The max porter box set, p.22
The Max Porter Box Set, page 22
What you won’t find is any reference to the three men cursed by the witch Abigail. I made them up. The extra
coffins were a fiction from my head, too. Other locations such as the bog garden are real, as is the Green Valley Grill in the O. Henry Hotel. It’s delicious, by the way.
SOUTHERN CRAFT
Chapter 1
MAX PORTER CONCENTRATED ON BREATHING in and out with steady control. He positioned one bare foot forward on the dojo mat and the other foot stretched back for balance. His right arm pointed straight toward the ceiling. With his fingers compacted tight and flat, he focused on the two wood boards set between cinder blocks and slowly brought his hand down, bending his knees in the process, until his skin touched the wood. Everything lined up correctly. He returned to the first position, inhaled deeply, and with a loud cry, he brought down his hand and knees, twisting at the waist, until he felt his hand hit the floor. Only then did he hear the echoes of wood cracking and the applause of those who had come out to see their friends and family test for a new belt in Tae Kwon Do.
Max jumped to his feet, his relief blasting through a bright smile. Master Park, a third-degree black belt, bowed and handed over the broken boards. Max returned the bow, accepted the boards, and sat on the mat with the rest of the testing students.
It was over. He had done well enough in all the sections of the test — forms, sparring, and breaking — and though he had much to learn, he felt confident that he had earned his green belt. Six months since he had started.
As the last grouping of students took position to break boards (and in one case, a girl testing for black belt had to break a cinder block), Max peeked into the audience. The afternoon sun blazed through the large windows of the studio and cast a spotlight on his wife, Sandra. She beamed with pride. It had been a long time since he had seen that kind of happiness on her face.
Usually, they shared a look of either terror or satisfaction that they had survived some form of attack. In fact, after the beating he had taken in his last two cases, she had insisted he start some martial arts training.
“You’re never going to last in this business, otherwise,” she had said.
She was right, of course. This business — handling cases involving ghosts and witches and supernatural elements — had proven to be quite dangerous. But that was the past. The Porter Agency had to take on other, more corporeal cases or they would find their finances growing too tight to maintain the life they had built.
A series of yells rolled up the line of students followed by the sound of snapping wood and a clunk of broken block. Except one student who had to try three times before breaking his board.
“I’d hate to be that kid,” Marshall Drummond said. He sat next to Sandra — floated would be more accurate. Drummond, the ghost of a 1940s detective, had been Max and Sandra’s business partner for several years now. Having him attend the testing filled Max with more joy than he had expected.
What a strange life I have, he thought, but the fact remained that it had meant a lot to him for this ghost to appear.
With the testing concluded, all those in the audience walked out to congratulate the students. Sandra gave Max a big hug and a kiss. Drummond hovered above the crowd, not wanting to cause problems with all the people around. A few perceptive folks might notice the cold spot, if they kept walking through Drummond, and that might lead to questions or curious thoughts that Max did not want people pursuing.
“I’m proud of you, hon,” Sandra said. “Your mom will be so excited to hear about how well you did.”
“Let me get changed and we’ll get out of here.” He hurried to the locker room, not wanting Sandra to see his face.
His mother had been living in their house for the last nine months while she waited for her apartment to be ready. Of course, she could have chosen any number of empty apartments to move into immediately, but she had decided on the one that already had an occupant. That was it. No altering her decision. So, one more month and the apartment would be available. Mrs. Porter already had her deposit down. It was only a matter of time.
Yet despite the hospitality of boarding her for nine months, despite the constant refereeing Max had to do between his mother and Sandra, despite knowing how much Tae Kwon Do had come to mean to him, and despite the simple fact that he was her son, Mrs. Porter chose to have a movie night with the Sandwich Boys, PB and Jammer J — two teens that worked for Max — instead of seeing him pass his test. As he dressed, he had to wonder why he should care so much. He was nearing forty years old. Shouldn’t he be over the idea of having Mommy come see what he could do?
