by Stuart Jaffe
Southern Belle
A Max Porter Paranormal-Mystery
by Stuart Jaffe
For Judith and Lloyd
Chapter 1
Though never officially trained to be a detective, Max Porter knew that the man in the black suit had been following him. Early that Spring morning, he had seen the man standing near the old YMCA building across from the office. The building had been converted into apartments, yet Black Suit never went in, never buzzed for anyone, never even peeked through the doorway. He only stood there, occasionally sneezing from the heavy pollen that covered the cars and sidewalk with a yellow hue.
Later, when Max left for lunch, he noticed a plain brown sedan trailing him all the way from downtown Winston-Salem, across Business 40, onto 421, off the Jonestown Road exit, and down Country Club Road, past the psychic and the auto repair, until he parked at Little Richard's. The old joint had the reputation of serving some of the best Lexington Barbecue in all of Winston-Salem, but Max thought it too much of a coincidence that Black Suit shared the same craving on the same day at the same time as he did.
A year ago, Max would have been shivering at the prospect of a strange man following him all day, but he had been through enough serious trouble — ghosts, witches, curses, spells — that Black Suit did little more than annoy him. At least, for the moment. Later he might get worried, but no way would he let anyone spoil a trip to Little Richard's.
When Max and his wife (and business partner), Sandra, first moved to North Carolina, they had no appreciation for the artistry of Lexington Barbecue. They had Michigan sensibilities. They understood beef and venison. But after his first taste of Southern-style barbecue, he became a true believer. Pulled pork in a vinegar-based barbecue sauce, piled atop a bun, and covered with coleslaw — the mere thought of it caused his mouth to water. While he had no doubt that the barbecue joints down in Lexington would blow his taste buds away, Little Richard's served the folk of Winston-Salem more than amply.
He had to admit that he was surprised Black Suit followed him into the place. From the outside, Little Richard's looked like a large restaurant — a family-style exterior with a big, neon sign that danced a happy pig across the front. Inside, however, patrons were met with an L-shaped, 50s décor dining room — one side a counter for to-go orders and paying the bill, the other a long, narrow path of tables filled with people. Little Richard's always seemed packed. Not a lot of places for Black Suit to hide.
While he waited to order, he took a seat in the back corner where he could watch everybody who entered — one of many trade secrets he learned from his other partner, Marshall Drummond. Drummond was a strong-willed, smart-mouthed sort of guy with the peculiar characteristic of being dead. He had been a detective in the 1940s when he wound up on the wrong end of a witch's curse. After Max moved in, discovered Drummond, and broke the curse, they'd been together ever since. Watching Black Suit settle into the corner furthest away, Max thought he should thank Drummond for all the advice.
Better not. It'd go to Drummond's head.
A young gal, perky and pleasant took his order — chopped on a big bun. Fans whirred non-stop and the wonderful, tangy smell of barbeque blew through the air. Before Max could identify which Muddy Waters song played through the speakers, the young gal returned with his food. Fast and delicious.
Max lifted the sloppy sandwich to his mouth only to find that he had been focused on the wrong man the whole time. An elderly man — snowy hair, bent body, walking with a rubber-tipped wooden cane — wove his way through the crowd until he reached Max's table. He plopped down, smiled wide enough to reveal a few missing teeth, and took one of Max's fries.
"Hey, that's mine."
"Oh, you can spare one." The old man sounded stronger than Max had expected, but he continually looked around and fiddled with the seams of his pants. A deep scar traced his jawline, and the lobe of his left ear had been cut off long ago.
"Do you want something?"
Pushing his thick glasses up his crooked nose, the man nodded. "I want to hire you."
"This is my lunch. I'll be back in my office in about —"
"I can't go there. I won't."
Max set down his sandwich and picked up a napkin. "You won't go to my office?"
"And we can't talk here. Not in detail. It's too dangerous."
"You're really not enticing me here, Mister, um?"
