a second car but couldn’t afford anything but a used piece of junk that clearly had been in more than one accident. Max watched from the dirty window as she turned off the car and gathered her things together. He dashed the three steps it took to get to the trash and fished out the stolen papers.
“Over here,” Drummond said, indicating a torn piece of carpet near the back wall.
Max shoved the paper under and placed a pillow over the ripped carpet. With a harsh look, he pointed a finger right at Drummond’s face. “Not a word.”
The door opened and in walked Max’s wife. Sandra still could take his heart away. Even in the hard times they suffered through, looking at her shapely figure and bright smile gave him hope.
Max wrapped his arms around her and planted a big kiss on her mouth. She smiled playfully. “Now that’s the kind of welcome home I like.” Hearing her own words, Sandra frowned. “Wait a minute. Why are you home? Shouldn’t you be researching some family history?”
“I have some bad news about that. My client is dead.”
“What?”
“I’m hoping it was an accident or natural causes.”
Drummond stretched his arms over his head and groaned. “That colored boy was murdered and you know it.”
With an impatient sigh, Max said, “He wasn’t a boy and I swear if you use the word colored again, I’m going to end our partnership.”
“What did I do?”
“Don’t act all innocent. You’ve been haunting this world for decades. You know all about the Civil Rights Movement, about the changes in this world, and you know that the way you thought back when you were alive was wrong. So start checking that your mouth is synced up with the times. We’ve got enough problems without having to deal with Southern bigotry.”
“Now you listen here —”
“Gentleman,” Sandra said with an easing tone. “Let’s not argue about prejudices that neither of you have. Drummond, kindly update your vernacular so that you speak less offensively in this modern world. Max, stop taking the bait for a fight simply because you and Drummond are feeling ornery. And one of you, tell me what the hell happened today? Your client was murdered?”
Max slumped into the kitchen chair. Sitting wedged between the sink and their only table, Max explained the events of the day. He never mentioned the papers he stole nor that he had them stashed underneath the carpet, but otherwise, he provided every detail as best as he could recall.
When he finished, Sandra pounded her fist against the counter with one hard strike. “It’s not fair. We can’t even get a break on a simple damn family research job.”
“I’ll get some other work. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”
“No, it won’t. How are we going to survive if Hull kills off every client you get?”
“We don’t know it was Hull. We don’t even know if it was murder.”
Sandra dropped her purse on the table. Its stitching had started to unravel, and she flicked the loose, limp strands. “I can’t support us both working part-time at a bakery, and they won’t give me any more hours.”
“It’s not your job to support us. We do it together.”
“Not when you have no clients.”
Drummond tipped his hat and lowered his head. “I think I should be going for a bit of a stroll. See you later.” Max opened his mouth to utter a word of protest, he figured having the ghost’s support might help in this fight, but before he could speak, Drummond floated away.
Max turned toward Sandra. “We’ve been through tough times before, and they say the economy is getting better. I’m sure more clients will come our way.”
“Stop that. You’re always playing the part of Mister Positive when I’m pissed, but I know deep down you’re angry and worried about all of this.”
“Of course. We’ve got plenty to be angry and worried about. That doesn’t mean we have to give up, and we certainly don’t have to fight about it. It’s not like this is my fault.”
Sandra’s eyes flared. “Don’t you start blaming me.”
“I didn’t —”
“Just because I’m the one who had the guts to tell Tucker Hull to go back to the hell he came from, doesn’t mean this is all my fault. Or would you have rather we ran away from North Carolina and simply prayed that a psychopathic zombie with a witch fetish would forget about us? You really think that would’ve worked? The Hulls never forget. Look at all of your big cases down here. Every one of them that involved the Hulls, and that’s almost all of them, involved old scores they were still trying to settle. You really think they’d let us go? After you held them off of us by threatening to expose them? You really think that?”
When Max sensed that she had vented the last of the moment’s anger, he smiled. “When I said it wasn’t my fault, I meant my client’s murder. That’s it.”
Sandra stood next to the refrigerator, suddenly finding great interest in the dent from where the previous owner had kicked it. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”
Her bottom lip quivered and as her tears fell, Max swooped her up in his arms and stroked her hair. “I don’t blame you for any of this. When you sent word to the Hulls that we weren’t going to run, I was so proud of you. And I still am.”
Sniffling, she said, “I know. I do. I’m just sick of things not going our way. Ever. It seems like every time we’re so close to building a stable life, some catastrophe happens to knock us back down. I swear all of those catastrophes have the name Hull attached somewhere along the line.”
“Hey, don’t worry so much. We’ve still got each other. And this lovely home.”
With a chuckle, she stepped away and grabbed a tissue. “That we do. When they get this away from us, we can live out of the car.”
“That’s right. The Fall is almost done, but we can drive further South if the ice storms get too bad. Otherwise, the weather here is fine. Who needs a house?”
“I’ll tell you, seriously, it’s hard not to see the Hulls hands in everything bad. Even when I was asking for more hours, the way Cheryl hesitated before saying she couldn’t do it — I swear she needs the help, and all I could think was that Hull got to her, too.”
