by Stuart Jaffe
Buying time is better than being a sitting duck.
The librarian returned, leaned far over the counter, and whispered something to the cop. As she pulled back, Max swore he saw a devilish smile on her face. Then she walked away. She went to the far side of the floor and through a door that appeared to lead to offices. Less than thirty seconds later, the cop followed the same path.
Drummond snickered. “Looks like the cop’s here for something other than you.”
“Let’s go. We don’t know how long they’ll be.”
“Good thinking. He might be a quick performer.”
Max’s stomach clenched as he stepped away from the cover of the stacks. He walked around the checkout island and toward the exit, giving a nod and smile to another librarian. As he pushed the exit door open, Drummond turned back.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll delay the cop if he gets done early or is called on duty or something.”
Max wanted to stop and yell at the ghost. They were partners, a team, and Drummond was going to ditch him for a peepshow. But he knew if he said any of that, the cop would have come out to see the disturbance, and if he was lucky, Max would only be carted off to a mental institution for observation. If he was unlucky, the cop worked for Hull or Mother Hope.
Picking up the pace, Max hurried around the corner to the parking lot. He continually peered over his shoulder, half-expecting the cop to come sprinting out with his pants unbuckled and his shirt askew. But the cop never arrived. Instead, when Max looked toward his car, he discovered the real threat — a man in a suit and tie leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest and a toothpick in his mouth.
“Max,” the man said as if they were old chums. “I’d like to borrow that notebook of yours.”
Chapter 11
Max clutched the notebook against his side. He could try to run, but he did not trust his legs. Though his strength had returned quickly from being immobile for so long, his muscles still complained. Adrenaline would provide some needed boost, but it wouldn’t last long enough — not against a guy like this. He was young and fit. No, running was not an option.
“Who sent you?” he asked, not moving closer to the car nor heading back to the library.
The man opened his hands. “Does it really matter?”
“Actually, it does. There are a lot of players in this thing. You should know what side you’re on.”
“I don’t take sides. I’m freelance. Wherever the money is, that’s the side I’m on.”
“Any chance you can be bought off to change sides?”
The man tapped his forehead. “Not too smart. If I do that, word gets out and I lose all my business. Might even lose my life, depending on who I cross.”
Sweat dampened Max’s arms. His only way out was for the cop to finish up so that Drummond would float outside, but Max Porter’s unlucky star shined brightly above him — looked like the cop would be taking his sweet time. “My notes won’t help anybody else. It’s not like I wrote down some big secret and underlined it.”
“Not my problem. I was told to get your notebook. That’s what I’m going to do. Now, I can see that you’re an intelligent man and that you already understand this situation quite clearly. So, if you simply hand over the notebook, I’ll leave. Won’t even have to touch you.”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
The man laughed. “Not for what they’re paying.”
“What if we struck a bargain?”
The man pushed off the car and strolled over. Max inched back a few steps. When the man reached out and touched the notebook, a volcano of rage erupted within Max.
He shoved the man hard. The surprise move tripped the man and he fell on the pavement. Max leaped over and raced to his car. His fingers fumbled for his keys.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” the man said.
As Max found the right key, the man clamped down on Max’s hand. He twisted the hand, and the keys hit the ground with a jangle. Three fast punches followed — two to the gut, doubling Max over, and one to the back of the head.
The man grabbed hold of the notebook, but Max refused to let go. For a second, they locked in a tug-of-war. But then the man kicked Max in the side. The air whooshed out of Max’s lungs and he tumbled over. Cradling his stomach and his side, he rocked on the ground, desperate for enough air to stand but knowing it was too late.
By the time he could breathe, the man was gone and so was the notebook.
Max drove back to the empty tobacco warehouse and curled on the desk. He had several hours to wait until the others arrived. All through the drive back, he thought of what he would say to Drummond, but now that he had time to cool off, he decided to say nothing directly. He knew the ghost too well. Once Drummond learned what had happened and what they had lost, the old ghost would beat himself up plenty. A more productive use of Max’s time was to go over the Libby Holman story as much as possible, to keep it fresh in his head.
When evening arrived and the team converged on Max, he told them everything about Libby. From her early days to her marriage to the murder, he left nothing out. Then, he had to admit to losing his notebook. Sandra jumped to his side and lifted his shirt to inspect his bruises.
Drummond’s face dropped all sense of warmth. “I’m sorry, Max. I should have been there.”
“You’re damn right,” Sandra said. “We’re all in danger. What were you thinking leaving Max alone? Especially when he’s still recovering.”
Max pushed down his shirt. “It’s okay. I’m okay. There was a cop in the library. Drummond was making sure I got into my stolen car without getting noticed.” Though Drummond gave Max a thankful nod, he clearly agreed with Sandra — he had failed his partner. Before Sandra could weigh in on the excuse given, Max went on, “There’s more to the Libby Holman story.”
“More?” Drummond perked up.
“I wish I had my notes. I wrote it down as fast as I could, figuring I’d be able to check it all later. Guess that plan didn’t work out, did it? Still, even if I get the details wrong, the basic idea is right.”
