The max porter box set, p.29
The Max Porter Box Set, page 29
Edith gripped the arms of her chair. Max lowered his body and shoved off. Pumping his legs, he raced down the hall. Edith screamed. Max looked up in time to see Lee’s face shift from defiance to shock to the realization that she had waited too long to move.
The wheelchair footrests stuck out front which meant that they hit first. Smacking right into Lee’s shins, the sudden clash knocked Max forward. His arm reached out and barred Edith from popping out of the chair.
Lee cried out and tumbled backward. Blood oozed out of two large gashes in her shins. The door next to Edith’s room swung open, and Max saw a circle of four elderly women chanting while holding red candles. A wrinkled and bent man held the door, his eyes taking in the scene.
Max pointed right at his face. “You take one step out here and I’ll knock you on your ass.”
The old man made a sour face and closed the door. Max pushed Edith into her room and fell onto her bed. After he caught his breath, he lifted his head. Edith gazed out the half-window.
“Edith? Can you hear me?”
No response, her mind lost once more.
He stood and stepped toward the hall but stopped. Would she be safe here? She had to be — she’d been living here for years. Whatever wards she had on this room — and Max thought there had to be more besides that one etched on the doorway — they were strong enough to keep her safe up to now.
When Max entered the hall, the old man had helped Lee back to her feet. Her bright smile had vanished into an ruthless scowl. Her hands balled into tight fists. “What did she tell you?”
“Nothing,” Max said, walking to the stairs. “She’s out of her mind.”
Lee followed, limping and thudding her way down the hall. “She told you something.”
“She told me you witches want to hack into her mind. But I guess that’s off the table since she’s protected again.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Lee’s bleeding shins meant she would have a hard time getting down with any speed, and he had no fear of the residents jumping him. He could outrun a gaggle of people using canes, walkers, and wheelchairs.
“We’ll win this standoff — either by getting her now or waiting until she dies. All it takes is a fool like you wheeling her out for us.”
Thinking back to his first visit, Max wagged his finger. “Her ward — it shocks you or something?”
“Or something.”
“You’ve probably tried hiring somebody non-witchy to wheel her out.”
Lee’s jaw jutted to the side. “She nearly burned the place to the ground.”
“I’m beginning to like Edith a lot more.”
“Then help her out. Tell us what she told you. Did she name a witch? Anything she gave you would be helpful. Once we have what we want, there’s no need for us to come after her anymore. We can let her live out the rest of her life in peace.”
Max kicked the bottom stair. “I have a strong feeling that if I helped you, the rest of her life would be very short.”
He walked to the front door. From the stairs, Lee shouted, “You are making an enemy of powerful witches.”
Over his shoulder, he shouted back, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Chapter 13
WITH THE DAY WANING, Max drove across town and parked near the office. He had a name — Danica Kalinski. It looked like a unique name, too. He crossed his fingers that researching Ms. Kalinski wouldn’t be too difficult. How many Danica Kalinskis could there be in North Carolina? Or even the entire Unites States?
But as Max entered his office and shuffled off his coat, Drummond came sweeping through the walls. “Where’s everyone been?” he said.
“Working.” Max dumped the old coffee in the bathroom sink and went about preparing a fresh batch. “Where have you been?”
“The Other — like you asked.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I told you it didn’t look good. Aunt Holly isn’t there.”
Measuring out scoops of ground beans, Max said, “That took you all day? Usually, you’re faster than that.”
“I had things to do.”
“It’s a shame. You missed out on a lot of fun. That hospice turned out to be a home for old witches.”
“Really?” Drummond moved in close. “Tell me about it.”
“Later. Right now, I’ve got a name to follow up on — Danica Kalinski.”
“Never heard of her. You want some help doing the research?”
Max paused to look straight at Drummond. “Okay, out with it. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“If something is wrong, something bothering you, you can tell me. I’m your partner, after all.”
Drummond drifted away from Max’s view. “I’m fine. Can’t I simply be offering to help on the research?”
Max whirled around. “No. You never want to hit the books with me.”
“I still don’t, but it’s got to get done.”
“You’re being stubborn. It’s obvious something has you upset.”
“Are you so much of an idiot you can’t tell that I got dumped?”
“Dumped?”
“Miss 1800s ran off with a dead singer from some 1960s one-hit wonder. Now you know. Satisfied?”
Setting up at his desk, Max wanted to say that he knew a deflection when he heard one — Drummond had taught him well on that part. But he simply dropped it. Something else bothered his ghost partner, but until Drummond wanted to talk about it, nothing would pry the information loose.
“None of my business. Sorry. You want to help research, let’s get started.” Max pulled three large books from the shelf and let them thud on the desk.
Drummond flinched. “You’re going to be reading all of those?”
“Searching on the internet, too. If that doesn’t produce results, then it’s off to the library.”
Drummond looked ill like he had swallowed a lizard. “You know, that stuff ain’t really my strong spot. Maybe I should go back to the Other.”
“You said Aunt Holly wasn’t there.”
“What about this Ruskie you’re researching?”
