Southern Belle

by Stuart Jaffe

  Sandra shuddered. Max knew she hated any reminder of being chained in the basement of the Corkille home while that crazy family attempted their awful spells. Still, she understood Max's angle. "That's right," she said. "That Corkille bitch drew all sorts of stuff on the floor, and you couldn't get in to stop her."

  Drummond's face turned cold. "Well, we did find a way to stop her. And those symbols were not wards. She used blood to create that barrier."

  "The concept's the same, though. Right?" Max asked. "Use some sort of magic to keep a ghost out of a certain area."

  "I suppose. Anyway, Matt put a ward on one door in his house. I tried to go through the walls to get around it, but he must have wards on the inner walls of the room because I couldn't get in. Actually, that's not right. I could force my way in, but getting close to an active ward is like touching a hot stove. It burns hot and painful and that's what keeps you away. If I can handle the pain, I could go in."

  "No need, though. You open the outside door, I'll go in to the warded room, find the notebook, and we get out of there."

  "Like I said. Easy."

  Sandra cleared her throat in a melodramatic manner to get their attention. One look at her face, and Max knew he had messed up again. "What's the matter, Hon?"

  Sandra looked at the two men and shook her head. "You seem to have forgotten my part in all this."

  Like walking through a minefield, Max slowly said, "Okay. What's your part?"

  "That's my question to you. You didn't actually think I'd let you go running off tonight alone, did you? We're partners in this outfit. I'm not a secretary. If you think it's important to find this notebook, then I'm going with you."

  He couldn't help but smile — her fierce eyes and determined jaw made her even more beautiful than usual. "I'm sorry, but you can't come this time."

  "Excuse me?"

  Inching back from the desk, Max said, "Honey, I'm going to be committing a burglary on Ebert Road. That's not really an empty road. There's houses all around."

  "That's why you need my help."

  "If you come with me and we get caught, who's going to bail us out? Our friend, the ghost?"

  "You really think breaking into an empty house is somehow more dangerous than the other things we've faced?"

  "Of course not." Max felt his pizza lurch in his stomach. "I just —"

  "You just nothing. I told you when we decided to keep on working together that it had to be on equal terms. It's been easy to play at equality when nothing much has been challenging us, but this is your real moment of truth. This is the time when you prove you're worth your word. Are we equal or not?"

  Max swallowed hard. He looked to Drummond, but the detective stared at Sandra so shocked, he didn't realize he had slipped halfway through his chair.

  At length, Max tilted his head in a slight nod. "I said we'd be equal and we will."

  Drummond lifted a bit in the air. "Sugar, I've always liked you, but I swear, you make me wish I'd find a way to be alive again."

  With a flirting wink, Sandra said, "Now why would you want to do that? I'm a married woman."

  "Don't bother me with details. That's the whole point of a fantasy."

  "Hey, you two," Max said. "I'm right here."

  Sandra giggled and picked up the pizza box. "I'll take this downstairs. Otherwise, the place'll stink by morning."

  When she left, Max dropped his head. "Promise me, if something goes wrong, you won't let anything happen to her."

  Drummond said, "You know I'll protect her."

  "I know. Thank you."

  "Don't be so worried. Like the lovely lady said, we've been in scrapes before and we've helped each other out. Frankly, it'll be good to have her along. Trust me here — a woman like that keeps you grounded, keeps you from doing stupid things, keeps you safe."

  Max noticed an odd tincture to Drummond's voice. "You knew a woman like that once?"

  "You don't want to hear about that."

  Bolting upright, Max said, "Of course I do. I'm always happy to hear anything you want to share."

  "Oh." Drummond looked genuinely confused as if he never expected such an enthusiastic response. "Um, what do you want to know?"

  "Anything. Who was she? How did you meet? Did you love her? Come on."

  Squirming in mid-air, Drummond said, "There's nothing to tell. It's boring. And you don't tell me anything either. I don't know much about you and Sandra."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Nothing. That's your private business."

