by Stuart Jaffe
Without looking, Drummond said, "Don't be so wordy. Makes you seem untrustworthy."
Mr. Gold gestured to a seat near his desk and posed his fingers over the computer keyboard. "Let's see what we can do. What's the name of the painting and the artist?"
"The painting is 'Morning in Red' and the artist —"
Mr. Gold did not type. For an instant, Max thought the man might be having a heart attack. Then Mr. Gold said with forced casualness, "'Morning in Red' — I've never heard of it."
"It's not a famous work."
"Well, I'll try online but —"
"I've already tried the public search engines. Mostly get hits on the old, 'Red skies at night, sailor's delight. Red skies at morning, sailor take warning.' You, however, should have access to some kind of art gallery database."
"Naturally, I do, but I can't really abuse that privilege on every request, particularly for such an unknown artwork. Besides, searches on that database cost us money. So, you see, I can't just —"
Pulling out his wallet, Max said, "I'd be happy to cover the cost." Not happy, really. He only had three dollars.
"It's not that simple," Mr. Gold said, fumbling with two books and piling them on the floor. "I have to get permissions."
Drummond slid behind him and looked at the books. "This guy's lying. You know that, right?"
Max nodded.
"Good," Drummond went on, "because these books he tried to hide are all about art forgery." Sometimes Max loved having a ghost for partner.
Seizing onto an idea, Mr. Gold said, "Let me take down your name and number, and I'll see what I can learn for you. We're just at the beginning of the day. I'm sure I can —"
"The painting is 'Morning in Red.' My name's Max Porter and my office is right upstairs — 319."
"Of course. I thought I'd recognized you. I see you walk in many mornings."
"Let us know when you find something."
"Us?"
"My wife works up there as well."
"Ah, yes, I see. Well, Mr. Porter, I'll do my best, but I wouldn't expect much. A little painting like that, one that has probably never been shown in a gallery or sold in such, that is most likely not in anybody's database."
"You just give it a try."
Though Mr. Gold prattled on with excuses and concerns, Max never looked back as he left the gallery. Drummond circled his partner with excited swoops. "That's the way you should always do this. You're finally learning. Wonderful. That liar wasn't going to help us out anyway. Might as well give him a hard time."
As Max climbed the stairs to his office, he said, "Don't you think it's weird that Gold is lying about the painting? I mean, we just got the case. Nobody could know we were hired, let alone what we were looking for."
"This is the detective racket," Drummond said. "Just because you can't legally call yourself that, doesn't mean you aren't one. And let me tell you something I want you to remember always. By the time somebody's knocking on your door, by the time they've finally admitted they need you, there are already many others involved."
"So somebody else is looking for this painting."
"More than one somebody, most likely."
"Mr. Porter! Mr. Porter!" Mr. Gold shouted from downstairs. With labored breaths and one arm gripping the railings as if he might fall over at any moment, Mr. Gold reached the third floor.
Not hiding his amusement, Drummond passed through Mr. Gold several times, causing the sweating man to shiver. "Seems to be a draft up here."
"Yeah," Max said. "That happens sometimes. What is it?"
"Here," Mr. Gold said, handing over a paper. "I decided to do a public search — I know you said you did one, but it all depends on what keywords you use and how you put them in. I thought I might have better luck since I do this kind of searching all the time. Anyway, I found your painting and that's the address. So, good luck with that and I'll be going now."
Moving faster than he had arrived, Mr. Gold scurried down the stairs. Drummond watched with disdain. "Well, that wasn't the least bit suspicious."
Max snickered. "Yeah."
Mrs. Amos shuffled out of her apartment to pick up the morning paper at her door, squinted at Max talking to himself, scowled, and closed the door. The old woman never had much more for Max. The most he had ever gotten from her was a "Go to Hell" when he called her by name (a tidbit he acquired from her mailbox). The shock on her face still made him smile.
"You know," Drummond said as he passed through the closed office door, "I like that old gal."
When Max entered the office, Sandra kissed him and asked, "How'd it go?"
"We got an address," Max said, reading the paper for the first time. "Some place west in Clemmons. Probably nothing useful, though."
"I did better than that," she said like a schoolyard tease.
"I'm listening."
"Me, too," Drummond said from his usual perch in the bookcase.
Sandra held out a piece of paper like a winning lottery ticket. "That is the address of one Melinda Corkille. I started checking out the family name when it occurred to me to 4-1-1 her name first. She lives just south of here in Davidson County."
Max frowned.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"This address. It's the same one Corkille gave us. The one in which he last lived."
Drummond perked up. "Really? Why would he not know where she was living then?"
"That's what I'm wondering."
"Especially after our art gallery visit. You know, I hate to say it, but this whole thing smells real bad."
"Thanks for the input. Why don't you go find your ghost friend and get us some real information? Sandra, find out what you can on Corkille, this house, and anything on that painting. I'm going to visit Melinda Corkille."
Chapter 4
As he drove down Peters Creek Parkway toward Davidson County, Max tried to blot out any guilt he felt toward Sandra. He knew she would be mad at him later, but for now he had to focus. Except why should he be feeling this way at all? He could tell by how her body drooped when he gave out their assignments that she had expected to accompany him to Melinda Corkille's house — but angry? Why should she be angry?