As they left the studio and walked through the parking lot to their car, Max breathed in the fresh spring air. He had his wife on his arm and a good friend floating at his side. That’s all he really needed.
Sandra pressed her head against his shoulder. “So, how are we going to celebrate? Wendy’s? Mexican? Sushi?”
Max kissed the top of her head. “Ice cream.”
“Hey, that’s disrespectful,” Drummond said. “I’m serious. You can’t save the food part until after I’ve left? Or do you simply enjoy the torture of eating delicious things in front of me?”
As Max laughed, a black limousine pulled into the parking lot. It turned down the lane and stopped in front of Max’s car. And it waited.
At first, Max thought it might mean overindulgent congratulations from one of the other student’s parents. Or perhaps a loving gesture from the young couple engaged to be married in a few months. But as the various groups of students and families left the building, nobody stopped for the limo. Most looked, though. Everybody wanted to know who it had come for.
“Oh, come on,” Drummond said. “You know it’s for us.”
Max’s chest tingled as he walked toward the limo. “This can’t be good.”
A man in a fine suit exited out of the back and approached with the sure-step of either a politician or a lawyer. He adjusted his glasses with a wrinkled hand before clearing his throat. “Are you Max Porter?”
“You know I am or you wouldn’t be here. What do you want?”
“I am Mr. Mane of Howard, Mane, and Jackson. I am the executor of the Will of Ms. Holly Darden.”
“Holy mackerel!” Drummond threw his hat in the air only to watch it disappear and reset on his ghostly head. “I think you may have just inherited a fortune.”
Max pursed his lips. “I don’t know who that is. Some lost aunt or something?”
“A lost aunt?” Mr. Mane sniffed. “Oh, I see. No. This is not about you. Not in that way. Rather, the Darden family is interested in hiring you. They’ve tasked me with bringing you to their house to help them with an odd problem that requires the unique skills of your firm.” He stepped aside, gesturing to the limo.
“Sorry. We’re not interested.”
Sandra gripped Max’s hand tight. “Honey? Shouldn’t we at least hear them out?”
“We’re not doing that anymore.” To Mr. Mane, he added, “I don’t care if you’ve got a ghost problem or witches or whatever. There are plenty of people in this town — heck in all of North Carolina — that’d be happy to take a crack at it for you.”
Mr. Mane did not budge. “The Dardens are only interested in the best.”
“Come on, Max,” Drummond said. “They want the best and that’s us.”
Sandra said, “That’s right. And why do you think you get to make unilateral decisions around here?”
With a lighter tone, Mr. Mane added, “If I forgot to mention it, you’ll be well-paid simply for the initial consult. Two days’ worth for a drive and less than an hour of your time.”
“See? They’re even going to pay just to meet us.” She leaned up to Max’s ear. “We could use the money, and it’s about time our reputation got us some work.”
Though he still disagreed with the idea of working more supernatural cases, he could not argue with the money. Besides, an initial consult did not constitute working the case. They would only have to go to the house, hear the story, say No, and go home with two days’ worth of cash. And a free limo ride thrown in. Not bad.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Drummond brought his hands together in a sharp clap. “That’s more like it. Let’s find out what’s spooking the Dardens.”
As they ducked into the limo, Max said, “It doesn’t matter. We’re not taking the case.”
“Right, right. Stick with that line. It almost sounds sincere, and you might be able to get the lawyer to pay up another day’s worth.”
Mr. Mane walked to the front of the limo and sat up with the driver. “We should only be about twenty minutes,” he said before raising the partition.
The limo pulled onto the street and headed south. Max leaned back with the stench of sweat still on his body. “I’m going to regret this,” he said.
Chapter 2
THEY DROVE THROUGH DOWNTOWN WINSTON-SALEM, emerged on the southern end, and continued further down, over the county line, into the rural areas of Davidson County. Max watched as they drove by the trailer park where he and Sandra had once lived. Without a word, she placed a hand on his back and watched with him.
