Southern Gothic

Southern Gothic

A Max Porter Paranormal Mystery

 Stuart Jaffe

For Glory and Gabe

Again and always

Chapter 1

Max Porter did not like the police.
If a cop drove behind him, even if he was innocent of any wrongdoing, his stomach would lurch and his adrenaline would pump hard. Being an unofficial detective for the last few years had not altered his attitude. He knew the police were good to have around when trouble turned against him, but too often the kind of trouble that involved him — ghosts, witches, curses — was the kind of thing that got one arrested and locked up in a padded cell. So when he pulled up to the enormous Baxter House, when he saw the numerous flashing red-and-blues along with yellow police tape blocking off the house, he tried to remain calm and reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong. Not recently, at least.

The house did little to ease his mind. Located in one of the most affluent sections of Winston-Salem, the building sat on a full acre right off Buena Vista Road. Surrounded by million-dollar homes, Baxter House lacked all the charm of its neighbors. Whereas most of the mansions on the street were gleaming white affairs with manicured lawns and a distinctly Southern flair, Baxter House stood like a stark, short castle intended to be situated on a grassy field in the cold rains of Great Britain. The overcast, winter afternoon completed the gloomy atmosphere.

Only thing missing is a bunch of gargoyles,
Max thought.

As he approached an officer standing by the yellow tape, a gust of wind cut across the yard. He winced and turned his head away. Winter in North Carolina never had the deep snows that Michigan produced, rarely had any snow at all, but the winds bit sharp and vigorous.

The officer stomped his feet on the ground as he paced along the line of tape. Max wondered how much trouble was barreling down on him. Life had been hard enough lately without dancing a tango with the cops.

The officer lifted a gloved hand, but Max pointed at the house. “I’m Max Porter. I was told to come here by Detective Robson.”

“Rolson. With an ‘L’.” The officer lifted the tape as Max ducked under. “Go on inside.”

Heavy double-doors stood open at the front, but little heat came out. Another officer stood guard, a cup of coffee in his hands. When Max explained why he was there, the officer led him into the house, clearly relieved to be getting inside. The foyer was big enough to be a master bedroom in most homes. Dark woods and a thick, Turkish floor rug pressed in from all sides. A long staircase followed the walls up to the second floor.

The officer went off to the right and weaved his way from one room to the next. They passed through an immaculate kitchen where two more officers leaned against a marble counter and sipped coffee. The officer pointed ahead and then left.

Max went three more steps before an overweight, black man with a hooked nose and a stark white horseshoe of hair running around his head walked straight toward Max.

“You with the Coroner’s Office?” he asked.

Max said, “No. Are you Detective Rolson?”

The man laughed, revealing a discolored yellow tooth. “I’m with the Crime Scene Unit. Rolson’s in there.”

Just ahead, more crime scene techs took photos and bagged evidence. Max entered the main source of activity — the study.

Volumes upon volumes of tomes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. A beautiful mahogany desk occupied the back of the study and a lovely fireplace filled the area behind the desk. Off to the right, a large arched window looked out to the back acreage. If not for the dead body face down on the floor, the study would have been the envy of anybody who loved books and learning.

A stocky man with thin, blond hair and a sharp nose turned to Max. He wore a faded red sweater under his suit coat that made him look more like a befuddled professor rather than a homicide detective.

Smiling, he offered his hand. “Mr. Porter? I’m Detective Eric Rolson. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. But I have to say, I’m not quite sure why I’m here. I’ve never been to this house before. How can I help you?” This was the real source of his nerves. Being called to a murder scene meant either Max was a suspect or the police needed his unique qualifications to aid them. Since they had never before called upon his ability to see a ghost nor his wife’s ability to see all ghosts, he figured he was a suspect.

Rolson’s smile never wavered. “The victim is Sebastian Freeman.”

“Oh, crap.” Until that moment, Max had not looked too closely at the dead man. He had seen dead people before and found the morbid fascination wore off quickly. But now, he saw that indeed, the man was Sebastian Freeman. A tall, black fellow with a thin but strong body.

“I’ll take it that means you know the man.”

Max’s stomach flipped twice as he nodded. “He was my client. My only client.”

“We found your business card on the victim’s body. That’s why we called you. Figured you might be able to help us with a few details.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“What exactly were you doing for Mr. Freeman?”

“Ancestry. I’m a researcher. He hired me to trace his family back.”

“My wife’s into all that, too. Uses a website for it. Found out my family goes all the way back to a little town in Switzerland called Binn. Fascinating stuff. So, Mr. Freeman hired you for research?”

“That’s right.”

“You do this kind of thing regularly? Ancestry?”

“Not regularly enough.” Max could hear his wife, Sandra, warning him —
Careful with the sarcasm. Just answer the man directly.

“I guess it’s hard to get people to pay you for that kind of work. I mean, can’t they all do like my wife and use the Internet?”

“Those sites are great for locating census records, names, dates, that kind of thing. In fact, I use them, too, in order to get the basics. But when you want a more in-depth look into your past, the kind of thing that not only finds names and dates but actual stories, maybe even a lost diary or something like that, well, that’s where I come in.”