  For a second, Max thought Drummond might disappear into the Other — a ghost realm that resided in another plane of existence. He stayed, however. He pressed himself into the back corner, but he stayed. Max walked over to him and in a soothing tone, he said, "Maybe this is one of those differences between the era you lived in and the one we're in now."

  "Your whole generation wants to share way too much." Though still in the corner, Drummond had regained his sturdy posture.

  "It's a good way to build trust. You know as well as I do that we need to trust each other."

  "All that we've been through already hasn't proven enough?"

  "I trust you. Otherwise, I wouldn't be going out on this job tonight. But you can't have too much trust, and the more we know about each other, the better it'll be for our success in whatever we investigate." Max backed away. "I'll make it easy for you. Let me tell you about one of the first dates I ever had with Sandra."

  "Why does that matter?"

  "Just listen."

  Doing little to hide his perturbed attitude, Drummond gestured for Max to begin.

  "Now this wasn't our first date. I think it might've been our third or fourth. We'd both been recently burned — I'd been dumped and she had been cheated on — so we were taking things really slow. I hadn't even kissed her yet."

  "Even by 1940s standards, that's ridiculous."

  "Point is we were both gun shy. These people we cared about had betrayed us. Maybe you never had that problem, but I'll tell you, it throws you for a loop."

  "I'm sure it does." Drummond looked to the bookcase, his eyes lingering on the whiskey book.

  "So we go out to dinner, catch a movie, nothing out of the ordinary. A plain old date. I take her to her apartment and at the door, I pick up her hand and kiss it softly. We smiled at each other, and I'll never forget this — she said to me, 'Y'know, I appreciate how you've been with all this.' I knew right away what she meant. I told her that I understood. She said, 'We're never going to get over it unless we deal with it.' I agreed but I didn't know how to deal with it. She said she knew. She grabbed my head and kissed me hard. The next morning, I'm lying in her bed with her beautiful head nestled on my chest and I never had to worry again."

  Drummond pointed right at Max's face. "If you think I'm sleeping with you to strengthen our trust, you're out of your mind."

  They both laughed harder than necessary.

  "You boys ready?" Sandra asked from the doorway.

  They took one look at her and burst into genuine, raucous laughter.

  Chapter 8

  Ebert Road ran north and south starting below the city near Baptist Hospital and heading far down into Davidson County. The properties along this long stretch encompassed quaint starter homes and durable rentals, beat up double-wides and rundown farmhouses, as well as lovely middle-class homes and showy McMansions. Only the destitute and the ultra-wealthy went unrepresented. Dr. Matthew Ernest lived in a single floor, two bedroom starter with a swatch of grass meant to be considered a yard.

  Max parked a few houses back and watched the street. Normally, Ebert Road had a steady stream of traffic — a fast way to cut up to Silas Creek Parkway while avoiding the more heavily traveled roads, one of those back routes only the locals knew about. At two in the morning, however, the buzz of an amber streetlight and the clicking of the car's cooling engine were the only activity around.

  Clasping Sandra's hand, Max kissed her. "You come in with me, ta
ke a look around, tell me if there's anything besides Drummond there. Once we're sure the place is clear, I want you to come back here and start the car. Watch for me and be ready to go fast."

  "No problem."

  They slipped out of the car and crossed the street. Walking on the grass, they avoided the sound of shoes against concrete. Though the night air had cooled considerably, Max still found it surprising that he smelled burning wood in the air. Who would need a fire going? But he allowed himself a few seconds to indulge in the pleasant aroma before focusing on Dr. Ernest's house.

  From the outside, the house appeared to be one of several small properties that received the same lack of care. Tall grass and weeds grew in some yards and a few bore the leftovers of kids at play — plastic bat and balls, rusting bicycle, a baseball cap, a Frisbee, and a discarded t-shirt. The houses across the street were of the same size, yet those owners made a greater effort at upkeep. Max envisioned a Hatfield/McCoy feud developing between the two sides of the street.

