Southern Belle

by Stuart Jaffe

  So far Drummond had stuck to the truth, but Max did not expect it to last. One of the first techniques Drummond taught him — if you have to lie, mix it in with as much truth as you can. It'll make the lie sound real and will be far easier to remember down the line.

  Drummond turned back to Max and Sandra. He licked his cold lips and shook his head. "Doc came from up north. Virginia had been his last stop, but he'd been making stops in Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio. Maybe elsewhere, too. I don't recall. See, Doc was a paranormal investigator. Not that such things officially existed back then — I suppose they barely do now — but back then he had no school behind him."

  "So he just called himself Doctor?" Sandra asked.

  "I think he had a doctorate in English or History. Something useless like that. Doesn't matter because when it came to the supernatural stuff he was the best. He knew everything. Taught me quite a bit. In fact, had I known he was alive all these years, I would have tried everything I could to contact him, get him to come help me when I was cursed."

  "Why didn't he? If he was here all along." Max regretted the question as it left his mouth.

  Drummond moved over to the bookcase and studied the titles, but Max caught the pained expression that crossed the detective's face. At length, Drummond rose a foot higher and turned back around. This time, he had complete control over every aspect of his countenance.

  "Dr. Matthew Ernest was one of those people, like the two of you, who learned that the world was filled with more than most would even believe. He saw ... well, when he was young, unpleasant things happened right before his eyes. From that point on, he studied all he could, prepared himself for when he was old enough to strike out on his own. When that day came, he waged war on all those creatures and those people who helped such creatures."

  Sandra crossed her arms. "I've known those types. Some trauma sets them off, and they decide all things paranormal are cut the same, all things paranormal must be killed. You should be glad he never found out about you. He probably would have destroyed you before he ever considered freeing you from your curse."

  "Probably." Drummond's far off gaze returned.

  Max had to admit that if Drummond had been weaving lies into this narrative, he did so with extreme skill. Everything sounded authentic so far. But then Max reminded himself that the story had only begun.

  "I don't know why I remember this but when Matt walked through the door, I was coming out of the bathroom. I think it's because of the look he gave me. He had this narrow face that somehow managed to widen when he saw the supernatural. I didn't know it at the time, but that was the look he was giving me. I've never been able to figure out if prognostication is real or just another myth that built up over the years, but now I wonder if maybe he knew — maybe he saw what would happen to me.

  "Well, he told me he came down to North Carolina because of a possession case. Some nasty ghost had taken over this little boy, and he wanted to do something about it. At first I was going to kick him out of the office. When you're the only paranormal investigator in town, you end up seeing a lot of crackpots. You give it time. Once word gets out about us, we'll have the nutcases lining up. But something in the way he spoke, as if he were embarrassed to say the things he had to say, convinced me there might be something real going on."

  "So, you helped him," Max said.

  "I did. We got hold of a Catholic priest who didn't care too much for following Church protocol and had him perform an exorcism. That did the trick, boy was saved, and I thought that ended my time with Matt. But he knew of other cases in the South, and soon I was taking overnight trips to the coast, to South Carolina, Tennessee, Georgia, anywhere that I could get to within six hours or so. I don't know how he did it, but I got caught up in his urgency. I believed him when he said how we were doing more than just patching up the dam. That's how I saw myself. I was that kid with his finger in the dam, keeping the supernatural creatures from drowning the city, and here was this guy who said we could do more than plug up the hole. We could climb to the top and push the entire river back a few feet.

  "It didn't work out that way. Ernest and I had a falling out, and he went elsewhere to continue his battle. And I continued mine. In my own way."

