Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1)

by Stuart Jaffe

  "It can't be," he said, staring at a picture from the 1980s. He read the caption twice.

  "What did you say?"

  "She might still be here."

  "Who?"

  "Annabelle. I've got to go. I'll see you tonight," Max said, cutting the connection without any further good-bye.

  He went to his cubicle, gathered his things, and rushed to the microtext room. With the aid of a librarian, he found several spools containing all issues of the local paper, The Winston-Salem Journal, for the year 1989. In a short time, he found the story he had sought, and the photos of several Winston-Salem residents, including an older lady attempting to hide behind harsh-looking men — but her spry eyes gave her away. Annabelle Bowman. A quick search online gave him the address.

  As he drove to the South Side home, Max considered calling Drummond. Two thoughts stopped him. First, he saw no reason he should feel obligated to make reports. Second, and far more important, Drummond was dead. How would a ghost answer the phone?

  The house appeared to be nothing special. A beaten Chevy with a layer of dust resided in the driveway and leaves dotted the walk. Fall would arrive soon, but for the moment, the warm air felt just right. As Max waited on the brick porch for the doorbell to be answered, the distinct odor of stale flowers and unwashed blankets drifted from a rocking chair at his side.

  "Yes?" a weak voice asked from behind the door.

  "Annabelle Bowman?"

  "What do you want?"

  "My name's Max Porter. I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes. I have a few questions for an article I'm researching."

  The door opened a crack. "Article?"

  Max flashed his warmest smile as he peeked in at the elderly woman. "Yes, I'm writing an article for, um, I don't know yet. It's kind of a freelance thing."

  "Freelance?"

  "It means that I don't have —"

  "I know what it means, you idiot. Sure, what the hell, I ain't had anything interesting happen in months," she said, nudging the door open and shuffling toward her living room. "Besides, I don't think I've got to worry about you raping me, and there ain't anything here worth stealing."

  Max stepped inside to find a home cramped with books, statuettes, and trinkets of all kinds. Next to a mirror, a framed cross-stitching hung on the wall declaring "Home is life." Two overstuffed sofas dominated the living room. A coffee table covered with photos of young children, sat between them.

  "My nieces and nephews," she said.

  "They look lovely."

  "The one in the green shirt is. The other two are a pain but they'll outgrow it. And this picture is my sister, Emily. I haven't heard from her in awhile. Her husband thinks I'm a bit of a bitch, I suppose. Excuse my language. I used to be more refined but at my age, you start to realize all that politeness doesn't get you very far. Better to be honest and direct, even if it does piss off a few people along the way."

  Max chuckled as he sat. "I won't take up too much of your time," he said.

  "I'm not going anywhere. Would you like some sweet tea?"

  "No, thank you," he said. Sweet tea was everywhere in North Carolina, but for Max's northern tastes it was much too sweet, not enough tea.

  "What do you want to talk about?" Annabelle asked.

  "Well, I saw a picture of you in a story about Millionaire's Row."

  Annabelle snorted a laugh which fast turned into a rasping cough. "What in Heaven do you care about all that?"

  "I just found it interesting. It's not everyday that a bunch of people wake up instant millionaires — sort of like winning the lottery."

  "Loyalty gets rewarded sometimes," she said, pulling a knitted blanket over her lap. "Even if the reward comes from a bastard."

  "Would that be F. Ross Johnson?"

  "Those families had all worked for Reynolds Tobacco for most of their lives. They were loyal to the company. They bought stock in it. Reynolds made this town, y'know? Then suddenly the company becomes RJR Nabisco, and that wasn't so bad at first, but Johnson screwed us all — sent the headquarters off to Atlanta. I swear, if lynching had been legal, I don't think Johnson would've lasted the week."

  Max nodded. "And then he let the whole thing be taken over in a leveraged buyout."

