Southern Charm (6 page)

Across his desk, he watched Sandra immersed in Corkille estate papers, criminal record searches, and other routine research. A fleeting sensation of peace passed through him. She glanced up, perhaps sensing his attention, and threw one of her casual but devastating smiles.

Drummond burst in and, with a clap of his hands, said, "So, we got the big dinner tonight. Too bad I can't actually eat anything anymore. Rich people know how to throw a spread. This'll probably be the best meal you've ever eaten, and I'm going to have to watch. You know, I'll bet that's why the bastard wants me there — torture me with things like that."

Grabbing his coat and coffee, Max said, "I'm going to see Melinda Corkille."

"Something I said?"

"I'm not spending the day fretting over Hull."

"Who's fretting? I think it's going to be a great ol' time. Eat the guy's food, insult him a few ways, hear whatever stupid threats he feels like making, and shine him on. Trust me, there's nothing more satisfying than undercutting some snobby ass like his. He's got a whole plan in his head of what he'll say and how we'll react. They hate it when we screw that kind of thing up. It'll be fun."

To Sandra, Max said, "Melinda Corkille's the only direct connection to any of this we still have. I've got to talk with her. Besides," he added toward Drummond, "whatever Hull's going to say, you know it's going to be about this painting. If I can get any information from Melinda, it'll help us tonight."

"Good idea," Drummond said. "And don't worry. I'll find Howard eventually. We'll have more leads soon."

"Let me just finish up, and I'll join you," Sandra said.

"No," Max said. "I think it's best if I go alone. This lady is touchy. I think we'll scare her away if we come with a whole gang."

"Two is not a gang."

"You know what I mean. If this goes well, I'll bring you both next time."

Sandra kissed Max, concern scrunching her features. "Be careful. And don't go chasing cars again."

"I'll be good," he said, but he didn't smile.

* * * *

The drive down seemed longer than before. Max's mind zipped back and forth between Hull's impending dinner and Sandra's strangling presence. Apprehensive about the former and guilty about the latter, Max saw little room to maneuver. The dinner would come and go, and he knew he'd have to handle whatever happened. But Sandra — that was a problem that time would not fix on its own.

In fact, if he just let it be, it would only compound and possibly form the root that could destroy them. That's how divorces happened. Little things couples tried to ignore, tried to bury through hot nights, festered until they became monumental, until they led to actions neither spouse ever thought the other capable of.

"Like visiting Melinda Corkille by yourself because she's got your blood going? Little things like that, Max?"

The steering wheel had no answer — and neither did Max. He stared at the straight, unchanging road and promised himself that this would be the last time. Not that he had done anything wrong — but he'd had plenty of guilty thoughts. He just didn't want those thoughts to lead to actions. At the next opportunity, he promised himself, he would hash things out with Sandra, fix things, get them back on the right track. And not just a little talk like the previous night. They needed to find the root of this problem and kill it so it never grew back.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the drive and parked his car, noticing a new rattle from the engine that assured him of a hefty mechanic's bill in the coming weeks. Melinda must have heard the rattle as well because she opened the front door and walked out as Max stepped from the car. She wore old jeans and a low-cut top that left little to be discovered. He fought to keep his eyes on her face.

"You again," she said with a playful half-grin.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I just need a few minutes of your time."

"There's nothing I can tell you."

"Please. You don't have to give me loads of information or betray any family secrets. I just need a little help from you to point me in the right direction."

"You said you were writing a book on art forgers?"

"That's right."

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. "See, that's a lie. Why should I help you out when you've begun this whole thing with a lie?"

Opening his arms like a thief claiming innocence, he said, "I admit it. I lied. But you have to admit, too, that you'd never have spoken to me, if I had told you the truth."

"Depends on what the truth is."

"Well, the truth is that I've been hired to find that painting for you."

"For me?"

"I was told to find the painting, find you, and put the two together."

"And who hired you?"

"I can't tell you that."

"That's really too bad. You almost had my interest." She turned away.

"Wait, please. I don't know what's so special about this painting, but you're clearly in it deep, and you'll get buried, if you're not careful."

"Lucky for me, I'm a careful person."

"Melinda, please —"

She placed her hand on the door and said, "Good-bye, Mr. Porter. Do not come here again."

Desperation took hold. Max blurted out, "You don't want to be messing with the Hulls. They're dangerous."

Melinda froze. Her seductive yet light lips became a hard, cold line. "What do you know about them?"

"Let me in. I'll tell you all about it."

Any sense of wild youth vanished from Melinda. She looked meek and even vulnerable. She stepped back into the house, leaving the front door open.

Max walked into the foyer and tried not to betray his awe. He did not often step into such a wealthy home. Dark wood floors led up a small step into the main foyer which was garnered with a baby-grand piano. The walls were old Southern white, a summer breeze color that whispered of a South that had died long ago.

"This way," she said, passing through a wide arch into a lush living room — thick sofas, a brick fireplace, and paintings on every wall — Max lacked the skill to know if they were authentic or not. Everything he saw looked valuable and vibrant. Even the plants.

Max stood next to a deep red sofa, unsure if he should sully it with his common pants. Even as he had these thoughts, another part of him complained in his head —
Since when do you care about rich assholes? Sit down and take command of things.

Since when? Easy answer — since he saw that red number on his computer screen.

