The max porter box set, p.30
The Max Porter Box Set, page 30
“Here the story gets both sensational and ridiculous. I can’t figure out whether Ann’s behavior was stupid and blatant to all around her or, because there were fewer examples to go by — no television crime shows, far fewer mystery novels — her behavior showed somebody who thought her plan would actually work. Either way, on November 3, Ann joyfully entered Samuel Hinsdale’s drug store and asked for an ounce of arsenic. She claimed to have a rodent problem.”
Mrs. Porter huffed. “I suppose nobody questioned her at all.”
“Arsenic wasn’t an uncommon request for dealing with rats.”
“It couldn’t have been that common either,” she said. “But you can bet any amount of money that the person giving her the arsenic was a man. You said that she was a real beauty. By this point, she’s maybe nineteen. I’m sure the deadest of souls would still be blinded by a seductive smile of a nineteen-year-old girl.”
Max gave his mother a quick nod which she returned as if to say her comments settled the matter. He paused to make sure he still had the group’s attention — including a glance upward at Drummond. “Four days go by before she arranges a noon meal for the house. Since her husband was there and apparently in good spirits, it’s safe to assume that she spent some of those four days smoothing things over. The two boarders — Samuel Smith and A. H. Whitfield — also were there. Dessert was syllabub.”
“What’s that?” PB asked.
“I had to look it up. It’s a strange concoction — usually milk or cream curdled with wine, cider or something like that. A little sugar or whipped cream and it’s served as a drink or thickened and given like a custard. Of course, in the case of this particular meal, it is a good guess that there may have been some arsenic in one of the glasses.
“That night, the same group of people got together for some evening coffee. As Ann brought out the coffee, Mr. Smith took one of the cups. Ann commented but was not heard. She then reportedly said in a sharp voice that caused Mr. Smith to jump, ‘I said that was Mr. Simpson’s coffee.’ Smith gave the coffee over and they all drank.”
Sandra said, “Not very subtle.”
“It gets worse. After drinking, Ann takes her husband’s cup and plays the Polly Rising game by reading his fortune in the coffee grounds. She says, ‘I see a sick bed, a coffin, and a dark and muddy road with clouds around.’ She went on with references to the fortune she had been given numerous times that predicted Alexander’s death.
“This talk soured the evening for Alexander, and he claimed to be feeling ill. Now remember, he was a known hypochondriac, so nobody gave him a second thought. The next morning, however, Alexander was suffering in bed. Ann sent for Dr. William Mallett. Though the doctor attempted to administer comfort — eventually using morphine — the pain grew worse. Ann tried to be at his side, but Alexander verbally lashed out at her.
“Ann opted to take care of her boarders. She prepared a noonday meal, and acted the proper host to Smith and Whitfield. But then, in the middle of their conversation, she asked Smith about the effect of arsenic on rats.”
Mrs. Porter clicked her tongue. “This girl is an idiot. I mean you can only rely on your looks to get you so far.”
“She certainly wasn’t as clever as she thought. As the slow death continued, her behavior never became that of a concerned wife. Around nine o’clock that night, Alexander fell into a coma and died. Rather than falling into tears, Ann found herself chatting with the neighbor Miss Rachel Arey.”
J said, “Isn’t she the one Ann hated?”
“That’s right. Yet Ann couldn’t stop her mouth. She confided in Rachel that she had been seeing Polly Rising and told of the fortune teller’s prediction. I suppose Ann thought this would bolster her case, but of course, the only reason we know these conversations happened is because it all ended up in court testimony. So, Ann flubbed that whole thing.
“Dr. Mallett asked Ann for permission to conduct an autopsy. She had the sense to agree — what else could she do? — and it was all downhill from there. One look at Alexander’s stomach and Dr. Mallett knew. The justice system went into action, and soon Judge John Dick issued a bench warrant for Ann Simpson. But they couldn’t find her. She had fled.
