Southern blood, p.1
Southern Blood, page 1
part #13 of Max Porter Mysteries Series
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Also by Stuart Jaffe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Afterword
Ads
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright Information
Southern Blood
A Max Porter Paranormal Mystery
Stuart Jaffe
For Mom and Dan,
this story only exists because of your visit
Also by Stuart Jaffe
Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries
Southern Bound
Southern Charm
Southern Belle
Southern Gothic
Southern Haunts
Southern Curses
Southern Rites
Southern Craft
Southern Spirit
Southern Flames
Southern Fury
Southern Souls
Southern Blood
Nathan K Thrillers
Immortal Killers
Killing Machine
The Cardinal
Yukon Massacre
The First Battle
Immortal Darkness
A Spy for Eternity
Prisoner
Desert Takedown
The Parallel Society
The Infinity Caverns
Book on the Isle
Rift Angel
Lost Time
The Malja Chronicles
The Way of the Black Beast
The Way of the Sword and Gun
The Way of the Brother Gods
The Way of the Blade
The Way of the Power
The Way of the Soul
Gillian Boone novels
A Glimpse of Her Soul
Pathway to Spirit
Stand Alone Novels
After The Crash
Real Magic
Founders
Short Story Collection
10 Bits of My Brain
10 More Bits of My Brain
The Bluesman
The Marshall Drummond Case Files: Cabinet 1
The Marshall Drummond Case Files: Cabinet 2
Non-Fiction
How to Write Magical Words: A Writer’s Companion
For more information, please visit www.stuartjaffe.com
Chapter 1
IF MAX PORTER’S STOMACH knotted up any tighter, it would split into two and still find ways to knot up again. This wasn’t the first time he had felt nervous before taking on a case, but everything about this one screamed walk away. A lone man — Mr. Carroll — had contacted the Porter Agency through Max’s wife, Sandra. He approached her in the supermarket and said that he needed their unique skills and great discretion.
This strange tactic alone should have stopped them from pursuing things further. As the Porter Agency’s reputation had grown throughout North Carolina, more and more dubious offers came their way. But something about the man intrigued Sandra, and she looked into it further. Turned out that Mr. Carroll worked as a curator for Reynolda House — the former estate of the R.J. Reynolds family that had been turned into a museum celebrating the family as well as their interest in American art. That had twisted Max’s stomach even tighter.
“We have enough trouble in our life dealing with just one of the families that run Winston-Salem,” Max said as he paced the polished wood floor of the Orientation Gallery at Reynolda House. “You want to take on the Reynolds family, too?”
Sandra sat on a cushioned bench as she stared at the display giving an overview history of the Reynolds family. Old black-and-white photos from 1915 showed Katherine Smith Reynolds and her husband R.J. along with their four children. Another photo from the 1950s displayed the Babcock family — one of the Reynolds daughters had married into the Babcock family and raised their children in Reynolda House during the later years. Then a photo from 1965 of her daughter, Barbara Babcock, at the ribbon cutting ceremony which opened Reynolda House to the public.
Gesturing to the photos, Sandra said, “Look at these people. It’s a family whose wealth is based in tobacco. Not magic. You can relax. These are not the Hulls.”
Clutching his elbows, Max said, “I don’t know. Something just feels off.”
“Of course it feels off. Not only from the way we were approached, but look at it now. It’s Monday night, this place isn’t even open on Mondays, and they want us to be here all night long. It feels like one of those movies where the crazy uncle’s will gives his fortune to whoever can spend the entire night in a haunted house.”
Max knew his wife tried to ease him with a little humor, but he couldn’t even muster a grin. “We should leave. Tell Mr. Carroll that we appreciate his interest but whatever this is does not meet our criteria.”
“We don’t know that, yet. Heck, we don’t even have criteria.”
“We have some standards.”
“At least, wait until Drummond gets back.”
Marshall Drummond, ghost of a 1940s detective and partner at the Porter Agency, had scouted ahead throughout Reynolda House. If he found another ghost, he would let them know. But even if he managed to turn up a haunting, Max did not feel confident they wanted to deal with it. “It’s the secrecy,” he said. “I don’t mean from the public. I get that the Reynolds family would not want it widely known that they hired us. But the way Mr. Carroll is handling this suggests that perhaps the Reynolds family doesn’t even know we’re here.”