Nobody spoke during the drive. Even Drummond kept quiet.
After a few turns onto ever narrowing roads, they reached an iron gate with two stone gargoyles mounted atop brick pillars on either side. The driver took the limo through the gate and along a winding driveway that cut across large fields and through a few wooded areas. After another curving section, Max saw the house sitting atop a grassy hill.
House did not do the building justice. This was a mansion. A full-on 19th-century plantation mansion. White paint with four tall pillars up front, tall windows and a second floor wrap-around balcony.
“Sheesh,” Sandra said. “I didn’t know places like that still existed. Unless they were museums.”
Drummond said, “They were still around a bit when I was kid, but even back then, they weren’t common. I never knew anybody who actually lived in one. Certainly never heard of this one.”
The privacy partition lowered and Mr. Mane shifted his body as best he could to face them. “Welcome to Darden Manor. It was built in the early-1800s and mostly used for tobacco farming. If you look off to your right, you can see the old drying barn.”
Max glanced out the window. Deep in the distance he saw an enormous barn — dilapidated but impressive nonetheless.
“And those ruins on your left,” Mr. Mane went on, “were the slave quarters. This land sits on what was the border of the Moravian properties which made up Winston and its surrounding farms. The original Dardens were neither Quaker nor Moravian, so they had no issues with slavery at the time.”
Max stared at the stone walls which once housed entire communities of black people against their will. Based on how close the remnants of the walls looked, he imagined the quarters would have been terribly cramped with more than one person living there. He glanced up at the approaching mansion. Why would anybody want to live on a property with such a horrible history?
Mr. Mane cut into Max’s thoughts. “Of course, now all of this is simply land. Nobody’s farming it. The Darden kids have other pursuits to follow. I suppose that’s the way of the world. You can amass a fortune, build a mansion, create a dynasty, but in the end, you can’t control what your children will do with it all. And, of course, times have changed, so perhaps they don’t view an old plantation like this with the reverence that many others still hold.” With a twinkle in his eye, he covered his mouth. “Oh, listen to me, yakking on. It’s just that I had a great fondness for Ms. Darden, and it was a shame to see her pass.”
The limo stopped, but before they got out, Sandra asked, “How exactly did that happen?”
“Nothing nefarious, if that’s what you’re implying. She always had a troublesome heart, and though young — she was only fifty-seven — she went into cardiac arrest. She was driving to the doctor for a checkup, of all things.”
Mr. Mane scooted out of the limo and led the way up to the wide stairs of the front porch. The closer they came to the main door, the more the lawyer began to shake. The smile plastered on his face trembled, and his eyes darted around as if searching for a threat behind every bush or tree.
“Well, then,” he said, sweat beading on his face. “Here we are. When you’re ready to leave, the car will be here to take you home. My offices will be in contact to arrange payment for your services today.”
Max said, “You’re not coming in?”
“No.” Mr. Mane exhaled and chuckled at the same time. “No, no, no. I have many important matters to attend to before the day is over. Don’t worry, now. The limo driver has explicit orders to wait here for you. Even after the sun goes down. Good day.”
As Mr. Mane hustled down the drive and around the side of the house, Drummond tipped back his hat and shook his head. “Nothing suspicious about any of that. Geez.”
Max shot a look up at the ghost, but before he could comment, Sandra rang the doorbell — a deep, two-toned ring that echoed in the stately home.
“See anything?” Max asked Sandra.
Though Max had no trouble seeing Drummond, he could not tune in any other ghosts. Sandra, on the other hand, had a real knack for it. She saw all the ghosts.
Making a quick survey around them, she nodded off toward some fields. “Looks like some ghosts of slaves are back there. Otherwise, things are quiet.”
