Southern Charm Page 4

  Yet something bothered Max. Something didn't feel right about the sudden re-emergence of Corkille wealth. Art forgery might be lucrative, but the kind of money the Corkille estate appeared to be worth could not have been made that fast. "At least, I don't think it can," he said provoking a hiss from the student looking no closer to finishing her paper.

  Max wanted to find a specific reference to Howard Corkille but nothing online provided help. With pleasure, he culled a list of books on art forgery and began searching the stacks. While the computer made life easier, it had also taken away many small joys. The tactile experience of researching book after book in the quiet intensity of a library was just one, but it was one that touched Max every day.

  Another joy of library research — discovering new parts of the immense building. Max found the books on art forgery (both history and, amazingly, how-to) in a lovely wood-paneled room with large reading chairs and a warm atmosphere. He settled down with his finds and delved in like a giddy child.

  "You won't find him there," a distinct voice said.

  Max didn't need to look up to know who stood before him — Mr. Modesto, the Hull family representative.

  "May I sit?" Modesto asked.

  With a huff, Max closed his book and gestured to the empty chair opposite him. Modesto looked much the same as the last time they had spoken — when Max wrested control of his office space from the Hull Family and threatened to expose them if anything should ever happen to him. A well-groomed, well-dressed man, Modesto's features had evolved for maximum intimidation. Max sat straight but inside he cringed.

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  Modesto pointed to the art forgery books. "John Myatt is considered by many the greatest art forger of the twentieth century. In the '90s, he was convicted for passing off his own creations as lost Renoirs, Picassos, and Modiglianis. He said he never did it for profit but out of some crazed, perfectionist's desire to create near-perfect art. After he served his time, he started painting again — his own work this time. You can buy it today for around fifty to a hundred thousand dollars a painting. Not bad for a former fraud."

  Max tossed the book aside. "Gee, thanks. Now I don't have to read that one."

  "Elmyr de Hoy was considered the number two art forger of the same time. He died in 1976, otherwise, who knows what may have happened? Orson Welles made a pretentious documentary on the man."

  "It's called 'F for Fake,' I read all about it."

  "There's a famous tale about Picasso. He is shown several paintings. He dismisses them. 'They are all fakes,' he says. His friend says, 'But Pablo, I saw you paint these.' Picasso smiles a devilish smile and says, 'I can fake a Picasso as well as anybody.'"

  Crossing his arms, Max said, "Whatever you want, I don't want a part of it."

  "And then there's Han van Meegeren — possibly the most famous art forger of all time. He was Dutch, born around 1889, and well-known for his Vermeers. He made a 'Christ at Emmaus' that sold for six million dollars. Then he sold a Vermeer fake to a German art collector by the name of Hermann Göring. Things didn't go too well for him after that."

  "Do you have a point?" Max said, knowing he sounded impetuous and wishing his stomach wasn't flipping in fear.

  Modesto leaned in and said, "All those famous forgers, and not one of them ever knew, ever spoke of, ever even heard of Howard Corkille. Do you know why? Because the truly great art forgers are like the truly great criminals. They are never known. They don't get caught. They don't go to jail. They don't get books written about them. They are ghosts."

  This caught Max. He wanted to throw some wiseass comment at Modesto just to tick off the proper man, but he couldn't say a word. Embarrassed that he hadn't come to the conclusion himself and stunned that it would come from Modesto, Max piled his books, stood, and walked towards the exit. He moved fast in hopes of getting away before his legs gave out. He really didn't want to know what Modesto was leading up to.

  "Wait, please," Modesto said, following Max into the hall. Max pushed the elevator's call button and considered the stairs, but the narrow stairwell on the right echoed the ascent of two talkative students. Modesto blocked Max's way. "I'll follow you all day, if you make me. And I do know where your office is and your home. So, why not listen to me?"

  Impatience, anger, fear — it all swirled within Max. But Modesto was right. If the Hulls wanted him to tell Max something, it would be told. So, with a curt nod, Max walked back into the warm room and sat in the first chair he came upon.

