Southern Charm (2 page)

"I understand completely," Max said.

"'I suppose you do. So, I did the painting. It wasn't a famous work. It wasn't a famous artist. Just a landscape, really, with a slight nod toward Monet. He called it "Morning in Red" except it had little red in it. When I was done, Mr. Smith paid me and asked me to hold on to the painting for a few days while he made certain arrangements.'"

Drummond rested his hands on his knees and said, "Never saw the guy again, did you?"

"'No, but I read in the papers he was killed in an accident.'"

"What did you do with the painting?"

"'I held on to it. A few years later, I died. Slipped in front of an oncoming train. Didn't even know I was dead for quite some time. Never got to see my son grow up, let alone the birth of my granddaughter.'"

Max said, "It's an intriguing tale. What exactly do you want to hire us for?"

"'You see, my granddaughter — I've never seen her.'"

"So you want us to find her?"

"'Yes.'"

"What's her name?"

"'Melinda. I don't know if she ever married.'"

"And you think she's here in Winston-Salem?"

"'I don't know, but, you see, we've always lived in this area or nearby. I can't imagine she would go too far. Even if she did, we were always here.'"

"Drummond, write down Howard's address when he lived here."

Drummond scowled — it was painful for a ghost to interact so directly with the corporeal world — but Max wanted Sandra focusing on Corkille. As Drummond wrote, Sandra continued, "'Before you find her, though, first, I want you to find the painting. I've met many unique ghosts in the past decades, one of which was an art collector. We've had some great talks. When I told him my story, he said that some collectors specialized in forgeries and would love to have a piece with such a colorful tale associated with it. You see, I believe that painting could be auctioned today for substantial money. So, I want you to find it and then find Melinda. You may split the proceeds evenly between you and her. I believe that should cover your bill whatever it ends up being. But I want her to have some money. I couldn't be there for her father or her, at least I can do this. And, well, I suppose that's my story. Will you help me?'"

Before Max could speak, Drummond blurted out, "Of course, we'll help you. That's what we do. You just let us do our thing and don't worry at all ... you're very welcome. I'll let you know when we've found the painting ... yes, yes, and you're granddaughter. Don't worry."

Sandra looked up from the client chair. "He's gone."

Too tired from arguing over money, Max didn't bother laying into Drummond. Besides, maybe this painting would actually be worth something. "Okay, let's get organized," Max said, and Drummond's shock made his restraint worthwhile. "Sandra, I want you to check out Howard Corkille. If his family has been here as much as he's implied, there should be plenty of records to find. Drummond, you and I are going to visit that address."

"What about the painting?" Drummond asked.

Max shook his head. "All we have is a name, and Corkille said that the painting isn't famous or by anybody well-known. I doubt it was ever exhibited."

"But the client wants that done first, and that painting is the income source for this job. Besides, there's an art gallery just below us. We can start there and then go to the address."

"Fine, but there's no need to go downstairs. We can search for the painting online. That's what search engines are for."

"In case you forgot, I'm dead. I get to see computers, not use them. I still don't quite get it all, but then again, learning the thing's not been a pressing need. Look, I'm not trying to tell you how to research stuff. I'm just an old detective. When we get to the crimes, I'll know what to do."

"There's no crime in this."

"Art forgery's a crime."

"We're just finding an old painting and a granddaughter," Max said, but he didn't doubt Drummond's cold expression — this was going to get complicated.

A few mouse clicks, a few keystrokes, and Max knew he would not be finding "Morning in Red" online. No surprise, though. The painting pre-dated the computer age, and it's obscurity made it doubtful anybody would bother scanning and uploading the image.

Max tried a few other avenues, but nothing turned up. He didn't want to listen to Drummond's gloating, but the case came first. Grabbing his coat, he said, "Come on. We need to see that art gallery downstairs."

"Oh, really," Drummond said, but Max already had reached the stairwell.

Deacon Arts occupied the first floor of the building. The remaining floors were mostly apartments and Max's office, all of which had been built in the 1930s. This first floor space, however, sported a more modern look — and at first glance, more modern amenities as well.

Like most galleries, this one adhered to an open, flowing layout, with well-lit paintings on the walls and curving sculptures in the middle. An antique desk faced out from the back corner, a computer resting on its edge, and behind it sat a heavy-set man, balding with a white goatee. Flashing an elitist smile, he said, "Good morning." His voice flowed with a smooth drawl that Max had become accustomed to hearing after a year in the South.

"Morning," Max said, looking around the room. The paintings varied in style and color — no specific theme tied any of it together. Drummond floated from one work to the next, his face pressing in close to each painting.

"May I help you?"

Max glanced at the desk's nameplate. "Mr. Gold?"

"That is my name."

"I was wondering if you could help me locate a specific painting that I'm trying to find."

Without looking, Drummond said, "Don't be so wordy. Makes you seem untrustworthy."

Mr. Gold gestured to a seat near his desk and posed his fingers over the computer keyboard. "Let's see what we can do. What's the name of the painting and the artist?"

"The painting is 'Morning in Red' and the artist —"

Mr. Gold did not type. For an instant, Max thought the man might be having a heart attack. Then Mr. Gold said with forced casualness, "'Morning in Red' — I've never heard of it."

"It's not a famous work."

"Well, I'll try online but —"

"I've already tried the public search engines. Mostly get hits on the old, 'Red skies at night, sailor's delight. Red skies at morning, sailor take warning.' You, however, should have access to some kind of art gallery database."