  Max had to admit that he still had little idea what was a lie. Some of it was obvious — Drummond had not mentioned Joshua Leed or a witch coven, but perhaps that had not happened at first. It was conceivable that Dr. Ernest had met with Drummond years before he met Leed. He could have fought ghosts and witches and done exactly as Drummond had suggested. Later, Ernest teams up with Leed and when their coven goes to North Carolina, Ernest already knows the perfect contact to help them out. Of course, it could all be crap. Drummond could have made it all up to bury any information regarding Leed and the witch coven. Yet he seemed so genuinely saddened by the memory of Ernest. The only thing clear to Max — something bad had happened back then.

  Sandra asked, "What caused you two to stop being partners?"

  "It doesn't matter. The important thing to all of this, the reason I'm telling you anything, is that he was murdered."

  "We can read the paper."

  "Have you two learned nothing? Every article in the news is about more than the words tell. You have to read beyond the story."

  Max glanced at the whiskey flask. So far he had no need for its contents. Something in Drummond's voice told him that was about to change. "Well, my first question then is why was he murdered?"

  Sandra picked up the newspaper. "It says he was ninety-three. That's a strange age to be making enemies that want to kill you."

  Drummond clapped his hands once and pointed at Sandra. "Unless your enemies are old, too."

  "You think some pissed-off ghost killed him?"

  Drummond hesitated. "The things that Matt faced, he destroyed. There wouldn't be any left to come after him."

  "Then who?" Max asked.

  Sandra rattled the pages in her hand. "It's all right here, hon." She winked at Drummond. "The article says that police were called to the scene when neighbors reported of loud screaming and gunfire."

  "Ghosts don't use guns."

  "Hurts too much," Drummond said.

  Though Drummond could interact with the physical world, the longer and more complex the experience, the greater the pain. To load a gun, lift it, aim it, and depress the trigger would be a highly improbable task for a ghost. Besides which, Max reasoned, why go to all that trouble when ghosts had plenty of other means at their disposal. For a ghost willing to endure the sort of pain required to fire a gun, it might as well reach into its victim's chest and freeze his heart.

  "So we're dealing with a person?"

  "Maybe more than one." Drummond glanced at the newspaper. "Look at the photo. There are two bullet holes in the wall. One near the edge of the photo and one near the top — wild shots. This wasn't a planned murder. This was Matt being in the wrong place, wrong time."

  "He was in his home."

  "Wrong time then."

  "You think this was a robbery gone wrong?"

  Sandra shook her head. "Not if this photo is any indication of the rest of his house. He doesn't have much."

  Drummond drifted toward the window and gazed outside. "I don't think this was a botched robbery. Not the kind you're talking about. I think this was a robbery for a very specific item."

  "Well?" Max flipped his hands outward. "You going to make us guess?"

  "Matt's notes. All of his cases, all of the ghosts and witches he fought, everything he ever did would be in a set of well-hidden notebooks. To anybody who sought to know and understand and even attempt to control this other realm, those notes would be invaluable. Somebody, or perhaps a family of somebodies, would certainly find those notebooks worth killing for."

  "Wait. You mean the Hulls?"

  "You don't find it suspicious that you never hear from them, and then suddenly when this highly valuable notebook comes into play, up pops Modesto with a time-consuming errand to sidel
ine you? Come on. You've been in this game long enough to know that a coincidence like that ain't no coincidence at all. And what's worse, we're just finding out about all this. The Hulls have a few days on us. We've got to get moving."

  "At what? We don't have a client. We don't have a real case. We don't even have evidence."

  "That's why you and I have to go to the crime scene before it gets turned loose." Before Max or Sandra could object, Drummond swooped in between them. "That notebook is somewhere in Matt's house. They had that much right when they robbed him. I may not have seen Matt in decades, but I guarantee he would keep something that important close by. And since stuck-up Modesto visited with this excuse for research, we can guess that they still don't have the notebooks and need you busy so they can find them. Which means the notebooks are still at Matt's house." Sandra opened her mouth, but Drummond raised his hand and barreled onward. "For the moment, that house is sealed off as a crime scene. That won't last forever. The moment it's turned loose, you can bet anything that Hull will have paid somebody to go squat there until they find the notebooks. Heck, he might even just buy the house and search at his leisure." Max tried to interrupt, but Drummond raised his other hand. "Now the house has been sealed off for a while already. We don't have a lot of time until its turned loose. We need to go tonight. Get in that house while Hull can't easily get in there. If he sends someone to break in like we're going to do, if they get caught, it'll blow back right on the Hulls and that means payoffs and cover-up and all sorts of headaches. Why go to all that trouble when there's really only one guy they have to worry about getting a whiff of this? Why not just send that guy on a senseless research project? This is it. We have to go sneak in there tonight."