  Together, Max and Sandra headed around the back of Dr. Ernest's house. They tried to be quiet but Max kept stepping on hidden dead branches and Sandra tripped in the tangles of Bermuda grass, falling flat in the yard. Each time they froze and listened. If anybody had heard, they didn't take notice.

  Max took out a penknife and held it against the first bit of yellow crime scene tape that crisscrossed the door. Most days did not bring him to the point of committing a jail-worthy offense, so he had no experience with what he would feel. His hand did not shake. That was good. But his mind kept flashing images of home, safe and comfortable.

  He rapped his knuckles on the rotting wood frame. "Drummond?" he whispered.

  The lock clicked, and Max slowly turned the knob. He pushed the door open with care as if handling a newborn. Despite his efforts, the hinges whined in protest.

  Drummond popped his head through the door. "Are you two trying to get caught?" They entered a narrow kitchen that led into a wide living room. Once Sandra entered, she closed the door, making less noise than Max, and Drummond gestured toward her silent work. "Next time put her on door duty."

  Max flicked on his flashlight and checked out the house. "Holy crap." A raging storm had blown through. Most of the picture frames lay shattered on the floor and those remaining on the wall hung askew. The walls themselves bore jagged cracks from floor to ceiling. Furniture had been toppled over and cut open, foam stuffing strewn about. Hardcover books had been ripped apart. Dishes and glasses covered the kitchen with sharp shards. Even the pillows and blankets littered the floor in strips.

  Though Max had seen many bizarre things, this was his first crime scene. He could only wonder at the intense anger required to cause this much damage. On the living room carpet, the dark splotch near the head of a corpse's tape outline reminded Max that the anger went far beyond ransacking a house. This was murder.

  "Is the place clear?" he asked Sandra.

  Her eyes roamed about the room, her lips trembling. Finally, she nodded. "Drummond's the only ghost here."

  "Go back to the car."

  Sandra stepped closer to him and brushed her cheek against his. Before Max could say anything, she pressed her mouth against his ear. "Keep Drummond calm. Don't let him turn."

  As she walked back to the door, Max watched her face. She stared at the destruction in the room and shuddered. Max looked over it all again, except this time he imagined a turned ghost, an evil ghost, causing this damage.

  Drummond appeared at his side. "Ready?"

  Max started, hoped Drummond didn't notice, and stepped further into the house. "So where's the room?"

  "First thing's first." Drummond moved about the living room with a thoughtful look on his face. He stopped at one wall, traced the cracks with a finger, and grimaced. Max hadn't noticed it before, but the particular series of cracks Drummond paid most attention to bore a striking resemblance to claw marks.

  Drummond then lowered into the floor until he had a close up view of the where Dr. Ernest had died. Max marveled at the sight. He was getting a firsthand view of the way an old detective investigated a crime scene. Not exactly, considering Drummond's current position, but close enough.

  "You find anything?" Max asked.

  Shooting back up into the room, Drummond said, "Not yet. Come on. Let's get the notebook."

  Another lie. Max knew it, could feel the lie as cold as Drummond's skin. That ghost had noticed something about those cracks in the wall.

  Off to the side of the living room was a short hallway with three doors at the end. The left went into a compact bathroom. The right entered a bedroom that Dr. Ernest had set up as an office. The door on the end was closed and a series of symbols lined vertically had been carved into the wood.

  Drummond floated a few feet away. "That's the one."

  "I gathered that." Max rested his hand on the door.

  "There isn't a fire on the other side."

  "You want to come here and do this?"

  "I do, but you know I can't."

  "Then shush already."

  Max opened the door and poked his flashlight in the room. It looked like a boring bedroom ripped to shreds. Single bed, white sheets, plump pillow, gray blanket, little table with a lamp and a cracked Kindle, chest of drawers and a mirror. Nothing special. Except for the fact that all of it had been struck by the same tornado as the rest of the house.

