Southern Gothic

by Stuart Jaffe

  Southern Gothic

  A Max Porter Paranormal Mystery

  Stuart Jaffe

  For Glory and Gabe

  Again and always

  Chapter 1

  Max Porter did not like the police. If a cop drove behind him, even if he was innocent of any wrongdoing, his stomach would lurch and his adrenaline would pump hard. Being an unofficial detective for the last few years had not altered his attitude. He knew the police were good to have around when trouble turned against him, but too often the kind of trouble that involved him — ghosts, witches, curses — was the kind of thing that got one arrested and locked up in a padded cell. So when he pulled up to the enormous Baxter House, when he saw the numerous flashing red-and-blues along with yellow police tape blocking off the house, he tried to remain calm and reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong. Not recently, at least.

  The house did little to ease his mind. Located in one of the most affluent sections of Winston-Salem, the building sat on a full acre right off Buena Vista Road. Surrounded by million-dollar homes, Baxter House lacked all the charm of its neighbors. Whereas most of the mansions on the street were gleaming white affairs with manicured lawns and a distinctly Southern flair, Baxter House stood like a stark, short castle intended to be situated on a grassy field in the cold rains of Great Britain. The overcast, winter afternoon completed the gloomy atmosphere.

  Only thing missing is a bunch of gargoyles, Max thought.

  As he approached an officer standing by the yellow tape, a gust of wind cut across the yard. He winced and turned his head away. Winter in North Carolina never had the deep snows that Michigan produced, rarely had any snow at all, but the winds bit sharp and vigorous.

  The officer stomped his feet on the ground as he paced along the line of tape. Max wondered how much trouble was barreling down on him. Life had been hard enough lately without dancing a tango with the cops.

  The officer lifted a gloved hand, but Max pointed at the house. “I’m Max Porter. I was told to come here by Detective Robson.”

  “Rolson. With an ‘L’.” The officer lifted the tape as Max ducked under. “Go on inside.”

  Heavy double-doors stood open at the front, but little heat came out. Another officer stood guard, a cup of coffee in his hands. When Max explained why he was there, the officer led him into the house, clearly relieved to be getting inside. The foyer was big enough to be a master bedroom in most homes. Dark woods and a thick, Turkish floor rug pressed in from all sides. A long staircase followed the walls up to the second floor.

  The officer went off to the right and weaved his way from one room to the next. They passed through an immaculate kitchen where two more officers leaned against a marble counter and sipped coffee. The officer pointed ahead and then left.

  Max went three more steps before an overweight, black man with a hooked nose and a stark white horseshoe of hair running around his head walked straight toward Max.

  “You with the Coroner’s Office?” he asked.

  Max said, “No. Are you Detective Rolson?”

  The man laughed, revealing a discolored yellow tooth. “I’m with the Crime Scene Unit. Rolson’s in there.”

  Just ahead, more crime scene techs took photos and bagged evidence. Max entered the main source of activity — the study.

  Volumes upon volumes of tomes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. A beautiful mahogany desk occupied the back of the study and a lovely fireplace filled the area behind the desk. Off to the right, a large arched window looked out to the back acreage. If not for the dead body face down on the floor, the study would have been the envy of anybody who loved books and learning.

  A stocky man with thin, blond hair and a sharp nose turned to Max. He wore a faded red sweater under his suit coat that made him look more like a befuddled professor rather than a homicide detective.

  Smiling, he offered his hand. “Mr. Porter? I’m Detective Eric Rolson. Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course. But I have to say, I’m not quite sure why I’m here. I’ve never been to this house before. How can I help you?” This was the real source of his nerves. Being called to a murder scene meant either Max was a suspect or the police needed his unique qualifications to aid them. Since they had never before called upon his ability to see a ghost nor his wife’s ability to see all ghosts, he figured he was a suspect.

  Rolson’s smile never wavered. “The victim is Sebastian Freeman.”

  “Oh, crap.” Until that moment, Max had not looked too closely at the dead man. He had seen dead people before and found the morbid fascination wore off quickly. But now, he saw that indeed, the man was Sebastian Freeman. A tall, black fellow with a thin but strong body.

  “I’ll take it that means you know the man.”

  Max’s stomach flipped twice as he nodded. “He was my client. My only client.”

  “We found your business card on the victim’s body. That’s why we called you. Figured you might be able to help us with a few details.”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “What exactly were you doing for Mr. Freeman?”

  “Ancestry. I’m a researcher. He hired me to trace his family back.”

  “My wife’s into all that, too. Uses a website for it. Found out my family goes all the way back to a little town in Switzerland called Binn. Fascinating stuff. So, Mr. Freeman hired you for research?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You do this kind of thing regularly? Ancestry?”

  “Not regularly enough.” Max could hear his wife, Sandra, warning him — Careful with the sarcasm. Just answer the man directly.

  “I guess it’s hard to get people to pay you for that kind of work. I mean, can’t they all do like my wife and use the Internet?”

  “Those sites are great for locating census records, names, dates, that kind of thing. In fact, I use them, too, in order to get the basics. But when you want a more in-depth look into your past, the kind of thing that not only finds names and dates but actual stories, maybe even a lost diary or something like that, well, that’s where I come in.”