They heard the steady click of heels and then the large door opened. A woman stood there, relief and fear battling across her round face. She wore a black dress and pearls. Hints of gray dappled her dark hair. “Ah, you must be the Porters. Thank you for coming.” She stepped back to let them in before extending a gloved hand. “I’m Chelsea Darden. We appreciate any help you can offer.”
Max shook the hand, surprised by her firm grip, and said, “We’re here for an initial consult and nothing more. We’ve not officially taken the case.”
“I understand. Still, just being heard is going to be a blessing.”
They stood in an enormous foyer. The ceiling rose two stories and a stained-glass dome colored the late-day sunlight dripping in. The floor had been made of old stone and a circular area rug covered the center. A marble staircase that curved its way up to the second floor drew Max’s attention. It had an elegant yet dark feel to it — mostly due to the hunched gargoyle sitting at the front end of the heavy-wood banister.
Chelsea must have been watching him for she answered his unspoken question. “Aunt Holly did love some macabre things. Especially the gargoyles. But at least she enjoyed bright, cheery things, too.” She gestured to a waist-high table by the door. On it, Max saw a basket for mail and an ornate letter opener. Two porcelain figures of dancing bears stood on either side of the basket.
“It’s a lovely home,” Sandra said.
“Thank you. It’s going to be mine soon. I’ll have to decide about all the little details from now on.” Chelsea stared at the gargoyle. “That’ll have to go. Maybe we’ll keep a couple around in memoriam.” She flustered. “Oh, my, I must sound awful. It’s just that, well, this has been a terribly trying time for us. Aunt Holly’s passing was so unexpected.”
“I’m sure. The lawyer said she was quite young.”
“We all thought she’d be around for another twenty years, at least. I wish she was because she’d know how to handle this situation. Please, follow me and I’ll explain everything.”
As they headed through a wide archway, Drummond could not hold back a gleeful snicker. “I’m telling you, I have a good feeling about this one. Especially the money. You guys are going to pull in a year’s worth of cash on this case.”
Max tensed but kept quiet.
They entered a living room that mixed modern and antique furnishings. Old-style couches and reading chairs had been artfully placed upon Turkish rugs while a flatscreen television had been mounted on the wall and small, high-powered speakers could be spotted in the corners of the room near the ceiling. A low coffee table with carved legs held a vase with a bouquet of lilies. Another porcelain figure — this one of a bear in a tutu lying on its back — rested next to the flowers.
A teenage girl looking like a youthful version of Chelsea had one leg propped on the back of the couch while the rest of her stretched out with her head hanging slightly off the side. She held a tablet and bopped her head to the music blaring in her earbuds — loud enough for Max to hear the steady drums and an occasional guitar. She did not seem to notice Max and the others.
On the other side of the room, a small card table had been set up near an empty fireplace. An elderly woman in a wheelchair sat on one side, a man near the same age as Chelsea sat at the other, and a wooden cribbage board sat between them. The rail-thin, balding man seemed uninterested in the game — probably because the old woman looked catatonic.
Chelsea stopped in the center of the room and gestured to the man. “This is my older brother, Alan.”
Barely lifting his head, Alan said, “Hi.”
“Don’t be sullen,” Chelsea said before gesturing toward the old woman in the wheelchair. “This lovely lady is Grandma Darden. She’s ninety-seven years old. Can you believe it? Still strong as ever.”
Grandma Darden turned her head toward Max with a desperate look in her eye as if to say, I’d rather be dead than have to put up with Miss Cheery for another day. Max suppressed a laugh and merely nodded at the woman. The woman continued to stare, and Max wondered if she saw him at all or if that look in her eye was merely the confused look of dementia.
Sandra may have caught the unspoken conversation because she swiftly turned Chelsea’s attention toward the teenager. “This must be your daughter.”
Chelsea giggled. “Oh, no, not at all. That’s Lane. She’s our younger sister.” With a whisper, though Lane could not possibly hear anything other than heavy bass and drums, Chelsea added, “An unexpected gift to my parents.”
