Southern Charm Page 16

  Drummond dashed to the right, avoiding Melinda's left fist. He grabbed her near the elbow and swung her around. She fell into Modesto who made no effort to kick out — he was unconscious.

  Melinda lunged for Drummond, caught him by the leg, and took him down to the floor. She straddled him, pinning his arms down with her knees, and punched him in the face. Over and over, she connected.

  Max had been watching the fight fully expecting Drummond to win. But now things had turned ugly. He rolled up onto all fours, held the position a moment until his stomach settled back, and crawled toward the fight. He had no illusions that he could hurt Melinda in his condition, but he did hope to distract her long enough for Drummond to get free.

  She spotted him out of the corner of her eye. "Naughty, naughty," she said, but she took the bait. She reached toward him, perhaps planning to shove him away.

  Max had enough strength to latch onto her wrist and fall down. His weight yanked her off balance. Like a bird freed from its cage, Drummond shot into the air, curved around, and knocked Melinda to the side. She fought back, but the two were on even ground again.

  "Max," Sandra said, calling him from far away. No. Near. His ears could hear her so closely. He inched his head upward and saw that he had moved quite close to his wife.

  "The bowl," she said. "Connor said to knock over the bowl."

  Like a drunkard, Max lolled to his side. Ahead of him was the bowl Melinda had used to collect their blood. He stared at it, trying to will his body to move. He was so tired, so weakened. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

  "Hurry!" Drummond yelled as Melinda tossed him against the stairs. He shot back at her but she parried his attacks.

  Max crawled his arm in the direction of the bowl. He felt heat radiating from it. Pushing with his feet, he scooted closer until his fingers made contact. The bowl's surface was rougher than he had expected.

  "Turn it over," Sandra said. "You've almost got it."

  Melinda's head snapped around. "No!" She darted toward Max but Drummond jumped onto her back, wrapped his arm around her throat, and pulled her away. With a lazy smile, Max flipped the bowl closer toward himself.

  Nothing happened.

  "Sorry," Max whispered. Too tired to go on, Max let his arm flop downward. It hit the bowl, cracking it into three pieces.

  Flames, purple and blue like those from the brush, snaked out of the bowl's shards. Drummond shoved Melinda toward the center of the circle. Like a child lost in a store, Melinda looked from face to face, hoping one would be her salvation.

  The flames rose higher, weaving in a hypnotic rhythm. If they had eyes, Max would have sworn they were staring at Melinda. Whatever they burned on — chalk, blood, concrete, or the supernatural — the odor rivaled any natural gas leak Max had experienced. He coughed at the horrible smell.

  Melinda lifted one hand toward Max, and in a voice that was all her own, that lacked any trace of Blackbeard, she said, "It wasn't supposed to be this way." Then the flames speared her.

  As she screamed, Max passed out.

  Chapter 24

  Hours later, as the day began beneath his office window, Max settled in his chair and stared at the shot of whiskey on his desk. Sandra had already downed two shots and had prepared a third. Drummond floated by the bookcase, uncharacteristically quiet.

  "You going to have that?" Sandra asked.

  Max shook his head. He wanted it. He needed it. But he had no doubt that alcohol would light his throat on fire even as it relaxed his frazzled nerves.

  His cell phone rang. A glance at the screen told him what he suspected — Mother. Who else would call at the most inappropriate, inconvenient time? He remembered promising her that he would call her back, but if she heard his voice, she'd be on a plane to come nurse him. Probably throw in a few barbs at Sandra while she was at it.

  Max pushed the phone across his desk toward Sandra. She looked at the ID and shook her head. "Let it go to voicemail," she said.

  When the phone stopped ringing, Drummond said, "You know you can't go to the police."

  "Don't we have to?" Sandra asked.

  "All that was left of Melinda and Howard were two piles of very fine ash. Everything in that circle turned to ash. You have no bodies, no evidence, no way of proving your story, which — you have to admit — is going to be a tough one for them to swallow as it is. And then there's the tricky aspect that if they believe any of it, they could easily turn the whole thing around to implicate both of you. So, sweetheart, I appreciate you wanting to be honest and forthright, but face it, no cops on this one."