"Don't act so innocent," Max said to the empty car. He knew from the start that she would want to come along. If for no other reason, it beat the heck out of sitting in the office working on a computer. But he couldn't bring her. He needed some space.
"That's really it, isn't it?" The past year had been hard on them in a way like never before. Always in the office together, always at home together, in the car together — he loved her, deep to his bones love, but she smothered him with her constant presence.
He wanted her to go back to the bakery. She would bring in some money for them while he struggled to get his business off the ground. Most important, she would be happy, independent, and not pissed because Max had to be the boss.
"Only one problem, though, Max." One enormous problem. Sandra could see the ghosts. How could he run his business without that special skill? Of course, he could just go the route everybody else did, but Drummond was right about that — he hated researching one boring genealogy after another. Those just paid the bills, and they often didn't do that much. These types of cases — the ones that were otherworldly — these were the things that gave him that investigative rush. And for that to continue, he needed Sandra.
What about Drummond? He laughed at the thought. He liked Drummond — sometimes — and he did respect the man's talents as a private investigator, but he could never trust the man the way he trusted Sandra.
As he neared the county line, the landscape became a typical suburban sprawl — wide, open land being cultivated into megastores, parking lots, housing developments, and twelve-pump gas station/convenience stores. Widening roads and erecting new streetlights added to the hubbub, slowing traffic and littering the pavement with North Carolina's famous red clay. In a few more years, Winston-Salem will engulf this all.
Davidso
n County proved to be more of a traditional suburban landscape and even a bit rural. It all had been farm land once, but the modern world left its mark. Though it did not bear the industrial charms of Winston-Salem, neither did it cleave to a pristine beauty that is often written about in the history books. Max knew from years of reading such things that the history books lied — the old days were never pristine and beautiful. Still, he wondered if, when compared to today's cities, some rolling farmland might not be such a bad thing.
The Corkille home sat in the middle of several well-tended acres. Though a large place, Max did not consider it a mansion — just a big house. It reminded him of a 19th century estate that grew as the family grew. Then, throughout the 20th century, acre after acre was sold off until all that remained was the house itself and enough acreage to remind the family of what once was.
He pulled up the horseshoe driveway, wheels on gravel crunching his arrival, and stopped at the front door. A young woman stepped out wearing an outfit meant to look casual despite a price tag that would have paid Max's heating bill for several years. She cradled a coffee mug and shrugged her blond ponytail off her shoulder. More than anything, however, Max's attention ignited at the sight of her lips — thick, seductive lips that curved into a welcoming smile strong enough to jump up Max's heart rate.
As he got out of his car, he could only think how fortunate that Drummond had not come along. The comments alone would have driven Max nuts.
"Good morning. I'm Max Porter."
"Good morning. Melinda Corkille. What can I do for you?"
Max chuckled. "You're very friendly. Most people would be a lot more cautious when a stranger pulls up to their door. Especially one in a beat up Honda that probably sounds as bad as it looks."
Melinda sipped her coffee and smiled again. "I'm a firm believer that the world is not much worse than it ever was. It's just that we hear about everything the moment it happens."
"That doesn't mean bad things don't happen."
"No, but it does mean that being friendly to you is just as safe as it was ten years ago."
Max put out his hand. "Since that benefits me, I won't argue anymore. I'm Max Porter."
"You said that already."
"Indeed I did," Max said with a goofy bow. "You have a beautiful home, by the way."
Blushing, Melinda said, "Okay, Mr. Porter, you've made some nice small talk and you're complimenting my home. What's this all about?"
"I'm writing a book on art forgery —"
"And the name Howard Corkille came up, did it?"
"Yes, it did."
"And you just thought you could come by here unannounced with a smile and some charm and what? I'd just hand everything over to you?"
"No," Max said, opening his hands in a friendly gesture, "not quite like that. Really, I only found out about him this morning and I came down in my excitement. I'm sorry. I should've called first."
"Yes, you should've. Where are you from, Mr. Porter? You sound Northern."
"Guilty," he said with a chuckle, but Melinda did not smile. "I'm from Michigan most recently, but I've lived in Winston-Salem for over a year now. I love it here. I don't ever want to leave."
"Pity," she said and turned back to her house.
"Wait, please. I don't want to hurt your family or your name or disrespect you in any way. I simply want to look into how and why an art forger does what he does. Maybe find some of his work."
Standing in her doorway, Melinda said, "None of his work is left. It was all destroyed years ago in a fire."
Max frowned. "I didn't know that."
"Now you do."
"A fire. Was it here?"
Pointing with her coffee mug, she said, "Took the entire East wing to the ground. Became big news for awhile and made things hard around here. It was pretty ugly, I'm told."
"Still, there must be some of his work around. Work that wasn't in the house."
With a playful push, Melinda said, "Aren't you cute, trying to dance around a question."
"I only meant —"
"I know what you meant. You want to know about the works he passed off onto others. But, now, you said you didn't want to cause us any trouble or embarrassment. Isn't that right?"