Max nodded. “I feel it, too. Driving up to the crime scene today, I saw those cops, and I couldn’t really put it into words until now, but yeah — I think I had that same suspicion. I didn’t even know what had happened yet, but on some deep, subconscious level, all I could think was that the Hulls were about to screw up my life again.”
Max thought about the papers under the carpet. He had yet to look at them, and he wondered if the letterhead would be a big blue H with a little door on the one leg.
Sandra hugged Max. “Let’s promise not to talk about the Hulls anymore. At least, not anymore tonight.”
“Okay. Deal.”
“You know, Drummond ran off because we were fighting.”
“Yeah, I saw him go.”
“That means he’s not here to bother us. Not for a while. We’re all alone.”
Max felt his lips curl upward. “Now that is a much better way to spend our time than fighting.”
Sandra pressed her mouth against his, and he wasted no time reaching for her bottom. He felt a bit like a teenager whose parents had stepped out. The kisses between them had that urgency, that strength and desire which accompanied making up as well as the fear of getting caught.
He heard a car pull up outside but di
d his best to ignore it. He heard the car door shut but dismissed it as a neighbor stopping home early. His hand reached up Sandra, but they both stopped as they heard three sharp knocks on their door.
“Damn,” he muttered.
Sandra kissed the tip of his nose. “Raincheck?”
“You need to ask?”
With a wink, she opened the door. A tall, stark lady dressed in an expensive business suit stepped in. She extended her hand, and with a clipped tone, she said, “Good day. I’m Cecily Hull.”
Chapter 3
If Max had been asked all the numerous ways his day could have gotten worse, he would never have dreamed up this. Cecily Hull stood in their trailer with a disgusted twist to her mouth as she examined the poor conditions. She had short, blonde hair styled with sharp ends and a close buzz in the back — a rather intimidating look when coupled with her pale skin and grim eyes. One might assume she had been dressed for a funeral, except Max’s gut told him this was her standard appearance.
She stood still with her hand out, and Max finally realized Sandra had no intention of being polite. Why should she? A few years ago, Max would have agreed with Sandra’s attitude and probably took a step further. But he knew better now. This woman had a reason for visiting, and there was no point to pissing on the situation before they had learned that reason. He shook her hand as Sandra crossed her arms over her chest.
Cecily kept her eyes locked on Sandra. “My apologies if I’ve intruded, but I need to speak with you about an urgent matter.”
“Come in,” Max said. “Have a seat.”
She glanced at the couch, and her pointed nose wriggled at an offensive odor. “I won’t be long. I think I’ll stand.”
Sandra’s jaw tightened. Max hurried between them. “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you tell us what Tucker wants and you can be on your way.”
Cecily chuckled — an off-putting, airy sound like a dog’s squeaky toy that could barely squeak. “I’m not here on Tucker’s behalf. Not in the least. I’m here for me and for me alone.”
“Then why don’t you tell us what it is you want.”
“Your help, of course. You are one of the few people in this town, possibly in this entire world, that can actually help me because you are one of the few that has managed to face the Hull family and survive.”
Max gestured to the trailer. “We do survive, but not unscathed.”
Cecily chuckled again. Sandra’s eyes narrowed, and Max wondered if the old cartoon image of steam boiling out of one’s ears could actually happen.
Clearing his throat, he hoped the sound might snap Sandra into a more professional state-of-mind. To Cecily, he said, “Exactly how are you related to the Hulls?”
Her eyes perked up. “Ah, you’re finally asking an intelligent question. That’s good. I was beginning to think the family had overestimated you. Let me save you the trouble of taxing your brain too greatly. I’m the daughter of Terrance Hull. I’m the reason for all of this mess with Tucker.” She raised a hand to stop Max’s questions. “You see, the Hull family is a patriarchy. Except that’s too simplistic. It’s an extreme, orthodox patriarchy. Everything revolves around control of power through the male line.”
“And you’re the only child of Terrance Hull?”
“You are smart. Yes. Father had no other children. Only me. A daughter. He tried for more but Mother suffered complications — her uterus was not healthy enough, I suppose. After me, she couldn’t have another child. Divorce was never an option. We are too religious a family to allow such a blemish. Father asked our witch to cast a spell that would help him gain an heir, but no spell could help Mother. And unfortunately for Father, other than a weak uterus, Mother’s health was excellent. She will probably outlive him, and so, he could not hope to remarry and try with a younger woman.”
“Couldn’t he just get rid of her? Accidents happen in your family.”
“My, my. I had heard that you thought low of us, but I had no idea how low. No, Mr. Porter, we do not murder our own to make life easier.” Over her shoulder, she said to Sandra, “You better watch out for this one. If he doesn’t like what you’re doing, you might find yourself the victim of an accident.”
Max grabbed Sandra’s hand and yanked her close. Her fingers dug into his flesh. Better that than having to pry those fingers off of Cecily Hull’s neck. “So, Terrance had you, and to your twisted family, that’s a bad thing.”