"Please, sit," she said. Max settled on the sofa's edge and noticed a large plant in front of a narrow door — the rich hiding the broom closet. Concern over his pants itched stronger than before. Melinda slid onto the opposite sofa, her legs tucked under in a pose reminiscent of a college girl, and continued, "So, Mr. Porter, enlighten me about the Hulls."

"I worked for Hull a year ago. He was a dangerous man, part of a dangerous family that shrouds itself in secrecy."

"My family likes secrets, too," she said with a wink.

"This is serious. These people can cause a lot of pain."

Melinda chuckled — a soft, bitter sound that she managed to infuse with a salacious undertone. "You're sweet to be so concerned, but you've only lived here for what? A little over a year? My family has been in North Carolina for generations. I think we understand things down here a bit better."

"But —"

"Do you know why I have this house? I mean, do you understand that every inch of this place was paid for by art forgeries? And yet, I still own it."

"I've been told the best art forgers never get caught. I couldn't find a single word about Howard Corkille."

"That's part of it. An important part. The other is attached to being the best. In order to succeed, you must be able to pass off your work for profit."

"And Howard was good at that as well?"

"A genius. But, you see, the two go together — getting collectors and museums to buy your forgeries and keeping all knowledge of you and your involvement a secret. Even now, all these years later, should it come out that many of the prized works hanging in museums throughout the world were Corkille fakes, I'd lose every dime I ever had. I hope this makes it clear why I don't wish to have an in-depth study done on my family's history."

"This painting," Max said, not knowing what to say but wanting to keep her talking, "the 'Morning in Red,' why are you messing with Hull over it?"

"I'm not."

"You practically jumped when I mentioned his name and now you suddenly don't care about him?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just not involved with Hull over that painting." Despite the young girl clothes and poses, her weary voice and judicious gaze aged her before Max's eyes. "We have other issues at work."

"Well, if I'm not being rude, I'd advise you to have no dealings with Hull at any time, of any kind. That family is destructive, at best, and powerfully so. Whatever you think you're doing with them will hurt you in the long run. I learned this the hard way. Please, trust me on this. You'd best stay away from them."

"How cute. You truly want to be chivalrous."

Max knew he should leave. Though Melinda passed with ease between being a naïve doe and a prowling hunter, Max saw danger in either state. She played both with perfect pitch. The subtle and direct looks she threw at him from behind her hair, casually placed in its most seductive position, flooded him with testosterone and made thinking clearly an impossible task. The only thought he could manage —
leave, leave, leave.

As if the idea had formed that instant, Melinda sauntered toward Max and bent down with the obvious intent of letting him view her breasts. "We have a few choices," she said, moving closer, her lips near his. Hints of perfume mixing with body heat pressed in the air. "We can continue to tell each other partial truths and partial lies, we can go about our separate interests and know that we'll cross paths sometime soon, or we can stop all the games, go upstairs, and you can do whatever you desire." With the tip of her tongue, she touched his lips. Then she pulled back and turned away. "I know which I choose," she said and removed her shirt in one swift motion. Her smooth back lacked a single blemish. Over her bare shoulder, she added, "I'll wait upstairs."

When she left the room, making sure to drop the shirt on the floor, Max did not move. His brain had shut down and struggled to reboot. His heart pounded in a fear only matched by the longing in his groin. He felt guilty for being hard and stupid for even imagining following this crazy girl. Drummond would tell him to sleep with her but never forget that she's only trying to distract him from the case. Maybe.

Or maybe, despite all his big talk, Drummond would race to the car — he cares about Sandra a little bit. Max, however, cared about Sandra infinitely. No amount of marital bickering would change that.

With his body cooling down, his heart slowing, his brain function returning, Max willed himself to stand and walked out of that house. His eyes lingered on Melinda's discarded shirt and he imagined her upstairs, draped across her bed, waiting for him. Never had a woman come on to him like that. He could feel a pulling in his body as if the mere scent of Melinda that dwindled in the air could call him up like a siren's song. He had been wrong to leave Sandra behind. He needed her as a shield against this seductive woman.

He stopped by the baby-grand piano and pictured his lovely wife.
That's who matters.
The other thoughts are just hormones.
He stepped outside, got to his car, and let out a long breath. Pushing his foot hard on the gas, he promised he would not make that mistake again.

"I know you're nervous," Sandra said as they drove to the Hull family estate, "but try to relax. You won't be thinking clearly if you're all stressed out."

"What's that supposed to mean? That I 'won't be thinking clearly'. I can make clear decisions."

Drummond, floating in the backseat, said, "Hey, relax. You know that's not what she meant."

"I didn't ask you."

Tense silence filled the car. They drove out of Winston-Salem, south on Route 77 toward Lake Norman. Max tried to focus on the dinner, on the case, on anything but Sandra, Drummond, or Melinda.

He peeked at Drummond in the rear-view mirror just in time to see Drummond's head stretch backward and to hear him scream. Sandra jumped at the sound, took one glance back, and yelled, "Pull over! Pull over!"

As Max edged to the shoulder and slowed down, he swore he could see through Drummond as if the ghost had become less substantial than usual. Drummond held his elongated head with one hand and strained his muscles but still growled out his pain. With his free hand, he pointed behind them.

"What is this? What's going on?" Max asked.

"I don't know," Sandra said. "I've never seen a ghost do anything like this before."

With a great effort, Drummond pointed and said, "Back!"

Max hit the hazard lights, set the car in reverse, and eased back along the shoulder. In just a few feet, Drummond's head returned to its normal shape, and he seemed to be in less pain. A few more feet and the ghost had become solid in appearance once again.