"Joshua Leed. Sorry. I should have told you my name from the start." He leaned on his elbow but kept his wrinkled face positioned to observe the crowd. "All I ask is that you come out to my house and meet me, hear my case, and that's it. You don't have to help me after that, if you don't want."
"I don't do house calls. It's not really a smart practice in my line of work."
"Of course, of course. Paranormal investigations can be location sensitive, but I assure you —"
"Paranormal? What is it you think —"
"Please, Mr. Porter, no need for that. I sought you out specifically because of your unique talents. After all, not everyone can see ghosts."
"Lower your voice." Max leaned in now, close enough to smell Joshua's heavy scent — some odd combination of herbs and spices as if he were a chef. "I only see ghost — as in singular, as in one."
"That may be, but your wife sees the rest."
"What the hell do you want?"
"Come to my house. That's all I ask. The longer I spend out in the open, the more at risk I am — we all are. Please. My house is in Thomasville — thirty, forty minutes from here. It's the only place that's safe. I'll explain everything else there."
Max shook his head. "Whatever you heard about me is old news. I'm not your man."
"People with gifts like yours don't suddenly lose them. It doesn't work that way. Or were you referring to the stories about how desperate you are for work? That is old news. I suppose all your money troubles have vanished now that you're on the leash of the Hull family."
So much for an enjoyable, peaceful meal. "I think you better leave."
"I'm sorry. I meant no offense. But it's no big secret. There are only three prominent families in this city — Hanes, Reynolds, and Hull. Not much dealing with them can be kept quiet for long. And while underwear and tobacco can be dangerous businesses, they're nothing compared to a family willing to deal with the supernatural. Since that's the same subject I deal with, it shouldn't be so odd that I would learn about you and your unique relationship with the Hull family."
Calling his relationship unique was like calling Jeffrey Dahmer's victims dinner guests. In fact, if not for a copy of the Hull family journal that would be made public should anything happen to him or Sandra, Max knew the Hulls would have disposed of him long ago. That leverage weakened considerably when the Hulls covered up a series of deaths that surrounded a recent case. Terrance Hull, the supposed family head, made it quite clear that Max, Sandra, and Drummond had no choice but to work for the Hulls. To refuse meant the police would take a sudden interest in those deaths, and Max had no doubt they would find "evidence" that linked him to murders he never committed.
On the positive side, Hull paid Max a hefty sum as a retainer which enabled him to be far more picky about what jobs he agreed to take on. "Mr. Leed, your information is wrong. I'm not interested in going to your house, and I'm not interested in your case."
The old man covered his mouth with his fist. "You've got to," he muttered. "If you don't, she's going to kill me."
"If someone's trying to kill you, you should be talking with the police."
"I doubt the police would take seriously an old man claiming that a ghost was going to kill him."
Rubbing the back of his neck to ward off a headache, Max said, "I'm sorry I can't help you, but perhaps you can —"
&n
bsp; "Drummond."
"What?"
"Marshall Drummond was a friend of mine."
"And you didn't think it worth mentioning this before?"
"I don't want him to know about any of this. He can't know we've spoken, he can't visit my house, and if you agree to help me, he cannot, absolutely cannot, know that I've hired you."
Max hated to admit it but mentioning his partner had intrigued him. He knew so little about the ghost he worked with. To find someone who actually knew him, a friend no less and alive, that seemed like too much of an opportunity to turn away.
"Okay, Mr. Leed. I'll meet you at your house."
"Tonight. Meet me tonight, eight o'clock."
"Fine. Give me your address and I'll be there."
"And no Drummond. Whatever you do, do not bring Drummond."
"You have my word."
Joshua stared into Max's eyes, searched his face, and finally nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Porter. I promise you won't regret this."
"I'd like to get back to my lunch now."
"Of course." He handed over a business card with a handwritten address on the back. Stealing one more fry, the old man shuffled his creaky body out of the restaurant.