“Danica Kalinski? Sure. Go in the Other. I doubt she’s there, but you can check.” If she were in the Other, she would have been causing Edith Walker a lot more trouble, and Edith would have needed far stronger wards. But, at least, it meant getting Drummond out of the office so Max could work in peace.
“I got it,” Drummond said, zipping into the bookshelf. “Danica Kalinski. If she’s in the Other, I’ll find her.”
Alone again, Max exhaled long and slow. He pushed down his rising concern over Drummond. He cared about his friend, but whatever troubled the ghost did not seem to be sending him toward poltergeist territory. And at least having a ghost for a partner meant not having to fear Drummond might commit suicide over some hidden secret. So, for the moment, Max needed to focus on his work.
After a few basic searches that he expected to be fruitless — for instance, googling Danica Kalinski on the off-chance that the witch had developed a legend or folklore around her — he decided to attack the problem backwards. Rather than find references to the woman’s life, Max tried finding references to her death. Obituaries.
While he could not assume that it was Edith Walker who cut off the witch’s hand, he thought it a good bet that Walker was the one who actually embalmed the hand. Based on the timing of her life crossing paths with the McDougald Funeral Home and Spaghetti Man, Max placed the hand incident somewhere around World War II. Though there was no guarantee Kalinski died at that time — she could have lived long after losing her hand — Max gambled she had died around then. Mostly because of what he had not found — evidence of the witch’s activity.
Had she lived, she would have fought to regain her hand. Max had seen such behavior for other body parts. Plus, witches were not a forgiving bunch. Kalinski would have done something dramatic, something Max would have come across either in his research on this case or from his previous cases — especially, all the work he had done for the Hull family. At the time of losing her hand, Kalinski’s life would have been governed by the Hulls — they once controlled all the magic usage in the area. Until they met Max.
He smiled inwardly. Taking down that family had been a point of pride for him. If nothing else, he had accomplished that much.
Sifting through the obituaries of Winston-Salem, Greensboro, and the smaller towns between, took Max deep into the night. He finally stumbled upon an entry dated July 27, 1941 in the Winston-Salem Journal.
Danica Kalinski. Though young in age, Danica lived a life fuller than most. She traveled the world and enjoyed all it had to offer. Few knew her well, but those she did bring into her circle became close confidants. She never married and had no children, but those women who cared about her considered her like a daughter. She will be greatly missed. —PR
The initials PR sent Max into another hefty research binge. Two words stood out — mention of a circle and referring to those who cared about her solely as women. Knowing Kalinski was a witch gave these hints added weight. Enough that Max suspected Kalinski and PR to both have belonged to a coven.
As he flipped through pages of books and compared to information online, Max tried to find mention of these women. His main problem — covens didn’t advertise their existence. Except for the more modern ones, and those tended to be more of the nature-loving Wiccan types than the full-on spell-casting witch types. However, a few covens of the kind he sought did keep an active online presence, including an ancestry. He searched those thoroughly.
At one point, he heard the office door open. Sandra and his mother entered. He heard Sandra whisper, “See? He’s fine. He gets myopic like this when he’s researching. Nothing to worry about.”
“Will he remember to eat?” his mother said.
“He’ll be fine. Let’s go before we interrupt his thoughts.”
They left, and his lips curled upward. He would have to do something extra-special for Sandra. She took good care of him.
Several hours later, he stared at a name on his screen, a short bio that went with it, and a listing of the same name in some old Hull records he had from previous research. Polly Rising. A fortune teller who appeared to have crossed paths with Danica Kalinski right before the 1929 stock market crash. The two relied on each other through the Great Depression, sharing an apartment owned by the Hull family and rented to both names.
“Got you,” Max said. Now, all he had to do was research Polly Rising and see what turned up. That proved infinitely easier. Within two online searches, he fell upon a story that connected the fortune teller with a bizarre tale of murder.
Chapter 14
MAX DANCED ON THE BALLS OF HIS FEET as he paced the office. Sandra, the Sandwich Boys, Mrs. Porter, and Drummond had all assembled that morning after his call. Mrs. Porter and PB had brought in breakfast (bagels, donuts, and some fruit) while Jammer J brewed coffee and set up a buffet line on a card table he swiped from somewhere — Max didn’t want to know. As both boys continued to vie for Mrs. Porter’s attention, Max considered the benefits of the situation. A clean office and having other people set up breakfast meant a lot.
Drummond hung near the corner of the ceiling. His grim countenance suggested that nothing had improved for him. Max wanted to ask, but there was a limit to how much “talking at nothing” he could do in front of his mother.
Sandra munched on a chocolate-glazed donut while sitting behind her desk. “We’re all here. How much longer are you going to draw this out?” She winked at Max.
He stuck his tongue out at her. “I’m getting there. I wanted everybody to have a chance to fuel up.” He sipped on a hot mug of coffee. “Including me.”
“Well, I ain’t got all day,” Drummond said. “Miss 1800 dumped 1960s. I got a source that said she missed me after only a few hours and knew she had made a mistake. Now, I’m not the kind to fall for a woman as indecisive as that, but I’ll say this. She’s a good looking ghost and I wouldn’t mind a few playful hours.”
