Southern Charm by Stuart Jaffe

a promising career. Great mouth, too. Smile that just melted me."
    "The point, please."
    "Oh, right. Anyway, we were just talking and I was about to lay a good line on her, the kind that would've led to a date without a doubt, when this old lady floats by wailing and wailing about being dead. I lost it. You know, sometimes these things just build up inside you and her little tirade set me off. I yelled at her. And she turned to me with such hatred and self-pity and she said, 'I'm sure you had a wonderful funeral with plenty of people to cry for you, but not me. I was a good person and only three mourners came. Just three.' She yapped on, but I didn't hear any of it. Because it hit me just then — what if the painting was actually called 'Mourning in Red,' as in at a funeral?"
    Sandra flitted about with sudden energy like an excited schoolgirl. "When Drummond told me about his idea, I just knew he was right. We did some searches but came up empty. Then we tried some of the art dealer forums, and guess who we found to be looking for the same painting?"
    Max looked at the floor. "Gold," he said as if he could shoot the name into the art gallery below.
    "Bingo. But it doesn't look like he's had any success."
    Drummond said, "Gold's not looking under the right name. He's still just an idiot."
    Sandra continued, "The name is a big part of it, but then I realized that we were searching the wrong way. This painting is not a valuable painting. The artist isn't well-known. Nothing we've been told indicates that anybody not involved with this whole curse even knows the painting exists. It's not a famous painting. It's common. So, we should go where we little common folk go."
    "First, we checked eBay," Drummond said with a twinkle of pride at using computer lingo, "but nobody had listed it."
    "This is my part of the story," Sandra said.
    "Sorry."
    "Next we went to craigslist, and again we found nothing. And then I decided to post on craigslist myself. I simply named the painting and how much I'd pay for it. Don't worry, not much — but then, it isn't worth that much to most people."
    "And we got a hit."
    "Drummond!"
    "I'm sorry, but I'm just as happy as you are."
    Max waved off their little spat. "You got a hit? Where? When? Heck, who?"
    Sandra said, "A guy named Chris Thorne, and he lives just north of us in Virginia. We only need to set up a time and place to exchange for the painting."
    "Don't you usually send a check and get it in the mail?"
    "Do you really want to risk it that way, or do the whole thing in person?"
    "I guess we're taking a little trip to Virginia. When do we go?"
    "He should e-mail me tonight."
    "Great," Max said. "You've both done a great job."
    Sandra kissed Max on the cheek. "Since we can't do anything about the painting until we get the e-mail, why don't we do a bit of premature celebration. Care for an early dinner and some alcohol? I think we could both use it."
    "Hey," Drummond said. "That's not very fair to me."
    Sandra rolled out her bottom lip. "So sorry. But there's not much we can actually do for you, is there?"
    "You could quit mocking me. And you don't have to rub it in all the time. I know I'm a ghost."
    Max put his arm around Sandra's shoulder. He knew things were not suddenly okay between them, and he knew she was aware of it, too. But one thing he had learned through the course of their marriage — some days it paid more to let the ugly stuff slide away for a while. To Drummond, he said, "We'll be back later to check on that e-mail."

    * * * *

    Dinner was a pleasant affair. They went to Fourth Street and enjoyed the Italian wonders of Dioli's Trattoria. Despite the shadow of the witch's impending midnight meeting looming over him, Max managed to push fear away long enough to eat. He drank in the beauty of his wife and the joy of her success, and he felt capable of facing the witch. If all went well, within the next day or two, he would have that painting, this case would be over, he'd get paid,