Southern Belle (8 page)

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, take 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.