  "Thank you," Modesto said, but like everything that came out of his mouth, this sounded threatening. "First, Mr. Hull wishes you to know that he is not the one behind what you saw yesterday."

  "You mean the man you had beaten up thinking it was me?"

  "That was Mr. Gold's doing. In an eager attempt to display his loyalties, Mr. Gold over-enthusiastically interpreted his instructions. You do recall how Mr. Hull insists on his instructions being followed properly?"

  "Of course."

  "I will see that Mr. Gold understands quite clearly the error he has made. It won't happen again. Mr. Hull wants you to know that he fully abides by our previous agreements."

  Now Max understood. Modesto was here to smooth over any bad feelings Max had over the Gold incident. Hull feared Max would be angry and release the old journal he had copies of, the journal of the Hull family that documented centuries of corruption, manipulation, and witchcraft. This was all about protecting themselves.

  "Don't worry," Max said like a benevolent king. "I won't harm you over this. Just see that it doesn't happen again."

  "You have my word," Modesto said through gritted teeth.

  "Then I think we're done." Max stood.

  "One more item."

  Max thrust an exasperated glare at Modesto, but the man's stern face reminded Max just how dangerous he could be. "What is it?"

  "I must deliver this," Modesto said, handing over an ivory-colored envelope. "I've been instructed to tell you that the letter is not to be opened until you are in the presence of your wife and Mr. Drummond." Coming from anyone else, Max would have been shocked by this statement. But since it was a Hull who had cursed Drummond, who had bound his ghost to Max's office, and who had fought to stop Max from releasing him, Modesto's words were natural.

  Max grabbed the envelope and pocketed it without ever taking his eyes off of Modesto. Perhaps it was the mentioning of Sandra and Drummond. Perhaps it was Modesto's incessant air of superiority — even when attempting to apologize for nearly killing a man. Perhaps it was simply the fear of dealing in any way with the Hull family once more. Whatever the case, Max's head spun in fury while his stomach threatened to revolt. His emotions churned with conflict as much as his body, and through taut lips, he said, "I don't ever want to see you again."

  Modesto rose to his full height and looked down upon Max. "I appreciate your displeasure in having to meet. Rest assured the sentiment is mutual. However, as I am the top representative for Mr. Hull, I can assure you, we will be in contact again. No matter what you threaten, Mr. Hull will not entrust these delicate matters to another person. As you've seen with Mr. Gold, most others cannot be counted upon to execute instructions properly. I hope you understand the nature of this refusal and will not use it against Mr. Hull."

  Modesto bent slightly and walked away. Fuming and helpless, Max watched him go. He pulled out the envelope, flipped it over, and set his finger at the edge to tear it open.

  But he stopped.

  Printed on the back were the words: NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL IN THE PRESENCE OF MRS. PORTER AND MR. DRUMMOND. As much as Max wanted to raise a middle finger to Hull's instructions, he knew that doing so would be a bad move at this point. The time to fight back was when he held the most advantage. Besides, whatever this was all about, it was important enough to risk public exposure.

  He put the envelope away, gathered his things, and headed back to the office. When he arrived, Sandra took one look, sat him down, and said, "Gue
ss it didn't go well."

  Max explained about Modesto's visit and placed the envelope on the table. Drummond shrugged. "At least the bastards haven't forgotten me. I ought to go haunt them for a few years. Just clank around their mansion, make sure nobody gets a decent night's sleep."

  "I'll buy you a new set of chains," Max said.

  Drummond chuckled. "I think the old, rusty ones have a better tone, but thanks for the offer."

  "So," Sandra said, "are you going to open it?"

  Max slid the envelope toward her. "You do it." She pulled back from the desk, her eyes narrowing on the envelope as if it might rear back and attempt to bite her.

  "They want you to open it, though."