  Nobody said a word. Drummond stayed quiet, watching for their reaction. Max and Sandra simply waited to make sure he was done.

  Sandra broke the silence first. "You can't do this. It's crazy."

  "Why?" Drummond asked. "It's not like we haven't broken into places before."

  "Those weren't crime scenes. The police already have their eye on this place."

  "Lucky for you two, you have a ghost to help out."

  Sandra turned her sharp eyes onto her husband. "You just going to sit there?"

  Max had not been paying close attention. He tried to place how this notebook and the Hull family and Modesto's research project all fit together. Drummond made a strong case, and while breaking in would be dangerous, it would be far more dangerous to let Hull get his hands on vital supernatural information.

  Except Drummond had lied — by omission at the very least. Perhaps there was no notebook. Perhaps this was all a ruse so that Drummond could learn if the witch coven had been involved. If that were the case, then Max should simply tell Drummond about Leed and save themselves the risk of breaking into a crime scene. It would also mean that Modesto's research project was authentic which led to other questions Max didn't want to consider at the moment. Questions of Tucker Hull.

  Max glanced up to see Sandra and Drummond staring at him with narrowed, fed-up eyes. Sandra's eyes spoke of Leed and danger and how they needed to figure out fact from fiction before taking any rash actions. Drummond's said that they were partners and that's all that mattered, that he had good reason to lie, that Max needed to trust the ghost that had saved his life in the past.

  "I think I'll have that drink," Max said and attacked the whiskey flask. As the fiery liquid warmed his belly, a simple idea popped into his brain. He only hoped he could word it right to satisfy everybody. "If we're going to do this, we need to do it smart. Drummond, I want you to go scout ahead. We've got plenty of time until it'll be dark enough to do this. Go now. Go find out the lay of the house, figure out how I'm getting in, every detail you can think of. We need to get the notebook and get out as fast and safe as possible. Sandra, I need you to stay here and do paperwork."

  Sandra's face burned red. "If you think —"

  Max raised a hand only to have it swatted away. "Listen to me. This is all about appearances. You do the paperwork while I go to the library to start Modesto's research. You know how Modesto and Hull are — they'll be watching us. If we don't start working as usual, they'll get suspicious."

  "Listen to him, doll," Drummond said. "We can't afford to tip them off."

  Locking eyes with Sandra, Max hoped she would calm enough to catch what he meant by appearances. It wasn't amazingly subtle, but Drummond seemed to have fallen for the whole thing.

  With an ugly glare, she rolled her chair back to her desk and started working, slamming pieces of paper into one pile or another, then typing on her laptop hard enough to make Max cringe. He couldn't tell if she was acting or truly mad. His gut told him to bet on the latter.

  Avoiding Sandra's gaze, Drummond shifted his hat down at an angle and headed out the wall. "Looks like I've got scouting to do."

  Max exited as quickly if not as smoothly. He fumbled with the door and slipped on the stairs. Once he sat in his car, he texted a simple message to Sandra: Meet me @ Wake Library. Hopefully, this would make things clear enough that by the time she reached Wake, any real anger would have dissipated. Once more, his gut contradicted his thoughts.

  "Okay," he said to the steering wheel, "let's get to the library and have a little time to relax."

  Before he could turn the ignition, Max's cellphone rang. The screen read Unknown but the number looked familiar. He was about to press ignore when it hit him — the card in his pocket. Stevenson the FBI agent.

