Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

"Hi, Mom."

"You eating all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom. The move went fine, Sandra's fine, and we're just busy getting settled in."

"Oh, that's wonderful. Listen, I sent you a housewarming gift. Did you get it?"

"Yes, thank you," Max said, trying to blot out any memory of the ugliest ashtray ever made in the seventies — something she had lying around her attic.

"I'm glad it arrived. You never know with the mail. And since I didn't get a thank you note, I wasn't sure."

"Like I said, it's been busy."

He could hear his mother working herself into a nitpicking froth. "Well, I have to say that it doesn't take that long to write a thank you note, and it's very important. I know I taught you better than that. Now, I'm not joking. People will look down upon you in your life if you fail at the little things. It's that important, and it's a mark of a civilized person. For me, it's okay, it doesn't matter, you understand. You forget me, I don't mind. You're my son. I know you love me. But other people, they need to be properly thanked."

"Yes, Mom. I'm very sorry. I'll try to be better," Max said, not paying attention to his words as he took the Wake exit. By the time he found a parking spot (and hoped he'd avoid a ticket for using the student lot), his mother had wound down and said her good-byes. As annoying as she could be, though, Max wanted to thank her this time. By distracting him from all that had occurred that morning, she had managed to untangle his thoughts enough for him to function.

He still shuddered at the idea that a real ghost haunted his office, but he no longer feared the thing — especially since Drummond needed his help. His own situation bothered him far greater, yet even that no longer rattled him like earlier. Now, he started to see that Stan, Annabelle, Hull, and Drummond all were just the dots he had to connect. If he could do that, then perhaps he had nothing to worry about. Besides, as odd as his employer had been, it was only Drummond saying that Max was in danger.

A ghost might say anything to be freed from a curse. And what, exactly, did he do to deserve a curse?

By the time Max entered the now-familiar library lobby, his curiosity had risen above the tide line of his fear. No matter what else, Max agreed with one thing Drummond had said — he needed to find Annabelle Bowman.

After an hour had passed, Max admitted that all his research that day on Moravian history did nothing to help him find Annabelle Bowman. It did, however, help Max avoid thinking about ghosts and dangerous bosses.
Don't slow down. Keep pushing ahead.
As long as he kept moving forward, logic and common sense would prevail. He hoped.

Leafing through a pictorial history of Winston-Salem as he climbed a stairwell, Max jolted at the sound of his cell phone ringing. A glance at the phone's face — Sandra. Max sat on the stairs (cell phone reception only happened in the library's stairwells) with the book on his lap and answered.

Sandra's day had not fared any better than Max's. She launched into a detailed account of being rear-ended by "some jerk in a jaguar who insisted on pulling over and getting an official police report even though all I got was a scratch on the bumper." She ended up late to work and had to deal with a lecture from Mrs. McCarthy, the owner, that ended with a reminder, "There's lots of good people looking for work right now. People who know how to be on time."

Max listened and did not interrupt. The more she spoke, the less he wanted to say. What could he tell her? That a ghost hired him on the side and promised him that his new employer, the one that would save them financially, was somehow associated with the spawn of evil, Stan Bowman? But he didn't want to lie to her either.

When she finished, still huffing at unspoken thoughts, the dreaded question came out. "So, what happened with Drummond?"

Turning the page in his book, Max saw a picture of a large building on fire in the middle of a field while numerous, well-dressed people stood at a distance and watched. The caption explained that on November 24, 1892 the Zinzendorf Hotel (named after the beloved former leader) tragically burned to the ground in about two hours. Max looked at the billowing smoke and wondered if he had started his own tragic fire.

"Honey?" Sandra said.

"I'm here. Things have gotten a little bit more complicated, but don't worry."

"Just tell Drummond —"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Try to solve my problems and tell me what to do. I've got it all being taken care of. And I can decide for my own career if I want to do a little work for Drummond or not. I promise you I won't be fired from my job. Okay?"

"I guess I'm just a little worried that —"

"We're not in Michigan anymore."

"I know," Sandra said. With forced levity, she changed the subject, and as she chattered on, Max flipped through a few more pages.

"It can't be," he said, staring at a picture from the 1980s. He read the caption twice.

"What did you say?"

"She might still be here."

"Who?"

"Annabelle. I've got to go. I'll see you tonight," Max said, cutting the connection without any further good-bye.

He went to his cubicle, gathered his things, and rushed to the microtext room. With the aid of a librarian, he found several spools containing all issues of the local paper, The Winston-Salem Journal, for the year 1989. In a short time, he found the story he had sought, and the photos of several Winston-Salem residents, including an older lady attempting to hide behind harsh-looking men — but her spry eyes gave her away. Annabelle Bowman. A quick search online gave him the address.

As he drove to the South Side home, Max considered calling Drummond. Two thoughts stopped him. First, he saw no reason he should feel obligated to make reports. Second, and far more important, Drummond was dead. How would a ghost answer the phone?

The house appeared to be nothing special. A beaten Chevy with a layer of dust resided in the driveway and leaves dotted the walk. Fall would arrive soon, but for the moment, the warm air felt just right. As Max waited on the brick porch for the doorbell to be answered, the distinct odor of stale flowers and unwashed blankets drifted from a rocking chair at his side.

"Yes?" a weak voice asked from behind the door.

"Annabelle Bowman?"

"What do you want?"

"My name's Max Porter. I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes. I have a few questions for an article I'm researching."

The door opened a crack. "Article?"