  Sandra took Max's shot glass and stared at her wrist wrapped in some yellowed gauze from their inadequate first aid kit. "We should at least go to the hospital."

  Max shook his head and pointed to Drummond.

  "Honey," Sandra said, "doctors aren't the police."

  Drummond slid toward the desk. "I'm afraid Max's right. You can't go to the hospital. They'd take care of him, but they'd also ask a lot of questions. No matter what story you come up with, they're going to notice that the bruises on his neck look like a man being choked to death. Answer the questions, don't answer the questions — either way, the docs are going to notify the police. Then you're back to dealing with the law again."

  "We can't do nothing. Max's throat needs serious, professional attention. And my wrist needs stitches, at the least."

  "Stitches that'll probably get you locked on a psych ward for a suicide watch."

  "Then what do you suggest we do?" Sandra said, her frustration expressing Max's silent anger quite well.

  A knock came at the office door which stood open. Mr. Modesto filled the doorway. "Perhaps I can help," he said.

  On the surface, Max thought the man looked good. Fresh clothing, a deep shower, and some cologne had wiped away any visible sign of the trauma Modesto had endured. He stepped into the office, his walk formal, his back stiff, his arrogant demeanor all too familiar. Only the moment after he sat near the desk, the moment when his breathing strained and he unconsciously rubbed at his chest, revealed anything improper.

  "Perhaps I should be more clear," Modesto said, setting a thin manila envelope on the desk. "I, once again, am in the employ of the Hull family."

  Sandra downed the shot of whiskey. "Oh, really? And how are we supposed to believe you this time?"

  "Because Mr. Hull is going to take care of everything in a way that is far beyond my meager abilities." Modesto snapped his fingers and a portly, balding man entered. He had a small, black bag at his side, and he headed straight for Max.

  "Just these two?" the man asked.

  Modesto nodded before continuing. "This man is Dr. Zach Goldman. He is Mr. Hull's personal physician. He will tend to you both right now."

  As Modesto spoke, Dr. Goldman treated Max with delicate hands and more care than Max had ever come across in the health care world. He hated to admit it, but the idea of Mr. Hull's doctor working on him gave Max a greater sense of security and confidence than had they gone to the hospital. After all, should the doctor screw up and kill Max, Hull's secret journals would become public knowledge. Far better, Max thought, than any health insurance coverage.

  "Now," Modesto went on, "Mr. Hull has used his formidable connections to ensure there will be no police investigations into any of the matters that have occurred over the course of this situation. Not the Corkilles, not Jasper Sullivan, not the painting, not Jules Korner, not the Welcome Center shooting, not even the tortured postal worker. As far as the police are concerned, all these incidents no longer exist."

  "You've got to be kidding," Sandra said, her mouth agape. "I mean I know that the Hull family is powerful, but—"

  "The Hull family has always had more ability in this city than you or your thankfully mute husband ever understood."

  Drummond snickered. "Only mute for a little while, pal." Max and Sandra joined in for a chuckle.

  Modesto sat straighter, ruffled by the reaction. "Regardless, Mr. Hul
l has also arranged to purchase the Corkille estate and all of its contents. So you needn't fear the discovery of the forgery studio or" — Modesto shuddered — "that other place we were in."

  Sandra opened the book with the bottle of whiskey inside. "You want a drink?"

  "No, thank you," Modesto said, but his eyes lingered on the bottle. "Furthermore, Mr. Hull wants you to know that although Ms. Corkille used the brush, not all of it was burned to ash. Mr. Hull has possession of the brush and has his top men working on retrieving a usable hair. For the spell he wishes to cast, all he requires is one. Or so Dr. Connor assures. Yes, she'll be fine. Physically."