Max watched him leave, and as he passed the far corner, Max caught sight of Black Suit. Of all the people in the packed room, Black Suit's eyes followed Joshua Leed out the door. Once Leed had left, Black Suit tapped away on a smartphone.
Max reached for his sandwich but put it back down. He had lost his appetite. Could this old man truly have known Drummond? The age looked about right. If Leed had been around twenty years old in 1940, then he'd be near his mid-nineties now. He certainly looked spry for ninety-something, but that didn't mean he was lying. Besides, if he were knowledgeable about ghosts and such, then being a youthful ninety wasn't absurd. Max had once met a man in his two hundreds, so he knew magic could be powerful enough to back Leed's story.
He glanced at the card in his hand. It read:
PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS
AND REMOVAL
JOSHUA LEED
Max sighed. "I'm going to regret this."
Chapter 2
Max didn't know what to make of Joshua Leed, but he decided to play along regarding Drummond until he had more information. Experience, however, had taught Max the dangers of going into a situation alone. So he called Sandra and asked her to meet him at his favorite haunt on Wake Forest University's campus — the Z. Smith Reynolds library. Not only did he love the library as a researcher, his true profession, but he loved it because he knew Drummond wouldn't follow Sandra there. That ghost hated libraries and research and books in general.
"Sure I've read some good stories," Drummond had said once. "Zane Gray and the like, but my real life was filled with enough adventure, and frankly, my post-life has had a good share of excitement, too. I don't need a book for thrills. I got memories for that."
When Sandra entered the library's lobby, Max's mind flooded with memories of his own. He remembered a summer afternoon picnic in a park when he first kissed her. He saw them on their first vacation as a couple when they barely left the hotel room. Then he recalled their first vacation as a married couple when they also barely left the hotel room. But mostly, he saw how beautiful Sandra was. They were getting older now, gray hairs had started to sprout, and the beginnings of wrinkles had formed, and yet, Sandra's beauty had grown too. Her dark hair and curvy body still drove him crazy, but that craziness had matured. When he looked at her in the past, he saw a vibrant, sexy young woman. As she walked toward him in the library, he saw a vibrant, sexy angel — a woman who held more than his heart in her hands. She had his very soul.
"You okay?" she asked as she approached.
"Just admiring the view."
She smiled, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss that gorgeous mouth. So he did.
"As much as I like your attention," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, "I know you didn't ask me to come all the way out here for a kiss."
"Sadly, no. I've got to meet a potential client, and I don't want to go in alone."
Sandra cocked her head to the side. "You don't want Drummond?"
"I was specifically instructed not to bring him along."
Sandra's eyes widened. "That's odd."
"I know. We've got some time before we need to head out, so I thought this would be a good place to fill you in."
"No way Drummond'll come here."
Max laced his fingers between hers, loving the fact that she understood him so well, and he led her to a quiet table. As he told her the story of Joshua Leed and ignored her jibes at him sneaking off to Little Richard's, he never mentioned the man in the black suit. He didn't withhold the information consciously — not at first — but when he noticed the absence of this detail, he decided to trust his instincts and keep quiet about the man. What could he really say? He'd tell Sandra that Black Suit had followed him all morning, and she would bombard him with questions he couldn't answer. He had the same questions — anyone would — so what good would come of worrying her over something so unknown? Better to wait until he had something concrete to say. Besides, it was possible that it had all been coincidence.
With several hours to kill before they could head out, Max and Sandra drove to Hanes Mall and picked up a few things they had been needing for their house. Well, Max didn't think they needed any of it, but Sandra insisted that the throw pillows, organizational baskets, and new bedsheets were essential to fixing up their home. Though Max rolled his eyes, he never put up much of a fight. They had spent so many years struggling simply to put food on the table that part of him enjoyed seeing her splurge a little. After a bit more shopping, dodging an early evening rainstorm, and a quick dinner, they drove off for Thomasville.
