Southern Blood, page 3
part #13 of Max Porter Mysteries Series
Max put out his hands. “Then where’s the haunting?”
From the adjoining room — the Reception Hall — a pipe organ began to play The Charleston. Drummond clicked his tongue. “You had to ask.”
Chapter 4
AS THE JAUNTY TUNE PLAYED on the organ, Max, Sandra, and Drummond entered the Reception Hall. It was an enormous room, the largest in the house, with a fireplace at the center of the back wall and staircases climbing on either side. The second floor balcony ringed the entire room. Symmetry had been built into the design with two plush couches on either side of a wide, central rug and two chairs facing each other at the fireplace. Behind each couch, a long table with two lamps and at the center, an old vase. A room like this served every possible need for the family — a play room, a place for weddings, dances, and even a concert hall. Max had once read that the viewing of R.J. and Katherine Reynolds upon their deaths had been opened to the public in this room. And back in 1951, a large spread for lunch had been set up during President Truman’s visit.
But all that history of a family life could not compare to the heavy dread which played with each note from the organ. Set in the corner to Max’s left, it had four keyboards tiered before the seat, and though the pipework weaved its way throughout the walls — indeed, all the way towards the top of the house with more than 2,500 pipes — the sound surrounded them.
Max watched the keys playing off by themselves. He glanced back at Sandra.
She shook her head. “I haven’t finished my spell yet. This has nothing to do with me.”
Drummond said, “We can tell you there ain’t a ghost in sight around here. Except me.”
Max walked over to the organ. He sniffed the air, half-expecting to smell sulfur or rot or some other sign of death. He smelled only wood oil.
The music stopped.
Though his heart raced, Max tried to keep a relaxed expression upon his face. “Hon, I think you should go finish that spell.”
“Yeah,” she said inching towards the exit. “I think you might be —”
A loud banging echoed through the walls as if someone dropped heavy rocks over and over. The lamps vibrated on the tables and even the decorative plants swayed from an unseen wind. A deep growling grew louder like an angry bear.
Max said, “Are you guys positive there’s no ghost here? Because that sure sounds like one pissed off ghost.”
Drummond said, “I’m telling you I don’t see anything. Do you really think I’d be lying?”
The banging intensified. Max threw his hands outward. “Yeah, yeah, you can make a loud noise. It’s not going to scare us. You want to be Mr. Tough Ghost? All we’re seeing is somebody making a lot of noise who won’t even show himself.”
The sound ceased. The growling ceased.
Max looked across the room at Sandra. “I didn’t think that would actually work.”
“I’m not sure it did,” she said. “I still don’t see a ghost in here. Except for Drummond.”
“Fine. So Mr. Ghost, you’ve gotten all quiet on us. Are you really going to be that wimpy? Make a bunch of noise, then get all silent? What kind of ghost —”
“Stop.” Sandra walked to the center of the room. With a tone that mixed warmth with sternness like a parent taking charge of child, she said, “I want to speak with the being in this house. I want to know why you are here and how we can help you. That’s why we came here. To help.”
No response.
With a deep breath, she continued, “There’s no point in hiding from us. We’re not leaving. Not until we help you move on.”
The deep growl returned and fast became an enraged roar. The floor moved beneath Max’s feet. If he had not witnessed all that led up to this moment, he would easily have thought Winston-Salem experienced an earthquake. As he tried to steady his balance, he felt something searing-hot pierce his skin and lift him into the air. He screamed.
Sandra stared up at him, her eyes wide and glistening with fear. Drummond shot off, swirling around Max, his hands striking at the air. As the burning pressed against Max’s lungs, he patted his chest, trying to find something solid to grab onto, pull out of him, fight back against — but there was nothing.
More burning sensations shoved at his back, tossing him across the wide room. Max crashed against the far wall, cracking the plaster as he crumpled to the ground. He could hear Sandra rushing towards his side, felt her hands against him — cool and solid. The burning had gone.
He sat up, sweat soaking through his shirt as he slumped against the wall. Sandra put her arm around him and held tight while Drummond drifted towards them. She kissed the top of Max’s head. “Once you’re okay, I’ll get back to my spell.”
“I’ll be fine. Get going.”
Sandra held Max’s head and stared into his eyes. At length, she pulled out her pencil and nodded. Before she could stand, the pencil lifted out of her hand. A startled gasp, and Sandra fell back as if shoved. The pencil rose through the air and cracked into four pieces. Each piece flew off in a different direction. The lights flickered and went out, leaving only the full moon to provide any light.
Drummond said, “I don’t know what that was, but we’ve got plenty of proof that something is definitely here.”
Max glared up at his partner. “You think?”
Chapter 5
MAX AND SANDRA BOTH pulled out penlights and flicked them on. Rubbing his back, Max stood and let the lights play across the room. Drummond produced his pale ghostly glow, yet it never reflected upon the rest of the world.
“Well,” Max said, still catching his breath, “since we know this isn’t a ghost, and as Drummond has so astutely pointed out, it’s something, any suggestions as to what we’re dealing with?”
