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  "That's part of it. An important part. The other is attached to being the best. In order to succeed, you must be able to pass off your work for profit."

  "And Howard was good at that as well?"

  "A genius. But, you see, the two go together — getting collectors and museums to buy your forgeries and keeping all knowledge of you and your involvement a secret. Even now, all these years later, should it come out that many of the prized works hanging in museums throughout the world were Corkille fakes, I'd lose every dime I ever had. I hope this makes it clear why I don't wish to have an in-depth study done on my family's history."

  "This painting," Max said, not knowing what to say but wanting to keep her talking, "the 'Morning in Red,' why are you messing with Hull over it?"

  "I'm not."

  "You practically jumped when I mentioned his name and now you suddenly don't care about him?"

  "I didn't say that. I'm just not involved with Hull over that painting." Despite the young girl clothes and poses, her weary voice and judicious gaze aged her before Max's eyes. "We have other issues at work."

  "Well, if I'm not being rude, I'd advise you to have no dealings with Hull at any time, of any kind. That family is destructive, at best, and powerfully so. Whatever you think you're doing with them will hurt you in the long run. I learned this the hard way. Please, trust me on this. You'd best stay away from them."

  "How cute. You truly want to be chivalrous."

  Max knew he should leave. Though Melinda passed with ease between being a naïve doe and a prowling hunter, Max saw danger in either state. She played both with perfect pitch. The subtle and direct looks she threw at him from behind her hair, casually placed in its most seductive position, flooded him with testosterone and made thinking clearly an impossible task. The only thought he could manage — leave, leave, leave.

  As if the idea had formed that instant, Melinda sauntered toward Max and bent down with the obvious intent of letting him view her breasts. "We have a few choices," she said, moving closer, her lips near his. Hints of perfume mixing with body heat pressed in the air. "We can continue to tell each other partial truths and partial lies, we can go about our separate interests and know that we'll cross paths sometime soon, or we can stop all the games, go upstairs, and you can do whatever you desire." With the tip of her tongue, she touched his lips. Then she pulled back and turned away. "I know which I choose," she said and removed her shirt in one swift motion. Her smooth back lacked a single blemish. Over her bare shoulder, she added, "I'll wait upstairs."

  When she left the room, making sure to drop the shirt on the floor, Max did not move. His brain had shut down and struggled to reboot. His heart pounded in a fear only matched by the longing in his groin. He felt guilty for being hard and stupid for even imagining following this crazy girl. Drummond would tell him to sleep with her but never forget that she's only trying to distract him from the case. Maybe.

  Or maybe, despite all his big talk, Drummond would race to the car — he cares about Sandra a little bit. Max, however, cared about Sandra infinitely. No amount of marital bickering would change that.

  With his body cooling down, his heart slowing, his brain function returning, Max willed himself to stand and walked out of that house. His eyes lingered on Melinda's discarded shirt and he imagined her upstairs, draped across her bed, waiting for him. Never had a woman come on to him like that. He could feel a pulling in his body as if the mere scent of Melinda that dwindled in the air could call him up like a siren's song. He had been wrong to leave Sandra behind. He needed her as a shield against this seductive woman.

  He stopped by the baby-grand piano and pictured his lovely wife. That's who matters. The other thoughts are just hormones. He stepped outside, got to his car, and let out a long breath. Pushing his foot hard on the gas, he promised he would not make that mistake again.

  Chapter 9

  "I know you're nervous," Sandra said as they drove to the Hull family estate, "but try to relax. You won't be thinking clearly if you're all stressed out."

  "What's that supposed to mean? That I 'won't be thinking clearly'. I can make clear decisions."

  Drummond, floating in the backseat, said, "Hey, relax. You know that's not what she meant."

  "I didn't ask you."

  Tense silence filled the car. They drove out of Winston-Salem, south on Route 77 toward Lake Norman. Max tried to focus on the dinner, on the case, on anything but Sandra, Drummond, or Melinda.