“She was gone for a year. And then shows up, ready to turn herself in provided that she received an immediate trial. She claimed that she ran only out of fear of being stuck in prison for months while they got the court case together.” Max had detailed notes of the trial, it was a bombastic experience, but he could tell the boys were getting antsy. “In the end, the jury — all men who could not believe such a sweet, innocent looking gal could do such a horrid deed — they found her not guilty.”
“She got away with it?” Sandra said.
Mrs. Porter said, “Of course, she did. I could have told you that before Max had gotten a minute into this.”
Max closed his notebook. “Once free, she left Fayetteville. I guess she decided she knew how to get away with killing a husband because she turns up in the news some years later. This time in The Milwaukee Sentinel. Unfortunately for her, that trial did not go as smoothly. She was executed in St. Paul for killing her then husband, Mr. Bilansky.”
“This is all fascinating,” Drummond said with more growl in his voice than Max wanted to hear, “but what’s this got to do with Kalinski’s hand and the Dardens?”
Trying not to talk to the ceiling, Max said, “The last bit of interest here is that Polly Rising disappeared right after Alexander Simpson died. I guess she had a premonition that things were going to go badly for her if she stuck around.”
Stretching her arms, Sandra said, “Good work, hon.”
“Not really,” he said. He sat at his desk, glowered at his notebook, and tapped his chin. “The hand is only loosely connected to this story through Polly Rising because much, much later — during The Great Depression, she’s in her nineties and ends up living with Kalinski. And nothing notable turns up for any of the names involved before Ann’s marriage. I hate to say it, but after all that work, this might be nothing more than an interesting story. I think we’ve hit another dead end.”
While Mrs. Porter and the Sandwich Boys cleaned up breakfast, Drummond dropped into the center of the room. “Well, that’s dandy, isn’t it? You spent all this time with your head in books and yet you got nothing to show for it.”
Max clamped his mouth shut. Drummond knew it would be difficult for anybody to talk back to him, and he took full advantage of that fact.
“This case has been nothing but one red herring after another. How the hell are we to stop evil things from happening when the deck is stacked? Huh? I’ve devoted my life to this crap and all that ever happens is you get dumped on more.”
“You’re the one who convinced me to take this case,” Max said. His mother’s head perked up. She must have thought he berated Sandra, and perhaps she hoped to witness a fight.
Sandra stood, planted her hands on her desk, and said in slow, hard tone, “Let’s calm down. All of us.”
“Doll,” Drummond said, his voice lacking his usual charm, “I ain’t got time for calm. This case has been going down the drain from the start. So both of you need to figure something out.”
“What about you?” Max said.
“I’m going to do some real detective work.”
Drummond soared out through the window. Sandra walked across the office until she stood beside Max. She lowered her head and whispered, “We can’t let him go off like that.”
“We can’t really stop him,” Max whispered back.
“No, but I might be able to track him. There’s a basic spell used to locate people or items. I imagine there must also be a spell for locating ghosts. At least, we’ll be able to find out where he’s gone.”
He never liked asking Sandra to cast spells, but he saw no other choice. They needed to help Drummond — not only because he was a tremendous asset to the team but because he was their friend. He nodded. “What do you need?”
She cocked her head in the direction of Mrs. Porter. “I need time alone.”
He thought for a moment when he noticed the silence in the office. His mother and the boys had stopped cleaning up. They watched him as a pack might watch the alpha, waiting for a sign of what was to happen next.
Max stood. To his wife, he asked, “You said you can locate items, right?”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do. I’ve never tried it.”
“Good enough.” To the others, he said, “So, I didn’t get to finish.”
“There’s more story?” PB asked as he tied up a half-full garbage bag.
“No. But while I said that the lead seemed to go nowhere, I have an idea of something we can try. I’ll need some help.”
Both PB and J straightened up. “We’re ready,” J said.
“What are we doing?” Mrs. Porter asked. “You’re not getting these boys into trouble, are you?”
“Trouble? Not at all.” Max walked over to the group. “We’re going back to the Darden house. I’m going to give them a report on my findings.”
