Southern Rites (Max Porter Mysteries Book 7)

by Jaffe,Stuart

  He pulled the car over to the shoulder. To Drummond’s questioning eyes, Max said, “Would you please give me a few minutes of privacy? I’ve got to make a call.”

  “Now? We’ve got to get ourselves ready to find that body.”

  “I’m calling my mother.”

  Drummond’s face slackened. “Oh.” He pulled up the lapels of his coat collar. “Five minutes enough?”

  “More than enough.”

  “Good luck,” he said and disappeared.

  Max brought out his phone and rang his mother. When she answered, he told her the truth — that his case had become more complicated and that he had to cancel their lunch. He promised to take her out to dinner that night, something nice, just the two of them, but he could feel the ice coming through the phone.

  “No need,” she said in a near-monotone. “I shouldn’t have expected you to change your schedule for me. I’m just your mother, and one thing all mothers learn is that we are always taken for granted.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Why should we expect different? After all, we’re always there when you need us. No matter what you do, there we are.”

  “Please, listen to me. This case is important.”

  “Of course, of course. Work is always important. A mother understands.”

  “I will take you out. I promise. But it can’t be this afternoon. That’s all.”

  “I’ll make sure to eat a snack beforehand, just in case.”

  Max cringed at the hurt in her voice and the pleading in his. He knew he was wrong, and she knew how to milk that guilt. But more than that old pattern playing out yet again between them, Max thought about her evening talks with J and about the loss of her friend. He wanted to tell her that she could stay with him or that he would set her up in a nice apartment or a condo or anything they could find around the city. She would be close to family, and she could trust that he would be there for her. But why would she believe him when he couldn’t even keep a simple lunch date?

  He apologized several more times until his mother became silent. With a meek assurance that he would see her later that night for dinner, he finished the call.

  When Drummond returned and looked at Max, he clicked his tongue. “I take it things didn’t go too well.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Max said, started the car, and pulled back into traffic.

  “If you need me to, I can go tell Sandra you want to talk. I realize she’s not the most sympathetic ear when it comes to your mother, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Forget about it, please.”

  Propping his feet on — well, through — the dashboard, Drummond said, “Consider it forgotten. Let’s focus on Chester Stanton.”

  “Gladly. I don’t trust him.”

  “We’re in agreement there. I’ve got to say I’m impressed. I didn’t like the way he looked — always fidgeting with his hands and whenever he answered a question from you, he’d look around like the answer was written on the upholstery or something. But you couldn’t see him. What makes you not trust him?”

  Before answering, Max replayed the conversation in his head. “For starters, he claims to be buried in a theater that wasn’t built until around 150 years after he died. And while he promises us he was with the Regulators, that he was at the actual Battle of Alamance, the details are inaccurate.”

  “I don’t want defend the guy, but it has been a long time. Maybe he’s fuzzy but that doesn’t make him a liar.”

  “Then there was his whole thing about witches. Why bring that up? Most people, dead or alive, would be hesitant to talk about witches and magic. You don’t know if the other party is going to take it well or have you committed. But Stanton just breaks into song about it as if he already knew we were well-acquainted with witches.”

  Drummond tapped his pursed lips. “That is strange. It’s true that we’re developing a good reputation of being the people to deal with the unusual cases, and it’s possible Stanton concluded that if you’re okay dealing with ghosts, then you probably deal with witches, too, but he didn’t strike me as the kind that would keep up on such things. He’s more of the keep my head buried until I move on kind of ghost.”

  “Something’s off in what he told us. And I don’t even want to think about how he texted my cellphone.”

  Max turned up a steeped driveway that led to a parking lot on the side of the building. All brick like a high school but about a tenth of the size. Old trees drooped over the walkway. Like so much of Winston-Salem, and North Carolina in general, many of the buildings mixed the old and new. The trees mixed with the brick building. A wall-length series of windows mixed with a heavily locked door.

