Southern Charm (7 page)

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 speak, 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."

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?"

"Sorry," she said. "He says, 'Please, don't be mad. Please. I'm very sorry. It wasn't my intent to deceive you.'"

Max huffed. "You lied about who you are. That seems pretty intent on deception."

"'I know, I know. It's not like that, though. You see, I couldn't tell you the truth, but I'm prepared to tell you everything now.'"