Southern Haunts (16 page)

“But wasn’t everybody having little private parties?”

“Yeah, but this one was admitted to in open court. Plus, Mrs. Johnson made reference to ‘riding’ in a car with two Winston-Salem police officers.”

“I take it
riding
is a euphemism.”

“You take it correctly. Martin jumps on this story and fast learns that the sisters, Renner and Johnson, are running a brothel out of their house — one that apparently is servicing the police as well. He prints the story on September 20th and the whole storm begins to roll in. It moves fast. On the second day, Sergeant W. M. Cofer is suspended but the Mayor and the Police Chief decline to comment. On Day Three, Cofer is fired, the sisters leave town, and the brothel’s address is published. The entire neighborhood is being tarnished and this is in a time when local reputations meant a lot more than they do today.”

“I’m guessing the neighbors did something bad.”

“Not bad, but they did act. The women of the neighborhood got together and started pressuring former Mayor James Hanes to get involved. He had always been a good man to them, and they figured he was their best chance for justice since the current Mayor and Police Chief were clearly playing a game of damage control.”

“This is like an old version of Heidi Fleiss.”

“Exactly. And I think the top dogs were wetting themselves, afraid that one of the sisters kept a little black book. Making it worse for them, the editor, Martin, was milking the story for everything he could. Not only because it sold newspapers, but because it fed his zealotry about prohibition.”

Max’s enthusiasm had washed away all his tiredness. He could see his energy infecting Sandra as well.

“So what did Hanes do?” she asked.

“Not much he could do. Especially because the case kept bulldozing along. On the fourth day, Martin published a story in which Sergeant Cofer called himself a scapegoat. He states that his visits to the sister’s house were all official business. He was there responding to rumors of illegal dances taking place, but he never found evidence of any wrongdoing.”

“Did anybody buy that?”

“Doubtful. Meanwhile, the police searched for the AWOL sisters. By Day Five, rumors start flying that upward of eight police officers would be suspended and many city officials might be involved. And here’s where things really get interesting — I’m pretty sure Martin had nothing on Day Five. These rumors might simply have been his own desire or some glory-hound feeding him what he wanted to hear. But, on the sixth day, all the high officials close ranks and hush up. Nobody’s talking. So, even if Martin had nothing before, he certainly hit a nerve.”

“How many of them were going to this whorehouse?”

Max shrugged. “Maybe all of them. I don’t know. But the next day, an ex-cop revealed that the police were protecting hidden booze and the day after that, the eighth day, two detectives are fired. By this point, ministers and other prohibitionists are putting pressure on the city using their pulpits as weapons. Day Ten comes along and the police arrest a man named Ogilvie who had the hidden liquor stored at the Westover Golf Club. He’s acquitted for lack of evidence. Don’t ask — it was a legal maze that stunk of payoffs and corrupt authority. In the end, twelve days after the start of this whole thing, it all fizzles apart. The officials tighten up and many of the quotes that Martin had published could not be substantiated.”

“Wait. You mean they got away with it?”

“Other than those who got fired during the scandal, nobody else had to pay.”

With the story out, Max flopped in his desk chair and swiveled around as he let Sandra absorb all he had said.

“I’m missing something,” she said. “I mean, that was a fascinating story, but what does it have to do with the Darian case.”

Summoning all his remaining energy, he confidently knocked his fist on his desk as he said, “I don’t know. But it happened two doors up from their house in the exact time period we’ve been focusing on.”

“That’s awful thin.”

“There’s one more thing — Freddie Robertson. He’s the son of Jack Robertson. And Jack was one of the police officers involved in this case. I even found a photo of him holding up a bottle of Casper whiskey.”

“What makes Freddie so important?”

“Because, hon, he’s still alive. We’re going to go talk with him tomorrow, and all my researching instincts are telling me that he’s going to bring everything together for us.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, but she looked doubtful. Her furrowed brow did not ease as the conversation ended. If anything, Max thought the wrinkles deepened.

“Something happen today?” he asked.

“Nothing bad. I got a call from Libby. She said things have quieted down. Shawnee called her and said there haven’t been any more incidents yet. Wayne still refuses to let Libby back in the house, but so far, so good.”

“That’s a relief. For now, at least.”

Sandra did not appear relieved. Her hands clenched as she seemed to be mounting her strength for something. Max’s tired brain finally clicked in — this was it. The conversation they had been dancing around finally had no place to escape.

He could make it easier for her, though. At least, easier to get started. “I found your pregnancy test in the trash.”

Sandra gazed at him, her eyes searching for his reaction to this news. “Are you upset?”

“That you hid it from me or that it’s negative?”

“I didn’t hide it from you. I just wasn’t going to talk about it unless there was something to talk about. But it was negative, so what was the point?”

“The point is that you want to get pregnant and that’s a big deal for both of us. The point is that just because you’ve got the womb doesn’t mean I’m superfluous in all of this.”

Sandra sat back, her frown no longer one of worry. Rather, she looked confused. “What makes you think I want a baby?”

Now, Max looked confused. “I thought ... well, my mother said ...”

“Your mother?”

“You don’t want a baby?”

“You talked with your mother about this?”

“I’m not close friends with a lot of people who have had babies. You don’t want a baby?”

“No. Not at all.”

“But the way you’ve been acting lately —”

“I’m terrified of getting pregnant. I mean I’m not scared of being pregnant or being a mother or anything like that. My fears are about the kind of person I am, we are, and what that means. Ever since we faced the witch Welling and she possessed me, I’ve been worried. I refuse to let my body, especially my pregnant body, go through that again. You see what’s happening with the Darians. No way will I allow that to happen to me. To us. My body belongs to me and only me.”