Walking onward, she waved for Max and Sandra to follow. As they left, Max caught Lane watching them leave. She scowled. Maybe she could read lips.
coffins were a fiction from my head, too. Other locations such as the bog garden are real, as is the Green Valley Grill in the O. Henry Hotel. It’s delicious, by the way.
SOUTHERN CRAFT
Chapter 1
MAX PORTER CONCENTRATED ON BREATHING in and out with steady control. He positioned one bare foot forward on the dojo mat and the other foot stretched back for balance. His right arm pointed straight toward the ceiling. With his fingers compacted tight and flat, he focused on the two wood boards set between cinder blocks and slowly brought his hand down, bending his knees in the process, until his skin touched the wood. Everything lined up correctly. He returned to the first position, inhaled deeply, and with a loud cry, he brought down his hand and knees, twisting at the waist, until he felt his hand hit the floor. Only then did he hear the echoes of wood cracking and the applause of those who had come out to see their friends and family test for a new belt in Tae Kwon Do.
Max jumped to his feet, his relief blasting through a bright smile. Master Park, a third-degree black belt, bowed and handed over the broken boards. Max returned the bow, accepted the boards, and sat on the mat with the rest of the testing students.
It was over. He had done well enough in all the sections of the test — forms, sparring, and breaking — and though he had much to learn, he felt confident that he had earned his green belt. Six months since he had started.
As the last grouping of students took position to break boards (and in one case, a girl testing for black belt had to break a cinder block), Max peeked into the audience. The afternoon sun blazed through the large windows of the studio and cast a spotlight on his wife, Sandra. She beamed with pride. It had been a long time since he had seen that kind of happiness on her face.
Usually, they shared a look of either terror or satisfaction that they had survived some form of attack. In fact, after the beating he had taken in his last two cases, she had insisted he start some martial arts training.
“You’re never going to last in this business, otherwise,” she had said.
She was right, of course. This business — handling cases involving ghosts and witches and supernatural elements — had proven to be quite dangerous. But that was the past. The Porter Agency had to take on other, more corporeal cases or they would find their finances growing too tight to maintain the life they had built.
A series of yells rolled up the line of students followed by the sound of snapping wood and a clunk of broken block. Except one student who had to try three times before breaking his board.
“I’d hate to be that kid,” Marshall Drummond said. He sat next to Sandra — floated would be more accurate. Drummond, the ghost of a 1940s detective, had been Max and Sandra’s business partner for several years now. Having him attend the testing filled Max with more joy than he had expected.
What a strange life I have, he thought, but the fact remained that it had meant a lot to him for this ghost to appear.
With the testing concluded, all those in the audience walked out to congratulate the students. Sandra gave Max a big hug and a kiss. Drummond hovered above the crowd, not wanting to cause problems with all the people around. A few perceptive folks might notice the cold spot, if they kept walking through Drummond, and that might lead to questions or curious thoughts that Max did not want people pursuing.
“I’m proud of you, hon,” Sandra said. “Your mom will be so excited to hear about how well you did.”
“Let me get changed and we’ll get out of here.” He hurried to the locker room, not wanting Sandra to see his face.
His mother had been living in their house for the last nine months while she waited for her apartment to be ready. Of course, she could have chosen any number of empty apartments to move into immediately, but she had decided on the one that already had an occupant. That was it. No altering her decision. So, one more month and the apartment would be available. Mrs. Porter already had her deposit down. It was only a matter of time.
Yet despite the hospitality of boarding her for nine months, despite the constant refereeing Max had to do between his mother and Sandra, despite knowing how much Tae Kwon Do had come to mean to him, and despite the simple fact that he was her son, Mrs. Porter chose to have a movie night with the Sandwich Boys, PB and Jammer J — two teens that worked for Max — instead of seeing him pass his test. As he dressed, he had to wonder why he should care so much. He was nearing forty years old. Shouldn’t he be over the idea of having Mommy come see what he could do?
