The max porter box set, p.25
The Max Porter Box Set, page 25
Grumbling low, Drummond said, “Well, I didn’t mean it literally. I just meant, aw, forget it.”
The ghost disappeared, and Max wasted no time digging into the research. He would have preferred heading out to one of the libraries in Winston-Salem, the Z. Smith Reynolds Library at Wake Forest University being his favorite, but he did not expect to find much on the Darden family in books. He had not come across their name before which suggested that they were not a famous family in the community. Considering how far from the city they lived, he suspected they were rather reclusive and not the types that would warrant biographies or other non-fiction books written about them. Instead, he focused on census data — easily acquired online — and a few trusted sites that delved into local history.
After a few hours work, he grabbed lunch at Di Lisio’s, a Mom-n-Pop Italian place Max had discovered recently. As he ate, it occurred to him that despite the Dardens staying out of the public eye, their name might still have popped up in a news article or two. He chided himself for not going that route right from the start. Where was his head in all this?
Hopping over to the Forsyth Public Library a couple blocks away, he searched through the old newspaper archives. By the time he finished and returned to the office, a clearer picture of the family had emerged. Mr. Mane’s overview had been truthful, but it left out a lot. It wasn’t pretty.
It started in Germany in the late-1800s. Witch hunts were common enough. People frightened of the strange and unexplainable created scapegoats wherever convenient. Max had little trouble believing that, on occasion, those living in a small farming town might stumble upon an actual witch. Whether on the run from pitchfork-wielding townsfolk or simply escaping before the town turned on them, the Dardens first showed up in New York City in 1792. Ezekiel Darden, his wife and four children were listed on a passenger manifest.
By 1793, Darden and family had moved to North Carolina. His name and family listing appeared again in tax records of North Carolina’s Governor Tryon.
“Thank you, Governor,” Max said to his laptop screen. Tryon kept meticulous records, most of which were preserved, digitized, and made available through online archives.
From those records, Max could see the Darden family’s wealth grow. Ezekiel started with a small farm that struggled for two years which, according to Tryon’s records, grew “an assortment of quality vegetables pleasing to both sight and taste.” However, as the new century neared, Darden stopped growing vegetables for market and turned his meager fields over to the production of tobacco.
From that point on, the money rolled in. He bought the surrounding land (which reflected in greater taxes), and became quite successful. So much so that he needed more hands than he had with his family to maintain the fields. In 1802, Ezekiel Darden solved his problem by purchasing his first slave. He apparently had no distaste for it because he bought another three slaves before the month was out.
Max found little to point to the use of magic during this time; however, he also had difficulty finding reference to Ezekiel’s wife and children. In fact, an entire generation was barely mentioned. But by the 1840s, long after Ezekiel had passed away, the reality of the family practices began to show.
By that point in time, Daniel Darden had control of the plantation. The tobacco operation had grown significantly, encompassing over a hundred acres and employing twenty men. More significantly, they owned roughly forty slaves.
Daniel’s wife, Charity, must have been feared by the slaves. Sales records showed that Daniel had to purchase house slaves nearly every quarter for three years. While the possibility existed that Charity was nothing more than a ridiculously demanding woman, Max suspected that her involvement in witchcraft leaned toward darker, blood magic. He couldn’t prove it, though.
His cell phone rang — Sandra. Rubbing his eyes, Max pushed away from his laptop and stretched his legs. “Hey hon. What do you got?”
“Nothing much. I finished up on the property. Everything’s in order. The only interesting part came right after the Civil War.”
“I’m not surprised.” That was the next key thing Max had learned. During the ramp up to the conflict, Daniel’s two sons took opposite views towards slavery and the Confederacy. Abraham, the eldest, believed in his father’s choices and volunteered to fight against the North should it be necessary. Luke, on the other hand, understood that times had changed, that what had once been acceptable could no longer continue, and most importantly, that they had been wrong. When the war finally broke out, Luke left the family and joined the Union.
After hearing this portion of the Darden history, Sandra said, “That lines up with what I found. After the war, Luke filed for ownership of the property. The Union army was looting like crazy, so Luke must have wanted to protect his family lands. Abraham died during the war, but the mother had a baby girl — Rebecca.”
“Charity Darden would have been in her mid-forties at the time. Back then, that was seriously dangerous.”
“If she was a witch, she could have cast a few spells to protect her. I can look into that later. What’s interesting here is that Charity fought Luke for the land on behalf of Rebecca. She had Daniel’s Will that gave her the property, and when she took Luke to court, she pointed out that he had betrayed them all by fighting for the Union.”
“I didn’t think women could own property back then. At least, not when a male family member had claim, too.”
“Hence the fight. In the end, being male trumped betraying the South. They gave Luke the property.”
Max hustled back to his desk and checked his notes. “Luke died in 1867.”
“I guess it won’t surprise you to learn that the court case finished out and granted him the property that same year.”
“According to the obituary, he died while riding a horse that got frightened and threw him. Cracked his head open on a rock and bled out before he could find help.”
