by Stuart Jaffe
Max handed over another bottle. "Tell us all about it."
"I wasn't even born, remember. I only know what my mother told me when I took over the family business. It's important to keep track of curses and bindings and such. So she told me all about Howard Corkille in case I should ever have to deal with him or his curse. Very sad tale actually, but I suppose money will make people do sad things.
"In the case of Howard Corkille, he had done well as an art forger for almost a hundred years by the time he met Jasper Sullivan. Didn't know that, did you? It's true, though. Corkille was born in 1841. He was just over ninety when they met. I doubt he had done any forgeries in decades." Dr. Connor pulled more whiskey into her mouth, swished it around, and swallowed. "Whatever possessed him to help out Sullivan also brought back the thrill of screwing people over through his profession. Still, you'd think living around North Carolina for ninety years should've told him enough about the Hulls to dissuade him."
"So your mother bound him?"
With a snorting laugh, Dr. Connor stumbled to her feet and weaved her way down the hall toward her back office. Max and Sandra exchanged confused and curious looks as they followed the drunken witch. Drummond flew ahead through the wall.
The back office looked as if it had not been repaired since Max destroyed it over a year ago. The hole in the wall formed when he had broken her attempt at cursing him, the disheveled books and papers, the burned circle in the floor all flooded memories upon him — memories of the most harrowing time of his life. Max suspected she had brought them back here just for that reaction. The selfish amusement on her face supported this notion.
"You're very narrow-minded," she said, her speech clearing despite the bottle in her hand wetting her lips every few moments. "All three of you. You think that a binding curse is the only kind? You really think somebody who would employ a witch would be so uncreative in their choices of revenge?"
"You admire Hull," Sandra said.
"Of course, I do. The whole family is made of brilliant minds that don't fear the powers of life but accept them just because such things are — and they're willing to make use of it all. The trees, the sky, the water, the earth — all filled with great, untapped powers. Howard Corkille didn't understand any of that. He does now. All this time later, every day, he understands it. I'm sure Mr. Drummond understands it, too."
"Shut up," Drummond yelled as he soared at her. He slashed his hand through her body, and she let out a yelp. She shivered so hard, the bottle dropped from her hand and shattered. Then she began a long, sadistic cackle.
"Guess he doesn't like the truth too much," she said. "Shame I lost the bottle, though."
"Stick to Corkille," Max said, his eagerness for information the only thing keeping his distaste for this woman in check. "What kind of curse did your mother use?"
"She gave him immortality."
Max's eyebrow raised. "You can do that?"
"Do a little math — my mother was the Hull's witch during the Depression but I was born in 1973. She looked to be about thirty-five. If a spell can slow her aging, why not a spell to stop dying?"
"And this is a bad thing?"
"It is when you don't couple it with eternal youth. He's about two-hundred-years old now. I'd imagine every bone in his body aches. Food is tasteless. His eyesight, his hearing, even his sense of smell have all faded. Everyone he has known and cared about has grown old and died. But he is still here. Forever. I think that's quite cruel and imaginative."
Max's initial reaction leaned toward disbelief. But if ghosts, witches, and binding curses all were true, then why not immortality? Why not anything? The rules of the world he had been taught were wrong. Though he knew this to be true, he still struggled with it every day.
"Is this the curse?" Sandra asked. Max had not been paying close attention to her, and now saw her holding a thick, bound book — a book of curses.
Dr. Connor nodded without looking at the page. "There's only one in there that would match what I've said. You'll find it without any trouble."
Sandra flipped through the pages. Max watched her face reacting to the different words and images that passed under her gaze. Drummond, reading over her shoulder, jutted out his hand and said, "There. That's it."
"You're sure?" Max asked.
Sandra turned the book to face Max. Under some text he could not make out from that distance, he saw a clear, hand-drawn picture of a decrepit, old man — one who had to be centuries old. "We're sure," Sandra said.
Turning back to Connor and ignoring the snickers coming from Drummond and Sandra, Max asked, "What does the painting have to do with this curse? Is it like the binding curse — attached to an object?"
"I'm done talking. No more," Connor said.
"You've got —"
"Out! Get out!" Waving her hands, she moved toward Sandra as if shooing cats away. "And take your ghost with you."
Sandra and Drummond backed out of the office. Dr. Connor turned to Max and with surprising speed, rushed close to him, her face so near his that he could smell her mouth washed in whiskey. Whispering in a hoarse voice, she said, "Come back here tonight, midnight, and I'll tell you exactly what you need to know about Hull. He's messing around with very dangerous magic, and we're all going to pay for it."
"Tell me now."
"Tonight. Midnight. The witching hour," she said and backed off with a sloppy, sinister grin.
Chapter 12
"This is a bad idea," Drummond said as they left the office parking lot. "Whatever she wants to tell you is not worth meeting her at midnight."
"She could barely stand up."
"I don't care. A witch is not to be underestimated. If she had drunk herself into a coma, I'd still be worried."