"Yes, of course."
"If you pursue these paintings, don't you think you might cause us a little embarrassment and a lot of trouble?"
Using what he hoped played as boyish charm, he gave in and said, "I'm sorry. Sometimes my enthusiasm gets the better of me. I'm not really that interested in all of the paintings, anyway. Just one in particular. Maybe you can tell me if it survived the fire. It's called 'Morning in Red' and —"
Her gorgeous smile dropped to a tight line. "Goodbye, Mr. Porter," she said and closed the door.
Max stood still for a moment, knowing she would be watching him from some vantage point. He slouched, attempting a defeated appearance, and walked back to his car. From the driveway, he turned right onto the main road and another right at the corner. Then he sped around the block until he came toward the house again and could park a few cars back.
Drummond'll like this one. He could hear the ghost in his head say, "You're finally catching on to the detective racket."
Though he had spent time waiting in a car before, nothing equaled the mixture of tension and boredom that came from a stakeout. Every car passing by, every child shouting to her friends, every protest from the driver's seat when Max shifted his weight, magnified in his ears as he anticipated Melinda. Close to an hour had passed when Max's cell phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Max. Is this a bad time?" His mother.
"Hi, Mom. I'm working right now. Can I call you back?"
"Sure, that's fine. Just make sure you really do call me back because sometimes you say you will and then you forget. Not that I mind. I'm your mother. I understand being forgotten and mothers don't hold it against their young, but I do have something important to share so —"
Melinda's tan Mercedes convertible pulled onto the road. "I'll call you back. I promise," Max said, snapped the phone shut, and followed the car.
They headed back up Peters Creek Parkway toward the city. Max wiped the sweat from his hands on his pants. Melinda drove fast, forcing Max to find an uncomfortable balance between staying close to her with not being obvious by driving as fast as she chose. She weaved around traffic, never using her turn signal, so Max had no clue where she would go next.
He ran a red light, gained the loving honks of annoyed drivers, but kept sight of the tan Mercedes. As they went downhill, she cut left across two lanes in order to get to the on-ramp for highway 40.
"Damn," he said. Traffic had boxed him in, but as he passed by Melinda, he saw her take the westbound lane.
At the next light, he made a U-turn, sped up and ran the yellow to get onto the highway. Considering how fast she drove on regular roads, he guessed she'd push around ninety on the highway. Crossing his fingers against any cops, he pressed on the gas.
At eighty, the car shuddered. At eighty-five, it whined. At ninety, it made noises Max had never heard.
Slapping the steering wheel and spitting out a few curses, Max eased back on the gas. His old car sighed as the strain released. He looked around on the dim hope he might still see her, but no sign of her car could be found.
Max took the next exit for Lewisville-Clemmons road and pulled into a gas station. His damp collar rubbed against his neck and his hands shook. He left his car, stretched, and tried to calm his racing pulse.
It was possible that Melinda Corkille always drove that fast. And it was possible she knew Max was following her, and she successfully escaped.
Max frowned. The Lewisville-Clemmons exit. He rushed back to his car and found the paper Mr. Gold had given him — an address where Max supposedly would find the painting; an address in Clemmons. Before he could ask himself the question "Is it just a coincidence that Melinda Corkille headed in the direction of Clemmons?" he heard Drummond in his head — Th
ere are no coincidences.
Chapter 5
From under the passenger seat, Max pulled out his Winston-Salem map. Styer's Ferry Road began a few miles north and wound all around the area. He had no illusions that he would discover the painting, but he also had no idea what he might actually find — and that troubled him the most.
In just a few minutes drive, Styer's Ferry Road arrived, and within a mile, the world became rural. Sheep farms and horse farms, pine thickets and rotting houses, all littered the landscape. In front of him drove a pickup truck with several Confederate flag bumper stickers pasted to the gate. One said in proud Confederate print:
I ♥ G. R. I. T. S.
Girls Raised In The South
Max pointed from his steering wheel and grinned. He could hear his mother warning him about moving to the South. No matter how much he tried to convince her that people weren't like the stereotypes down here, she always responded, "Stereotypes exist because stereotypes exist." Looking at Mr. Grits in front of him made her point.
When he pulled in the driveway matching the address on the paper, Max considered pulling away. An unkempt yard fronted a dilapidated double-wide trailer. A brown sedan, dented and dirty, idled in the driveway.
Somebody was home.
Max got out, covered his mouth against the rank car fumes sputtering into the air, and headed up the driveway. As he passed the brown sedan, he noticed that numerous packages covered the backseat. Several more were stacked on the passenger seat, and two clipboards with US Postal Service paperwork occupied the driver's seat.
Something felt off about this place. Not just the way in which Mr. Gold had magically appeared with the address but with the place itself. Max thought of old horror movies and childhood fears — haunted house tales that left him with nightmares for over a week.
Without stopping to think it over, Max opened the car door and turned off the engine. The sudden absence of the noisy engine left only the wind rustling the leaves high above. That near silence increased Max's unsettled tension.
He glanced back at his car. He should just go. Go back to the office, tell Sandra and Drummond everything, and then come back here with them both.