  Cringing as he leaned forward, Modesto pushed the manila enveloped toward Max. "There is one final matter. While Mr. Hull wishes for you to know that he fully recognizes the security you enjoy because of your possession of a copy of his family journal, he also hopes you now see that he has a new card to play in this game — the police."

  "Now, hold on," Sandra said, but Max raised a hand to stop her.

  "Please, let me speak," Modesto said as Dr. Goldman finished tending Max, wrote down some instructions so as not to disturb Mr. Modesto, and moved on to Sandra. "Mr. Hull has no intention of involving the police in your lives. He merely wants you to understand that holding the journal hostage will only get you so far, and that should you cross that line, Mr. Hull has tremendous resources at his disposal with which to make your lives uncomfortable. Therefore, Mr. Hull would like to form a new arrangement with you."

  "Oh, crap, this doesn't sound good," Drummond said.

  "From this day forward, the Hull family wishes to pay you a handsome fee in return for keeping you on retainer. You will be free to pursue any other cases you wish, and Mr. Hull promises that you will only be called upon for matters regarding your unique talents — those that are supernatural, if you will. All the finer points are detailed in there," Modesto said, nodding to the envelope.

  Though Dr. Goldman fidgeted with her wrist, Sandra stood up — her face red, her body swaying slightly, her breath heavy with whiskey. "You're saying that we have to be at Mr. Hull's beck and call whenever he feels the need to deal with a ghost, and if we don't, he's going to drop the police on us? Is that right?"

  Modesto stood and put out his hand. "Exactly. Welcome to the Hull family business."

  Max buried his head on the desk. Sandra stared at Modesto in shock. And Dr. Goldman made a quick exit.

  "Well," Modesto said, dropping his unshaken hand. "I shall assume you'll consent to this arrangement unless I hear otherwise by the close of business today. Good day."

  Max saluted with his hand and relished the perturbed huff he received in response. As Modesto exited, Sandra and Drummond closed in on the manila envelope. Max waved them off. He took the envelope and stuffed it in his top drawer. He didn't need to see Hull's specifics. The Hull family excelled at getting their way.

  For now, Max thought. He had gotten the upper-hand on Hull once before; he could do it again.

  The rest of the day dragged on. Drummond slipped away, and Sandra shuffled papers around in between bouts of alcohol-induced sleep. Max sat at his desk, trying to digest all that had happened.

  As the business day neared its close, Sandra stepped in front of Max's desk wearing a stern, determined expression. "We need to talk," she said.

  He pointed to his throat.

  "Fine, I need to talk. You need to listen."

  Max placed his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and propped his feet on his desk. He smiled.

  "Don't try to charm me. You listen. If we're going to be on retainer for Hull, and we both know we're going to be, then we've got to work out this whole working together thing for good. You seem to be struggling with the idea that your wife might be good at this."

  Max shook his head, but Sandra put out her hand. "You don't get to argue this time. Ever since I started working here, you've acted out of sorts. You've been like another person towards me. I see you with Drummond or others and there's my Max, my honey, but whenever you have to deal with me, you become this other guy. I don't like that guy. Occasionally, you become you again and we have a great night and it seems like everything is okay. But then a day goes by and you're back to the Other Max.

  "I don't know what's going on inside your head, but you need to figure it out. You need to remember that before we're business partners, and from now on we are business partners, but before that, we are married. We are husband and wife. And we love each other.

  "I tried to work for you. That didn't do so well for either of us. So let's do this my way, instead. Let's just be a married couple. Let's just be in love. And let's let the fact that we work together not get between us. Do you think you can do that? Because I love you, and I don't want to lose you."

  Max got to his feet and took Sandra's hands in his own. He closed his eyes as he brought her fingers to his lips. Leaning over the desk, he kissed her with a gentle touch.

  "I can't hear you. Is that a yes?" she teased.

  Max opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out the manila envelope, and handed it to Sandra. "Yes," he said despite the pain.

  Sandra pulled him close and pressed her lips hard against his. Locked in the embrace, Max never noticed Drummond's arrival until the ghost said, "If you two can stop the smooching, I got news."