  He peeked at Drummond in the rear-view mirror just in time to see Drummond's head stretch backward and to hear him scream. Sandra jumped at the sound, took one glance back, and yelled, "Pull over! Pull over!"

  As Max edged to the shoulder and slowed down, he swore he could see through Drummond as if the ghost had become less substantial than usual. Drummond held his elongated head with one hand and strained his muscles but still growled out his pain. With his free hand, he pointed behind them.

  "What is this? What's going on?" Max asked.

  "I don't know," Sandra said. "I've never seen a ghost do anything like this before."

  With a great effort, Drummond pointed and said, "Back!"

  Max hit the hazard lights, set the car in reverse, and eased back along the shoulder. In just a few feet, Drummond's head returned to its normal shape, and he seemed to be in less pain. A few more feet and the ghost had become solid in appearance once again.

  Max stopped the car and turned around in his seat. "What the heck just happened? You okay?"

  Drummond rubbed the back of his head. "Damn, I wish I could drink. My mouth is begging for a whiskey right now."

  "He's alright," Sandra said with a relieved chuckle.

  "Look at that. You do care."

  "Don't push it."

  "Cute, you two," Max said, "but nobody's answered my question. What just happened?"

  Repositioning his hat, Drummond said, "It looks like I can't go any further. I've heard talk about this but figured it was just ghost superstitions — hoped it was, at least."

  "What what was?"

  "A ghost exists in two realms. There's the ghostly realm where I found Corkille. It's like a separate plane or world. That world, the ghost world, it's enormous and I can go anywhere in it I need to go.

  "Here, however, in the corporeal world, it's different. The rumor is that every ghost is sort of tethered to the place they died. I guess it's true. I can't go too far from the office without a heck of a lot of pain."

  "You're okay now, though, right?"

  "I think so."

  Sandra said, "There's a third world, too, don't forget. You can always move on to there."

  Drummond looked away like a boy avoiding punishment. "I'm not ready for that."

  "Now what you talking about?" Max asked.

  "Heaven and Hell," Sandra said. "If you believe in them, that is. Call it the real afterlife. Being a ghost means you're not letting go, but once you do, you move on to that third world realm. You find out what really happens."

  "Can we just turn around?" Drummond said, crossing his arms.

  Checking his watch, Max clicked his tongue. "That's going to be a problem. We can't go all the way back to the office and then back to Lake Norman and still be on time. For that matter, Hull wanted you there, too, and you know that guy is nutty about his exact orders being followed."

  "It'll be fine," Sandra said. "He won't even know Drummond's not there. He can't see ghosts, can he?"

  "I don't know."

  "No," Drummond said. "I don't think he can. But he knows about ghosts and witches and all of it. And that means he knew I couldn't actually be there tonight. This part of the evening was merely to show me he's still out of my reach. The bastard is just rubbing my death into my face."

  "You might be right."

  "Don't worry about me. I'll go to the ghost realm and use that to get back to the office. The two worlds don't synch exactly, so I'm sure I'll be back long before you."

  "But —" Sandra started to spea
k, but before she could utter her objection, Drummond had disappeared.

  "I guess that's that," Max said, pulling the car back to the highway.

  When they arrived Max first noticed that, for a mansion, the place was small. Elegant, yes, but not the sprawling acreage one would expect from a family rich enough to own half the state. As they walked toward the front door, a young, blonde man wearing a flawless black suit stepped out to greet them.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Porter," he said, his drawl smooth and refined, "it is a pleasure to meet you. I'm Terrance Hull."

  Max had to grip Sandra's hand to avoid tripping. This was Hull? This kid whose face barely grew a whisker was the one he had feared so much?

  Hull led them into the house with a mock laugh. "You're not the first to be surprised at my youth," he said. "Or my informalities. I apologize if you expected a butler. I do have help at my main home, but this place is usually used as a miniature vacation spot, and as such, I don't often want staff bothering me."