Sandra choked on her donut, coughing hard. When she regained control, she drank some coffee to wash down the last of the donut. “Please, hon, let’s get this started before anybody else starts chatting away.”
“I think you’re right.” Max continued pacing as he spoke. “This took place in Fayetteville. It’s a few hours east of here. Fort Bragg borders the city now and, not surprisingly, Laurinburg — home of the famous Spaghetti Man — is one of the nearby towns.
“Back in the 1840s, there was a beautiful girl —”
“Oh, come on,” Drummond said. “You’re saying it’s my girl?”
“— named Ann Carver.”
“Oh. Not my girl then. Good. Dodged that bullet.”
“Ann had little money, her mother was a widow and ran a boarding house, but she had her looks, and back then, that meant everything for some women. She had fallen in love with a man, but before anything could come of that, her mother married her off to Alexander Simpson. This was in 1846. She was sixteen. He was in his early thirties.”
Max checked his notes. “They moved into a two-story house on Gillespie Street near the Market House. Alexander ran a carriage shop, he had employees, and was well-regarded in the community. Other than his marriage to a child-bride, which at the time was not considered so terrible, his only real fault was a serious case of hypochondria.
“Two of his employees, Sam Smith and A. H. Whitfield, boarded at the Simpson home. That’s important for later.
“Now, every description of Ann is positive. She was attractive, attentive, and agreeable. People liked her. The only person who seemed turned off by her was another sixteen-year-old girl who lived across the street — Miss Rachel Arey. However, most people thought Rachel’s problem with Ann had more to do with Mr. Whitfield living under the same roof. She had a thing for Whitfield and probably didn’t like the possibility that he might be taken in by Ann’s charm. As a result, the two girls had a spat and remained formal around each other when forced to be in the same space.
“Those are all the people involved in this with the exception of Polly Rising, and I’ll get to her in a minute.”
PB and J sat on the floor, their faces covered in powdered sugar, and listened intently. Too often, Max forgot that these boys were actually still boys. Though he had no idea of their exact age, PB couldn’t have been more than fifteen and J was a year or two younger. Despite their adult ways in many circumstances, moments like this reminded Max of how young they were in truth.
“Life started out okay for Ann and Alexander. Court records said little regarding how Ann felt about being married off, though later she did say that she only agreed to marry Alexander so she could have her own house. In the first two years together, Ann got pregnant twice. Both times, the infants died. She did not appear too shaken by this experience; however, with no money problems and three slaves in the house to take care of all the cooking, cleaning, and other chores, Ann had little to do each day. She took to daily walks.
“This went on for a while. Somewhere around 1849, she started to frequent Benbow’s Factory Row — a less savory part of town. It’s here that she became a loyal customer of the fortune teller, Polly Rising. Ann was known to get her fortune told several times a week. And, according to court testimony, Rising told Ann that she and Mr. Simpson would live together only five years.” Tapping his notebook, Max added, “I forgot one person, Nancy Register. She was a seamstress who came to Ann’s house every day to make clothes for Ann. The two became good friends, and often chatted away the hours together.”
Mrs. Porter sniffled. “I don’t really care for the way you characterize these women. I know I’ve taught you better than that.”
“These are not my characterizations. Most of what I’m telling you comes from the court records. But it’s important because it helps you understand the way people thought back then.”
PB grabbed another donut. “People really married like that?”
“Yeah, they did. But that doesn’t mean everybody was happy about it. Or that they stayed truthful. See, one day Ann came home to find a letter on the table. After reading it, she hurried to the sewing room where Nancy Register was working. And then she read it to Nancy. This is what it said:
Ann, I once thought you loved me, but now I have reason to suspect, that you love another better than me. For the sake of your friends, you may stay in my house, but you must find your own clothes as well as you can. Prepare a bed for me upstairs tomorrow. You can no longer be my wife.
Now, we have to take Nancy’s word for it, but that was the note according to her. The original note had been tossed in the fireplace. According to Nancy, Ann decided to ignore the letter and treat her husband with extra affection. She confessed that her fortune teller had promised the marriage would end after five years and three were already used up. Ann figured she could last the rest.”
Sandra raised her hand to get Max’s attention. “Was she actually cheating or was Alexander paranoid?”
“We really only have Nancy’s testimony to help us there, and it’s not clear. There are references to a man named James who Ann said had the sweetest kisses of any man in the world.”
J said, “Doesn’t that say it all right there?”
“James could be the name of the man she had fallen for before being married off. When she talked of his kisses, it could be a reference to her memory of them, not to a recent event. It doesn’t matter, though, because Alexander certainly believed she was cheating. After a mild reconciliation, he lost his temper and threw her out of the house. Shortly after that she came back. And then there was a quarrel that ended badly — at least, according to her.
“On October 25, 1849, she visited Polly Rising and told the fortune teller that her husband had beat her with his fist. Ms. Rising knew a lot more about the supernatural than simple fortune telling. She also did not like her clients being abused. But rather than give Ann the knowledge of witchcraft that Ms. Rising had been acquainted with, she told Ann about the marvelous properties of arsenic.