“Want to wager that some witchcraft was behind the horse’s behavior?”
“I don’t take losing bets. Good work, hon.”
“I’m off to the lawyer. See you soon.”
Max stared at his laptop screen and clicked his tongue. The Dardens had done a remarkable job of staying out of sight. Other than Charity’s obvious and deplorable abuse of her slaves and the story of Luke’s fight for the family land, there was little more to go on.
They were a quiet family that kept to themselves and generally avoided any kind of gossip. Even during the Great Depression, they managed to garner little of the limelight. Everybody knew they had a large tobacco farm, so it surprised nobody that they remained financially healthy during that period. After all, people continued to smoke — maybe more than before. Max found only one article, and it centered on Emily Darden donating money and volunteering her time at the soup kitchen.
All of this left Max with two distinct possibilities. Either the Dardens were a humble, quiet family that dabbled to one degree or another with magic but never truly amounted to much in that realm. Or the Darden women were powerful witches who had become masterminds at hiding their tracks. Yet if the latter were true, wouldn’t he have heard about them during his time with the Hulls? Surely, the family that controlled magic usage in most of North Carolina and all of Winston-Salem would know about a powerful group of wealthy witches like the Dardens. Considering all the things the Hulls concerned themselves with and, in particular, the things they wrapped around Max’s life, he found it hard to believe he would never once have heard of the Dardens.
“But that doesn’t mean it can’t be,” he said, writing down these questions as they hit his mind.
Later in the day, his mother called. She and the boys had meandered around the property once and it took almost all day. They found nothing. And they were tired. She was taking them out for pizza and ice cream and would charge it to the agency.
“Sure, Mom. No problem.”
“Why would it be a problem? We’re working for you. The least you could do is feed us a little. Honestly, asking an old woman like me to walk acre after acre. You need to be more thoughtful of your employees.”
Before she could really get going, Max told her to enjoy the dinner and that he had to get back to work. Drummond arrived twenty minutes later, but he also had nothing to show.
“I’ve got my contacts looking for old Aunt Holly, but so far, nobody’s seen nothing.”
“That’s the operative word for today — nothing. Other than a dark history, and not that dark compared to most of our cases, we really don’t have anything to indicate why this man is attacking them.”
“Witchcraft — even if they never accomplished much with it — should be indication enough.”
“Not enough to help us find who’s behind this.”
Max shut down his computer and planned to call it a night, when Sandra phoned again. “I’ve got the Will, and you’re not going to believe this.”
Before she spat out what she had learned, an idea popped in Max’s head. “How far are you from the office?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Great. Come pick me up. You can tell me all about the Will on the way.”
“Where are we going?”
He grinned. “Back to the Dardens. I’m not going to waste another day on this case, if we can solve it all with a Will.”
“But you haven’t even heard what’s in it.”
“I know enough about this family, now. Trust me. Once they know that we know what’s in the Will, the truth will come out. Chelsea Darden knows a lot more than she’s letting on.”
“Okay,” Sandra said, and Max could hear the smile on her lips. “I’m on my way.”
Max didn’t know if what he said was true, but his instincts guided him in this direction. After all, the only contention in the family history surrounded a Will. And families, like history itself, tended to repeat.
Chapter 6
AS SANDRA DROVE SOUTHWARD, Max sat in the passenger seat with the harsh cabin light shining on the Last Will and Testament of Holly Charity Darden. Drummond floated in the back, reading over Max’s shoulder.
“Wow,” Max said when he finished.
Sandra said, “I know. It’s hard to believe she would set things up like that.”
“If I’m reading this right, Chelsea gets the house and all the land.”
Drummond’s cold arm reached over to point at the papers. “But it says she only gets the place provided that she never sells it and that she takes care of Beatrice Darden until Beatrice dies. I’m guessing that’s Grandma Darden.”
Sandra nodded. “That’s right. But I asked Mr. Mane how any of that was enforceable, and he said many of these kinds of clauses aren’t enforceable after a point. The house will go to her, but it’s up to her sense of familial duty to not sell it.”
“Considering how long the place has been in the family, I get the feeling she’ll follow the rules.”
“Don’t forget,” Max said, “the Dardens do have witches in their history. I’m thinking the kids may not be too keen on defying the will of ol’ Auntie Holly, if there’s even a remote chance the woman might come back.”
Sandra chuckled. “True. The key thing, though, is that Chelsea doesn’t get the money. All of the investments and cash holdings and such, all of it goes to Lane in the form of a trust fund managed by the Law Offices of Howard, Mane, and Jackson until she turns eighteen. Chelsea’s going to need Lane for the money, and Lane will need Chelsea for the house — assuming Lane would want to stay on the family property.”
“But the kicker is Alan.”
“I know, that’s what I really wanted you to see.”
Max read it over once more to make sure he got it right. “According to this, Alan gets nothing. It’s not just that he was excluded, there’s a specific clause that states he is not to receive any of the property or its value, none of the cash or investments, absolutely nothing. I’ve heard of people being cut out of a will but never have I seen them written in specifically to write them out.”