As they left the studio and walked through the parking lot to their car, Max breathed in the fresh spring air. He had his wife on his arm and a good friend floating at his side. That’s all he really needed.
Sandra pressed her head against his shoulder. “So, how are we going to celebrate? Wendy’s? Mexican? Sushi?”
Max kissed the top of her head. “Ice cream.”
“Hey, that’s disrespectful,” Drummond said. “I’m serious. You can’t save the food part until after I’ve left? Or do you simply enjoy the torture of eating delicious things in front of me?”
As Max laughed, a black limousine pulled into the parking lot. It turned down the lane and stopped in front of Max’s car. And it waited.
At first, Max thought it might mean overindulgent congratulations from one of the other student’s parents. Or perhaps a loving gesture from the young couple engaged to be married in a few months. But as the various groups of students and families left the building, nobody stopped for the limo. Most looked, though. Everybody wanted to know who it had come for.
“Oh, come on,” Drummond said. “You know it’s for us.”
Max’s chest tingled as he walked toward the limo. “This can’t be good.”
A man in a fine suit exited out of the back and approached with the sure-step of either a politician or a lawyer. He adjusted his glasses with a wrinkled hand before clearing his throat. “Are you Max Porter?”
“You know I am or you wouldn’t be here. What do you want?”
“I am Mr. Mane of Howard, Mane, and Jackson. I am the executor of the Will of Ms. Holly Darden.”
“Holy mackerel!” Drummond threw his hat in the air only to watch it disappear and reset on his ghostly head. “I think you may have just inherited a fortune.”
Max pursed his lips. “I don’t know who that is. Some lost aunt or something?”
“A lost aunt?” Mr. Mane sniffed. “Oh, I see. No. This is not about you. Not in that way. Rather, the Darden family is interested in hiring you. They’ve tasked me with bringing you to their house to help them with an odd problem that requires the unique skills of your firm.” He stepped aside, gesturing to the limo.
“Sorry. We’re not interested.”
Sandra gripped Max’s hand tight. “Honey? Shouldn’t we at least hear them out?”
“We’re not doing that anymore.” To Mr. Mane, he added, “I don’t care if you’ve got a ghost problem or witches or whatever. There are plenty of people in this town — heck in all of North Carolina — that’d be happy to take a crack at it for you.”
Mr. Mane did not budge. “The Dardens are only interested in the best.”
“Come on, Max,” Drummond said. “They want the best and that’s us.”
Sandra said, “That’s right. And why do you think you get to make unilateral decisions around here?”
With a lighter tone, Mr. Mane added, “If I forgot to mention it, you’ll be well-paid simply for the initial consult. Two days’ worth for a drive and less than an hour of your time.”
“See? They’re even going to pay just to meet us.” She leaned up to Max’s ear. “We could use the money, and it’s about time our reputation got us some work.”
Though he still disagreed with the idea of working more supernatural cases, he could not argue with the money. Besides, an initial consult did not constitute working the case. They would only have to go to the house, hear the story, say No, and go home with two days’ worth of cash. And a free limo ride thrown in. Not bad.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Drummond brought his hands together in a sharp clap. “That’s more like it. Let’s find out what’s spooking the Dardens.”
As they ducked into the limo, Max said, “It doesn’t matter. We’re not taking the case.”
“Right, right. Stick with that line. It almost sounds sincere, and you might be able to get the lawyer to pay up another day’s worth.”
Mr. Mane walked to the front of the limo and sat up with the driver. “We should only be about twenty minutes,” he said before raising the partition.
The limo pulled onto the street and headed south. Max leaned back with the stench of sweat still on his body. “I’m going to regret this,” he said.
Chapter 2
THEY DROVE THROUGH DOWNTOWN WINSTON-SALEM, emerged on the southern end, and continued further down, over the county line, into the rural areas of Davidson County. Max watched as they drove by the trailer park where he and Sandra had once lived. Without a word, she placed a hand on his back and watched with him.
