Southern Charm (17 page)

"This is so messed up. You're flirting with a dead guy right in front of me while I'm feeling guilty over Melinda Corkille when nothing happened."

Sandra slammed the papers down. "I knew something was going on with that woman."

"Nothing went on. I mean, she tried, but I wasn't buying."

"But you feel guilty."

"I'm a man. I have thoughts even if I'm strong enough not to act on them. And frankly, things haven't been all that wonderful between us lately, so you shouldn't be surprised that I'm having thoughts."

"Really?" Sandra said in a tone that spewed fire and brimstone. "Is that the way it is for men? The second we have a little marital spat, you just start thinking about screwing other women?"

Max was on his feet now. "Honey, guys think about screwing other women all the time. It has nothing to do with our marriage or love or anything. It's just the way we're wired."

"So what's your problem then? It's okay for you to flirt with Melinda but if I sass Drummond just for fun it's wrong? What kind of fucked up logic goes on in your brain?"

"I'm not mad about that," Max shouted. "I'm not angry at all!"

His thundering voice echoed in the building. Sandra locked eyes with him, both of them seething, and before another word could be yelled, she processed his words and the corner of her mouth trembled upward. The other corner also moved up until she fully smiled.

"This is serious," Max said, but the end of his words were caught in a laugh.

"I know," she said, and stepped back, covering her mouth.

That did it. The two of them burst into hysterics. Sandra collapsed at her desk, clutching her stomach, and letting out laughter with abandon. Max's eyes watered as he followed suit.

So much of their stress poured out with each successive wave that once their bodies got started, stopping seemed impossible. Max's sides ached yet every time they thought it ended, a snort or chuckle would send them off again. And if felt good. More than just a release, the moment brought with it relief.

At length, they managed to speak with only a few giggles breaking through. Max dabbed at his eyes and said, "I swear, honey, you have nothing to worry about. I love you. I always have."

"Then trust me. And I don't mean about jealousy. I know you trust me there, and I know you don't really think anything about Drummond. But in the rest of our life, you've got to trust me."

"I do."

"No, you don't." She stepped near Max and wrapped her arms around his waist. "How long have you been sitting here in this office wishing I'd leave? Hmmm? It's driving you nuts having me here. You said it the other day that you feel smothered. But you're stuck because business is bad and I'm an asset you can't do without right now. I get it. It's tough. But you think it's a picnic being around you all day?"

Max smiled. "Maybe not a picnic, but surely a nice snack."

"Don't flatter yourself." She playfully slapped his chest. "Look, unless you gain the ability to see all the ghosts like I have, you're stuck with me."

"I don't mind having you here."

"Yes, you do. But that's okay. Couples aren't meant to be glued together all the time. We'd kill each other while professing how much we love one another."

"Then what do we do?"

"I don't know." They both let out a short laugh. "But now that we're actually talking again, I do know that we can figure it out. We make a pretty smart team."

Max hugged his wife tight and strong. "You're an incredible woman. Far more than I ever deserved."

"Don't forget it," she said and wiped her eyes on his shoulder. "Now, let's go find that stupid paintbrush."

Max and Sandra had to kill a few hours before it would be safe to go out to Korner's Folly. They drove to T.J.s Deli, scarfed a few sandwiches — eating too fast from nerves — and they waited. As worrisome as the whole situation had become, a small part of Max enjoyed sitting with Sandra at the deli. It was such a simple, normal thing to do. So unlike their everyday lives that he had to stop just long enough to etch the moment into his brain.

And then it was time to go.

They drove in silence but not a quiet boiling with anger. Nerves, of course, but the tension between them had disappeared. Now, Max could focus entirely on the job at hand.

"I want you to be my getaway man," Max said as they neared the off ramp for Kernersville. "This house is so visible. I need you to stay in the car, keep it running, honk if you see a cop or Modesto or anybody really. If I come running out, open the passenger door and be ready to get us out of there. You okay with that?"

"I can be a getaway gal, if that works for you."

Max smiled. "My apologies. 'Getaway gal' sounds much better."

They pulled in the visitor parking lot and drove onto the grass behind the house. It wasn't completely out of sight, but anybody passing in a car would probably miss them. If someone came by on foot, however, they were in trouble.

Max kissed Sandra on the cheek and headed toward the building. He moved to the side entrance (which was used as the exit from the tour) and tried the doorknob. Locked.

"Drummond," Max hissed as loud as he dared. "Drummond."

No answer. He slid along the wall toward the front of the house, trying to stay behind the various brick walls. From the corner, he saw no easy way to get to the front door. It was probably locked anyway. As he started to turn back, he glimpsed the beaten pot in front of the words WITCHES CORNER.

Why not?
He dug out a dime and a nickel and tossed them into the pot. The dull clink seemed loud to his ears, but nobody appeared to notice.

"Drummond," he whispered again as he hurried back to the side door. "Come on. Open up."

The side door lock clicked. Max stared at it as if he had never seen one before. Then he tried the knob and found it opened with ease. He stepped into a long room — the sewing room, if he recalled correctly from the tour — it was hard to tell in the dark. He had a small penlight with him but didn't want to use it unless he had no other choice. With so many windows in the house, he feared somebody might notice the light.

Drummond's ghostly visage seemed to shine pale light all around but didn't illuminate anything. It was a strange sight, one that Max had never noticed before. Drummond looked tired, even for a ghost.

"There's no paintbrush here. I've checked all but one room."

"What? Why didn't you just come back to the office and tell us not to bother?"

"Because it has to be in that room. I just can't go there."

"Out of your range?"

