by Stuart Jaffe
"You mean me," Max said.
"But, thankfully, that didn't happen. Unfortunately, I have to apologize to you both as well for the failures of our justice system."
Max didn't like the sound of that. "You're not going to arrest me, are you?"
"I don't understand why, especially with a clear admission of guilt on the recording you got for us, but the DA won't prosecute Mr. Modesto. He said that all the witch talk and raising the dead talk and such gives Modesto a valid insanity defense. I said that was fine with me. Insanity requires an admission of guilt, and I'd rather that nutjob spend a sentence in a mental institution than no punishment at all. But the DA wouldn't budge."
"Modesto's free," Max said matter-of-fact. After all, the Hull family always had excellent political connections.
"I'm afraid so. If you want, I can arrange for a patrol car to watch your house for a few nights, just to make sure there's no retaliation."
"Thank you for the offer but no. We know Modesto well. He got what he wanted from all this. He won't bother us now." Max doubted that was all true. In fact, the moment all the attention died down, he expected Modesto to visit with a tasteful gift in hand, an apology for the unpleasantness that had occurred, and a hope that they could focus on the new case his employer wanted to present. All said through gritted teeth that wanted nothing more than to bite Max's heart out. Max looked forward to that day because he wanted to tell off Modesto. Besides, until Sandra said otherwise, they were done — as she had pointed out before, without her, Max only had access to one ghost.
Stevenson awkwardly worked his way back to the door. "Anyway, thank you again. If you change your mind about the patrol car, you have my card. Call me anytime."
Max held the door for the agent. "I'm sure you've heard this before, but I hope I never have to see you again."
Stevenson laughed. "At least, not in this way." He put out his hand. "On behalf of the FBI, thank you."
They shook hands, and Stevenson walked off to his car. He turned back once yet never said anything more. He simply chuckled to himself and returned to his car.
"Never felt too kindly to spooks," Drummond said, "but I'll make an exception for that guy. He could have made things very difficult for you both, but he seems to know when to let it all rest."
Max smiled at Sandra and hugged her. He had done that a lot more lately — every chance he could. "I doubt he would get very far in his career if he started insisting that all of this had actually happened. Better to focus on the concrete things — murder, corruption."
"The return of a centuries dead leader."
"That one he'll probably forget to mention."
Drummond laughed. "It's good for us to be joking around again. Especially at this stuff."
As Sandra nestled against Max's chest, Max said, "If we didn't, I think I'd be the one turning into an evil spirit."
The day dragged on. They watched television for a few hours, nibbled on take-out leftovers from the night before, and slept. Though nobody had mentioned it, Max knew they all were aware that this could not continue for much longer. Soon, they would have to figure out their next steps.
Right before they slogged upstairs for bed, an answer arrived in the form of another knock at their door. Max did not have to say a word. Drummond checked it out.
"It's a young guy. Oh, crap."
"What is it?" Max asked, pulling Sandra closer to his side.
"He's got a manila envelope in his hand, and I can see the name Hull on it."
All the sore muscles and half-healed wounds flared across Max's body as if to warn him away in case his brain failed to do the trick. He wondered if he should have taken Stevenson up on the offer for a security patrol. But if this man was indeed a messenger for the Hull family, he wouldn't leave their doorstep until he delivered that envelope, and any security the police provided would be easily controlled by the Hulls. To underscore Max's thought, the young man knocked harder on the door.
Max walked to the door like a condemned prisoner — slow and unsure. He opened it a crack. "What do you want?"
The young man looked as nervous as Max felt. "Sorry to bother you so late. I've got an envelope to deliver to Maxwell Porter. Is that you?"
Max put out his hand. "You know it's me." He whipped the envelope out of the man's hand. "Get out of here before I call the cops." A worthless threat.
"Sorry, again, sir, but I'm under strict orders to wait for a reply."
Max closed the door. He walked over to the kitchen and dropped the envelope onto the table. Sandra and Drummond joined him.
Drummond whispered to his pocket, agreed, and gestured to the envelope. "We think it's safe to open. So, don't just stare at it. You know that kid won't leave until you answer whatever Hull's asking."
"I wasn't worried it was a bomb or anything," Max said. "But I know that we won't like anything written in there."
Sandra sighed and ripped open the envelope. She pulled out the single sheet of paper and handed it to Max. He hugged her again and kissed her forehead. Then, holding the paper in his right hand and keeping his left wrapped around Sandra's shoulder, Max read to the group:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Porter and Mr. Drummond,
I trust you are recovering well from your recent troubles and wish you nothing but good health in the future. My own recovery has been strong and rapid, and I assure you that though I've only just returned, I am in full control of all Hull business matters. After extensive consultation with my most trusted advisor, Mr. Modesto, as well as other knowledgeable individuals, I believe I have a clear understanding of how your small group has fit in with our larger organization.
Sadly, I must inform you that the friction of this relationship has become unhealthy for us and, I suspect, for you as well. We can no longer continue along this path with you. Therefore, I want to thank you for your service and inform you that all ties to the Hull family and the Hull business must be immediately severed. Obviously, this means the office you have ruined and the house we provided are no longer at your disposal. Furthermore, to insure that no false accusations or assumptions are made regarding our relationship by outside sources, all access to Hull-related endeavors will no longer be granted to you. Please understand that the Hull family owns, donates to, or touches upon a considerable number of businesses in North Carolina. Most, actually. We realize this may cause you difficulties in the surrounding area and will require you to move out of state. We apologize for the inconvenience.