  "That's right. Forced us to sell our shares. We all made a lot of money, sure, but it never was about money. You listen to me. Money's always been an illusion," she said, her eyes glancing at her hands with a mournful hesitancy. She cracked a smile and said, "You know, when the reporters all showed up, they thought they'd get pictures of us hicks spending lavishly on new cars and new houses and diamond rings and such. Instead, they got us. We all still live in the same homes — those of us still alive, that is — and we all go on the same way. We just plunked the money into savings and that was that. So, there's not much of a story here for you."

  "Actually," Max said as a nervous throbbing built in his chest, "I did have one little item I hoped you could clear up for me."

  "Oh?" she said, her smile turning into a sharp, controlled line.

  "It's about your stock. See, according to the newspapers, all the others had bought their stock in small bits over the years of their employment. You, however, never worked for Reynolds. I was just wondering why you would have followed the same pattern as they did."

  "My late husband worked for them."

  "That would be Stan Bowman?"

  "I think you should leave now," Annabelle said, heading for the front door.

  The chill that blew into the room struck Max hard. He never had been in this type of situation, and he found himself wishing Drummond could have come along. The aid of a real detective appeared quite attractive at the moment.

  "Please, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just trying to find out —"

  "I know what you want. Now, I'm very busy today, so please leave or I'll have to call the police."

  "Do you know the name Hull?"

  Annabelle stopped. She turned her eyes onto Max with such authority that he half-expected her to demand his hand for a ruler beating. "Whatever you're doing looking into all of this, you better stop it. This city was built on the backs of old families like Hull, Hanes, and Reynolds. You've got to understand that. R. J. Reynolds Tobacco — it's not just a company or a stock, it's a religion. And you don't go messing with somebody's religion."

  Chapter 7

  Drummond bounced around the office, clapped his hands together, and nodded. "Damn, I wish I could've been there," he said, rubbing his mouth. "And I wish I could have a cigarette."

  "Sorry, I don't smoke," Max said, slumping in his chair. Sweat still dampened his armpits and his fingers still trembled from all the adrenaline pumping through him. He could hear the menace behind the old lady's voice echoing in his head.

  "I'm dead, remember? I don't have lungs to smoke with. She really said all that, huh? It's a religion?"

  "Yeah, she said that."

  "And you just left?"

  "She obviously wanted me to go."

  "Of course she did. She knows something. She wanted you out as fast as possible. And that's important because it means somewhere inside her, she knows that she can be pushed into blabbing her secrets."

  "It does?"

  "Always. Somebody with nothing to hide or somebody who knows he'll never crack, people like that will let you hang out and talk for hours. They don't care. They want to spin you in circles. But the ones that throw you out, those are the gold mines."

  Max glanced at the book with the hidden flask but shook his head. "Look, this is all getting nutty. I mean, I took the job with Hull because I needed the money. I'm supposed to be looking up land deals and old history. Now I don't know what you've brought me into."

  Drummond halted and stared hard into Max. "You don't get to back out of things like this. You better start understanding that. It doesn't matter what your intentions were or how you ended up here, the fact is that you are here. You do know things now that companies like Hull are not going to be hap
py about. So shut up and start thinking."

  "About what?"

  "Our next step, of course. You really have no clue what you're doing, do you?"

  "Fine," Max said, crossing his arms and spinning his chair so he could pout toward the window. "Tell me, then, what is our next great step?"

  "Well, we could follow Annabelle. You could, I mean. Whenever you shake up somebody like this, really throw them for a loop, they usually start acting on whatever it is they're hiding. You follow her and you might learn something."

  "No."

  "What?"

  "I'm not a detective. I do research and I teach. I don't go following people around, taking their pictures, and seeing what they're up to."

  Drummond passed through the desk and settled in front of Max. "You must be a great lover or hung like an elephant or something because I can't see what your wife sees in you."

  "Thanks," Max said, plastering a sarcastic grin on his face. "You really know how to speak to my heart."