Sandra nodded with more affirmation than Max wanted to see. “That much I agree with. But we’ve dealt with less than upfront clients before. It happens more often than we probably would like to admit. Besides which, look at all of this — the history here is incredible. I figured you would be in love with the idea of spending a night searching through all the archives of this place, unfettered by the public getting in your way.”
Max walked over to one wall with a diagram of the entire estate as it had originally appeared — acres of farmland and clusters of small buildings with the main house drawing the eye. To the side a placard read:
A century ago, Reynolda operated a self-contained community of farms, villages, schools, and pleasure grounds. At its center, Reynolda House was home to two generations of the Reynolds family before opening as a museum of American art in 1967.
It went on, and Max nodded. “Okay, I admit that this much is pretty cool.”
“If you’re in the mood to admit things, then why don’t you admit what’s really bothering you?”
“And that is?”
“Our boys. And your mother.”
Max circled Sandra with the incredulous look of a police detective listening to an outrageous story by a thief caught red-handed. “What on Earth are you talking about?”
But Sandra would not let him win at that game. With a slight smile and a strong finger-pointing at him, she crossed her legs. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The idea that PB and J are going to spend the entire night at your mother’s apartment galls you.”
“It does not. I mean, of course I would have preferred if we could afford a sitter to watch them all night, but they’re a bit old for a sitter and we couldn’t afford it, anyway. The fact that my mother even took my call is an improvement over the way she’s been towards us lately, so why would I be upset?”
“That’s a very good question. Been asking myself that for the last bunch of hours.”
“Well, you seem to have me all figured out. What’s the answer?”
“First, don’t put on that pretend offended tone with me. And second, I think you don’t want to owe her anything. I think you and her have fostered this anger towards each other, and you’re not dealing with it.”
Max turned away and saw all the stern expressions of the Reynolds family — common enough for photos from the early-twentieth century, yet somehow they felt accusatory. “Our family is in a good place. The boys look at us as their parents, not just some nice folks who got them off of the streets. We’re as perfect as we can be.”
“And you’re afraid your mother’s going to mess that up? But she took care of them for a long time. She’s done just fine homeschooling PB, too.”
Max could not hold back his shock. “W hy are you defending her? You and my mother can’t stand each other.”
With a cleansing breath, she patted a spot next to her on the bench. She waited until Max sat. Then she held his hand. “Honey, it’s going to be okay. I worry about the same things that you do — that your mother’s going to say something or do something that will undercut all the progress we’ve made with those boys. Right?”
“I suppose.”
“And I know you are nervous about whatever this case is. I am, too. But that’s the nature of our work. We either accept it or we close up shop, and we both know that we’re not going to close up. So, whatever is bothering you about your mother — the things we talked about already or something deeper than that — you need to be able to put it away, to focus on right now. It’s one night. The boys will be fine. They’re smart boys. Smarter than any teen I’ve ever known.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course she’s right,” Drummond said as he rose through the floor. Dressed in his long coat and Fedora, he looked like the main attraction rising up onto a stage at the start of a show.
Max chuckled. “That’s quite an entrance.”
Drummond shrugged. “When you’ve been a ghost as long as I have, you try little things to spice up the days.”
“You find anything spicy for us? Make this evening easy?”
“You expect things to be easy? What agency have you been working for? No, I didn’t find anything. I suppose that’s the weird part. House as old as this with as much history — I had expected a ghost or two even if they were harmless. But the only dead things around this house are the autumn leaves — and me.”
Adjusting her clothes as she stood, Sandra said, “The sun’s already been down for a few hours. If the ghost we’re assigned to look for is cursed, then perhaps it won’t make itself known until closer to midnight.”
“The witching hour? Could be. Well, there’s a bowling alley in the basement. If nothing else, you can kill the time by throwing a few frames.”
“A bowling alley?”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Carroll said as he scurried in. “Mrs. Babcock installed all sorts of entertainments in the basement.”
Short-statured and wide-girthed, he moved with the unexpected grace of an aged gymnast. He wore small wire-rimmed glasses, and his snow white goatee stood in stark contrast to his hairless head. He had a cane but did not use it with every step. When he spoke, his words came so soft and accented that Max pictured the man sitting on a porch, rocking in a chair, and sipping sweet tea on a humid North Carolina summer day.
