Southern Charm (5 page)

"Huh?"

"That's the first time you've really kissed me like that in I don't know how long. This business has got you so worked up, you just haven't been, well, you."

"I hadn't realized. Maybe I have been a bit distant. I sometimes feel crowded by Drummond and you in the office all the time. Not to say that —"

"Don't over-think it, hon. Especially right now," she said and started kissing him again. Max didn't need any more motivation. They went to the bedroom, grasping and gasping, feeling young and fresh, each excited by the other — it had been too long since they did more than just be physically satisfied. When they finished that night, they held each other until they fell asleep.

Wake Forest University's Z. Smith Reynolds Library — for Max, the place had become a refuge from the world. It's bright, open study areas balanced with the crowded stacks overstuffed with books. It was the greatest knowledge buffet, and Max loved it.

He launched right into his investigation, confidence and hope blending with his sense of purpose. He started with a computer search of the name Howard Corkille. After receiving over two hundred thousand hits, he narrowed it by adding "North Carolina." This returned twenty-seven thousand. He checked out a few links — some lawyer in California writing about a deal with NCU, a baker in Florida born in North Carolina, and a bar mitzvah blog. Adding "Winston-Salem" brought the number down to one hundred twenty-seven.

"That's better," he said, garnering a scowl from a young gal working at a desk surrounded by books and papers.

Following several links to start and using that information for deeper research, Max learned much about the Corkille family over the course of that morning. Edwin Corkille, born and raised in Ireland, fled the country after being accused of murdering a woman he had been promised to for marriage. He insisted on his innocence but could see that nobody wanted to believe him. So he ran.

His family was wealthy, and when he arrived in New York, he used some of his funds to purchase land in North Carolina. "Then things turn murky," Max said as he wrote down the information. Something had occurred within a decade because the next references to Edwin Corkille involved an involuntary dissolution of property. Several banks fought over what few assets he had left. In the end, he was broke.

The American Corkilles had no contact with their Irish family, and as a result, found no help to regain their standing. They became a working class family, struggling to survive, finding life in the military during the Civil War (and finding death as well). Yet no mention of new fortunes could be found.

Max re-read what he had found detailing the last few decades. The Corkille name was little known except for acreage sales from the property Melinda now lived in and a few mentions of Melinda's involvement with the Second Harvest Food Bank — a charity providing food for the impoverished. Of course, if all the Corkille's money came from selling art forgeries, that type of success would not be found written about in old newspaper articles.

Yet something bothered Max. Something didn't feel right about the sudden re-emergence of Corkille wealth. Art forgery might be lucrative, but the kind of money the Corkille estate appeared to be worth could not have been made that fast. "At least, I don't think it can," he said provoking a hiss from the student looking no closer to finishing her paper.

Max wanted to find a specific reference to Howard Corkille but nothing online provided help. With pleasure, he culled a list of books on art forgery and began searching the stacks. While the computer made life easier, it had also taken away many small joys. The tactile experience of researching book after book in the quiet intensity of a library was just one, but it was one that touched Max every day.

Another joy of library research — discovering new parts of the immense building. Max found the books on art forgery (both history and, amazingly, how-to) in a lovely wood-paneled room with large reading chairs and a warm atmosphere. He settled down with his finds and delved in like a giddy child.

"You won't find him there," a distinct voice said.

Max didn't need to look up to know who stood before him — Mr. Modesto, the Hull family representative.

"May I sit?" Modesto asked.

With a huff, Max closed his book and gestured to the empty chair opposite him. Modesto looked much the same as the last time they had spoken — when Max wrested control of his office space from the Hull Family and threatened to expose them if anything should ever happen to him. A well-groomed, well-dressed man, Modesto's features had evolved for maximum intimidation. Max sat straight but inside he cringed.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Modesto pointed to the art forgery books. "John Myatt is considered by many the greatest art forger of the twentieth century. In the '90s, he was convicted for passing off his own creations as lost Renoirs, Picassos, and Modiglianis. He said he never did it for profit but out of some crazed, perfectionist's desire to create near-perfect art. After he served his time, he started painting again — his own work this time. You can buy it today for around fifty to a hundred thousand dollars a painting. Not bad for a former fraud."

Max tossed the book aside. "Gee, thanks. Now I don't have to read that one."

"Elmyr de Hoy was considered the number two art forger of the same time. He died in 1976, otherwise, who knows what may have happened? Orson Welles made a pretentious documentary on the man."

"It's called 'F for Fake,' I read all about it."

"There's a famous tale about Picasso. He is shown several paintings. He dismisses them. 'They are all fakes,' he says. His friend says, 'But Pablo, I saw you paint these.' Picasso smiles a devilish smile and says, 'I can fake a Picasso as well as anybody.'"

Crossing his arms, Max said, "Whatever you want, I don't want a part of it."

"And then there's Han van Meegeren — possibly the most famous art forger of all time. He was Dutch, born around 1889, and well-known for his Vermeers. He made a 'Christ at Emmaus' that sold for six million dollars. Then he sold a Vermeer fake to a German art collector by the name of Hermann Göring. Things didn't go too well for him after that."

"Do you have a point?" Max said, knowing he sounded impetuous and wishing his stomach wasn't flipping in fear.

Modesto leaned in and said, "All those famous forgers, and not one of them ever knew, ever spoke of, ever even heard of Howard Corkille. Do you know why? Because the truly great art forgers are like the truly great criminals. They are never known. They don't get caught. They don't go to jail. They don't get books written about them. They are ghosts."