  "Hello?" he said, unwilling to check the business card, holding on to the hope that it might be a wrong number or even a telemarketer.

  "Max? It's Stevenson."

  Max's heart dropped. "What do you want?"

  "Things have changed. We need to talk. There's a ballgame at the Dash Stadium this afternoon. Meet me there when you can get away."

  "I don't really follow minor league ball."

  "If the game hits the seventh inning stretch and you don't show, I'll come find you, and I won't care who sees us together. You associated with anybody you think might not like seeing you talk with an FBI agent?"

  Yeah. I can think of too many. "It's a bit crazy right now. Let's meet tomorrow. I can —"

  "Mr. Porter, let me make this quite simple for you. Either you show up at that ballgame, or you'll end up in jail for murder."

  Chapter 6

  The sanctuary of the library could not ease Max's nerves. What he had hoped would be a quiet research session followed by an intelligent discussion with Sandra, one in which they found a logical and measured response to Drummond's behavior, had become a mass of confusing, pressure-filled worries. In less than twenty-four hours, his calm, pleasant life had cracked open onto a sizzling frying pan of lies, threats, and secrecy.

  He sat at a library computer intending to search for some basic information on handbells, but he couldn't muster the willpower to type in his query. Clouds rolled in, darkening the main floor which took in a lot of light from outside, and soon the heavy hits of a Spring downpour followed. It would only last a few minutes, but it reminded Max of how fast things can change. He had mounting problems to juggle and not a single worthwhile lead, but if he didn't find some angle to follow, the situation would change without any control.

  He felt fairly confident Drummond was lying. He suspected Leed was lying. He had no idea what angle Modesto and Hull were taking, or if their work truly had anything to do with this. Then there was FBI Agent Peter Stevenson — the most pressing question in his mind.

  What could this man possibly have that would tie Max to a murder? Perhaps it was all a bluff to get Max out to the ballfield. If so, it would work. Max had to know how the FBI fit into this.

  "Deep breath," Max said and inhaled. He rested his fingers on the keyboard. Sandra would wait at least fifteen or twenty minutes before heading out to the library — just to make appearances should anybody be watching. It would take at least another twenty minutes for her to drive out to Wake. That meant he had
time before she would arrive, time in which he could scramble his senses worrying about things he had no control over, or he could at least attempt to get some research done.

  Though his fears continued to nudge the back of his neck, he managed to get his fingers typing and quickly had a list of books and websites to check out. All of this information would be the basics on bells, their construction, their history, that kind of thing. He didn't care about the details, he only wanted to leaf through the books and websites to look at the pictures. He knew from Modesto that the handbell had a white handle with a red stripe, that the outer rim bore a geometric design, and the inner rim had a fancy H. Assuming these things were valuable to collectors, especially since Hull had collected them, Max hoped to find a picture of one used as an example for some aspect of bells.

  Ten books and twenty-three websites later, Max had nothing. On a whim, he checked out eBay. While numerous bells were for sale, only two approximated the Hull bell, and neither matched the description close enough to be worth investigating further.

  He never expected these avenues to be fruitful, but the basic approaches were always worth trying. Sometimes he got lucky. When it came to the Hull family, though, he knew well the difficulty in uncovering even the remotest reference. William Hull, Terrance's father, had worked hard to erase their mark on the history books.

  "Maybe Modesto is telling the truth," Max said. Perhaps Terrance wanted to re-establish his family's presence in the world. Or perhaps he wanted to continue his father's efforts. Either approach would make his desire for the handbell somewhat logical. Unless this was really about Tucker. Best not to think about that — Max had enough troubles to consider.

  An idea struck, and he began a new query. Most collector's items, especially ones that had been around for a long time, had some type of pricing authority. Comic books, baseball cards, samurai swords, anything that people wanted to buy and trade, somebody else cataloged it all.