Nobody spoke during the drive. Even Drummond kept quiet.
After a few turns onto ever narrowing roads, they reached an iron gate with two stone gargoyles mounted atop brick pillars on either side. The driver took the limo through the gate and along a winding driveway that cut across large fields and through a few wooded areas. After another curving section, Max saw the house sitting atop a grassy hill.
House did not do the building justice. This was a mansion. A full-on 19th-century plantation mansion. White paint with four tall pillars up front, tall windows and a second floor wrap-around balcony.
“Sheesh,” Sandra said. “I didn’t know places like that still existed. Unless they were museums.”
Drummond said, “They were still around a bit when I was kid, but even back then, they weren’t common. I never knew anybody who actually lived in one. Certainly never heard of this one.”
The privacy partition lowered and Mr. Mane shifted his body as best he could to face them. “Welcome to Darden Manor. It was built in the early-1800s and mostly used for tobacco farming. If you look off to your right, you can see the old drying barn.”
Max glanced out the window. Deep in the distance he saw an enormous barn — dilapidated but impressive nonetheless.
“And those ruins on your left,” Mr. Mane went on, “were the slave quarters. This land sits on what was the border of the Moravian properties which made up Winston and its surrounding farms. The original Dardens were neither Quaker nor Moravian, so they had no issues with slavery at the time.”
Max stared at the stone walls which once housed entire communities of black people against their will. Based on how close the remnants of the walls looked, he imagined the quarters would have been terribly cramped with more than one person living there. He glanced up at the approaching mansion. Why would anybody want to live on a property with such a horrible history?
Mr. Mane cut into Max’s thoughts. “Of course, now all of this is simply land. Nobody’s farming it. The Darden kids have other pursuits to follow. I suppose that’s the way of the world. You can amass a fortune, build a mansion, create a dynasty, but in the end, you can’t control what your children will do with it all. And, of course, times have changed, so perhaps they don’t view an old plantation like this with the reverence that many others still hold.” With a twinkle in his eye, he covered his mouth. “Oh, listen to me, yakking on. It’s just that I had a great fondness for Ms. Darden, and it was a shame to see her pass.”
The limo stopped, but before they got out, Sandra asked, “How exactly did that happen?”
“Nothing nefarious, if that’s what you’re implying. She always had a troublesome heart, and though young — she was only fifty-seven — she went into cardiac arrest. She was driving to the doctor for a checkup, of all things.”
Mr. Mane scooted out of the limo and led the way up to the wide stairs of the front porch. The closer they came to the main door, the more the lawyer began to shake. The smile plastered on his face trembled, and his eyes darted around as if searching for a threat behind every bush or tree.
“Well, then,” he said, sweat beading on his face. “Here we are. When you’re ready to leave, the car will be here to take you home. My offices will be in contact to arrange payment for your services today.”
Max said, “You’re not coming in?”
“No.” Mr. Mane exhaled and chuckled at the same time. “No, no, no. I have many important matters to attend to before the day is over. Don’t worry, now. The limo driver has explicit orders to wait here for you. Even after the sun goes down. Good day.”
As Mr. Mane hustled down the drive and around the side of the house, Drummond tipped back his hat and shook his head. “Nothing suspicious about any of that. Geez.”
Max shot a look up at the ghost, but before he could comment, Sandra rang the doorbell — a deep, two-toned ring that echoed in the stately home.
“See anything?” Max asked Sandra.
Though Max had no trouble seeing Drummond, he could not tune in any other ghosts. Sandra, on the other hand, had a real knack for it. She saw all the ghosts.
Making a quick survey around them, she nodded off toward some fields. “Looks like some ghosts of slaves are back there. Otherwise, things are quiet.”
They heard the steady click of heels and then the large door opened. A woman stood there, relief and fear battling across her round face. She wore a black dress and pearls. Hints of gray dappled her dark hair. “Ah, you must be the Porters. Thank you for coming.” She stepped back to let them in before extending a gloved hand. “I’m Chelsea Darden. We appreciate any help you can offer.”
