The Marshall Drummond Case Files: Cabinet 1: Marshall Drummond Cabinet, #1

By Stuart Jaffe

As a private investigator in North Carolina, most of Marshall Drummond's cases involve that other world — the one with ghosts and spells, the one with witches and curses, the one most people never see or want to see.

Welcome to the Marshall Drummond Case Files. Stories that explore the dark mysteries and thrilling adventures of 1940s PI, Marshall Drummond, before he died and became the ghost detective found in the bestselling Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries.

This first installment details five harrowing cases involving everything from stolen minds to stolen souls, from witch curses to witch cures, from the criminal underworld to the supernatural underworld. It's all here. It's all waiting for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stuart Jaffe
• Release date: Aug 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540167101

Book preview

The Marshall Drummond Case Files

Cabinet 1

(Cases 01 - 05)

Stuart Jaffe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Stuart Jaffe

Introduction

Case 01 - The Butcher’s Witch

Case 02 - The Amnesia Dealer

Case 03 - Witch’s Brew

Case 04 - The Fate of Laura McCullen

Case 05 - Apartment 2A

Max Porter

About the Author

Copyright Information

Also by Stuart Jaffe

Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries

Southern Bound

Southern Charm

Southern Belle

Southern Gothic

Southern Haunts

Southern Curses

Southern Rites

Southern Craft

Southern Spirit

Southern Flames

Nathan K thrillers

Immortal Killers

Killing Machine

The Cardinal

Yukon Massacre

The First Battle

Immortal Darkness

A Spy for Eternity

The Malja Chronicles

The Way of the Black Beast

The Way of the Sword and Gun

The Way of the Brother Gods

The Way of the Blade

The Way of the Power

The Way of the Soul

The Parallel Society

The Infinity Caverns

Book on the Isle

Gillian Boone novels

A Glimpse of Her Soul

Pathway to Spirit

Stand Alone Novels

After The Crash

Founders

Real Magic

Short Story Collections

10 Bits of My Brain

10 More Bits of My Brain

The Bluesman Complete

For more information, please visit www.stuartjaffe.com

Introduction

One of the classic questions writers are asked is Where do you get your ideas? My standard reply is that coming up with ideas is never a problem for the majority of writers. Our problem tends to be the opposite. We have too many ideas and we have to learn how to cut through the noise to find the really good ones. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we fail. Regardless of the outcome, the start is usually the same -- cutting through tons of ideas.

Because of this, it is rare that I can detail out the creation of a story. But sometimes those rare moments exist. For example, I know how The Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries series began. I won’t get into it here because that’s the subject of the introduction to the collection of the first three books of that series. I mention it, of course, because the Marshall Drummond Case Files would not exist without Max Porter. In Max’s series, Drummond is a ghost and Max’s current-day partner. Along with Max’s wife, the three run The Porter Agency.

That series has been going for many years to great success, and I had toyed with the idea of doing a spin-off featuring Drummond when he was alive. But my early attempts lacked any life. They read like boring procedurals and lacked the spark that the Max Porter novels had.

Then in 2016, my state of North Carolina enacted the now infamous Bathroom Bill. As a writer, I rub shoulders with plenty of artistic types, some of which were directly affected by this law. I support the LGBTQ community and was happy to donate a story to an anthology raising money to help fight this unjust law. My only problem -- what to write?

I suspect it’s obvious now what happened. I wrote the first Marshall Drummond Case File, The Butcher’s Witch, and was pleased with its great reception. The writing happened easily and left me wondering what my big stumbling block had been all along. I still don’t know. But I do know how to write a Marshall Drummond story now, and after that first one, the rest followed without any troubles.

Clearly, you all have enjoyed them as well. Short stories don’t usually sell well, but the Drummond Case Files buck that trend every month. Enough so that I continue to write them and can now start collecting them, the first of which is what you have in your hand!

So, without out further ramblings, sit back and enjoy a taste of Marshall Drummond’s brand of mystery.

-- North Carolina, 2018

Case 01 - The Butcher’s Witch

MARSHALL DRUMMOND KNOCKED on the chipped wooden door to room 2F. It had been a chilly morning in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and Marshall had opted for his favorite trench coat and Fedora. He knew his attire made him look like a classic G-man, but his days working in the public sector had ended a few years back when he left the police department after a rather unsettling experience. One that opened his eyes to the world beneath the surface.

As a private investigator, most of his cases tended to involve that other world — the one with ghosts and spells, the one with witches and curses, the one most people never saw nor wanted to see. When his old patrol buddy, Cooper, asked him to handle the current matter in private, he welcomed the idea of a case that did not involve the need for trips to the cemetery or discoveries about how deep the underworld went. He should have known better.

Drummond raised his fist to knock on the door again when a charming gal opened it up. She was small, though most people were small compared to Drummond, and she wore her hair much like Vivian Leigh whose popularity continued to rise since starring in Gone with the Wind. In fact, if not for the tear stains on her cheeks, the woman holding the door open had the looks to grab a man’s heart and walk away with it in her purse.

Ms. Parker? I’m Marshall Drummond. Our mutual friend, Detective Cooper, sent me. Said you needed some assistance.

The worry on her face told Drummond everything — this would be a more complicated case than Cooper had let on. Of course, Cooper always had been light on details when it came to work, so Drummond should not have been surprised.