“And?”
He grinned. “And we’re going to steal Aunt Holly’s journal.”
Chapter 15
AS MRS. PORTER DROVE UP toward the Darden mansion, Max’s fingers tapped rapidly on his knee. The day had gone quickly, and as evening approached, he questioned the entire plan. Feeling nervous was nothing new, but having so much to be nervous about — that turned his stomach.
He felt nervous for Sandra as she mined her sources to learn a spell for locating ghosts. Magic could be temperamental, and for a novice, it could be dangerous. Worst of all for Max, he couldn’t do anything to help other than get out of the way.
He felt nervous about Drummond. That ghost had more secrets than most of their clients. Every time Max thought he knew Drummond well, another secret unearthed. It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t have to constantly count on Drummond.
But mostly, Max felt nervous because he never had been put in this situation before — having to fully rely on his mother and the Sandwich Boys. In the past, they had been part of a larger plan, but always Sandra and Drummond were involved, too. This time, it was just them.
Trying to follow one of the many lessons Drummond had given, Max did his best to keep the plan simple. The simpler the plan, the easier to improvise when things went wrong. Also if possible, make sure that each person had a single task to focus on.
He assigned his mother to be the driver. He didn’t see any reason they would have to speed away, but it was a task both singular and simple. Plus, it kept his mother from getting too involved — she had made it clear that she liked to be part of a case but not too much.
The Sandwich Boys had riskier jobs, starting with PB who exited the car with Max. They approached the front door, walking by the massive pillars. Placing a hand on his shoulder, Max said, “Try not to walk around with your mouth gaping open.”
PB snapped his mouth shut, but his eyes remained wide open, roving around the daunting mansion.
Max rang the bell and they waited. Mrs. Porter turned the car around in the open courtyard. She kept her eyes focused ahead as if ready to bolt the second she heard burglar alarms. Max chuckled.
The front door opened and Chelsea Darden appeared. “Why, hello there. What an unexpected surprise.” She bent closer to PB. “Who is this fine looking gentleman?”
Max said, “This is PB. He’s sort of an intern, sort of a protégé.”
“Impressive for such a young man. I gather you’re here with news, so come on in. We were just sitting down to supper.”
As they followed Chelsea through the maze of halls to the dining room, Max’s mouth watered at the tasty aroma floating through the air. They entered a cavernous hall with marble floors that echoed the click of Chelsea’s heels. Instead of a long table capable of seating twenty guests, the Dardens opted for a normal, dark wood dining table — rectangular and designed for six. It took center stage but looked tiny on the mostly empty floor.
Grandma Darden’s wheelchair had been positioned at the head while the siblings each had a place on the sides. Golden-brown duck and bright vegetables had been served on beautiful, china plates while wine filled delicate, crystal glasses.
“Would you care to join us?” Chelsea said.
PB stepped toward the table, but Max snagged his shirt to stop him. “No, thank you. We won’t be long. I simply wanted to report in with an update.”
Lane perked up. “Does that mean you can break this spell? I’m getting bored stuck here all day.”
Snickering, PB said, “Spell?”
Max bumped his shoulder against PB. Someday soon, he would have to teach the boy about the real world — the supernatural world. “Not yet, but we’re getting closer to the truth. Once we know who did this to you and why, we’ll have little trouble setting you free. It’s all in the details. In fact, as we speak, my associates are researching possible spells and those with the ability to cast such things.”
After a pause, Alan set his fork onto his plate. He wore a dress shirt and a sports coat making him look more like a banker than the guy with an early mid-life crisis Max had seen before. Alan said, “Is that it? You came all the way out here to tell us that you haven’t found anything yet?”
“No, of course not. I was hoping to speak with Ms. Chelsea privately for a moment.”
Lane and Alan both turned toward Chelsea. Her face reddened. She forced a smile. “I’m sure whatever you want to ask me can be said in front of everybody. We have nothing to hide.”