“But what about the doctor visits? Are you ill or something?”

Sandra rubbed her face. “Oh, honey, I’m fine. I’m sorry I worried you so much.”

“Still worried over here. What’s with the doctor?”

“I was looking into getting my tubes tied. If you’re okay with it, I want to make it you and me forever. No kids. Just us, fighting the ghosts and holding on to each other.”

Max walked around the desk and stood before his wife. His thoughts jumbled with his spinning emotions like a ship flipping in the water as it fell into a whirlpool. He would sort through it all later. For now, his wife needed his assurance that they were fine. And they were. He had his answers, and while part of him had warmed to the idea of fatherhood, his love for Sandra far outweighed any feelings toward a non-existent child.

He sat on Sandra’s lap. She let out an
oof
but laughed. “Mrs. Porter, if I weren’t so dead tired, I’d take you to the bedroom right now.”

“Well, Mr. Porter, you are dead tired. And you smell worse than a wet dog. So, go shower and get some rest.”

They kissed. Max pressed his forehead against hers, looked into her eyes with warmth, and then stood. But before he could reach the door, Marshall Drummond appeared behind the desk.

“Great news,” the ghost said and whisked straight through the desk. “I know where we can find Floyd Johnson.”

Max perked up. “You’ve got him?”

“I found him. See, this is where a network of contacts comes in handy. They all came back empty-handed.”

Sandra chuckled. “That sure is handy.”

“Doll, let me tell you, no news can be very significant. Without a single ghost in the Other finding any hint of Floyd Johnson, that told me he wasn’t in the Other. But based on the information I had about him having a tragic death, I thought it wasn’t likely he moved on. That and the fact that several of my contacts reported having seen Johnson in the Other previously.”

Exhaustion took the better part of Max’s patience. “Get to the point.”

Drummond dismissed Max’s tone as he turned toward Sandra. “Floyd Johnson must have found out someone was looking for him. He’s hiding.”

Understanding crossed Sandra’s face. “He’s a ghost that hasn’t moved on and doesn’t want to go to the Other. He’ll be near his grave.”

“Exactly,” Drummond said and floated backwards with pride.

Max tipped an imaginary hat. “Good work. Now, I’m going to sleep.”

“What? We should go out and talk with him.”

“Not tonight. I need rest. Plus, I have no desire to face a ghost in the middle of the night. Especially a ghost that’s trying to avoid us. And we have an important lead with a guy named Freddie Robertson. Sandra can fill you in, if she wants to stay up. I’ll talk with Robertson first thing in the morning and then visit your ghost.”

Drummond swished across the room to block the door. “I’m coming with you.”

“Sorry. Only Sandra gets to share my bed.”

“Cranky-tired and still a smart ass.”

“I try.”

“I’m coming with you tomorrow.”

Before Max could say a word, Sandra interjected, “That’s a good idea. I’ve got a follow up with my doctor, so you should have Drummond along. Don’t want you to face any of this alone.”

“Yeah, listen to your wife. Besides, how are you going to talk with Floyd Johnson when I’m the only ghost you connect with?”

“Relax,” Max said. “I was going to say it was a good idea. Drummond should come along.”

A brief pause. Then Drummond said, “Oh. Okay, then. See you in the morning.”

Chapter 19

DAY FOUR

The following morning,
Max contacted Freddie Robertson. He found the man quite agreeable to a meeting.

“At my age, any company is welcome,” Robertson said over the phone.

He suggested they meet at the Geeksboro Cafe, a little place off Battleground Avenue in Greensboro. It was a colorful coffee shop with a massive projector and screen showing old black-and-white movies. Secondhand sofas and reading chairs lined the walls while long tables occupied the main floor space. Several people sat at them and played various board games — most of which Max had never seen before.

“What kind of place is this?” Drummond said as he spied over the shoulder of one player.

“It
is
called Geeksboro Cafe. I’m guessing these are the games geeks like to play.” Max glanced at one wall filled with shelves of board games. Titles like Catan, Carcasonne, and Resistance drew his attention.

“This is nuts.”

“No nuttier than sports fans that cover themselves in team colors and know every statistic down to the shoe size of every player. These are just people who really like ... whatever these games are. Besides, we’re not here to play. We’re here to interview a guy.”

A voice called from the back. “Max Porter?”

Drummond clicked his tongue. “Guess we found him.”

Short and bald, Robertson had the heft of a man who had regularly worked out in his younger years, but now all that muscle had turned against him — drinking a six-pack or two each day probably sped up matters. Still, for a man in his nineties, Freddie Robertson looked remarkable fit.

He waved them over to a small room in the back. Painted blue, it had game tables as well and another sofa. With the lunch rush not yet in swing — Max had no idea if this place even had a lunch rush — the back room was empty. Perfect for their conversation.

“You have any trouble finding the place?” Robertson asked.

“Not at all.”

“Why don’t you go get yourself something to drink? I’ll wait.”

“No, thank you. I’m here to talk with you.”

“Well, I need something to drink. I’ll be right back.”

Robertson walked out, and Drummond uttered a curse. “I feared we might be running into one of these types.”

“One of what types?”

“This guy — he might have something tell us, he might not, but I guarantee he’s going to string it out as long as possible. He’s lonely, and he’ll do anything to have this conversation fill up his day.”

“He’s said two words to us. How do you know this already?”

“What he said, the way he said it, and the fact that he went to go get a drink when, if you look at the table right there, he’s got a half-cup of whatever that orange stuff is.”