  "Yes, but the instructions don't say anything specifically about who opens it. So, screw them. They forgot to be that clear, I say the heck with it."

  "Okay," she said, snatched the envelope and tore it open. She read in silence, her face giving away nothing as to its contents.

  "Hey, Sweets," Drummond said, "you going to share?"

  With a devilish grin, she said, "The instructions were to open it in our presence. Doesn't say anything about reading it out loud."

  "Oh, if only I were alive."

  Max snatched the letter from Sandra. "Ease it back, you two." With a firm snap of the paper, he read:

  IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE THAT I CORDIALLY INVITE MR. AND MRS. MAXWELL PORTER AND MR. MARSHALL DRUMMOND TO SUPPER WITH ME THIS WEDNESDAY AT SEVEN O'CLOCK.

  PLEASE DRESS AS BEFITS THE OCCASION. SHOULD THE DAY AND TIME BE UNAVAILABLE, PLEASE CONTACT MR. MODESTO AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE SO OTHER ARRANGEMENTS CAN BE DETERMINED. I LOOK FORWARD TO OUR FIRST MEETING.

  — Terrance Hull

  Drummond hovered behind Max's shoulder. When he finished reading, he spoke for everyone when he said, "Well, that's not good at all."

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday morning began with strong coffee and a headache. Max did his best to ignore the dread building within like a hardening concrete block making every step a struggle, but with the Hull dinner only ten hours away, he found it impossible to think about much else. He tried searching the internet for more on Corkille but he couldn't concentrate.

  Across his desk, he watched Sandra immersed in Corkille estate papers, criminal record searches, and other routine research. A fleeting sensation of peace passed through him. She glanced up, perhaps sensing his attention, and threw one of her casual but devastating smiles.

  Drummond burst in and, with a clap of his hands, said, "So, we got the big dinner tonight. Too bad I can't actually eat anything anymore. Rich people know how to throw a spread. This'll probably be the best meal you've ever eaten, and I'm going to have to watch. You know, I'll bet that's why the bastard wants me there — torture me with things like that."

  Grabbing his coat and coffee, Max said, "I'm going to see Melinda Corkille."

  "Something I said?"

  "I'm not spending the day fretting over Hull."

  "Who's fretting? I think it's going to be a great ol' time. Eat the guy's food, insult him a few ways, hear whatever stupid threats he feels like making, and shine him on. Trust me, there's nothing more satisfying than undercutting some snobby ass like his. He's got a whole plan in his head of what he'll say and how we'll react. They hate it when we screw that kind of thing up. It'll be fun."

  To Sandra, Max said, "Melinda Corkille's the only direct connection to any of this we still have. I've got to talk with her. Besides," he added toward Drummond, "whatever Hull's going to say, you know it's going to be about this painting. If I can get any information from Melinda, it'll help us tonight."

  "Good idea," Drummond said. "And don't worry. I'll find Howard eventually. We'll have more leads soon."

  "Let me just finish up, and I'll join you," Sandra said.

  "No," Max said. "I think it's best if I go alone. This lady is touchy. I think we'll scare her away if we come with a whole gang."

  "Two is not a gang."

  "You know what I mean. If this goes well, I'll bring you both next time."

  Sandra kissed Max, concern scrunching her features. "Be careful. And don't go chasing cars again."

  "I'll be good," he said, but he didn't smile.

  * * * *

  The drive down seemed longer than before. Max's mind zipped back and forth between Hull's impending dinner and Sandra's strangling presence. Apprehensive about the former and guilty about the latter, Max saw little room to maneuver. The dinner would come and go, and he knew he'd have to handle whatever happened. But Sandra — that was a problem that time would not fix on its own.

  In fact, if he just let it be, it would only compound and possibly form the root that could destroy them. That's how divorces happened. Little things couples tried to ignore, tried to bury through hot nights, festered until they became monumental, until they led to actions neither spouse ever thought the other capable of.

  "Like visiting Melinda Corkille by yourself because she's got your blood going? Little things like that, Max?"