Ignoring the jab, Cecily continued. “It was Father’s idea to bring back Tucker. Then, at least, the family could live under the sure hand of Tucker while waiting for me to produce a boy. That was their plan, anyway.”
“You don’t sound too keen on the whole idea.”
“This is the twenty-first century. I grew up in a family stuck in the nineteenth — at least when it comes to views about women. So, no, I am not keen on the idea. In fact, I want to help my family modernize its views. I want to force the family to accept me as the new head. To do so requires the aid of special people with special skills. You and your little research firm are some of those people.”
Max kept expecting a camera crew to pop through the door and inform him that he had been the target of some prank show. “You want to hire us to help you become the next head of the Hull family?”
“I want to hire you to do something you badly need done — get rid of Tucker Hull.”
“I thought you didn’t murder your own.”
“Tucker’s already dead. He’s also unnatural and in my way.”
“So, exceptions can be made.”
“Always. In return for your assistance, you will receive substantial income, and I can easily throw in a better home. Most importantly, once Tucker Hull is no longer a problem, all of your unfortunate circumstances will go away. He is the reason you suffer. But when I lead the family, I will do away with such petty behavior. You’ll be free to live, work, and prosper anywhere you desire. Nobody will be out to ruin you.”
“Only if we help you, though. I mean, if you managed to take over the family without us, then this petty behavior against us will continue, right?”
“I suppose if you want to stay out of this and simply pray that I succeed, that I won’t hold a grudge against you, and that I’ll be benevolent toward your situation, you are free to do so. But only with your help will you ensure that I succeed, that I won’t hold a grudge against you, and that I’ll be benevolent toward your situation.”
Sandra bumped Max aside. “That’s it. Get out. I don’t care if you’re a Hull, I will not allow you to stand in my home and threaten us.”
“I was not threatening you.”
“Sure sounded like it to me.”
“I assure you —”
“That’s not worth much, is it? You got any references?”
“Excuse me?”
“References — people who can vouch for you.”
Cecily stiffened her back. “I’m a Hull.”
“That’s the problem.”
“I merely meant that —”
“We know exactly what you meant. You Hulls are nothing but a cancer to our life and we won’t have anything to do with you. Go. Play your little family politics with someone else. We are not your pawns anymore.”
Cecily held still and gazed down at Sandra. Max worried he would have to jump in to stop Sandra from throwing a punch, but then Cecily’s lips broke into a snobbish grin. “My, my. You certainly do have spunk. What a shame you won’t work with me.” She leaned over. “You may want to rethink your position, but whatever you choose, I promise you I will become the next leader of the Hulls. So if you refuse to help me, you’d best stay out of my way.”
With a calm gait, Cecily walked out of the trailer. She got into her car, a classic Porshe 911, and she drove away. As the sound of her engine receded, Sandra kicked a new dent into the wall.
“Damn, I wish I could have strangled that woman,” she said. “The nerve of her coming here like she was doing us a favor by trying to force us back into
that maze of crap they call a family. Can you believe that?”
Max had been married long enough to know Sandra well — good and bad. He knew she needed to vent off this anger, especially after their own fight, and he knew the best way to help her was to simply agree with her, to let her spout whatever she needed to say, and then later they could talk about this with rational thought. But he made a crucial mistake — he hesitated. Sandra turned toward him, her face a mixture of anger and confusion.
“Are you really thinking about taking her up on this?”
“Of course not.” Max shook his head, but he couldn’t stop his mouth. “But she does make a few good points.”
“Good points? Are you crazy?”
“I only mean that without Tucker Hull our lives would be easier. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a chance on her. Worst thing that happens is she turns out to be like all the other Hulls.”
“Really? That’s what you think is the worst? How about this — Tucker Hull slams Cecily into the ground and maintains control of the family. He’s really pissed now and who can he look at to blame for this happening? Oh, I don’t know, maybe those Porters who’ve screwed things up for him on several occasions. You think it’s bad now, what happens when Tucker Hull really wants to hurt us? We’d be lucky if he only sends a hitman to murder us. More likely, we’ll end up cursed, living out an eternity in some form of torture.”
“If Hull wanted to curse us, he would have already. We’re just not that important to him.”
Max reached out but she slapped away his arms. “Well, dear Husband, let me ask you a question. Is gaining money and some false sense of security really worth selling your soul to the Hulls?”
“Honey, that’s going a bit far. Maybe you’re not seeing this clearly because it involves the Hulls.”
“I’m prejudiced, now? Is that it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Sandra stomped down the small aisle leading to the bedroom at the front of the trailer. She whirled around, her eyes blazing, her face tight, and she shook her fist. “Because you are clearly too much of an idiot to know when to support your wife, I’ll make this plain and simple. Don’t talk to me again tonight. You sleep out there. I’d make the point really clear if I had a fucking door to slam shut.” Instead, she threw the sliding curtain closed. Seconds later, classic rock blared from the bedside radio.