PB and J had been listening like two kids in the 1930s sitting next to the family radio. Living on the streets had taught them a lot — including life without television or the Internet. They wiggled in their seats, eager for more story. Even Maria inched closer to hear the rest.
“They never could pin anything on Libby, but she wasn’t truly free either. One of the big problems through the whole thing was that Libby was pregnant. She and Smith supposedly had been trying to have a child but he was unable. Some speculation came about that she was pregnant with Albert’s child, that Smith found out, which led to an altercation resulting in his death. That may have been true, but nobody could prove if that death was intentional or accidental. Nobody could prove anything.”
Max leaned forward as the story unfolded in his mind. The Reynolds family fought a little regarding the will, but not much. The death of Smith was enough of a blow. They didn’t want any more publicity of that kind. Libby was gracious. She accepted a payout and the bulk of the estate went to a trust for her son, Christopher.
“Several years later,” Max said, “she married an actor named Holmes. This was 1939, I think. She met the guy after dating his older brother. The next year, both brothers joined the Canadian Air Force and the older one died in a collision. I don’t think it was a battle — this was during World War II — but perhaps a training exercise. I didn’t have time to look into those details.
“Anyway, Libby’s husband comes home at the end of the war, and like many couples dealing with being apart for so many years, they found they no longer knew each other. They separated and before the year was out, Holmes overdosed on barbiturates.”
Maria covered her mouth. “She lost two husbands? That’s horrible.”
“It gets worse. Five years later, in 1950, her son wanted to go mountain climbing with a buddy. She gave her permission, and the two headed up Mount Whitney, the highe
st peak in California. Neither boy knew enough to attempt such a climb, and they paid for it with their lives. This devastated Libby. She never forgave herself.
“Over the years to come, she buried her grief in work. Got involved in the Civil Rights movement and became close friends with Martin Luther King and his wife, Coretta. She helped finance the defense of the famous pediatrician, Dr. Spock, after he was arrested for antiwar demonstrations.
“She even married a third time — Louis something — Shecker, Shaker — no, it was Schanker. Louis Schanker. They married in 1960 or so. But as the 60s went on, she suffered severe depression. The deaths of the Kennedys, of Martin Luther King, the Vietnam War, her own son’s death, and in 1966, the loss of her one-time lover Montgomery Clift — it all was too much for her. She tried to commit suicide several times. In June 1971, she succeeded. Used her Rolls Royce and a closed garage.”
Max took a few deep breaths. He felt like he had been running a sprint. “That’s it. That’s all I can remember.”
“That’s a lot,” Sandra said.
“Except it doesn’t mean anything. She had a wild, tragic life that touched one of the Winston-Salem big families, and that’s it. I didn’t find any connection to the Hulls or to the Magi Group.”
“If there’s a connection to be found, we’ll find it.”
“Maybe. If I had my notes to look over, I’m sure I’d find something in there. All the details are on those pages.”
Drummond said, “That’s why they stole the notebook.”
“Except they won’t get anything out of it. We’ve gone up against Hull’s researchers before. They’re not smart enough to find the needle in the haystack of my notes.”
“So, why worry about it?” Sandra asked. “You gave us a lot of information to work with.”
“I just have the gnawing feeling that if I had more time with my notes, I’d see it — whatever it is.”
“Um,” Maria said, “why don’t you go to another library? Finish your research there?”
“I might have to. But they found me this time which means they’re following me.”
Sandra gestured to the Sandwich Boys. “We all have things to report. Maybe something we say will line up the dots for you and save you the trouble. What did you two find?”
PB lifted his chin and made sure all were paying attention before he spoke. “Well, let me tell you. The whole thing was very strange. I stole a red hatchback so that I could follow Mother Hope wherever she went. I started with that Leon guy at the University. I figured Mother Hope would be pissed off about Max getting out of the hospital, and I was right. She showed up and talked outside with Leon. She spoke real worried-like. She had big muscle with her, too. He drove their car. I followed them all the way to Greensboro — went right by two speed traps and the cops didn’t even look at me.”
“Let me guess,” Max said. “She went to the O. Henry Hotel.”
“That’s right. Holed up there and never came out.”
“That’s home plate for the Magi Group. What about you, Jammer? How did it go following Cecily Hull around?”
Jammer J straightened into a decent impression of PB. “She went downtown and stopped at a few apartment buildings. She’d be in there for maybe twenty minutes or so and then go on to the next one. Then she drove out of town. But I only got a bike. Worked fine following her around city streets, but once she got on Business 40, I couldn’t follow her.”
“That’s okay. You did what you could.”
“I did better than that. I ain’t some fool who just gives up. I figured if I couldn’t follow her, I could follow what she’d already done. I went back and checked those buildings. There were four apartments she visited. Two were unmarked, but two of them were businesses. You’ll love this. They were both fortune tellers.”
PB gave J a high-five. “Great job! What’s that mean? She’s nuts?”
Max said, “I don’t know what it means. But if you think going to a fortune teller makes her crazy, you must think I should be committed. I talk to ghosts.”
