Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (6 page)

"Fine," Max said, crossing his arms and spinning his chair so he could pout toward the window. "Tell me, then, what is our next great step?"

"Well, we could follow Annabelle. You could, I mean. Whenever you shake up somebody like this, really throw them for a loop, they usually start acting on whatever it is they're hiding. You follow her and you might learn something."

"No."

"What?"

"I'm not a detective. I do research and I teach. I don't go following people around, taking their pictures, and seeing what they're up to."

Drummond passed through the desk and settled in front of Max. "You must be a great lover or hung like an elephant or something because I can't see what your wife sees in you."

"Thanks," Max said, plastering a sarcastic grin on his face. "You really know how to speak to my heart."

Drummond stared at Max for awhile without saying a word. Max stared back, wondering if this had become a game of chicken or if Drummond actually had started thinking about the case again. With another clap of his hands, Drummond broke the silence and said, "Okay. You say you're the research man, then let's do some research."

"What now?"

"Stocks. You said Annabelle made a fortune in Reynolds stock, right?"

"That's right."

"But she never worked for the company, and after what had occurred with her husband, you'd think she would never want anything from them. Not to mention that unless she had some rich uncle or something, she and Stan did not have much in the way of money."

Max spun back to his desk. "So where did the stock come from?"

"Exactly."

"She could've bought it in small amounts over the years like the others. Maybe figured RJR owed her something."

"True, but she threw you out of her house."

With a drum roll on the table, Max said, "I'll see what I can find out."

"Good," Drummond said. "But before you do all that, you ought to be ready for Modesto."

"What about him?"

"I just saw him walk into the building."

"Great," Max said, took a deep breath, and opened a notebook. "You stay quiet," he said and attempted to look busy. Drummond exaggerated locking his mouth as he floated toward the ceiling. Max chilled at the display but said nothing. He had to start getting comfortable with ghostly ways.

A moment later, Modesto opened the door and took a seat without a word. Max lifted a halting finger, pretended to take a few final notes, and then raised his head with a smile. "Mr. Modesto, it's always good to see you." Modesto glared at Max but showed no sign of talking. "Something you want? I didn't think I had to give a report for a few more days. I suppose if you need something now —"

"I'm not here for a report."

Drummond drifted against the bookshelf and squinted as he scrutinized Modesto. "Be careful, Max. He knows something."

"I can see that," Max said, trying to keep his eyes on Modesto, though he kept catching Drummond in his peripheral vision. "Perhaps you could save us some time and tell me why you're here?"

"Why were you talking to Annabelle Bowman?" Modesto asked, crossing his legs with calm power.

"Don't tell him anything," Drummond said.

"I know how to do my job," Max said.

Modesto gestured toward the desk corner. "You don't appear to understand how to follow instructions."

Using every ounce of self-control he could muster, Max refused to look at the desk corner. "What do you mean?" he asked, knowing that he sounded guiltier than ever.

"You were asked to research the early foundations of this town in order to help us acquire important historical pieces of land. Annabelle Bowman has nothing to do with that."

Drummond stepped in between the men and faced Modesto. He squatted down and said, "You better come up with something quick, Max, and it better be good. I don't think he'll buy much malarkey."

Max reached into his pocket and pushed the vibrate button on his cell phone. Acting startled, he pulled the phone out, checked the face, and said, "Excuse me, one moment."

"Of course," Modesto said.

Max flipped open the phone and said, "Hi, how are you?"

Drummond looked back at Max. "Is there really a call?"

"No, no."

"I see, buying time, huh?"

"Not quite."

"Then what?"

"Look, I'm in an important meeting right now, and I'm not trying to be rude or anything but you're interrupting," Max said. He covered the phone and said to Modesto, "Just a minute longer. Sorry about this."

"I can wait," Modesto said.

Drummond pulled up and stomped off to the corner, stepping through Modesto in the process. Modesto shivered. "I'm just trying to help," Drummond said.

"I know," Max said. "I do. It's just a bit difficult to carry on more than one conversation at a time. I'll call you after my meeting, okay?"

"Not okay. You need me. You screwed up with Annabelle, and you'll screw up here."

"I've really got to go."

"Fine," Drummond said and turned around showing only his back to Max.

Max put the cell phone away and said to Modesto, "Sorry about that. Now, you were asking about Annabelle Bowman. I suppose I understand your confusion in the matter. You're not an expert at research. And, well, I admit I acted a bit too enthusiastically. You had mentioned land deals being our ultimate objective, so I jumped ahead. See, history books will only help us out so much. If I'm to find quality pieces of real estate for our employer then I need to talk to the people who might own such pieces."

"And you think Ms. Bowman is such a person?"

"Well, she did become very wealthy, very quickly. Usually people who win the lottery or inherit a ton of money will buy up some local properties as a place to plunk down all this wealth they don't know what to do with. That's why I spoke to her."

"Why didn't you talk to any of the other stockholders who made it big off of Reynolds?"

"I intend to. Ms. Bowman was merely my first stop. I'm afraid it didn't go too well, she's very cranky, so I decided to rethink my approach before I tackled another."

Drummond spun around. "I can't take this. Ask him the crucial question, already!"

Max continued, "I do have a question for you, though."

"Oh? And what is that?"

Nobody said anything for a moment. Modesto looked at Max expectantly, and then said, "Mr. Porter? Do you have a question or not?"

"Gee," Drummond said, striding back to the desk. "I guess you might need my help after all, huh?"

