Southern Charm by Stuart Jaffe Read Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart Jaffe
share?"
With a devilish grin, she said, "The instructions were to open it in our presence. Doesn't say anything about reading it out loud."
"Oh, if only I were alive."
Max snatched the letter from Sandra. "Ease it back, you two." With a firm snap of the paper, he read:
IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE THAT I CORDIALLY INVITE MR. AND MRS. MAXWELL PORTER AND MR. MARSHALL DRUMMOND TO SUPPER WITH ME THIS WEDNESDAY AT SEVEN O'CLOCK.
PLEASE DRESS AS BEFITS THE OCCASION. SHOULD THE DAY AND TIME BE UNAVAILABLE, PLEASE CONTACT MR. MODESTO AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE SO OTHER ARRANGEMENTS CAN BE DETERMINED. I LOOK FORWARD TO OUR FIRST MEETING.
— Terrance Hull
Drummond hovered behind Max's shoulder. When he finished reading, he spoke for everyone when he said, "Well, that's not good at all."
Chapter 8
Wednesday morning began with strong coffee and a headache. Max did his best to ignore the dread building within like a hardening concrete block making every step a struggle, but with the Hull dinner only ten hours away, he found it impossible to think about much else. He tried searching the internet for more on Corkille but he couldn't concentrate.
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
With a devilish grin, she said, "The instructions were to open it in our presence. Doesn't say anything about reading it out loud."
"Oh, if only I were alive."
Max snatched the letter from Sandra. "Ease it back, you two." With a firm snap of the paper, he read:
IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE THAT I CORDIALLY INVITE MR. AND MRS. MAXWELL PORTER AND MR. MARSHALL DRUMMOND TO SUPPER WITH ME THIS WEDNESDAY AT SEVEN O'CLOCK.
PLEASE DRESS AS BEFITS THE OCCASION. SHOULD THE DAY AND TIME BE UNAVAILABLE, PLEASE CONTACT MR. MODESTO AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE SO OTHER ARRANGEMENTS CAN BE DETERMINED. I LOOK FORWARD TO OUR FIRST MEETING.
— Terrance Hull
Drummond hovered behind Max's shoulder. When he finished reading, he spoke for everyone when he said, "Well, that's not good at all."
Chapter 8
Wednesday morning began with strong coffee and a headache. Max did his best to ignore the dread building within like a hardening concrete block making every step a struggle, but with the Hull dinner only ten hours away, he found it impossible to think about much else. He tried searching the internet for more on Corkille but he couldn't concentrate.
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
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