"No," Drummond said, glancing upward with a shiver. "It's not that. The room is at the very top — the attic that's a theater. But it's filled with the ghosts Sandra calls blurs. I can't go in there."

"Why not?"

"It hurts." Drummond turned away and let out an eerie sigh. Max thought, not for the first time, that Drummond could haunt a house to great effect. "I'm going back to the ghost realm. I'll find Jules Korner. He should be looking hard for me now, so it should be easy."

"Okay. I'll check out this theater. Don't worry about it."

"Who's worried?" Drummond said but he looked as if a giant arrow pointed at him.

Once his ghostly partner disappeared, Max headed deeper into the house. He flashed his penlight from time to time but never kept it on for more than a few seconds. The creaking wood floors and odd echoes made him think of a classic haunted house.

Every painting with a face followed his movements. He could feel their eyes upon him. From every ceiling mural, they looked down upon him. From every dark corner, every misshapen doorway, every narrow staircase, Max could feel the growing pressure of being watched.

Maybe he should have had Sandra come with him. The tour lady had said this place was officially haunted. Sandra would be able to see the ghosts, maybe even get them to talk.

As enticing as the idea of getting his wife by his side was, he knew he couldn't go back to get her. If he left this house, he wouldn't want to re-enter. Though not a believer of New Age-type things, he did believe that this place gave off a bad vibe. Something was wrong with this house. At least it felt that way at night, alone and in the dark.

After one wrong turn, he found the main stairwell that led up to the theater. He paused just long enough to feel his legs quiver and taste the dry coating in his mouth. Surely, Drummond could find out from Jules Korner where the paintbrush was hidden. Max didn't need to do this. Except there was no guarantee Drummond would find Korner let alone that the man would talk. And if Mr. Modesto was to be believed, time was not on Max's side. Through force of will, he moved upward, ignoring the strong desire to race back to Sandra, drive off, and never return.

When he reached the top, he found a lone figure standing on the stage — Blondie. The man wore a stylish suit like a true player of the nightclub scene, but his expression was one of impatience and malice. The hot attic air smelled of old wood like an ancient casket which gave Blondie a decidedly murderous aura.

"You sure took long enough," Blondie said. "Frankly, I don't understand why any of these people are worried about you. You can't seem to get any of this right. Although you sure screw things up a lot. No doubt about that."

"For you, I try my best," Max said, pleased that his voice wasn't shaking like his insides.

"Dr. Connor warned me about you. She said you had a smart mouth and a keen talent to get in the way. I figured she was just a little skittish because of your history with her. But it turns out she was right. I've got to know, though, before I kill you — why are you doing this? I mean, what do you gain by messing up things for Dr. Connor and Mr. Modesto? I don't get it."

Max thought about running, the words
before I kill you
often had that effect on him, but instead, he approached the edge of the stage, hoping to keep Blondie talking. He moved on instinct, something he continually tried to listen to more and more. And if his instincts weren't screaming for him to run, his brain must have heard something more important. And then it hit him. "
Messing up things for Dr. Conner and Mr. Modesto?
How?"

"I don't like it when people play coy or dumb, so stop it."

Max squinted in real confusion. "I don't understand. I saw them today. They've got the painting, you know that, they said they were going to beat me to the paintbrush. So, what exactly am I messing up, now?"

Blondie paced on the stage. "You really think this is just about getting some stupid brush? My, my, you are dumb. This, my stupid friend, this is about regaining their lives. Look at what you did to them. You ruined Dr. Connor's reputation and Hull pretty much cut her off from his family."

"Can't say I'm sorry. I don't really care about her. She tried to kill me once and she kidnapped my wife just recently. Seems to me, you were a part of that, too."

"Mr. Modesto didn't try to kill you. In fact, if anything, he's tried to help you navigate all these treacherous waters."

"I don't see it that way."

"Of course not. It's all about you, isn't it? What do you think happened to Mr. Modesto after you got hold of Hull's journal and held copies of it hostage?"

"That's my life insurance."

"I don't care what you call it. It pretty much ruined Mr. Modesto's standing, too. He's lucky they didn't kill him."

Max thought back to the strange dinner on Lake Norman, the one where Blondie pretended to be Terrance Hull. Mr. Modesto had handed Max the invitation. He knew Hull's schedule. He knew when the Lake Norman house would be clear. And that's why there were no servants, no chef, nobody around. That's why they tried to hire him to find the painting. Dr. Connor, Mr. Modesto, even Mr. Gold — they all were trying to get back into the embrace of the Hull family. And that thought brought with it another for the ride.

"Oh, I see," Max said, staring directly into Blondie's eyes. "It's not me that keeps screwing things up, it's you."

"Shut up."

"You failed to impersonate Hull well enough to get me to work for you. You failed to find the painting on your own and had to resort to kidnapping. And now, after all this, you've even failed to find the paintbrush. You just keep failing, don't you?"

Blondie's fingers curled into fists. Max's eyes darted around the room. He didn't see anybody else. Blondie said, "I suppose you found the paintbrush, then. Isn't that what you do? Find stuff nobody else can find?"

"You're pathetic. Not only did you fail at everything, but now you're standing here waiting for me to show up with the paintbrush so you can swipe it from me. No wonder Hull doesn't want to work with any of you. You can't do anything for yourselves."

"You watch that mouth of yours. It's going to get you in trouble."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Max looked over Blondie's waist — no sign of a gun. That was odd. Every time before Blondie had a gun.

Following his eyes, Blondie said, "Not in here. Gunfire would get too much attention, and this place is full of so many little nooks, I might not be able to collect all my bullets should I miss my target. Don't want to leave anything behind for the cops."