  But the locks had been broken.

  “You see that?” Max said.

  “I guess I should go in ahead and check for any danger to you.”

  “Of course there’s danger to me. That broken lock means Edward Wallace is here. Last time, he beat me pretty bad. Still hurts. He’s after that bone, now, and we’ve got to stop him. So, yes, there’s plenty of danger.”

  With a stern, pointed finger, Drummond said, “I’m going to chalk up your snide attitude to the fact that you had to deal with your mother. Otherwise, I can leave, and you can face Mr. Call to Power all by yourself.”

  “Okay. You’ve made your point. Would you kindly look in the lobby to see if I’m about to get jumped when I go in there?”

  “Sure. No problem.” Drummond stepped through the wall and returned. “All clear in there. You want me to check the whole place?”

  “Yes, but let’s take a step at a time. I’d like to have you at my side as much as possible.”

  This frank admission appeared to work on Drummond. He lowered his hat and narrowed his eyes. “Good thinking. We should always be there to back up a partner.”

  Max opened the door and entered a wide, oddly-shaped lobby. The long wall of windows shed afternoon light across the dark interior. Thin carpeting covered the floor and the walls had large photo displays of past performances — mostly musicals and comedies plus a few sparse dramas. A hall stretched off to the right, presumably toward offices. The back wall formed an L with the main doors to the theater at the corner. Stairs climbed up to the theaters door on the right while a long ramp for wheelchair access followed the long-side of the wall.

  Max peered down the hall but it was too dark to make anything out. He saw a door with an opening for tickets and decided to check it out first. “You ever get lonely?”

  “What?” Drummond said, pulling his head back from a closet door.

  “I was thinking how you’ve been around for a long time. Decades past what the majority from your era would live through. You must get lonely.”

  “This about your mother?”

  “All her friends have died off.”

  Drummond floated over, taking off his hat and holding it by the rim. “Look, we all want to be understood, and that means having people you can relate to, people who understand you. It’s hard when every reference you make is met with a confused look. It’s even harder when everything around you no longer makes sense. Tweets and posts and emojis and data plans and countless other words that back in the day would make no sense or have vastly different meanings. It’s like waking up in a foreign country.”

  “But you seem okay with us. I mean Sandra and I are your contacts into the world, and I don’t see you going batty because of it.”

  “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to hang out with a gal from my era, talk about all the crazy things we did to survive during the Depression, reminisce, that kind of thing.”

  Max walked up the ramp and stopped at the theater doors. “Do I need to ask?”

  “We’re back to that? In that case, yes, you do need to ask. It would show a little respect.”

  Biting back a laugh, Max nodded. “Will you please check ahead for me?”

  “Happy to do it.”

  For the few seconds after Drummond slid through the wall, Max
held on to the levity of their bickering. It helped fight back the tension crawling underneath his skin. Walking through an empty, dark building that he expected to find something bad inside never got easier — even during daylight. But Max appreciated some sharp banter, a snide joke, or anything that relieved his mounting nerves. He suspected Drummond felt the same.

  “I can’t see anything, but there ain’t much light,” Drummond said when he returned.

  Max pulled open the door and stepped inside. He could feel the slope of the auditorium, and he could see the stage in the distance. The large room stood in darkness except for a lone, bare bulb atop a stand. The stand had been placed in the center of the stage. It cast a pale light that formed hundreds of strange shadows stretching off in all directions.

  “You know what that’s called?” Drummond said with a snicker. “They call it a ghost lamp.”

  As Max crept toward the stage, passing row upon row of seats that he could barely see, he tried to focus on anything but the idea that something would jump him at any moment. “Ghost lamp? How do you know that?”

  “You serious? The theater was still a big thing in my time.”

  “I can’t see much back here, but I don’t think there’s a coffin to be found.”

  “Yeah.” Drummond lowered his head with a slight shake. “I don’t like that. I suppose this means I’ve got to go down there.”