  The steering wheel had no answer — and neither did Max. He stared at the straight, unchanging road and promised himself that this would be the last time. Not that he had done anything wrong — but he'd had plenty of guilty thoughts. He just didn't want those thoughts to lead to actions. At the next opportunity, he promised himself, he would hash things out with Sandra, fix things, get them back on the right track. And not just a little talk like the previous night. They needed to find the root of this problem and kill it so it never grew back.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled into the drive and parked his car, noticing a new rattle from the engine that assured him of a hefty mechanic's bill in the coming weeks. Melinda must have heard the rattle as well because she opened the front door and walked out as Max stepped from the car. She wore old jeans and a low-cut top that left little to be discovered. He fought to keep his eyes on her face.

  "You again," she said with a playful half-grin.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I just need a few minutes of your time."

  "There's nothing I can tell you."

  "Please. You don't have to give me loads of information or betray any family secrets. I just need a little help from you to point me in the right direction."

  "You said you were writing a book on art forgers?"

  "That's right."

  She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. "See, that's a lie. Why should I help you out when you've begun this whole thing with a lie?"

  Opening his arms like a thief claiming innocence, he said, "I admit it. I lied. But you have to admit, too, that you'd never have spoken to me, if I had told you the truth."

  "Depends on what the truth is."

  "Well, the truth is that I've been hired to find that painting for you."

  "For me?"

  "I was told to find the painting, find you, and put the two together."

  "And who hired you?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  "That's really too bad. You almost had my interest." She turned away.

  "Wait, please. I don't know what's so special about this painting, but you're clearly in it deep, and you'll get buried, if you're not careful."

  "Lucky for me, I'm a careful person."

  "Melinda, please —"

  She placed her hand on the door and said, "Good-bye, Mr. Porter. Do not come here again."

  Desperation took hold. Max blurted out, "You don't want to be messing with the Hulls. They're dangerous."

  Melinda froze. Her seductive yet light lips became a hard, cold line. "What do you know about them?"

  "Let me in. I'll tell you all about it."

  Any sense of wild youth vanished from Melinda. She looked meek and even vulnerable. She stepped back into the house, leaving the front door open.

  Max walked into the foyer and tried not to betray his awe. He did not often step into such a wealthy home. Dark wood floors led up a small step into the main foyer which was garnered with a baby-grand piano. T
he walls were old Southern white, a summer breeze color that whispered of a South that had died long ago.

  "This way," she said, passing through a wide arch into a lush living room — thick sofas, a brick fireplace, and paintings on every wall — Max lacked the skill to know if they were authentic or not. Everything he saw looked valuable and vibrant. Even the plants.

  Max stood next to a deep red sofa, unsure if he should sully it with his common pants. Even as he had these thoughts, another part of him complained in his head — Since when do you care about rich assholes? Sit down and take command of things.

  Since when? Easy answer — since he saw that red number on his computer screen.

  "Please, sit," she said. Max settled on the sofa's edge and noticed a large plant in front of a narrow door — the rich hiding the broom closet. Concern over his pants itched stronger than before. Melinda slid onto the opposite sofa, her legs tucked under in a pose reminiscent of a college girl, and continued, "So, Mr. Porter, enlighten me about the Hulls."

  "I worked for Hull a year ago. He was a dangerous man, part of a dangerous family that shrouds itself in secrecy."

  "My family likes secrets, too," she said with a wink.

  "This is serious. These people can cause a lot of pain."

  Melinda chuckled — a soft, bitter sound that she managed to infuse with a salacious undertone. "You're sweet to be so concerned, but you've only lived here for what? A little over a year? My family has been in North Carolina for generations. I think we understand things down here a bit better."

  "But —"

  "Do you know why I have this house? I mean, do you understand that every inch of this place was paid for by art forgeries? And yet, I still own it."

  "I've been told the best art forgers never get caught. I couldn't find a single word about Howard Corkille."