Sandra walked toward the now-silent organ. “I’ve never seen or heard or even read about any kind of witch’s curse that could do this.”
“Then we’re not dealing with a ghost or a witch. What else can haunt a house?”
“I didn’t say it couldn’t be a witch. Just not a witch’s curse.”
“Great. Then we’re back to just knowing it’s not a ghost.”
Drummond said, “Sorry, pal, but we only said that we couldn’t see a ghost. It’s possible there are some kinds of cursed ghosts that are not visible to us.”
Max slapped the back of the couch. “Then we can’t even say it’s not a ghost. Do we have any idea what this is?”
“Sure,” Drummond said. “It’s an angry thing that threw you across the room.”
Before Max could respond, Sandra said, “Let’s take one step before the next. We don’t have to know exactly what we’re dealing with just yet.”
Max turned his penlight on her. “The bruises on my backside say otherwise.”
“All I mean is that we have the entire night ahead of us and we’ve barely begun to explore this house. Here’s what I suggest. Max and I will keep checking from room to room. I suggest we stick together — in light of the attack on you, splitting up doesn’t seem too wise.”
“I agree with that.”
“Drummond, will you please check beneath the ground for any casting circles or corpses or such — you know what to look for. And if you don’t find anything there, take a stroll through the Other and see if any ghosts there know anything.”
Drummond flicked the brim of his hat. “Doll, anything for you.” He disappeared.
Sandra winked at Max. “If you’re done complaining about your poor little tush, shall we keep going?”
Max snorted a laugh as he walked toward his wife. “Doll, anything for you.”
“Don’t you start.” She pushed his shoulder as they headed out of the room.
They entered the dining room — in many ways, a mirror image of the library but with the substitution of a large dark-wood dining table in place of the sofa and chairs. Numerous paintings hung on the walls, and on this fireplace, a white marble carving of the head of Bacchus, god of wine, boasted as the centerpiece.
Max kept moving around the table, flashing his penlight upon the paintings. He tried not to limp, but his right leg felt as if somebody had punched his thigh muscles over and over again.
“You got any ibuprofen?” he asked.
Sandra dug out two pills from her purse and handed them over. “You know, I’ve only been a mother for a short time, and I already have a full drugstore in my purse. How does that happen?”
“Family brings a lot of changes, doesn’t it?”
“It’s strange, but I really miss those boys tonight. I mean, we’ve had late-night cases before. You’ve been on stakeouts with Drummond, and I’ve had to go spend the night looking through a witch’s library — but from the start, this case has felt different. I’m not talking about the way Mr. Carroll approached us or the fact that this place is haunted by some kind of non-ghost.”
“I understand. I feel the same way. It’s not about the case. It’s about us.”
“It feels like something’s changed. A good thing — I think. Like it kind of hurts knowing the boys are away from us.”
“There’s a darker aspect to it, too. I think we are feeling unsettled because we’re doing this together. Usually, if there’s a late-night aspect to a case, one of us stays home with the boys. But this night, it’s both of us.”
Sandra looked at Max, understanding and agreement in her eyes as if unraveling a puzzle. “You think I’m worried that if we both are here, we both might not make it back. We might leave the boys alone and on their own again.”
“Especially after I just got attacked. Don’t you feel that way? I sure do.”
But instead of a nod or verbal agreement, Sandra’s brow tightened as she moved to the next room.
According to Max’s guidebook, they entered the Butler’s Pantry. The actual kitchens were located down in the basement. Food rose on a dumbwaiter where servers arranged the meals on silver platters and fine china. Everything then would be taken into the dining room for the family and guests to eat. The pantry stretched long and narrow. The left side had an enormous number of drawers beneath a marble counter, and glass cabinets above displayed all sorts of beautiful china and silver. In the center, a steam heating table and chrome workspace had been set up. Looked like something from an old hotel. The walls were covered in white tile emphasizing the cleanliness of the food prep area.
As Sandra opened the cabinets to check the china for witch’s marks, Max leaned back against the door jamb. He watched the way she moved, the consternation on her brow, the forced swallow from her tight lips. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“We just talked about it — the boys.” She did not look over at him.
“No, no. There’s something else. You suddenly look like you were the one thrown across that big room.”
Carefully setting a china dish back in the cabinet, Sandra closed the door and faced Max. “It’s exactly what you said — that you were the one thrown across the room. Why you?”
“I’m usually the target of these kinds of things. Maybe ghosts prefer picking on me.”
“No joking. There was no reason for whatever is haunting this house to come after you. I’m the witch. I’m the one who was casting a spell. All you did was mouth off to the thing.”
Max thought he missed a step or two. “So, you’re worried because you didn’t get thrown across the room. You wanted to be the one to get attacked?”
Sandra turned her flashlight directly into his eyes. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“Then what? I don’t understand.”
Lowering the light, Sandra walked over to Max and put her hand on his chest. “Maybe this thing could sense that I’m a witch. What if it knew that I had some kind of power?”
“You think it attacked me because I was the weakest of us?”