Please, call me Anne, she said, stepping back to let Drummond into the apartment.

Like most of the apartments Drummond had seen, the Depression had taken its toll on this one as well. Even ten years since the Crash, people still suffered. Sparse furnishings and a threadbare tablecloth bore witness to Anne Parker’s losses. He saw no signs of silver picture frames and Anne wore no jewelry of any kind — all pawned off, no doubt.

Though the single window in the room had been shut, Drummond could feel the cold seeping through. To try to stay warm, Anne wore a brown-and-white knit cap and a wool scarf with brown fringe. One door, leading to the toilet and single bedroom, had been shut to warm up the room.

The air smelled damp and stale. Anne’s rose petal perfume did little to cover it up. In the summer, the window would have been open, but the odor of cars clogging the street would have been little improvement.

Would you like some coffee? Anne asked.

Drummond glanced at the open kitchen area which was separated from the rest of the single room by a white counter. He saw nothing on the counter to indicated that she had much in the way of food let alone coffee.

No, thank you. I think it best if I just get to work.

Fidgeting with the frayed ends of her coat, she sat on a wood chair by a small round table next to the window. I didn’t realize the detective had sent anybody.

Well, you know Cooper. Just give him a sweet and simple matter to sweep under the rug, and he’s going to make sure even the filthiest of us is as clean as possible.

Yes, I suppose so.

Now, as I understand it, your ... friend is missing?

Anne forced a sad chuckle. Is that what we’re going to call it?

We can call it whatever you want.

She’s ... my wife, I guess. Not according to the law, of course, but we loved each other. Does that shock you?

Now it was Drummond’s turn to chuckle. Doll, if you saw half of things I’ve seen in my life, a couple of queer ladies ain’t going to be the beginning of shock. Now your wife — please tell me her name, when she went missing, and exactly how you found out about it.

Her name is Xia, but I don’t know much more than that. She just didn’t come home. A couple days ago. I do hope she’s okay.

Drummond pursed his lips and tapped his chin. His gaze shifted from the nervous, young woman to the closed, bedroom door. He clapped his hands together once, strong and loud. The girl jumped in her seat.

A picture, he said. I don’t see a picture in this room of Xia. Do you have something? Perhaps in your bedroom.

As Drummond stepped towards the door, Anne bolted from her chair.

Please, don’t go in there. My unmentionables are out. I’ll get you a picture.

Thank you. I sure appreciate that.

Opening the door the minimum necessary, Anne slipped through and shut the door behind her.

Not suspicious at all, Drummond thought, as he ambled into the kitchen area. He poked through the cabinets and drawers — mostly empty. Squatting, he pulled back the curtain under the sink. What he saw gave him pause — three candles, black, red, and green; a jar of salt; a jar of a gray powder. Not enough to definitively say that one of these two women was a witch, but given the paraphernalia’s hidden nature, Drummond’s internal warnings sounded.

A few moments later, Anne returned empty-handed. I’m so sorry. We don’t have any.

None? Not a single photograph?

Anne gestured to the empty room. Times have been hard.

Drummond had no idea why financial hardships meant she could not hold onto their photographs but decided to let the matter go. He would not get the answers he wanted here.

As politely as possible, Drummond said good-bye and promised to return once he had some news. He had no trouble spotting the relief on Anne’s face. He didn’t like it.

In the hall, Drummond pressed his ear against 2F’s closed door. He waited but heard nothing to indicate panic nor did he hear any other voices. He walked down two doors and knocked. No answer. Another door down and knocked. No answer.

However, the door across the hall opened, and an old lady no more than five-feet tall poked her head out. You a cop?

Drummond took off his Fedora and smiled. No, ma’am. Private investigator. Do you know anything about the two women in apartment 2F?

I know they’re funny. And I don’t mean with jokes.

Besides that.

The little lady crossed her arms, pushing her ample bosom near her chin. You calling on here because of the trouble they had?

Exactly. Tell me about the trouble.

Don’t know much. Just that Mr. Rankin came hollering at them. Don’t know what about though.

Mr. Rankin? Who’s that?

The old woman pointed down the hall. He’s the butcher. Got a shop on the corner a block up.

And you heard this Mr. Rankin arguing with the ladies?

I told you that already. You need to listen. He yelled on and on about his kids and how she promised to deliver right away. That’s all, but I don’t know anything.

Putting his hat back on and giving the brim a polite flick, he said, Thank you, ma’am, for your time. You’ve been immensely helpful.

Times is hard. We gotta help each other out. Right? Like how I’m sure the police got a reward for this information.

They very well might. I’m not with them, remember? I’m a private investigator.

The woman’s face tightened. She huffed and stormed back into her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

As Drummond took the stairs to the street, he weighed the likelihood that Anne Parker had murdered her lover. Perhaps Xia and Mr. Rankin had started up together. Parker catches them and loses her restraint. Next thing she knows, she’s killed them. Possible — except Anne Parker’s behavior did not seem like that of a woman who had killed her lover. Still, she was hiding something.

He turned left and headed up Patterson Avenue toward the corner. Well before he reached Rankin’s Butcher Shoppe (with a silhouette of a pig’s head on the sign), he knew things had turned bad. Two police cars had been parked across the street and a crowd had formed outside the store forming a sea of hats. As he approached,