"Yes," Max said.

Modesto opened his arms. "I can't wait all day."

Drummond shook his head. "Ask him how he knew you saw Annabelle Bowman today."

Sitting straighter, his heart jumping as the question sunk in, Max said, "I'm curious about something. How is that you know I saw Ms. Bowman today? I never told anybody I was going there. I never even indicated in my reports that I would be taking this approach. How is it that you know where I've been? Are you having me followed?"

For the first time, Max saw Mr. Modesto's cool exterior falter. It did not last long, but it scared Max. With a patience that added to Max's growing dread, Modesto stood and leaned on the table. "Yes, I've had you followed. The library trips, lunches with your wife, visits to old rich ladies. I've had people watching you since before you moved here. And I will continue to have you followed until I am convinced that you do not pose a threat to our employer's interests. That is what I am an expert at."

Max struggled to make his throat open enough for speaking. At length, he said, "I-I'm not trying to pick a fight with you. I just didn't like the idea. Listen, you have nothing to worry over with me."

Drummond walked right through the desk, waving his hands, and said, "Shut up. Don't say another word."

"I came down here because our employer offered me a lot of money," Max said. Now that he got himself talking, he found it harder to stop. "I don't have any interest in what he wants with the information I find. I just want my money and that'll be it. I don't care about him or anything like that. I won't go to the police, not that there's anything to go to the police with anyway."

Drummond covered his eyes. "Oh, please, shut up. Please."

The calculating expression on Modesto's face finally got Max quiet. Max tried to speak again but his lips only quivered. Modesto pulled back, donned his coat, and said, "Do your job, Mr. Porter." He slapped a manila envelope on the desk. "Research these properties, take your money, and move away from here. Anything else would be inadvisable."

"Yes, sir," Max managed as Modesto strolled away.

Once the stairwell door clanged shut, Drummond faced Max and said, "What the hell is the matter with you? I told you to ask him one simple question, not divulge every little nuance of your thought process, and certainly not to piss all over the man, and most definitely, most certainly, I did not tell you to mention the police."

"I didn't. I said I wouldn't involve the police."

"You mentioned them. That's enough. It shows that you think there's something illegal, something worth telling the police about."

"I didn't know."

"How could you not know? I've been a ghost for decades now, and even I've heard enough about modern cinema to know that every bum in this country should be aware of basic procedures in this kind of thing."

Max's shaking hands tightened into fists as his anger grew. "Well, things are a heck of a lot different when you're actually in the situation."

"You've got that much right," Drummond said as he sat down and lifted his legs onto the desk. "You know, I think I'd love a cigarette more right now than life itself."

Maybe it was the sudden shift in attitudes or maybe Max had begun to like the gruff detective, he didn't know. Either way, Max could not resist pointing to Drummond's feet. "How do you do that? Put your feet on the desk or clap your hands or anything like that?"

Drummond shrugged. "I just do. When I want to go through something, I do it. When I want to be more substantial, I can do that too."

"So, now I guess we look into that stock information?"

"It's not too late to stakeout Ms. Annabelle."

Max's cell phone buzzed — Sandra. "Hi, honey," Max said while scowling at Drummond. "I'm fine ... well, today's been interesting ... I've still got some research to do ... sure, honey, if it's important, I'll be there ... oh, I see."

"Well?" Drummond said to Max's stunned face.

"My wife has informed me that we have a date tonight."

"A date? With your wife? You're married to her but you're still dating? Oh, hell, the 1940s made a lot more sense."

Chapter 8

Max disliked low-priced restaurants because all the families with obnoxious kids ate at such places. With their finances strapped, however, he and Sandra had little choice in the matter if they wanted to eat out. So, as Max bit into the dry turkey and over-ripe tomato of his club sandwich, he listened to a four-year-old scream "Mine! Mine! Mine!" while the sweet darling's adoring parents smacked him across the head.

Sandra cracked a grin and shrugged. "It could be worse."

"Really?" Max said, thinking about the day he had endured and how little of it he dared to share with his wife.

"Sure. That kid could be ours."

This elicited a slight chuckle. A moment later, they settled into silence and ate. Max wanted to relax, to pay attention, to be a good date, but he could not stop thinking about Drummond, Bowman, Modesto, and Hull. Even if he had the courage to divulge a tiny portion of what had happened, Sandra could not possibly believe him — a detective ghost and office witchcraft and a forgotten madman.

"Come on," Sandra said, her voice soft yet firm. "Please try to have a good time."

"What? Oh, no, I'm fine. Just a bit preoccupied."

"Honey, I know you don't like your job, but you've got to deal with it."

"I am," Max said, snapping harder than he had intended. He drank some soda through a straw and continued, "I've just had a stressful day, that's all."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

The brat screaming "Mine! Mine! Mine!" hit the high-point of his meltdown. He sprawled on the floor and wailed. Two haggard parents scooped him up, dodging his flailing arms, and lugged him outside. Sandra could not hold back her laughter.

"It's not funny," Max said. "Those are horrible parents and they have no consideration for anybody else."

Sandra whooped a short laugh and regained her composure. "You could really use a hard drink, couldn't you?"

Max sipped his straw again, making a silly face that sent Sandra into more hysterics. "So let me ask you something," Max said, deciding at that very moment upon a way to lightly dance atop the explosives that had become his life. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Wiping her eyes, Sandra said, "Ghosts?"

"Spirits of the dead. Y'know, ghosts."