  "It's a lovely home," Sandra said, though Max thought she growled more than spoke.

  Hull didn't appear to notice. "Thank you," he said, taking their coats. The inside of the home was immaculate. Every piece of crystal, every gold trim, every framed picture, shined in its cleanliness. Light played against these objects, brightening the house and warming it. If Hull didn't employ the help, he must have at least sent Mr. Modesto ahead to clean up the place. Max couldn't picture Hull working the elbow grease to keep up this level of clean.

  As Hull walked down the hall, Max glanced back. The front door had been left open. He went to shut it when he noticed there were no locks on the door. None. Once before he had seen such a thing — the office of a woman who turned out to be a real, spell-casting witch. Drummond told him the witch never needed locks because nobody dared to rob her. Not only did Hull not have locks, he didn't even bother closing the door. Max felt that old fear creeping back into his stomach.

  The dining room's beauty surpassed any room Max had ever stepped foot in — hardwood floors reflecting like mirrors, candlelight twinkling like stars, and a simple but elegant meal served on shining silver. With swift grace, Hull pulled out a chair for Sandra, indicated a chair for Max, and then took his own seat at the head of the table. The food — duck with mushrooms in a white wine sauce — filled the room with its gentle aroma.

  "It's not often I get the chance to cook for anybody," Hull said, his pleasure warming the room like the candlelight. "Please, enjoy the food."

  Max's anger strengthened with every pleasantry. This was the man who had tried to hurt Max and Sandra on several occasions. Did he really think so little of them that he expected Max to bow down before the almighty wealthy despite the past? Sandra rested her hand on Max's knee, patting him to stay silent, stay calm. If not for that soft hand, he would've jumped to his feet and let his mouth loose. Instead, he ate the sumptuous meal and tried not to enjoy it.

  He lost on that last account. The food was damn good.

  "Is Mr. Drummond here?" Hull asked after a few minutes.

  "No," Max said. "But you already knew that."

  "I was not certain whether the spatial limitations were true or just a myth. Next time I'll be sure to utilize a location closer to Spruce Street."

  "Next time?" Sandra perked up.

  "I think so," Hull said and rose to his feet. He paced around the dining room as he spoke, his agitation palpable. "I suppose there's no point in being coy. After all, it's not often that I call somebody for dinner, is it?"

  "We wouldn't know," Max said, but something ticked in his mind. He suspected Hull never had guests for dinner — certainly never in this way. Alone and without even the minimum servants. Not even Mr. Modesto.

  "I prefer anonymity. However, in this case, I don't think you would be convinced by a letter. In fact, a letter from me might make the whole idea ludicrous."

  "What idea is that?"

  "That you come work for me again." Sandra blurted out a shocked laugh while Max stared at the man, too stunned for more. Hull continued, "Before you say a word, let me speak. I fully recall how things stand between us and have full respect for the threat you hold over me. That is another reason why I've been forced to present myself to you this way. As to why I wish to hire you — you're a smart man. You know what this is about."

  Max put his fork onto the plate with a hard clank. "The painting. Morning in Red. Right?"

  "Exactly. Since you're already searching for it, I simply wish to have you locate it for me. Of course, I'll be happy to pay you double your normal fee. And I can assure you, this will in no way impact or alter our previous situation."

  Max shook his head, unable to talk for fear of shouting. Sandra, however, did not hold back. She bolted to her feet, pointing at Hull like a stern mother reprimanding an insolent child. "How dare you even think of such a moronic idea. How dare you. You think your money can buy us off? You think we're greedy? Of course you do. Look at this place. You only understand money. Well, your wealth won't help you here. Our answer is no. Emphatically, No."

  "There's no need to get upset."

  "You think you can threaten people's lives and not have them be upset? You're a monster."

  "Did I really ruin your life? Would you prefer to go back to Michigan, have your husband go on trial for embezzlement, spend another year freezing with little heat in the house and no husband in your bed? It seems that through my former employment, you've made a big step upward in your life."