It turned out there was no direct way to get from Winston-Salem to Thomasville. The major highways, 40 and 85, never reached close enough to be convenient. Looking online at a map, Max saw that with a direct road, the drive should have taken fifteen minutes, but the circuitous route required an additional twenty. Add in being stuck behind an old lady driving an even older Cadillac and the trip took three quarters of an hour.
Thomasville was a true small town. Formerly full of vigor, still clinging to the old glory days. It had only one claim to fame — furniture. Though the town produced far less handcrafted furniture than it had in its lucrative past, it still operated as a main destination for furniture buyers both corporate and individual. Where most towns would garner their main drag with a statue of some important local figure, Thomasville built an enormous chair — something Paul Bunyan would find comfortable.
Further from downtown, Thomasville became a series of large and small farms dotted with the occasional housing development. Joshua Leed lived in a small house on a wide fifteen acres. Other than the half-acre mowed around the farmhouse and a dilapidated barn, the rest of Leed's property grew wild.
A two-story farmhouse, squarish with a wraparound porch, looked rather new — built in the last five years or so — unless it was an old house that had been refurbished on the outside. Max didn't know enough about houses to tell. All he could say was the place looked comfortable, charming even. That was until he saw the inside.
Before they had a chance to turn the car engine off, Joshua Leed flicked on the porch lights and beckoned them in. Max and Sandra hurried, and both of them gasped at the sight. Leed converted what appeared to have been a lovely interior with old-style wallpaper and carefully chosen window treatments into a demented man's sanctuary.
Archaic symbols lined the walls like an insane graffiti artist had been let loose. Pages from equally archaic books outlined the windows. In the corners of each room, thick white candles burned, giving off the unpleasant odor of ripe fish. Salt lined every possible entrance into the house.
"Careful," Leed said so Max would step over the salt and not disturb it.
Max put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "This is my wife —"
"Sandra. Yes,
I know. Pleasure to meet you."
Sandra shook Leed's hand as she continued to look around.
Leed followed her gaze. "Do you see any ghosts in here? I've tried my best to keep them out."
"Looks like you've done a good job."
He smiled — but his lips still trembled. "Can I get you anything to drink? Are you hungry?"
"Let's just get right into it," Max said.
"Of course, of course. Please, come in the living room and have a seat. You didn't bring Drummond along, did you?"
"He's not here. And even if he was, I'm guessing he couldn't get inside."
Leed scanned over the wards and spells he had written on the walls before double-checking the lines of salt. "Okay." He led them into the living room, a sparse area with a gray couch and a wooden rocking chair. Lowering into the chair, his joints popped like a string of firecrackers. He closed his eyes. "I can still see Drummond the day I met him."
"When was that?" Sandra asked.
"September 1938. Had I known that in a year Hitler would launch World War II and a few years after that I'd be turning into a human popsicle while fighting off the Bulge, well, I may not have risked so much earlier." He glanced at Max. "We both know that's not true. Risk or no risk, once the veil of the world has been pulled away, you can never truly go back. You sure you don't want a snack?"
"We're sure," Max said. "Please, tell us what's going on."
"Yes, yes. Let's see ... when I was fifteen, my family lived on a farm up in Virginia. I went to school during the day and helped with chores through the mornings and evenings. One day, I came home from school, ready to go milk the cows and whatnot, when I smelled something had died. It's a distinct, foul odor, and once you've experienced it, you'll never forget. Well, I followed the scent into the house and there they were. My mother and father, on the floor, covered in blood."
Sandra leaned over and placed a hand on Leed's knee. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not something you really ever get over. I was a wreck for a long time. But eventually I began to breathe again, to attempt to live, and when I was around seventeen, I met Dr. Matthew Ernest — a man who changed my life forever. He called himself a witch hunter, and he told me that my parents had been slain as part of a terrible coven ritual. Black magic. That sort of thing. It may sound silly, but for a distraught seventeen-year-old, these words held sway. Dr. Ernest gave me reasons for what had always been meaningless. He made sense to me. And more importantly, he gave me a target for revenge."