“Get this through your head, honey — what I’m saying is not about you.”
“That’s not fair. I’m trying to understand.”
Sandra sighed. “Maybe studying witchcraft, even with the intent of using it for good, maybe it’s changing me. Maybe at a fundamental level — one that other types of creatures can sense. What if I’m not me anymore?”
“That’s quite a leap.”
“Maybe. But if I’m right —”
Max wrapped his arms around her. “I promise, you are still you. I know you want to say I can’t make that promise, but I can. We just proved it in the other room. We talked about the boys and how our experiences with them, our journey in becoming parents, has changed us. You now carry all kinds of emergency supplies in your purse. I know that may seem like a small thing, but it’s not. It points to the fact that becoming a mom has changed the way you think at a level that you may not even be conscious of. I would call that a fundamental level.” He wrapped his arms tighter and kissed her head.
She said, “Then you think my work with witchcraft has changed me, too.”
“Everything we do changes us. But the fact that you ask these questions, the fact that you are trying to be cognizant of these changes, only reinforces what I’ve known for a while now. I’ve got nothing to worry about you. You are still you. You’re not going to succumb to the evils of witchcraft any more than you would succumb to the evils of motherhood.”
Sandra pushed back. “There are evils of motherhood?”
“Have you met my mother?”
She nestled her head back against his chest. “Good point.”
They held each other in silence for several minutes. At length, they linked arms and walked back through the dining room to the Reception Hall. Max could not stop himself — he turned his light against the organ. Thankfully, it did not begin to play.
They walked to the fireplace and took the stairs to the balcony that ran the perimeter of the Hall. Though originally, the balcony functioned as a fancy way to look at those below as well as a charming gallery for family portraits along the walls — not to mention access to the bedrooms — the museum aspect of the building made the area ideal for displaying plenty of American art. With the wrought iron railing on their left, they made their way around, taking time to check out each painting they walked by. The works of Thomas Eakins, Elihu Vedder, William Sidney Mount, Eastman Johnson, and more lined the walls. Many of the subjects were portraits, a few landscapes, and one depicting two gentlemen playing cards in a dilapidated barn.
Sandra took the time to inspect each painting carefully for signs of — well, Max wasn’t sure exactly what they looked for anymore. Anything out of the ordinary would do.
He regretted that thought as Sandra walked into the corner bedroom which had been converted into a furniture-less art gallery. She called out, “Come here. Now.”
Hearing the shiver in her voice, Max bolted into the room. Light-painted walls covered with works of art dominated the space. That much he expected. The surprise, however — streams of blood wept from the frames around each painting. Long rivulets oozed against the walls, pooling along the floor molding and into the carpeting.
Standing in the middle of the room, her eyes open wide as she gazed from one painting to the next, Sandra said, “I think we may have found the source of the problem.”
Chapter 6
TINGLING WITH THE URGE to rush across the room, grab Sandra by the hand, and yank her to the relative safety of the balcony, Max watched his wife closely. He clamped his mouth tight against blurting anything out — she clearly concentrated on the paintings. It would not only be bad form, but it could be dangerous to break the focus of a witch at a time like this. And she was a witch.
That thought echoed through to the center of his chest. It simultaneously hollowed him out and filled him up. It frightened him even as it warmed his heart.
In a calm almost casual manner, Sandra said, “Don’t touch anything.”
After a few moments, it became clear that they would not be leaving this room anytime soon. She continued to move from painting to painting, checking each one for some unseen marks or symbols or other aspects that Max did not understand. When she finished her circuit, she began again. Unsure of how long they would be, Max settled on the floor just outside the doorjamb — nobody wanted to sit in a blood-soaked gallery — and he pulled out his phone.
Might as well further his research on the place.
Of course, with a family as famous as the Reynolds and a location as iconic as Reynolda House, the amount of information available threatened to overheat his phone. However, he could quickly dismiss most of it as rehashing the same facts over and over.
Katherine Smith Reynolds had gone down in history as a remarkable, kindhearted, wonderful woman who always showed great appreciation for the wealth she enjoyed. Whether it came from little things such as the fact that she insisted all the staff eat the same meals that were prepared for the family to the larger decisions such as how to run the house itself — a modern version of a country estate. She worked actively in the community to help those in need and promote the rights of others. Though Max felt sure if he dug deep enough, he would find a human being as flawed as any other, he did not uncover anything that would hint at the idea of Katherine Smith Reynolds being involved with witchcraft.
Max glanced into the gallery. The blood no longer flowed from the frames and had begun to dry up on the walls. Sandra stood before one painting, rigid with her head tilted back like an art critic observing a new piece for the first time.
He returned to his own work. R.J. Reynolds proved no more suspicious than his darling wife. However, being a tobacco tycoon meant that he had created many enemies throughout his life. Pictures of him presented an imposing figure with a thick, Southern beard and a strong, heavy glare. But the man did have the sensibility to marry Katherine, and she clearly had an influence upon him. No — Max did not see any hints of witchcraft from the husband’s side, either.