This caught Max. He wanted to throw some wiseass comment at Modesto just to tick off the proper man, but he couldn't say a word. Embarrassed that he hadn't come to the conclusion himself and stunned that it would come from Modesto, Max piled his books, stood, and walked towards the exit. He moved fast in hopes of getting away before his legs gave out. He really didn't want to know what Modesto was leading up to.

"Wait, please," Modesto said, following Max into the hall. Max pushed the elevator's call button and considered the stairs, but the narrow stairwell on the right echoed the ascent of two talkative students. Modesto blocked Max's way. "I'll follow you all day, if you make me. And I do know where your office is and your home. So, why not listen to me?"

Impatience, anger, fear — it all swirled within Max. But Modesto was right. If the Hulls wanted him to tell Max something, it would be told. So, with a curt nod, Max walked back into the warm room and sat in the first chair he came upon.

"Thank you," Modesto said, but like everything that came out of his mouth, this sounded threatening. "First, Mr. Hull wishes you to know that he is not the one behind what you saw yesterday."

"You mean the man you had beaten up thinking it was me?"

"That was Mr. Gold's doing. In an eager attempt to display his loyalties, Mr. Gold over-enthusiastically interpreted his instructions. You do recall how Mr. Hull insists on his instructions being followed properly?"

"Of course."

"I will see that Mr. Gold understands quite clearly the error he has made. It won't happen again. Mr. Hull wants you to know that he fully abides by our previous agreements."

Now Max understood. Modesto was here to smooth over any bad feelings Max had over the Gold incident. Hull feared Max would be angry and release the old journal he had copies of, the journal of the Hull family that documented centuries of corruption, manipulation, and witchcraft. This was all about protecting themselves.

"Don't worry," Max said like a benevolent king. "I won't harm you over this. Just see that it doesn't happen again."

"You have my word," Modesto said through gritted teeth.

"Then I think we're done." Max stood.

"One more item."

Max thrust an exasperated glare at Modesto, but the man's stern face reminded Max just how dangerous he could be. "What is it?"

"I must deliver this," Modesto said, handing over an ivory-colored envelope. "I've been instructed to tell you that the letter is not to be opened until you are in the presence of your wife and Mr. Drummond." Coming from anyone else, Max would have been shocked by this statement. But since it was a Hull who had cursed Drummond, who had bound his ghost to Max's office, and who had fought to stop Max from releasing him, Modesto's words were natural.

Max grabbed the envelope and pocketed it without ever taking his eyes off of Modesto. Perhaps it was the mentioning of Sandra and Drummond. Perhaps it was Modesto's incessant air of superiority — even when attempting to apologize for nearly killing a man. Perhaps it was simply the fear of dealing in any way with the Hull family once more. Whatever the case, Max's head spun in fury while his stomach threatened to revolt. His emotions churned with conflict as much as his body, and through taut lips, he said, "I don't ever want to see you again."

Modesto rose to his full height and looked down upon Max. "I appreciate your displeasure in having to meet. Rest assured the sentiment is mutual. However, as I am the top representative for Mr. Hull, I can assure you, we will be in contact again. No matter what you threaten, Mr. Hull will not entrust these delicate matters to another person. As you've seen with Mr. Gold, most others cannot be counted upon to execute instructions properly. I hope you understand the nature of this refusal and will not use it against Mr. Hull."

Modesto bent slightly and walked away. Fuming and helpless, Max watched him go. He pulled out the envelope, flipped it over, and set his finger at the edge to tear it open.

But he stopped.

Printed on the back were the words: NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL IN THE PRESENCE OF MRS. PORTER AND MR. DRUMMOND. As much as Max wanted to raise a middle finger to Hull's instructions, he knew that doing so would be a bad move at this point. The time to fight back was when he held the most advantage. Besides, whatever this was all about, it was important enough to risk public exposure.

He put the envelope away, gathered his things, and headed back to the office. When he arrived, Sandra took one look, sat him down, and said, "Guess it didn't go well."

Max explained about Modesto's visit and placed the envelope on the table. Drummond shrugged. "At least the bastards haven't forgotten me. I ought to go haunt them for a few years. Just clank around their mansion, make sure nobody gets a decent night's sleep."

"I'll buy you a new set of chains," Max said.

Drummond chuckled. "I think the old, rusty ones have a better tone, but thanks for the offer."

"So," Sandra said, "are you going to open it?"

Max slid the envelope toward her. "You do it." She pulled back from the desk, her eyes narrowing on the envelope as if it might rear back and attempt to bite her.

"They want you to open it, though."

"Yes, but the instructions don't say anything specifically about who opens it. So, screw them. They forgot to be that clear, I say the heck with it."

"Okay," she said, snatched the envelope and tore it open. She read in silence, her face giving away nothing as to its contents.

"Hey, Sweets," Drummond said, "you going to share?"

With a devilish grin, she said, "The instructions were to open it in our presence. Doesn't say anything about reading it out loud."

"Oh, if only I were alive."

Max snatched the letter from Sandra. "Ease it back, you two." With a firm snap of the paper, he read:

IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE THAT I CORDIALLY INVITE MR. AND MRS. MAXWELL PORTER AND MR. MARSHALL DRUMMOND TO SUPPER WITH ME THIS WEDNESDAY AT SEVEN O'CLOCK.

Wednesday morning began with strong coffee and a headache. Max did his best to ignore the dread building within like a hardening concrete block making every step a struggle, but with the Hull dinner only ten hours away, he found it impossible to think about much else. He tried searching the internet for more on Corkille but he couldn't concentrate.