Making a baby face, Max said, "Aw, are you worried about little ol' me?"
"On second thought, go get yourself killed."
"I promise I'll be careful. And the first part of that is being prepared. I think we should go visit with Melinda Corkille again. And this time around, I don't intend to leave without some answers."
"Good idea," Sandra said. "While you're doing that, Drummond can help me find that painting."
With a lecherous purr, Drummond said, "I love how you keep finding excuses for me to be with you."
"I need somebody who can go to the ghost world. You know any other ghosts that can help me, I'd be glad to work with them instead."
"If my heart were still beating, you'd have broken it."
"Wait a second," Max said. "I need you to come with me."
Sandra's odd expression told Max he teetered close to a fight. "You need me there?" she said, and even Drummond quieted down. "Every time you've gone there before, you refused to let me come along."
"Do we have to keep dredging this up? I made a mistake about that before, and I'm trying to do this the right way now. You understand?"
"You really just want to keep digging yourself deeper? No, don't bother saying anything. We are either in this together, husband and wife, or we're not."
"What are you talking about?" Max said, exasperation painting every word.
"I've tried sitting back and letting you be the boss, but that's just not us. We don't rule over each other. So, while I appreciate your consideration, the fact is that I've got a few ideas on how we can find that painting. Going to Corkille's is a good idea. You can use her to locate — what is he? — her great-great-great grandfather? If the curse is real and he's still alive, you can find him. Drummond and I will get the painting, and you'll have all the leverage you need when you see that witch tonight. Now, if you've got a better plan, then I'll be happy to listen, but if you just want to boss me around ..."
"That's not fair," Max said. From the shocked look on Sandra's face and the echo in his ear, he realized too late that he had shouted the words. With a little more control, he went on, "I know I haven't done the best at any of this, I'm learning as I go, but you've got to cut me some slack here."
Shocked or not
, Sandra plowed on. "Really? Cut you slack? What about me? I've been busting my ass in every way possible to help get this business going. How about a little appreciation?"
"This was a bad idea from the start." Max wanted to stop talking, wanted to rebuild the wall that crumbled around him, but he couldn't fight the momentum. The words kept spilling out of him. "If it weren't for your ability to see all the damn ghosts, you could be off doing something you really want to do instead of being stuck in my office all the time."
"That's it right there, isn't it? My ability. You want to play this off like it's all about me being around all the time, that I'm crowding you, but the truth is that you resent the fact that you need me. You hate it that without me, you don't have a business."
Drummond coughed and said, "I don't think I should be here now. I'll come back later."
"You stay still," Sandra said and Drummond obeyed.
"I'm trying to do right by us," Max went on, his face flushed and his brain trying to find a way out of this mess of an argument. "I screwed up in Michigan ... "
"You sure did."
" ... and I'm trying to make up for it. But having you scrutinize everything I do all day long isn't helping."
"I don't scrutinize."
"It sure feels that way."
Shaking his head more to himself than anyone else, Drummond floated between the couple. "Look, you two, we have a case to solve and a painting to find. That means time is a bit of a problem. So save the fight for when you're at home. We've got work to do."
"Fine with me," Sandra said. "Drummond and I have things to do."
"Fine," Max said. "I'll go see Melinda Corkille."
So, despite his decision never to do so, Max found himself in his car heading toward Melinda Corkille — alone.
The familiar drive performed its usual trick of pumping up Max's nerves. He already was fuming over fighting with his wife. But the closer he got to the Corkille house, the more his mind jumped from Dr. Connor and Terrance Hull to Sandra and Drummond, all the time dancing away from (yet sneaking glances at) memories of Melinda Corkille's naked back as she seductively stepped towards her bedroom. He had to calm down. A spat with the wife coupled with a seductress like Melinda only meant trouble. By the time he pulled into the Corkille's driveway, his hands were sore from tapping out every song the radio played.
She was out. Her car was gone, and a brown, dented Ford sat in its place — Super-M Maids printed on the side. Max blotted the back of his sleeve against his sweating forehead.
The front door to the house stood ajar while the sounds of vacuum cleaners and country music drifted outside. Max scanned the surrounding area — nobody watching. He hadn't trespassed since the Stan Bowman case last year, the same case that connected him to Hull and Connor and a whole mess of trouble. Max noted the irony as he stepped from the car and slinked toward the front door.
Though his heart pounded with adrenaline, a sense of relief washed over him. At least he had avoided meeting Melinda again. By comparison, this should be easy.
Standing in the open doorway, Max leaned in and listened. The twanging music came from his left — probably the kitchen. The vacuums whined away upstairs — not a place he wanted to visit. Most important of all, no sounds came from his right.
He took off his shoes and walked across the gleaming, hardwood floors in his socks. When he reached the room with the red sofa, he took a few gulps of air and looked around. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Just an average, filthy-rich living room. No desk, no papers, no bank statements.
"Of course not," he whispered. He could hear Drummond in his head — This was the room she brought you to. Why would she let you spend time in a room with anything important in it?