  Drummond stared at Max for awhile without saying a word. Max stared back, wondering if this had become a game of chicken or if Drummond actually had started thinking about the case again. With another clap of his hands, Drummond broke the silence and said, "Okay. You say you're the research man, then let's do some research."

  "What now?"

  "Stocks. You said Annabelle made a fortune in Reynolds stock, right?"

  "That's right."

  "But she never worked for the company, and after what had occurred with her husband, you'd think she would never want anything from them. Not to mention that unless she had some rich uncle or something, she and Stan did not have much in the way of money."

  Max spun back to his desk. "So where did the stock come from?"

  "Exactly."

  "She could've bought it in small amounts over the years like the others. Maybe figured RJR owed her something."

  "True, but she threw you out of her house."

  With a drum roll on the table, Max said, "I'll see what I can find out."

  "Good," Drummond said. "But before you do all that, you ought to be ready for Modesto."

  "What about him?"

  "I just saw him walk into the building."

  "Great," Max said, took a deep breath, and opened a notebook. "You stay quiet," he said and attempted to look busy. Drummond exaggerated locking his mouth as he floated toward the ceiling. Max chilled at the display but said nothing. He had to start getting comfortable with ghostly ways.

  A moment later, Modesto opened the door and took a seat without a word. Max lifted a halting finger, pretended to take a few final notes, and then raised his head with a smile. "Mr. Modesto, it's always good to see you." Modesto glared at Max but showed no sign of talking. "Something you want? I didn't think I had to give a report for a few more days. I suppose if you need something now —"

  "I'm not here for a report."

  Drummond drifted against the bookshelf and squinted as he scrutinized Modesto. "Be careful, Max. He knows something."

  "I can see that," Max said, trying to keep his eyes on Modesto, though he kept catching Drummond in his peripheral vision. "Perhaps you could save us some time and tell me why you're here?"

  "Why were you talking to Annabelle Bowman?" Modesto asked, crossing his legs with calm power.

  "Don't tell him anything," Drummond said.

  "I know how to do my job," Max said.

  Modesto gestured toward the desk corner. "You don't appear to understand how to follow instructions."

  Using every ounce of self-control he could muster, Max refused to look at the desk corner. "What do you mean?" he asked, knowing that he sounded guiltier than ever.

  "You were asked to research the early foundations of this town in order to help us acquire important historical pieces of land. Annabelle Bowman has nothing to do with that."

  Drummond stepped in between the men and faced Modesto. He squatted down and said, "You better come up with something quick, Max, and it better be good. I don't think he'll buy much malarkey."

  Max reached into his pocket and pushed the vibrate button on his cell phone. Acting startled, he pulled the phone out, checked the face, and said, "Excuse me, one moment."

  "Of course," Modesto said.

  Max flipped open the phone and said, "Hi, how are you?"

  Drummond looked back at Max. "Is there really a call?"

  "No, no."

  "I see, buying time, huh?"

  "Not quite."

  "Then what?"

  "Look, I'm in an important meeting right now, and I'm not trying to be rude or anything but you're interrupting," Max said. He covered the phone and said to Modesto, "Just a minute longer. Sorry about this."

  "I can wait," Modesto said.

  Drummond pulled up and stomped off to the corner, stepping through Modesto in the process. Modesto shivered. "I'm just trying to help," Drummond said.

  "I know," Max said. "I do. It's just a bit difficult to carry on more than one conversation at a time. I'll call you after my meeting, okay?"

  "Not okay. You need me. You screwed up with Annabelle, and you'll screw up here."

  "I've really got to go."

  "Fine," Drummond said and turned around showing only his back to Max.

  Max put the cell phone away and said to Modesto, "Sorry about that. Now, you were asking about Annabelle Bowman. I suppose I understand your confusion in the matter. You're not an expert at research. And, well, I admit I acted a bit too enthusiastically. You had mentioned land deals being our ultimate objective, so I jumped ahead. See, history books will only help us out so much. If I'm to find quality pieces of real estate for our employer then I need to talk to the people who might own such pieces."