Max flashed his warmest smile as he peeked in at the elderly woman. "Yes, I'm writing an article for, um, I don't know yet. It's kind of a freelance thing."

"Freelance?"

"It means that I don't have —"

"I know what it means, you idiot. Sure, what the hell, I ain't had anything interesting happen in months," she said, nudging the door open and shuffling toward her living room. "Besides, I don't think I've got to worry about you raping me, and there ain't anything here worth stealing."

Max stepped inside to find a home cramped with books, statuettes, and trinkets of all kinds. Next to a mirror, a framed cross-stitching hung on the wall declaring "Home is life." Two overstuffed sofas dominated the living room. A coffee table covered with photos of young children, sat between them.

"My nieces and nephews," she said.

"They look lovely."

"The one in the green shirt is. The other two are a pain but they'll outgrow it. And this picture is my sister, Emily. I haven't heard from her in awhile. Her husband thinks I'm a bit of a bitch, I suppose. Excuse my language. I used to be more refined but at my age, you start to realize all that politeness doesn't get you very far. Better to be honest and direct, even if it does piss off a few people along the way."

Max chuckled as he sat. "I won't take up too much of your time," he said.

"I'm not going anywhere. Would you like some sweet tea?"

"No, thank you," he said. Sweet tea was everywhere in North Carolina, but for Max's northern tastes it was much too sweet, not enough tea.

"What do you want to talk about?" Annabelle asked.

"Well, I saw a picture of you in a story about Millionaire's Row."

Annabelle snorted a laugh which fast turned into a rasping cough. "What in Heaven do you care about all that?"

"I just found it interesting. It's not everyday that a bunch of people wake up instant millionaires — sort of like winning the lottery."

"Loyalty gets rewarded sometimes," she said, pulling a knitted blanket over her lap. "Even if the reward comes from a bastard."

"Would that be F. Ross Johnson?"

"Those families had all worked for Reynolds Tobacco for most of their lives. They were loyal to the company. They bought stock in it. Reynolds made this town, y'know? Then suddenly the company becomes RJR Nabisco, and that wasn't so bad at first, but Johnson screwed us all — sent the headquarters off to Atlanta. I swear, if lynching had been legal, I don't think Johnson would've lasted the week."

Max nodded. "And then he let the whole thing be taken over in a leveraged buyout."

"That's right. Forced us to sell our shares. We all made a lot of money, sure, but it never was about money. You listen to me. Money's always been an illusion," she said, her eyes glancing at her hands with a mournful hesitancy. She cracked a smile and said, "You know, when the reporters all showed up, they thought they'd get pictures of us hicks spending lavishly on new cars and new houses and diamond rings and such. Instead, they got us. We all still live in the same homes — those of us still alive, that is — and we all go on the same way. We just plunked the money into savings and that was that. So, there's not much of a story here for you."

"Actually," Max said as a nervous throbbing built in his chest, "I did have one little item I hoped you could clear up for me."

"Oh?" she said, her smile turning into a sharp, controlled line.

"It's about your stock. See, according to the newspapers, all the others had bought their stock in small bits over the years of their employment. You, however, never worked for Reynolds. I was just wondering why you would have followed the same pattern as they did."

"My late husband worked for them."

"That would be Stan Bowman?"

"I think you should leave now," Annabelle said, heading for the front door.

The chill that blew into the room struck Max hard. He never had been in this type of situation, and he found himself wishing Drummond could have come along. The aid of a real detective appeared quite attractive at the moment.

"Please, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just trying to find out —"

"I know what you want. Now, I'm very busy today, so please leave or I'll have to call the police."

"Do you know the name Hull?"

Annabelle stopped. She turned her eyes onto Max with such authority that he half-expected her to demand his hand for a ruler beating. "Whatever you're doing looking into all of this, you better stop it. This city was built on the backs of old families like Hull, Hanes, and Reynolds. You've got to understand that. R. J. Reynolds Tobacco — it's not just a company or a stock, it's a religion. And you don't go messing with somebody's religion."

Chapter 7

Drummond bounced around the office, clapped his hands together, and nodded. "Damn, I wish I could've been there," he said, rubbing his mouth. "And I wish I could have a cigarette."

"Sorry, I don't smoke," Max said, slumping in his chair. Sweat still dampened his armpits and his fingers still trembled from all the adrenaline pumping through him. He could hear the menace behind the old lady's voice echoing in his head.

"I'm dead, remember? I don't have lungs to smoke with. She really said all that, huh? It's a religion?"

"Yeah, she said that."

"And you just left?"

"She obviously wanted me to go."

"Of course she did. She knows something. She wanted you out as fast as possible. And that's important because it means somewhere inside her, she knows that she can be pushed into blabbing her secrets."

"It does?"

"Always. Somebody with nothing to hide or somebody who knows he'll never crack, people like that will let you hang out and talk for hours. They don't care. They want to spin you in circles. But the ones that throw you out, those are the gold mines."

Max glanced at the book with the hidden flask but shook his head. "Look, this is all getting nutty. I mean, I took the job with Hull because I needed the money. I'm supposed to be looking up land deals and old history. Now I don't know what you've brought me into."

Drummond halted and stared hard into Max. "You don't get to back out of things like this. You better start understanding that. It doesn't matter what your intentions were or how you ended up here, the fact is that you
are
here. You do know things now that companies like Hull are not going to be happy about. So shut up and start thinking."

"About what?"

"Our next step, of course. You really have no clue what you're doing, do you?"