“And Mr. Freeman paid you for that kind of
in-depth
search?”

“Yup. Particularly, he wanted me to search for any ancestors he had that might have been slaves. All his efforts to locate where he came from stopped around the end of the Civil War, so he wanted me to see if I could do anything better, find anyone further back.”

“Did you?”

“Not yet. I’d only been working on it for a couple days.”

“Okay. When was the last time you saw Mr. Freeman?”

“Two days ago, I guess. We spoke on the phone last night, though. He wanted to know how far I had gotten. Really pushy about it, too.”

“Did he sound worried? Did he maybe mention anybody threatening him?”

“No. Just that he wanted the answer as soon as possible.”

Rolson pulled out an old flip notepad and jotted down a few words. It reminded Max of Marshall Drummond — his ghost partner who had been a detective in the 1940s. Where was he, anyway? Ever since the old office had been destroyed, Drummond had become free to go wherever he wanted, but he spent most of his time driving Max crazy. Now, when having a ghost detective would be useful, the guy was nowhere in sight.

Rolson tapped his notepad. “Was Mr. Freeman timely in paying you or did he complain about money problems?”

“He paid a small fee at the start — two hundred dollars — and the rest would come when I finished. I guess I won’t be getting paid.” Max tried not to sour his expression, tried not to sound as crestfallen as he felt, but they sorely needed that money.

“Almost done here. Just a few more questions. Tell me, do you know why Mr. Freeman was here at the Baxter House?”

Max shook his head. “I know nothing about this place. Never seen it before. Heck, I’ve never really had reason to come to this part of town before. Who lives here?”

“Nobody.”

Max gestured to all the books and furniture. “Somebody’s been living here.”

“Baxter House is one of the cities little eccentricities. This place has stayed empty for decades, but it’s kept clean and running anyway.”

“Why?”

Rolson shrugged. “Rich people. They get nutty with their wills. Give all their money to a family pet, make strange requests for their funerals, that kind of thing. When Cal Baxter died, I think it was in the 1920s or 30s, he must’ve had one whopper of a will.”

“Hey,” a deep, muffled voice called out, “what’s going on here?”

It took Max an extra second to realize nobody reacted to the voice, and that meant nobody had heard it but him — and
that
meant Drummond had finally decided to show up. The dead detective slipped through an outer wall and gave Max a short wave. He wore the classic trench coat he had died in, complete with Fedora, and all the gruff, chiseled features of a man who had lived a rough life. Yet despite his unpleasant encounters with the living and the dead, Marshall Drummond maintained a positive outlook on his existence, one that often girded Max into positive actions for himself.

Rolson continued, “But you’re saying you’ve never been to this house before?”

“Never.”

“This looks bad,” Drummond said, and Max deflated. “Hey, isn’t that dead guy the colored fellow who hired you?”

Max bit back the urge to correct Drummond’s backwards choice of words. Rolson still stood in front of him and would certainly find it strange if Max started talking to empty air.

Rolson asked, “Any idea why Mr. Freeman was here? He ever mention this place?”

“No. He gave me what he knew about his family, which wasn’t much, and asked me to start looking. Didn’t really tell me anything else, and I didn’t ask. I was looking into the past for him, not the present.”

Drummond took a quick tour of the study. “Looks like I missed all the fun. Now that I’m no longer stuck tied to the office, I’m finding there’s an even larger ghost world out there. I mean, I’ve been in the Other — you remember that’s what we call it? — but I had no idea just how big that place is. And the women. Holy mackerel. Let’s just say that when the mortal coil is shuffled off, so are a lot of inhibitions. Don’t get me wrong — it ain’t anything close to as good as when I was alive, but it ain’t half-bad either.”

Trying to focus both Drummond and his own mind, Max looked at Detective Rolson and said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Do you have any idea who killed him?”

Rolson pocketed his notepad. “We just found the body. Give us a little time.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

Drummond hovered over Sebastian’s corpse. “That’s strange. No blood on the floor. No blatantly visible wounds. How was this guy killed?”

The muscles in Max’s neck relaxed a bit as he heard Drummond’s investigative mind take over. Gesturing to the body, he repeated the question to Rolson.

“You are an impatient man.” Rolson made no attempt to hide the growl in his voice. “I already said we just got here. How could I know the cause of death when we haven’t even finished processing the crime scene?”

“I meant no offense. I only asked because I don’t see any blood or wounds or anything.”

“Well, you wouldn’t. He wasn’t shot or stabbed. We’ll probably find evidence of strangulation or maybe he had heart attack and there’s no homicide at all. I won’t know officially until the M.E. gives her report. Unofficially, however ...” Rolson leaned in close to Max and whispered. “... you can shut up and go home.”

Drummond grunted. “Rude little prick.”

Max forced a gentle smile. “I apologize if I overstepped my place in all this. I’ve never stood in a crime scene like this before. It’s all a bit overwhelming.”

Rolson puffed up a little and brushed at his jacket. “Oh, well, of course. This can be a bit exciting for the novice, I guess. But it isn’t like you see on the cop shows. For a case like this, we won’t get answers super-fast. Nobody’s going to put the rush job here.”