“Only one ghost.”
With a soft chuckle, Sandra said, “Don’t dismiss her even if we find out she is crazy. Sane or not, she’s dangerous.”
Max shifted to face his wife. “How did you do? Find anything about the curses?”
Sandra pointed to Maria. Maria stood like a schoolgirl from the 1950s about to give a report. “We didn’t find much, but then I didn’t expect us to. These curses are old. Ancient, really. And everything we could turn up pointed to texts that I don’t have.”
Jolting at her words, Max said, “You went to your house?”
“Where were we supposed to go? The library doesn’t carry these kinds of books. Besides, I had to call my husband. It was one thing for me to be out for a night. But if he didn’t hear from me soon, he’d know something was wrong.”
“You didn’t tell him where we are, did you?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
Max looked at Sandra. “You let her do this?”
Sandra smacked Max’s chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t you dare start that again. I made a judgment call, and if you’d shut up and listen to her, you’d find out what we did learn.”
Perhaps sensing that she should step in before a marital spat ignited further, Maria said, “These books aren’t the normal ones on curses. Only a few witches, really old witches or those in old families, would have them. If anybody in North Carolina qualifies, it is Madame Vansandt. She’s been my mentor ever since I became a witch. She taught me everything I know.”
“And she’ll help us?” Max asked, his tone dropping back.
“Hopefully. She’s ninety-seven, so she can be a bit ornery.”
Drummond said, “There’s also the problem that she’s a witch. Contacting this old broad means contacting the world of witches in a much more serious way than we have already with this case. That’s not going to be good for us. I don’t like it.”
Max agreed. “Anybody got other suggestions?”
Nobody said a word.
“That kind of settles it, then. Most important thing is that we’ve got to keep making moves. Even if they aren’t the best ones — because with the forces we’re up against, anything is a better move than standing still. Dealing with witches can get tricky, but right now, that’s all we’ve got.” He looked over his team. Despite being tired and stressed, they all appeared eager. “Okay. Let’s go see the witch.”
Chapter 12
After a night with little rest, the group’s collective stomachs growled. Nobody had eaten in over twenty-four hours. Neither had they bathed.
“I’ll get the food,” Jammer J said.
As he walked out, PB stretched his arms behind his head. “Don’t worry. He’s really good at getting food without getting caught.”
“There’s a bathroom in our office,” Sandra said. “It’s only a few blocks from here. Maybe we should risk it.”
Max sniffed his armpit. “We are rather ripe. But we can’t go to the office. They found me all the way out in Thomasville. They definitely have our office staked out.”
“Then what?”
Like a king satisfied with his own brain, he said, “We’ve got a couple cars. Let’s drive out on Route 40, west toward the mountains. We can use one of those stops that cater truckers. They have showers, and if we’re careful — take different routes, take multiple detours — we can make sure nobody follows us.”
Twenty minutes later, Jammer J returned with five bananas and a loaf of bread. Everybody downed a banana sandwich — PB ate two — before loading up in the cars and heading out of town. They couldn’t do much about their clothes, but at least they wouldn’t be visiting Madame Vansandt smelling like refuse.
By noon, they were back in Winston-Salem. Max sent the Sandwich Boys off to trail Mother Hope and Cecily Hull while the rest of the team visited Madame Vansandt. The old witch lived in an apartment building several blocks north of the baseball stadium on a revitalized
section of Broad Street.
As they parked in a small off-street lot, Maria said, “She used to live further up, but her old place got condemned and then they built these apartments a few years ago.”
Maria had a new bounce in her walk. She confessed that she had not been Madame Vansandt’s pupil for several years and was both excited and nervous to see the witch once again.
Drummond did not share her enthusiasm. “Nobody should be that happy to see a witch.”
Sandra scowled at him but said nothing.
They climbed a stairwell to the third floor of the seven-story building. A sign with the word OPEN hung from the apartment door. Maria walked straight inside, never breaking her gait. The others followed.
The apartment proved to be every bit of a witch’s home. Filled with dusty volumes and dim lights, the furnishings made the new building seem old and small. Heavy tapestries hung on the walls next to astrological charts and a poster of the human nervous system with acupuncture points marked. At least, Max hoped they were acupuncture points. On a small table with fringe cloth hanging over the edges, Max noticed a tiny bell and a stack of business cards.
MADAME VANSANDT
SPELLS, POTIONS, AND MORE
MEDIUM SERVICES AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST
“My oh my,” a creaking voice with a thick North Carolina accent said. From a hall in the back, Madame Vansandt appeared. She was taller than Max had imagined and had long, bony fingers that wrapped lightly around the handles of her walker. Though the room was dark, she wore sunglasses that formed a black block across her eyes and shaded the sides as well. Her vibrant smile glinted with life as she inspected each new face. Though heavily wrinkled, her skin clung to a dignified beauty that must have been stunning in her prime.
“Madame,” Maria said as she rushed over to embrace her mentor.
“Maria Cortez-Kane. I am delighted to see you. Truly, I am. It warms my heart to know that we can talk one last time.”
“What do you mean one last time?”