"But she's arrogant," he said. He bent over to look closer, going over the same pieces he had seen before — the same pictures, the same furniture, the same paintings, the same plants.
The door.
His head snapped up, and he stared at the narrow door with the plant in front of it. On his prior visit, he had assumed it was a broom closet. But she had him sit opposite the door, as if challenging him to see it, to ask about it.
No. I'm just reading into this. But what if ...
Making sure none of the maids were coming his way, he pulled the heavy plant to the side and opened the door. It led down a tiny hall and opened into an art studio — an art forger's studio.
In one way, the windowless room could have been an artist's studio. Canvases, paints, and brushes all had their special spots. An easel with a cloth-covered painting dominated the middle of the room. Two smocks hung on hooks to the side of the entrance, and several bulbs hung from the ceiling.
However, the room also looked unlike a typical artist's studio. On the wall opposite Max, he saw a utility sink next to a kitchen counter and a small refrigerator. On the counter were bread, a potato, coffee, tea, olive oil, gelatin, and flour. Max opened the fridge to find eggs and milk. A stove book-ended the counter and stacked on it was a pestle and mortar, two ice trays, a scale, some plates, detergent, and various papers and boards.
Max rummaged through the counter drawers. He found quills, numerous old pens, bottles of ancient inks, and sepia. One drawer had been filled with brushes stained in ink, charcoal, chalk, and other dried mediums.
And the key detail, the one Max knew he noticed only from spending time learning from Drummond — no dust. This art forging studio was still being used. It was possible Melinda had followed in Howard's footsteps, but that did not seem likely. Melinda came off as too selfish to apply herself to the years of study required for such a thing. Of course, the alternative had yet to penetrate Max fully. He knew curses and witches were real, but to accept that somewhere in this mansion rested a two-hundred year old criminal, pushed Max's sense of the world further than it had ever gone before.
"Only one way to be sure."
Max slipped his shoes back on and walked into the kitchen. He made sure to use heavy steps, the kind that echoed throughout such a large house. One maid, a blonde girl no more than eighteen, stood on a stepstool and scrubbed at food caked across the inner face of a microwave. When she saw Max, she stepped down and wiped her hands.
"Excuse me," Max said with a disarming smile.
"Who are you?" the girl asked, lacking all the Southern friendliness he had come to know.
"I'm sorry," he said, and put out his hand. "I'm Trevor Denton." He had no clue where that name came from but did not question himself either. "I'm Ms. Corkille's personal assistant."
"What happened to Jenine?"
"She still works for Ms. Corkille, too. I've just been brought in to help out with a few things. It's a busy time right now."
Still cautious but softening a little, the maid said, "Oh. Okay, so what do you want?"
"Ms. Corkille asked for some papers but this is my first time in her house, and well, it's big."
The girl laughed. "Yeah. It took me a few times before I figured the whole thing out."
"I imagine so. But I'm pressed for time. I've got to get the papers to the courthouse today or Ms. Corkille will be very angry."
The girl blanched. Nobody wanted to see Ms. Corkille angry. "I can show you her office."
Up until this point, his bluff had been quite easy. With what little he knew, the maid seemed willing to believe just about any basic idea. The problem was now. Where would Melinda be hiding Howard? "No," he said on instinct. "She said they were in a different room."
"Which room? There are quite a few."
Which one, indeed? Howard Corkille would not be hidden in any common room or any room that the maids were expected to clean. "She wasn't too clear," Max finally said. "It sounded like she was driving when she called me. She told me it was another room but it wasn't one with a name like kitchen or bathroom or anything like that. Is she always like this?"
With a conspiratorial wink, she said, "Not always. Just most of the time."
"Because the last person I was an assista
nt for drove me nuts with these half-explained requests. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Go through every room in this mansion?"
"What kind of papers are these?"
"I don't know. They're in an envelope. Just get them to the courthouse. That's all I know."
"I wonder if she meant the Other Room."
"What's that?"
"Just a third guest room but she never wants it cleaned or even opened. We call it the Other Room because sometimes you hear things moving in there. If I believed in ghosts, I'd say that room was haunted. But, of course, that kind of thing is silly."
"Of course," Max said with a knowing smile.
"You better call her before you go in there, though. She's very strict about it."
"Thank you. I'll do that. Where is this room?"
"Upstairs at the end of the hall."
"Thanks again."
The maid offered her first flash of warmth — a slight curve of the lips.
Max found a set of servants' stairs from the kitchen and climbed up. He walked along the wide hall and listened to the upstairs maids working. They were in a bedroom on the left, and Max did not stop when he passed by. They either didn't notice him or didn't care. He was happy enough whichever way it was.
As he neared the end of the hall, his nerves reignited. The Other Room awaited just beyond a dark, wooden door. If he took too long, the maids might wonder about him — What's with the guy standing in front of the Other Room? That might lead to questions and then the whole thing would blow up. No, he had to do this now.