  “And Mr. Freeman paid you for that kind of in-depth search?”

  “Yup. Particularly, he wanted me to search for any ancestors he had that might have been slaves. All his efforts to locate where he came from stopped around the end of the Civil War, so he wanted me to see if I could do anything better, find anyone further back.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not yet. I’d only been working on it for a couple days.”

  “Okay. When was the last time you saw Mr. Freeman?”

  “Two days ago, I guess. We spoke on the phone last night, though. He wanted to know how far I had gotten. Really pushy about it, too.”

  “Did he sound worried? Did he maybe mention anybody threatening him?”

  “No. Just that he wanted the answer as soon as possible.”

  Rolson pulled out an old flip notepad and jotted down a few words. It reminded Max of Marshall Drummond — his ghost partner who had been a detective in the 1940s. Where was he, anyway? Ever since the old office had been destroyed, Drummond had become free to go wherever he wanted, but he spent most of his time driving Max crazy. Now, when having a ghost detective would be useful, the guy was nowhere in sight.

  Rolson tapped his notepad. “Was Mr. Freeman timely in paying you or did he complain about money problems?”

  “He paid a small fee at the start — two hundred dollars — and the rest would come when I finished. I guess I won’t be getting paid.” Max tried not to sour his expression, tried not to sound as crestfallen as he felt, but they sorely needed that money.

  “Almost done here. Just a few more questions. Tell me, do you know why Mr. Freeman was here at the Baxter House?”
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  Max shook his head. “I know nothing about this place. Never seen it before. Heck, I’ve never really had reason to come to this part of town before. Who lives here?”

  “Nobody.”

  Max gestured to all the books and furniture. “Somebody’s been living here.”

  “Baxter House is one of the cities little eccentricities. This place has stayed empty for decades, but it’s kept clean and running anyway.”

  “Why?”

  Rolson shrugged. “Rich people. They get nutty with their wills. Give all their money to a family pet, make strange requests for their funerals, that kind of thing. When Cal Baxter died, I think it was in the 1920s or 30s, he must’ve had one whopper of a will.”

  “Hey,” a deep, muffled voice called out, “what’s going on here?”

  It took Max an extra second to realize nobody reacted to the voice, and that meant nobody had heard it but him — and that meant Drummond had finally decided to show up. The dead detective slipped through an outer wall and gave Max a short wave. He wore the classic trench coat he had died in, complete with Fedora, and all the gruff, chiseled features of a man who had lived a rough life. Yet despite his unpleasant encounters with the living and the dead, Marshall Drummond maintained a positive outlook on his existence, one that often girded Max into positive actions for himself.

  Rolson continued, “But you’re saying you’ve never been to this house before?”

  “Never.”

  “This looks bad,” Drummond said, and Max deflated. “Hey, isn’t that dead guy the colored fellow who hired you?”

  Max bit back the urge to correct Drummond’s backwards choice of words. Rolson still stood in front of him and would certainly find it strange if Max started talking to empty air.

  Rolson asked, “Any idea why Mr. Freeman was here? He ever mention this place?”

  “No. He gave me what he knew about his family, which wasn’t much, and asked me to start looking. Didn’t really tell me anything else, and I didn’t ask. I was looking into the past for him, not the present.”

  Drummond took a quick tour of the study. “Looks like I missed all the fun. Now that I’m no longer stuck tied to the office, I’m finding there’s an even larger ghost world out there. I mean, I’ve been in the Other — you remember that’s what we call it? — but I had no idea just how big that place is. And the women. Holy mackerel. Let’s just say that when the mortal coil is shuffled off, so are a lot of inhibitions. Don’t get me wrong — it ain’t anything close to as good as when I was alive, but it ain’t half-bad either.”

  Trying to focus both Drummond and his own mind, Max looked at Detective Rolson and said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Do you have any idea who killed him?”

  Rolson pocketed his notepad. “We just found the body. Give us a little time.”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  Drummond hovered over Sebastian’s corpse. “That’s strange. No blood on the floor. No blatantly visible wounds. How was this guy killed?”

  The muscles in Max’s neck relaxed a bit as he heard Drummond’s investigative mind take over. Gesturing to the body, he repeated the question to Rolson.

  “You are an impatient man.” Rolson made no attempt to hide the growl in his voice. “I already said we just got here. How could I know the cause of death when we haven’t even finished processing the crime scene?”

  “I meant no offense. I only asked because I don’t see any blood or wounds or anything.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t. He wasn’t shot or stabbed. We’ll probably find evidence of strangulation or maybe he had heart attack and there’s no homicide at all. I won’t know officially until the M.E. gives her report. Unofficially, however ...” Rolson leaned in close to Max and whispered. “... you can shut up and go home.”

  Drummond grunted. “Rude little prick.”

  Max forced a gentle smile. “I apologize if I overstepped my place in all this. I’ve never stood in a crime scene like this before. It’s all a bit overwhelming.”

  Rolson puffed up a little and brushed at his jacket. “Oh, well, of course. This can be a bit exciting for the novice, I guess. But it isn’t like you see on the cop shows. For a case like this, we won’t get answers super-fast. Nobody’s going to put the rush job here.”