They pulled through the main gate and followed the winding path to the house. Max had called ahead. Normally, he would have showed up unannounced, not wanting to give them time to prepare for what he might ask, but the lateness of the hour and the fact that these people were paying for the Agency’s services suggested a less surprising tactic.
“I hope it’s okay, but we settled Grandma Darden in for the night,” Chelsea said as she ushered Max and Sandra to a second living room. This one looked more like a hunting lodge — all wood with animal heads stuffed and mounted on the walls. Mostly deer heads but one lion and a full-upright bear in the corner. Next to a thin, closet door, Max noted an empty, glass gun rack.
“Who did all the hunting?” he asked.
“Aunt Holly’s father. Chester. He loved all that kind of thing.” Chelsea gestured to a couch that spanned one entire wall. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you. It’s late and we don’t want to take up too much of your time. We’ve been working on your case, getting the background together.”
She lowered to the edge of a chair nearby. “Oh, thank goodness. I honestly expected you to turn us away.”
“You can thank my wife for that.”
Drummond said, “Hey, you know it was me that turned you around.”
Max offered a slight nod for Drummond’s benefit. He didn’t think Chelsea would want to know that a ghost had been hanging around with them, particularly one that influenced Max.
Sandra pushed things on track. “We’re here tonight to interview you three siblings. We need to fill in a few gaps of the picture, and we’re hoping to find some detail that will help us figure out who this man is that cast the spell on you.”
“I can assure you,” Chelsea said, “that we don’t know who he is.”
“But he certainly knows you.”
She glanced into the hall. “I suppose I should call Lane and Alan down here.”
“Just Alan,” Max said. “We’d like to interview you all one-at-a-time. Makes it easier on us. Helps us keep track of things when all our notes are organized.”
“Oh. Of course.” She paused, fiddling with the hem of her skirt, and then with an abrupt motion, she stood. “I’ll get Alan.”
“Well,” Drummond said after Chelsea left, “that wasn’t weird.”
A few minutes later, Alan entered carrying a beer by the neck. He wore pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt.
“You want to ask me some questions?” he said, plopping down into the chair Chelsea had occupied. Slouching down, he stretched his legs outward and balanced the beer bottle on his stomach.
Drummond circled the chair, making no effort to avoid passing through Alan’s legs. “I’ve seen this type before. Acting like a slacker, like nothing matters, but trust me, it’s all for show. Only people I’ve ever met who really felt the way this guy is pretending were drug addicts. And even they cared a lot about things — well, one thing — getting more drugs. Don’t soft-peddle this guy. Go straight to the hard questions.”
When it came to interview techniques, Max had learned to trust Drummond’s advice. He saw no reason to stop now. “Alan, we wanted to talk with you about your Aunt Holly’s Will.”
“Yeah?” Alan shrugged. “Don’t know much about it.”
“I find that hard to believe. She wasn’t very nice to you — leaving you nothing.”
“I didn’t expect anything from her. She never really liked me.”
“Oh? Why didn’t she like you?”
Drummond pointed at a twitching muscle near Alan’s right eye. “See that? You’re already getting to him.”
Alan sat up and downed the remainder of his beer. After stifling a belch, he forced an unconvincing, nonchalant expression and said, “She was all big on the family lineage of witches and all that. I couldn’t have cared less. I mean, I suppose it’s interesting, but a bunch of superstition isn’t really that important anymore.”
With a slight edge in her tone, Sandra said, “You don’t believe in magic? What about this spell that’s keeping you in the house?”
He flicked his fingers like a bad actor portraying a wizard. “Magic spells? No. I don’t know who has us locked down, and I don’t know how he’s doing it, but we are not the victims of a magic spell. Probably something like those invisible fences they use on dogs. I don’t know. Physics was never a good subject for me. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not magic.”
Max said, “You’re saying that Aunt Holly specified you were to get nothing because you refused to believe in witchcraft?”
“What can I say? She was a crazy bat.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say about the woman who took you in and raised you.”
“Don’t believe everything my sisters say about her. Aunt Holly could be nice and generous, but she had a mean streak, too. Especially for me.”
“Because you didn’t believe.”
“Because witchcraft is a woman’s business.” Alan set his empty bottle on the floor and walked over toward the gun rack. He pressed a panel to the side and it popped open revealing a mini-fridge. Grabbing another beer, he said, “The lineage, the knowledge, all of the things that these witches practice passes from woman to woman. Sometimes a man comes along and gains the knowledge, but all of the real focus — the covens, the spells, the power — all of that is reserved for the women.”
Sandra said, “But you don’t believe in any of it. So, it doesn’t really matter.”
“Aunt Holly believed. That caused me enough trouble. But the Will? I don’t care. When you grow up an orphan — even one that’s got family taking you in — well, you learn to be a survivor. It doesn’t matter to me what’s in that Will because I’ll end up just fine.”
After they finished up with Alan, Max had Lane sent in. She sauntered in with teenage attitude oozing off her. Chewing gum and bopping her head to music on her phone.