  "And you think Ms. Bowman is such a person?"

  "Well, she did become very wealthy, very quickly. Usually people who win the lottery or inherit a ton of money will buy up some local properties as a place to plunk down all this wealth they don't know what to do with. That's why I spoke to her."

  "Why didn't you talk to any of the other stockholders who made it big off of Reynolds?"

  "I intend to. Ms. Bowman was merely my first stop. I'm afraid it didn't go too well, she's very cranky, so I decided to rethink my approach before I tackled another."

  Drummond spun around. "I can't take this. Ask him the crucial question, already!"

  Max continued, "I do have a question for you, though."

  "Oh? And what is that?"

  Nobody said anything for a moment. Modesto looked at Max expectantly, and then said, "Mr. Porter? Do you have a question or not?"

  "Gee," Drummond said, striding back to the desk. "I guess you might need my help after all, huh?"

  "Yes," Max said.

  Modesto opened his arms. "I can't wait all day."

  Drummond shook his head. "Ask him how he knew you saw Annabelle Bowman today."

  Sitting straighter, his heart jumping as the question sunk in, Max said, "I'm curious about something. How is that you know I saw Ms. Bowman today? I never told anybody I was going there. I never even indicated in my reports that I would be taking this approach. How is it that you know where I've been? Are you having me followed?"

  For the first time, Max saw Mr. Modesto's cool exterior falter. It did not last long, but it scared Max. With a patience that added to Max's growing dread, Modesto stood and leaned on the table. "Yes, I've had you followed. The library trips, lunches with your wife, visits to old rich ladies. I've had people watching you since before you moved here. And I will continue to have you followed until I am convinced that you do not pose a threat to our employer's interests. That is what I am an expert at."

  Max struggled to make his throat open enough for speaking. At length, he said, "I-I'm not trying to pick a fight with you. I just didn't like the idea. Listen, you have nothing to worry over with me."

  Drummond walked right through the desk, waving his hands, and said, "Shut up. Don't say another word."

  "I came down he
re because our employer offered me a lot of money," Max said. Now that he got himself talking, he found it harder to stop. "I don't have any interest in what he wants with the information I find. I just want my money and that'll be it. I don't care about him or anything like that. I won't go to the police, not that there's anything to go to the police with anyway."

  Drummond covered his eyes. "Oh, please, shut up. Please."

  The calculating expression on Modesto's face finally got Max quiet. Max tried to speak again but his lips only quivered. Modesto pulled back, donned his coat, and said, "Do your job, Mr. Porter." He slapped a manila envelope on the desk. "Research these properties, take your money, and move away from here. Anything else would be inadvisable."

  "Yes, sir," Max managed as Modesto strolled away.

  Once the stairwell door clanged shut, Drummond faced Max and said, "What the hell is the matter with you? I told you to ask him one simple question, not divulge every little nuance of your thought process, and certainly not to piss all over the man, and most definitely, most certainly, I did not tell you to mention the police."

  "I didn't. I said I wouldn't involve the police."

  "You mentioned them. That's enough. It shows that you think there's something illegal, something worth telling the police about."

  "I didn't know."

  "How could you not know? I've been a ghost for decades now, and even I've heard enough about modern cinema to know that every bum in this country should be aware of basic procedures in this kind of thing."

  Max's shaking hands tightened into fists as his anger grew. "Well, things are a heck of a lot different when you're actually in the situation."

  "You've got that much right," Drummond said as he sat down and lifted his legs onto the desk. "You know, I think I'd love a cigarette more right now than life itself."

  Maybe it was the sudden shift in attitudes or maybe Max had begun to like the gruff detective, he didn't know. Either way, Max could not resist pointing to Drummond's feet. "How do you do that? Put your feet on the desk or clap your hands or anything like that?"

  Drummond shrugged. "I just do. When I want to go through something, I do it. When I want to be more substantial, I can do that too."