  With trepidation, Max walked into the room. More archaic symbols lined the walls, written in a shaky hand. Of course, at ninety-something, Dr. Ernest's hand might shake from age, but Max suspected fear had more to do with it. Regardless of the reason, the result chilled his skin.

  "This wasn't in the paper," Max said.

  "What?"

  "The newspaper article. It never mentioned this room. Why would they not write up something as sensational as this? It's a bizarre story with this room."

  "The photo in the newspaper came from the police. They don't want the public knowing about a possible cult thing in the backyard until they have an idea of who's responsible. That's why they haven't released the crime scene yet. Once they do, the reporters will swarm in and get their sensational story."

  As Max searched for the notebook, he thought about Joshua Leed and the angry cursed ghosts of witches, the turned ghosts, that had done this. Sandra was right. They had to make sure this didn't happen to Drummond — or the police would be wrapping yellow tape across their office door, and all that would remain of Max and Sandra would have been shredded into confetti.

  "You find it?"

  Over his shoulder, Max whispered back, "No. Any idea where I should look?"

  "Sheesh, do I have to do everything? Check drawers, check under the mattress, if you need to, pull up the carpet or floorboards."

  Since the drawers were already ripped out and strewn across the floor, Max started with the mattress. Underneath, he found plenty of dust bunnies and a forgotten plate. From the floor, it appeared that the drawers had contained mostly clothing, though a few papers, too. Max checked them — correspondences with Wake Forest University and UCLA. Dr. Ernest had begged for funding support, dismissed accusations leveled against him for improperly representing himself, and argued that his research held both valid and valuable purpose. Both universities offered terse replies in the nature of Don't contact us ever again.

  Max dropped the letters and cruised his flashlight for another turn around the room. About to give up and call for Drummond's advice, he stopped the light in one corner. The carpeting had an odd bulge as if someone had pulled up the edge and failed to put it back completely.

  "Max? Anything?"

  "Hold on." Max approached the corner, his mouth drying up, and poked at the carpet. He slipped one finger under the edge, felt the coarse weave, and gently pulled it back. The top of a manila envelope peeked out. Max's chest tightened. Ever since moving to the South, he had learned one clear thing — nothing good for him ever came in a manila envelope. "I got something."

 
"Was it where I said?"

  "Nope. It's in a closet." Max had no desire to hear Drummond crow about his great investigative prowess. And even though it was a stupid thing to lie about, Max had to admit he always felt a little satisfaction when he could deny Drummond a chance at bragging.

  Snatching up the envelope, Max hurried out of the room. Every second longer in that house meant another second to get caught. He rushed through the living room and out the kitchen, but as he closed the door behind him, he caught a glimpse of Drummond staring at the claw marks in the wall.

  Crouching, Max scurried across the yard and up the sidewalk. Sandra had the engine running. She pulled into the street, Max jumped in, and they were off.

  "I really hate doing that," Max said, exhaling a long breath. "No more breaking and entering."

  As she drove, Sandra pointed to the manila envelope in Max's lap. "Is that it?"

  Drummond appeared in the backseat. "Of course. I told you it was there, didn't I? Don't forget, if not for me, you couldn't have done this."

  "I wouldn't have done this if not for you."

  Sandra put them on a main road, and the more distance they traveled away from the house, the better Max felt. "So what's in it?" she asked.

  Max slid his finger under the envelope's lip. He pulled out a stack of papers and inspected them. "Damn. Nothing's ever easy."

  "What's wrong?"

  "It's gibberish."

  Drummond tried to grab the papers but his cold hand slipped through. "Let me see those."

  "I don't mean it's gibberish like a raving madman, I mean it's just letters and numbers. It's a code."

  "That sounds like Matt. He was always a bit more paranoid than necessary."

  Sandra peeked at the papers. "Tomorrow I'll get to work on that."

  Both Max and Drummond gaped at her. Max said, "Since when did you become a code cracker?"

  "Back when we used to get newspapers I always liked the puzzle pages. Crosswords, jumbles, ciphers."