  “Why? This isn’t like New York City where murders happen probably every day. I can’t imagine you have that many to deal with in Winston-Salem.”

  Rolson raised an eyebrow. “More than you’d believe. Too many, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Drummond had drifted over to the desk. “Keep him talking. I’m working as fast as I can.”

  It took Max a huge effort to keep his eyes on Rolson. He didn’t know what Drummond’s work consisted of, and he didn’t want to know. Putting out his hand for a shake, he said, “Well, Detective, I guess that’s it. I came, I saw, I answered questions. I suppose none of this has anything to do with me anymore.”

  “What are you doing?” Drummond soared over next to Rolson. “Your client was murdered. You can’t walk away from that. Besides, you haven’t had an interesting case in ages. This is a murder. That’s big.”

  “One second,” Rolson said, holding up his index finger. “I have another question for you. I’ll be right back.” He walked out of the room with a firm clip to his step.

  Drummond got right in front of Max. “Listen to me. I know you. You aren’t going to pretend this didn’t happen. You can’t.”

  In a harsh whisper, Max said, “Nobody’s paying us to look into this murder, and in case you haven’t noticed, money’s been a bit of a problem. So while I’m sorry for Sebastian, I can’t really help him either. Especially since he’s dead.”

  “Have you learned nothing since we’ve met? Do you listen to anything I tell you?”

  “I try not to.”

  “You better listen this time because your life is probably in danger.” Drummond passed over the corpse. “This man is dead only a short time after hiring you to start digging into his past. That doesn’t strike you as an important sequence of events?”

  “There’s no reason to think that the two are connected.”

  “Oh, Max, don’t be naive. If I’ve taught you anything, it should be that when it comes to crime, there are no coincidences. Not like this, at least.” Drummond looked in his coat pocket and frowned. Joshua Leed, a highly educated witch hunter, who had been reduced to a ghostly glob which Drummond carried around, still managed to talk with the old detective, though Max could not hear a word — Drummond was the only ghost on Max’s otherworldly radar.

  A moment later, Drummond slid over to the desk. “You don’t want to believe me, okay. I’m telling you my gut knows there’s something wrong here and that you might be in danger. Or maybe even Sandra. Leed agrees.”

  “Are you really going to go after my wife with this?”

  “Stop being a brat, come over here, and grab these papers before the copper comes back.”

  Max stomped over to the desk, his eyes blazing. “I’m not going to steal evidence because of your gut-feeling when you don’t even have a gut anymore.”

  But even as Max spoke, his fingers brushed the papers. He could deny Drummond for all eternity but that wouldn’t change the nagging in the back of his head — the voice that reminded him how Drummond knew this line of work too well, that he would never suggest stealing like this unless it was important, that Drummond cared deeply for Sandra and maybe even for Max, too. That voice also pointed out that Max’s gut had been sharing Drummond’s uneasy feelings about this crime scene.

  With a quick glance at the door, Max grabbed the papers, folded them once, and shoved them into his pocket.

  Great, Max thought. Now, I’m a thief.

  Chapter 2

  During the entire drive home, Max did not utter a word. The stolen papers weighed down his pocket a little and his conscience a lot. When Drummond realized his partner would not be speaking, he settled in the back seat and talked softly with Leed.r />
  Twenty minutes later, Max pulled off Peters Creek Parkway onto a gravel road that led to a rundown trailer park — fourteen trailers lined up in three rows. Next door, the heavy fumes of a Marathon gas station polluted the air. Across the street and a down a little, a McDonald’s did the same.

  Max slammed his car door shut and trudged over to his trailer. Ever since the resurrection of Tucker Hull, life for the Porters had become difficult. They lost their home, their business, everything. But Sandra refused to be run off with tail tucked. Much of the time, her strength kept Max going. Even when they learned that Forsyth County mysteriously annexed certain properties from neighboring Davidson County with the end result that Max’s trailer now sat in the higher tax-bracketed Forsyth — even when that happened, and he knew in his heart that the Hull family had engineered the unfortunate turn, seeing Sandra’s jaw jut out and her fists clenched inflated his confidence. She would not let them break her or Max, so Max had to be strong, too.

  Except when Max entered their trailer, he had to stop and observe the squalor of their lives — a torn couch, a chipped table for two, rusting appliances, a closet-sized bathroom, stained carpets, and a grimy odor that coated his clothes and skin. Was this really what they fought for? And now Drummond wanted Max to jump into a mess involving a murder. Probably to stave off the old ghost’s boredom. Sure, he said that trouble approached, but so what if it did? They had so little left, they had nearly reached the point of nothing to lose.

  Drummond entered through a wall. “I know that look. You’re upset. Let me tell you something.”

  “No.” Max pulled the stolen papers from his pocket and tossed them in the trash. “We’ve got one of the wealthiest families in all of North Carolina gunning for us, which is bad enough, but then add to that the fact that this family is led by a man dead since the 1700s and, oh yes, did I mention that they have used witches and magic for centuries? And you think I should be concerned over the murder of some guy I hardly knew who only wanted to find out about his family? Really?”