  Pushing Max back in his seat, Sandra said, "What is it?" She sat at her desk and opened the envelope.

  Drummond watched her for a moment, clearly confused by the change in the office dynamic, but shrugged it off. "I thought you might like to know what became of Jasper Sullivan."

  Both Max and Sandra perked up.

  Drummond went on, "I put out the word that I was looking for him. The word came back to me. Nobody can find him. He's gone into hiding, maybe even found what he needed to move on. I'm not sure, but I can pretty much guarantee that we won't hear from him again."

  "Is he that afraid of us?" Sandra asked. "What does he think we'll do to him?"

  "You can't do much. But I can. And I would, too. Not only did he stiff us on getting paid, but the whole thing was a set-up for him. And I'll tell you one thing for sure — dead or alive, I do not like being set up."

  "So he's running from you."

  "I wish," Drummond said, clapping his hands and pointing at Max. "I think ol' Jasper is running more so from what Max did. By destroying the Corkilles, Max released all that energy back into the world, and dead energy released in a living world equals ghosts."

  Sandra dug into the envelope as she said, "Jasper is running from the Corkilles."

  "Wouldn't you?" Drummond said with a satisfied smile.

  Sandra tossed the envelope onto Max's desk. "You ought to look in that."

  Puzzled, Max reached in and pulled out their first check from the Hulls. He stared at it. His hands trembled. His stomach complained.

  "If you won't deposit it," Sandra said, "I will."

  Max looked up and handed her the check. She snatched it from him. Beckoning Drummond to tag along, she promised to be back soon.

  Max turned to his computer, brought up the finance program, and entered the new income. It may not be palatable to work with Hull, but he promised himself it would only be temporary. Sandra was right about everything she had said. Together, he knew they could beat the Hulls.

  Besides, as he watched that red number turn black, Max felt lighter. He didn't need to think twice about his next action. He hurried out of the office, rushed downstairs, and caught up with Sandra and Drummond on the sidewalk.

  "Everything okay?" Sandra asked.

  Max hooked his arm around her, kissed her cheek, and strolled toward the bank with a good friend on one side and the woman he loved on the other.

  Afterword

  Regarding the history in Southern Charm - Korner's Folly is a real place and well worth a visit if you are ever near Kernersville, NC. If you don't live nearby, they have a website with photos so you can get a taste for what the place is like. Sho
rtly before I visited the house, a North Carolina paranormal society had indeed declared the building haunted (which just confirmed for me that it was perfect for this book).

  Much of the true history of Blackbeard the Pirate is unknown which, for a writer, is license to create. So, as far as I know, Blackbeard never cavorted with a woman who used voodoo to curse him. It is true that no paintings of him exist and that he ran his operation (and finished his career in dramatic style) off the North Carolina coast, but all of his history with women was the result of my imagination.

  As before, while many of the locations and histories are accurate, I do take liberties at times. Never forget - this is fiction.

  Thank you for reading Southern Charm. It was great for me to play in Max's world once more and I hope you enjoyed your time there, too. If you did, please visit wherever you purchased this ebook and leave an honest review. Reviews have an enormous impact on an author's success, and the few extra minutes it takes you really helps us authors out.

  Also by Stuart Jaffe

  Max, Sandra, and Drummond return in an exciting new case!

  Don't miss Southern Belle!

  Max thought he had enough trouble dealing with one witch in Winston-Salem. But a new case brings to light an entire coven of witches.

  Angry, cursed, dead witches.

  Lucky for Max, he has the aid of his partner, the ghost of 1940s detective Marshall Drummond, and his sharp-witted wife, Sandra. Together, they'll face enemies at every turn, and things only get worse when the mysterious Hull family and the FBI start poking into Max's life. He'll need all his team can give with a case that involves the theft of a cursed bell, dark magic, spirit possession, and ghastly murders.

  All in all, just another day at the office for Max Porter.

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