“Lady,” PB said, “everybody’s always got something to hide.”
Max swallowed down the urge to reprimand PB into silence. Instead, he rested his hand on PB’s shoulder and tightened his grip until the boy inched back. “Ms. Chelsea, I appreciate the openness you have with your family. It’s admirable. However, in my line of work discretion is often an important aspect to solving a case. If you’ll allow me this indulgence, I’d like to speak with you in private — perhaps we can go to the library — and if afterwards, you feel that I’m being overly cautious, then go right ahead and tell the family as much as you want.”
Lane and Alan continued to stare at Chelsea. Alan raised his eyebrows to underscore whatever unspoken conversation appeared to be going on.
“Oh, very well,” Chelsea said, snapping her napkin to the side before folding it and placing it next to her plate. As she stood, her chair scraped against the floor and the sound bounced around the walls like a moaning ghost.
“Thank you,” Max said and walked off toward the library. He made sure to be in the lead so that Chelsea could not alter their course to some other room. Once inside, he said, “I apologize if I embarrassed you, but I wasn’t sure how much the others knew.”
“About what?”
“The petrified hand you showed me. Would you please bring it in here? I’d like to take a few pictures, so I can refer to it back at the office. I believe that hand is going to be crucial to this case.”
Her brow loosened, and her forced grin no longer looked forced. “That old thing? Why didn’t you say so? I told you. We don’t have secrets. Lane and Alan know about the hand. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then I can take some pictures?”
With a relieved giggle, she said, “Certainly. I’ll go get it.”
After she left, Max counted to three. Then he turned to the nearest stack and raced through the titles. PB hurried to the door, closed it most of the way, and pressed his face close to the crack.
It had taken Sandra several hours to pull off the spell that located Aunt Holly’s journal, but it had worked. She found the journal in the Darden library. Unfortunately, Sandra’s skill did not reach the level of pinpointing exactly where in the library. But Max had seen the journal before. He knew what it looked like. He could find it.
He hoped.
“Hey, Ghostman,” PB said in a loud whisper. Ever since he first found out that Max thought he talked to a ghost, PB called him Ghostman. “I’m not complaining here, but I’m curious. Why are you ripping off these folks?”
Max had no time to stop, but he knew PB well enough. When the boy latched onto something, he rivaled an angry dog in letting go. So, while Max combed through the stacks, he tried to give PB some part of his brain. “I’m not ripping them off.”
“Come on, man. I don’t care what scam you’re running here. I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You never did this kind of thing before. I mean, these folks are nuts. If they weren’t rich, they’d have been locked up long ago. Talking spells and curses. And you’re here telling them that you can save them from it all.”
Max shifted to the next aisle of books. “I would’ve thought you’d have a more open mind by now. You’ve been with us for a handful of cases. Are you telling me this is the first weird thing you’ve heard us talking about?”
“No, but before you were dealing with a cult. Cults believe all kinds of wacko crap. And the other cases were rather bland. I mean, I’m sure almost dying in a house fire wasn’t bland to you, but you’ve done a clear job of keeping me and J away from the main action. You telling me all those cases dealt with crazy people like this?”
Max climbed the rolling ladder to look over the second floor books. Most of those shelves had a thin layer of dust. He dismissed them and focused on those that looked recently disturbed.
“This world is a big place,” Max said.
“I seen a lot of the world. Believe me.”
“You’ve seen a lot of the streets of Winston-Salem. You know parts of the world that most people never have to deal with. In fact, if you were to go back into that dining room and tell those folks eating duck about the things you’ve witnessed since you were little — eight, right? — they’d think you were lying. No way could an eight-year-old endure the life you’ve led. But that’s because the world they know and the world you know are two different places.”
As he continued his search, he heard a thoughtful silence from below. At length, PB said, “You trying to say that all this spell talk is real? I don’t mean really real, I mean it’s real to them. Right? The rich people’s world is different than mine, so what they see as magic is simply something I haven’t bumped into yet. Is that it?”