"Naturally, I do, but I can't really abuse that privilege on every request, particularly for such an unknown artwork. Besides, searches on that database cost us money. So, you see, I can't just —"

Pulling out his wallet, Max said, "I'd be happy to cover the cost." Not
happy,
really. He only had three dollars.

"It's not that simple," Mr. Gold said, fumbling with two books and piling them on the floor. "I have to get permissions."

Drummond slid behind him and looked at the books. "This guy's lying. You know that, right?"

Max nodded.

"Good," Drummond went on, "because these books he tried to hide are all about art forgery." Sometimes Max loved having a ghost for partner.

Seizing onto an idea, Mr. Gold said, "Let me take down your name and number, and I'll see what I can learn for you. We're just at the beginning of the day. I'm sure I can —"

"The painting is 'Morning in Red.' My name's Max Porter and my office is right upstairs — 319."

"Of course. I thought I'd recognized you. I see you walk in many mornings."

"Let us know when you find something."

"Us?"

"My wife works up there as well."

"Ah, yes, I see. Well, Mr. Porter, I'll do my best, but I wouldn't expect much. A little painting like that, one that has probably never been shown in a gallery or sold in such, that is most likely not in anybody's database."

"You just give it a try."

Though Mr. Gold prattled on with excuses and concerns, Max never looked back as he left the gallery. Drummond circled his partner with excited swoops. "That's the way you should always do this. You're finally learning. Wonderful. That liar wasn't going to help us out anyway. Might as well give him a hard time."

As Max climbed the stairs to his office, he said, "Don't you think it's weird that Gold is lying about the painting? I mean, we just got the case. Nobody could know we were hired, let alone what we were looking for."

"This is the detective racket," Drummond said. "Just because you can't legally call yourself that, doesn't mean you aren't one. And let me tell you something I want you to remember always. By the time somebody's knocking on your door, by the time they've finally admitted they need you, there are already many others involved."

"So somebody else is looking for this painting."

"More than one somebody, most likely."

"Mr. Porter! Mr. Porter!" Mr. Gold shouted from downstairs. With labored breaths and one arm gripping the railings as if he might fall over at any moment, Mr. Gold reached the third floor.

Not hiding his amusement, Drummond passed through Mr. Gold several times, causing the sweating man to shiver. "Seems to be a draft up here."

"Yeah," Max said. "That happens sometimes. What is it?"

"Here," Mr. Gold said, handing over a paper. "I decided to do a public search — I know you said you did one, but it all depends on what keywords you use and how you put them in. I thought I might have better luck since I do this kind of searching all the time. Anyway, I found your painting and that's the address. So, good luck with that and I'll be going now."

Moving faster than he had arrived, Mr. Gold scurried down the stairs. Drummond watched with disdain. "Well, that wasn't the least bit suspicious."

Max snickered. "Yeah."

Mrs. Amos shuffled out of her apartment to pick up the morning paper at her door, squinted at Max talking to himself, scowled, and closed the door. The old woman never had much more for Max. The most he had ever gotten from her was a "Go to Hell" when he called her by name (a tidbit he acquired from her mailbox). The shock on her face still made him smile.

"You know," Drummond said as he passed through the closed office door, "I like that old gal."

When Max entered the office, Sandra kissed him and asked, "How'd it go?"

"We got an address," Max said, reading the paper for the first time. "Some place west in Clemmons. Probably nothing useful, though."

"I did better than that," she said like a schoolyard tease.

"I'm listening."

"Me, too," Drummond said from his usual perch in the bookcase.

Sandra held out a piece of paper like a winning lottery ticket. "That is the address of one Melinda Corkille. I started checking out the family name when it occurred to me to 4-1-1 her name first. She lives just south of here in Davidson County."

Max frowned.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"This address. It's the same one Corkille gave us. The one in which he last lived."

Drummond perked up. "Really? Why would he not know where she was living then?"

"That's what I'm wondering."

"Especially after our art gallery visit. You know, I hate to say it, but this whole thing smells real bad."

"Thanks for the input. Why don't you go find your ghost friend and get us some real information? Sandra, find out what you can on Corkille, this house, and anything on that painting. I'm going to visit Melinda Corkille."

As he drove down Peters Creek Parkway toward Davidson County, Max tried to blot out any guilt he felt toward Sandra. He knew she would be mad at him later, but for now he had to focus. Except why should he be feeling this way at all? He could tell by how her body drooped when he gave out their assignments that she had expected to accompany him to Melinda Corkille's house — but angry? Why should she be angry?

"Don't act so innocent," Max said to the empty car. He knew from the start that she would want to come along. If for no other reason, it beat the heck out of sitting in the office working on a computer. But he couldn't bring her. He needed some space.

"That's really it, isn't it?" The past year had been hard on them in a way like never before. Always in the office together, always at home together, in the car together — he loved her, deep to his bones love, but she smothered him with her constant presence.

He wanted her to go back to the bakery. She would bring in some money for them while he struggled to get his business off the ground. Most important, she would be happy, independent, and not pissed because Max had to be the boss.

"Only one problem, though, Max." One enormous problem. Sandra could see the ghosts. How could he run his business without that special skill? Of course, he could just go the route everybody else did, but Drummond was right about that — he hated researching one boring genealogy after another. Those just paid the bills, and they often didn't do that much. These types of cases — the ones that were otherworldly — these were the things that gave him that investigative rush. And for that to continue, he needed Sandra.