  “Down where?”

  “Underground. Way I see this, either Chester Stanton lied to us or his body is somewhere underground. I don’t like going down there. You think this is dark, try being six feet under where no light comes through. You can feel that cold nothing pressing in on you. Only reason I can see anything down there is that I’m dead. Gives me a little edge.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “It’s a big area. Five, maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.”

  “Then I’ll check out the stage and any other side rooms I find.”

  Drummond nodded. “Be careful of the pit.”

  “The pit?”

  “Orchestra pit. The section right in front of the stage where the musicians play. This theater has a pit that drops down to a room beneath. I’ll check that out before I go underground.”

  Max’s eyes had adjusted as much as they were going to, and he still had trouble seeing. However, he could make out the edge of the stage and a set of portable steps placed in front of a small wall. The steps were a few feet from the stage and a wooden plank bridged them together. Beneath was darkness — the orchestra pit.

  “I see it,” Max said. “I’ll be fine. But hurry, please. If Stanton lied, then we’ve been sent out here to keep us from wherever we should be.”

  “That’s what bothers me.” Without further comment, Drummond lowered through the floor, leaving Max with his foot on the first step.

  He reached out as if to stop Drummond but pulled his hand back. He needed his partner to check for the coffin underground. No way around that — even if it meant being stuck alone in an empty, dark chamber lit only by a ghost lamp.

  He waited but when Drummond did not return, he realized it would be a long time before the ghost could check every square foot of space. Drummond would have to also check the ground beneath the parking lot and the surrounding area. A coffin buried two-hundred-plus years ago could be anywhere on the property.

  Max climbed the steps and walked out on the board. He made sure to keep his eyes looking ahead and not once did he peek beneath. Not that he expected to see anything — the pit would be a pool of darkness — but he feared losing his balance in all the empty space.

  Once safely on the stage, he moved quickly forward. The light from the ghost lamp did not reach out as far as Max had hoped, and he found himself wishing he had brought a flashlight. He could go back to the car and grab one. Except that would require navigating his way back up the dark theater. Without Drummond, he would move slow and cautious, and in the end, he would waste more time than he wanted to give to this place.

  As he walked the stage, he checked the wings. Nobody there. No coffin, either. Just some chairs, various props laid out on a table, large coils of rope, a few paint cans, and two dresses hung next to a black curtain.

  He heard a noise like a pebble dropped on the floor. Moving slowly, Max stepped out from the wings. He didn’t see anybody, and he couldn’t tell where the sound had come from.

  He opened his mouth. No. Don’t alert anybody. He inched toward the edge of the stage, peering down into the darkness. His shadow, created by the ghost lamp, stretched across the stage and fell into the pit.

  I’m so dumb. I’ve got a bare bulb behind me illuminating the entire stage. Why should I worry about calling out? Who’s going to be suddenly alerted to my presence when all anybody has to do is look at the stage? Here I am. A laugh grew in his chest, and he struggled to hold it back.

  “Hey, Max.” Edward Wallace called out.

  Max jumped as he spun his head back toward the ghost lamp. A large shadow loomed over him. He had time to wonder how Edward planned to handle the moment. That wondering did not last long. Edward’s lips rose into a satisfied smile as he thrust a fist into Max’s gut. Then, as Max bent over, he threw an uppercut and sent Max flailing backward toward the pit.

  Chapter 15

  Against the dark backdrop of the ceiling, Max saw stars. Lots of them. Little sparkles and swirls. His hand dangled over the chasm of the orchestra pit and his stomach throbbed where he had been struck.

  Edward’s black shoes gently clicked against the wood stage, then the wood plank, and finally stopped on the top of the movable stairs. He squatted so that Max could see him, albeit upside-down.

  With his elbows resting on his knees, Edward said, “Sorry about that, but I didn’t think you’d listen to me otherwise.”

  “Oh, sure.” Max groaned as he sat up. “This is the perfect way to get me to listen. I really care about what you want to say now.”