With a strong smile, the man shook hands with Max and offered a gentlemanly bow toward Sandra. “Thank you for your patience. This is a big house, and I needed to make sure it was properly closed up for the night.”
“I didn’t think you were open on Mondays,” Max said.
“We’re not. But that doesn’t mean all the doors are locked. Had to let you in here, didn’t I? And though we’re not open to the public, people do work here throughout the day. We have cleaning crews, our curators, people to manage the gift shop, and a whole host of others. And that’s just the house. Not too far down the road we’ve got the gardens and the village — all once part of this grand estate. Plus, with winter nearing, if we don’t lock up good and proper, the homeless sometimes try to sneak in. Not often and not on my watch, mind you, but I’ve heard rumors that it has happened in the past.”
Sandra said, “You’re the head of all this, right?”
With an embarrassed laugh, Mr. Carroll said, “Oh my, no. I only handle specific parts of the house. Mostly the top two floors, excluding the art gallery sections, but you’ll see all that later.”
“If you’re done locking up, then, will you tell us why we’re here?”
His smile faltered for a second. “Of course, of course. Follow me to my office, and I’ll explain everything. That’ll also help me double-check that no stragglers are stuck inside.”
As he walked off, Sandra raised an eyebrow towards Max.
Drummond waved them both on. “The two of you make eyes all you want, but you know you’re going to end up in that office anyway. Why bother with your suspicious looks?”
Chapter 2
MR. CARROLL LED THE WAY through the front lobby, around the corner to the gift shop, and down a flight of stairs to a hall of offices. Max swiped a guidebook from the lobby stand and downloaded the Reynolda House app, too. He found it strange how modern, utilitarian life could be attached to this preserved estate from the early 1900s. It was like two highly contrasting threads braided into one strand.
Mr. Carroll set his key at the lock of his door but paused. “I think we’ll be more comfortable in the break room. My office barely has enough room for me, and I’m a fat old geezer.” Chuckling, he walked toward the end of the hall, leaning heavier on his cane as its tapping reflected back. “Come on, now. Just up here.”
They entered a break room that smelled of old coffee and cigarettes. Max wondered if they were still allowed to smoke in there or if decades of smoking had permeated the walls. As they sat, Mr. Carroll poured three mugs of coffee and gestured to them. Max and Sandra both accepted — they would need as much caffeine as they could get to stay awake all night.
Drummond drifted in through the wall. “I just checked the guy’s office. He wasn’t kidding — it’s a small little cluttered thing.”
“Well, now,” Mr. Carroll said as he sat at the break room table. “I suppose the first thing I want you to understand is that, to the best of my knowledge, there has never been a haunting around Reynolda House.” He said haunting as if the word were sour milk in his coffee. “The other thing I think it’s important you understand is that I’ve only had this job a short while, and I may be exceeding the boundaries of my job description by employing you tonight.”
“There you have it.” Drummond clicked his tongue. “The Reynolds family doesn’t know about any of this.”
With a gentle tone that Sandra often used on nervous clients, she said, “Start at the beginning and tell us how we all ended up here. I promise you we’ve heard a lot of strange things in our time. We won’t think you’re crazy, and we will take you seriously.”
Mr. Carroll reached over and squeezed her hand as if they were mourning the loss of a loved one. “Thank you. I’ve never had to deal with something like this before. Frankly, I never really believed in ghosts and hauntings until this — and I’ve worked at a lot of historical locations, many with rumors of hauntings, but this is something different.” He shuddered.
“What makes you think this is a haunting?” Max asked.
Sandra gently nudged Max’s shin with her foot. “It’s okay, Mr. Carroll. Take deep breaths and tell us what you need to tell us. Take your time and put it in your own words.”
Mr. Carroll did as instructed, though his deep breaths came out in short puffs. “I guess it started with small things. At least, that’s how I noticed it. The first was a crack in the wall. Just in the corner of the doorjamb into one of the closets. I saw this crack snaking out into the wall. I didn’t think anything of it. All houses settle over time, and cracks develop. I filled out the proper paperwork to let those who needed to know address the issue and thought nothing more of it. I remember a few days later the workers came in to properly fix the matter. Understand that something like a crack can’t simply be covered over. This is a historic site and any work done to the building has to be undertaken with great care and serious consideration.”
Max said, “I take it the crack did not go away.”