  Max held Sandra's shoulders to keep her from raising a fist at Hull — and possibly using it. Seething, she struggled against him, but he held her still. To Hull, he said, "Thank you for dinner. As to your offer, I think you can figure out our answer."

  Hull raised a glass of wine, sipped, and in a quiet, threatening voice, said, "That's a shame because I will have that painting, and if you are not helping me, then you are harming me. Do not get in my way. No matter what guarantees you think you hold against me, there are some things that are worth the risk. I promise you, this is one. Whoever got you into this, I urge you to sever those ties. Leave this whole affair."

  Sandra made one last lunge, but Max held her firm. Hull oozed condescension, and for a fleeting moment, Max considered letting his wife take a swipe at the man. He held back, though — partly because it was the right move to make, but partly because something still gnawed at him about the entire evening and the way Hull had behaved, something seemed out-of-place when compared to the Hull he had come to know through Mr. Modesto.

  * * * *

  The drive home consisted of Sandra venting her anger for most of the trip until Max began laughing. "What?" she asked. "Why are you laughing?"

  "You were the one telling me to stay calm all night."

  Sandra began a protest and then filled the car with her own laughter. And though the weight of the evening pressed heavier on Max than at any time throughout that day, he found the release of Sandra's tensions a release for himself as well. He drove the rest of the way with a smile.

  * * * *

  The next morning Max and Sandra entered the office holding hands and giggling over nothing in particular. Drummond sat behind the big desk — his face drawn, his arms crossed.

  "You couldn't stop by here last night? Let me know what happened? I worked hard for you and you made me wait until this morning? And to top it off, you're all cutesy together."

  With a light-hearted grin, Sandra said, "We're sorry. It was a long, late night, and we just needed —"

  "I know what you needed. That doesn't change the fact —"

  Max motioned Drummond out of his chair. "You're acting like my mother. We couldn't make it back, so just accept it at that. We're sorry if it inconvenienced you. Now, if you want, we'll be glad to tell you about all that happened."

  "I'm listening."

  Max delved into a recap of the evening. When he finished, Drummond's frown continued but now it was directed at the story and not the storyteller. "When you say Hull was a
young man, was he really young or did he just look that way?"

  "As far as I could tell, he was young."

  "That's right. No more than thirty," Sandra added.

  Drummond shook his head. "Then that wasn't Terrance Hull you were dining with. Hull was born sometime in the forties, maybe the fifties at the latest. He's got to be near sixty-years-old by now."

  "Maybe this was Terrance Junior."

  "Possibly, but I don't recall another Hull being born in the last few decades. If it happened, they've kept it a tight secret. Which isn't to say it didn't happen. These are the Hulls after all. I just find it disturbing that he picks a place for dinner he knows I can't go to when I'm one of the few people who knows what a Hull looks like."

  Max said, "It doesn't matter. We turned him down and we're not interested in his games. We'll find this painting before him and then we'll have the leverage."

  Drummond clapped his hands. "Well, then, you're going to need what I have for you. I spent all night working my skills, and I have for you this present."

  Drummond reached into the bookshelf wall and pulled something back. He shoved it into the client chair, his face glowing with pride. Max looked to Sandra whose expression told him little. "Well?" he finally said in frustration. "What's in the chair?"

  Sandra said, "Howard Corkille."

  "No," Drummond said. "That's the big news. This ghost, the one who hired us, he is not Howard Corkille."

  Chapter 10

  Max watched the empty chair as if he expected the ghost to spring before him. At that moment, he decided he hated art forgers and everything connected to them. "So, who is he?" he finally asked.

  Drummond gestured to the chair. "This is Jasper Sullivan."

  "And why are you pretending to be an old art forger?" Sandra asked before Max could clear his mind enough to do so. He bit back on a sharp remark.

  As Sandra frowned at the response, Max snapped his fingers. "Well? What the heck is he saying?"