Finally, as the returning head of the Hull family, I want you to understand beyond any doubt that you hold no leverage against this family. What you once considered your main threat, the family journal, is no longer an issue. An unfortunate and bizarre fire broke out in the jail cell of the young man in possession of the only copy of the journal. Both he and his copy are nothing more than ash.
A reply to our messenger that you understand and will comply would be greatly appreciated.
Max read over the letter a second time before he could think. He knew a lot of Tucker Hull's history, but to be the recipient of, what amounted to, a threat to get out of town or face the consequences left him with a chill. One had to be fearful of a man like Hull — a man who had no problem putting a threat down on paper, a man who knew more about darkness and its magic than any other Max had come into contact with, a man who had been dead until a week ago.
"I guess this is over," Max said, his shoulders drooping. He put out his hand to Drummond. "I know you can't really shake my hand, but I wish you could. You've been a great and loyal friend. Sandra and I will miss you."
"First of all," Drummond said, folding his arms across his chest, "we don't know how far I can go before I get snapped back. It's very possible that I have no limits to my range now. So, maybe this doesn't have to be good-bye. And second of all, are you really going to pack up and get out just because the Hull family doesn't want you around?"
"I almost lost Sandra to that monstrous family. I'm not going to —"
&
nbsp; "By now, you ought to know that if they're pushing you hard to leave, there's a good chance it means you should stay. That they're afraid of you."
"Let them be afraid. I don't care. I'm not —"
The front door swung open. Max and Drummond turned to see Sandra standing in the doorway. She had Tucker Hull's letter in her hand, and in front of the messenger, she crumpled it into a ball. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the paper ball at the young man.
"Tell Mr. Hull to watch out." Her hard tone sounded even stronger with the scratchiness her unused vocal chords produced. "Tell him that we are not leaving this town."
As she closed the door, Max saw the messenger's cheeks pale. That poor man did not want to face any Hull, let alone Tucker, with that message. More importantly, though, Sandra had spoken.
Max rushed over to her with his arms spread wide. He scooped her up, spun her around, and kissed her hard. "Are you okay? Are you back?"
She playfully smacked Max's chest. "I never left, you fool." Though still cold in her delivery, every new word seemed to replenish Sandra's old self a little more.
Drummond clapped his hands. "There's my sweetheart!"
Before Max could get too excited, Sandra put her hands on her hips and said, "Looks like we don't have a home anymore."
"I'll go get some moving boxes, and we'll start packing up," Max said.
Drummond popped up between them. "Hold on, there. You told that kid to tell Hull that you weren't leaving."
"We're not. But this isn't our house anymore."
Sandra said, "We've got to find someplace new to live in."
"And a new place to run our business."
"And we barely have any money."
Max chuckled. "Sounds like old times."
Sandra giggled. "At least, it's not boring."
"You two are ridiculous." Drummond put out his arms and pointed at himself. "Did you forget who you're friends with? You need a cheap house to live in? I can get that for you. Pick out the house you want and I'll get some of my ghost friends together. We'll haunt that place until they'll give it to you for practically nothing. And don't forget, my friends have plenty of jobs for you guys. We'll be fine. Don't you worry."
Drummond rambled on for a while, but this time Max truly did not mind. In fact, he kind of liked the reassuring sound of his friend's voice. But he would never admit it.
Afterword
Every town on Earth has a fascinating history of murders and mysteries. The older the place, the more bizarre the tales become. Just ask anyone living near a castle in Great Britain. Thankfully, for both of us, Winston-Salem has been around for a long time (at least, long by American standards) and has a rich history of strange happenings.
The Zinzendorf Hotel fire, the DeGraff murder case, the Frank and Lucy Hine case, and the Sarah Tilkey tragedy, are among many of the true stories found in this book. Well, true at their core. I have, of course, embellished upon them by adding in the entirely fictitious cursed Bells of the Damned and their ramifications.
The photo of Patricia Welling in Tanglewood Park is a fiction, though the location is real. The photo of the Zinzendorf Hotel fire is real and can easily be found on the internet. Take a look at it. It's amazing.
Thank you for once more taking the time to join Max, Sandra, Drummond, and myself. I promise, if you keep reading their stories, I'll keep writing them.
If you're interested in knowing when the next book is coming out or want in insider's look at my process, sign up for my monthly newsletter HERE.
Acknowledgements
It never ceases to amaze me how many people get involved in helping me bring a story from my head to the page. This time around, my thanks go out to Joel Goldman, Mike Lowndes and the fine people at PML Media, Duncan Long for his amazing artwork, Amy Ball for proofreading and friendship, fellow writers Ed Schubert and John Hartness, and as always, my dearest and closest, Glory and Gabe.
Of course, my biggest thank you is reserved for you, my reader. Without you, none of this amounts to anything more than a guy making up stories for himself (which probably gets one locked up in some states).
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About the Author
Stuart Jaffe is the author of The Max Porter Paranormal-Mysteries, The Malja Chronicles, the Gillian Boone novels, The Bluesman series, Real Magic, After The Crash, and much more. His short stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. He is the co-host of The Eclectic Review - a weekly podcast about science, art, and well, everything. For those who keep count, the latest animal listing is as follows: one dog, four cats, one albino corn snake, one Brazilian black tarantula, three aquatic turtles, seventeen chickens, and a horse. Thankfully, the chickens and the horse do not live inside the house.
Stuart can be easily found online at these sites:
Website
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Copyright Notice
Southern Belle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SOUTHERN BELLE
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2013 by Stuart Jaffe
Cover art by Duncan Long
First Edition: August, 2013
Table of
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright Notice