  Edward brushed his pants. With a self-deprecating laugh, he walked back to the stage. “I admit that I can be too forceful at times. It’s part of the baggage that comes with my family. We’ve been held back so often in our lives, had to struggle for each step forward, that we often see a fight when none exists. Still, if you’ll be honest, I don’t think you would have sat and talked with me had I simply greeted you.”

  “Probably not.” Max started to stand, but Edward put out his hand. Max curled his lips. “I see. The forceful bit isn’t over yet.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Max doubted that. Guys like Edward Wallace acted more like politicians — saying one thing while visibly doing another. He would stop being forceful only when it suited him. Apparently, that would be after he said whatever he wanted to say.

  Max’s eyes widened. “This was all a set up. There’s no skeleton here. Was Chester Stanton even with the Regulators?”

  “I don’t talk with the dead, so I can’t help you there. That part was arranged by my ancient grandmother, Abagail. But yes, there is no skeleton here. Not that it would matter. I already have all three bones. You can’t stop what is coming.”

  Max leaned over on his elbow. It relieved some of the pain radiating from his stomach, but doing so also opened his legs up. Now, all he had to do was wait for an opportunity.

  “Wait,” he said, making a bigger show of thinking. “You said you don’t talk with the dead. Isn’t Abagail dead? I mean when you say she’s ancient, we’re talking about a couple centuries.”

  Despite the pale ghost lamp, Edward’s eyes shined. “Abagail Wallace birthed this family line and gave us the strength and gifts to build something of greatness. Not all of us speak with the dead, but some always do. Those individuals are our conduit to dear Abagail.”

  Max smacked his forehead. “Oh, man, you guys are trying to resurrect her. Look, I’ve been through this before with the Hulls. Trust me. It’s not a good idea.”

  “The Hulls are charlatans compared to Abagail. And no, we are not trying to resu
rrect her. She is content in the Other and strong enough to resist moving on. At least, she resists until I have fulfilled our family’s destiny to rule the magic community here.”

  “You want to be the next Hulls?”

  “Tucker Hull and his cronies stole our rightful position. The 1700s were not the most enlightened time for women, and Hull used that to his advantage. He knew Abagail was stronger and a more capable leader of witches, but he wanted it for himself. Women had a low-enough standing that he hardly had to work to take over.” Edward stepped closer — but not close enough. “The Wallace family should have been the ones to run things around here, and now we will.”

  “Right.” Max tried to scoot towards Edward but too much motion would be noticeable. “That’s what the bones are for. You plan to take over using Abagail’s power stored in those bones.”

  Edward’s eyebrows rose. “I guess it’s true about your little firm. You really are good at research.”

  “It wasn’t that hard to find out about the Call to Power, which is why I can tell you that you’re not going to succeed. It won’t be any harder to find a way to stop your spell. And the Magi —”

  “The Magi.” Disdain punctuated each syllable as he stepped even closer. “Mother Hope is more a criminal than any of us and far more of a threat. But she is no match for Abagail.”

  Still too far off. But if Max could provoke one more advance, Edward might be in range.

  “That’s it, huh? You’re just another one of the power-hungry. You’ll do anything to gain control over other people.”

  “Don’t act like you’re superior. You’re doing the same thing.”

  “I am?”

  “Of course. Mother Hope wants to control the power around here. So do I. You lend your strengths to one side or the other, and in doing so, you exert your control over the outcome. Wasn’t it you who took down the Hulls? You decided they shouldn’t have power, and you made that a reality.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why? Because you didn’t feel greedy, perhaps? That’s a lie. Everybody is greedy for something. And think for a moment what our lives will be like if I am not the winner in all of this. If Mother Hope wins out, the Magi will come down hard on all the witches. Either you will belong to their select group and benefit from it, or you’ll have to go into hiding, practice your craft in secret, and pray that she never discovers you. She’s not above torture.”