Max shook the hand, surprised by her firm grip, and said, “We’re here for an initial consult and nothing more. We’ve not officially taken the case.”
“I understand. Still, just being heard is going to be a blessing.”
They stood in an enormous foyer. The ceiling rose two stories and a stained-glass dome colored the late-day sunlight dripping in. The floor had been made of old stone and a circular area rug covered the center. A marble staircase that curved its way up to the second floor drew Max’s attention. It had an elegant yet dark feel to it — mostly due to the hunched gargoyle sitting at the front end of the heavy-wood banister.
Chelsea must have been watching him for she answered his unspoken question. “Aunt Holly did love some macabre things. Especially the gargoyles. But at least she enjoyed bright, cheery things, too.” She gestured to a waist-high table by the door. On it, Max saw a basket for mail and an ornate letter opener. Two porcelain figures of dancing bears stood on either side of the basket.
“It’s a lovely home,” Sandra said.
“Thank you. It’s going to be mine soon. I’ll have to decide about all the little details from now on.” Chelsea stared at the gargoyle. “That’ll have to go. Maybe we’ll keep a couple around in memoriam.” She flustered. “Oh, my, I must sound awful. It’s just that, well, this has been a terribly trying time for us. Aunt Holly’s passing was so unexpected.”
“I’m sure. The lawyer said she was quite young.”
“We all thought she’d be around for another twenty years, at least. I wish she was because she’d know how to handle this situation. Please, follow me and I’ll explain everything.”
As they headed through a wide archway, Drummond could not hold back a gleeful snicker. “I’m telling you, I have a good feeling about this one. Especially the money. You guys are going to pull in a year’s worth of cash on this case.”
Max tensed but kept quiet.
They entered a living room that mixed modern and antique furnishings. Old-style couches and reading chairs had been artfully placed upon Turkish rugs while a flatscreen television had been mounted on the wall and small, high-powered speakers could be spotted in the corners of the room near the ceiling. A low coffee table with carved legs held a vase with a bouquet of lilies. Another porcelain figure — this one of a bear in a tutu lying on its back — rested next to the flowers.
A teenage girl looking like a youthful version of Chelsea had one leg propped on the back of the couch while the rest of her stretched out with her head hanging slightly off the side. She held a tablet and bopped her head to the music blaring in her earbuds — loud enough for Max to hear the steady drums and an occasional guitar. She did not seem to notice Max and the others.
On the other side of the room, a small card table had been set up near an empty fireplace. An elderly woman in a wheelchair sat on one side, a man near the same age as Chelsea sat at the other, and a wooden cribbage board sat between them. The rail-thin, balding man seemed uninterested in the game — probably because the old woman looked catatonic.
Chelsea stopped in the center of the room and gestured to the man. “This is my older brother, Alan.”
Barely lifting his head, Alan said, “Hi.”
“Don’t be sullen,” Chelsea said before gesturing toward the old woman in the wheelchair. “This lovely lady is Grandma Darden. She’s ninety-seven years old. Can you believe it? Still strong as ever.”
Grandma Darden turned her head toward Max with a desperate look in her eye as if to say, I’d rather be dead than have to put up with Miss Cheery for another day. Max suppressed a laugh and merely nodded at the woman. The woman continued to stare, and Max wondered if she saw him at all or if that look in her eye was merely the confused look of dementia.
Sandra may have caught the unspoken conversation because she swiftly turned Chelsea’s attention toward the teenager. “This must be your daughter.”
Chelsea giggled. “Oh, no, not at all. That’s Lane. She’s our younger sister.” With a whisper, though Lane could not possibly hear anything other than heavy bass and drums, Chelsea added, “An unexpected gift to my parents.”
Walking onward, she waved for Max and Sandra to follow. As they left, Max caught Lane watching them leave. She scowled. Maybe she could read lips.
