Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (26 page)

“Fame is only good for one thing, they will cash your
check in a small town.” …Truman Capote

18.

Over the next three days I nursed my wounds and stayed close to home. By midmorning of the fourth day I was going stir crazy and beginning to feel guilty about pampering myself. Susan called about eleven. She was excited and talking a blue streak. As best I could tell, she was saying if I felt like driving I should get down to Granny’s Store in the next fifteen minutes. “Hurry, but be careful,” she said and hung up.

I grabbed my purse and keys from the kitchen counter; told Mamma Cat to mind the farm and drove into the parking lot at the store in just under ten minutes. Susan met me, literally jumping up and down. “Oh, my God, you are not going to believe this!” she pulled me in the door and back to the counter where the television droned. “I knew you couldn’t get the Atlanta station at your house worth a flip. That’s why you just had to come down here. Are you ready for a heart attack?” She was hopping up and down again while adjusting the volume louder.

Aileen Wang peered out at me from the television with her fabulous haircut and penetrating black eyes. “Our next guest is Paul Tournay,” she sounded as though she had discovered the secret of the century. “Recently, an art treasure of inestimable value was mysteriously discovered in Mr. Tournay’s Buckhead home. Experts believe the three-part eleventh century liturgical panel of the Madonna and Child once called a small church in Limoges, France, home. Today, here on
Listen Atlanta
, we will give you an exclusive first time look at this treasure. First, Mr. Paul Tournay, welcome to our show.”

The camera panned over to Paul. He played humble to the audience, giving Aileen a shy nod of acknowledgement. For the next ten minutes we listened to Aileen draw out Paul’s version of the discovery of the triptych, which by the way, had only a small resemblance to my own recollection. The best thing I could say about his story was that I was identified only as a close friend who was visiting on the night of the theft. Daniel’s presence was omitted all together, as was his nifty little tracking device and the trap we’d set for the thief. According to Paul’s recount, he’d called the Atlanta police when he suspected an intruder in the basement. After milking the story for all it was worth, Aileen cut to a clip of her interviewing an expert on church art from some mid-western museum. The short recitation showed Aileen on one side of the three-part panel, and the expert on the other, with the expert extolling the exquisite beauty of the enameling and gold leaf encrusting the piece. There was no mention of the panel being pictured in Paul Tournay Sr.’s earlier book on Carolingian art. I wondered how she managed to film that segment when RB Barnes had told me that night the art would not be released, or touched by outsiders, until it was no longer needed by the District Attorney as evidence. It would be a mistake to ever underestimate Aileen Wang.

After goo-gooing over Paul for another five minutes, and reminding the world he was an accomplished actor, director, and singer, Aileen closed with a comment about Angel Turner. “And finally folks,” she announced, “we have from confidential sources that the alleged perpetrator of the theft of the Madonna from Mr. Tournay’s home is free on ten thousand dollars bond, however (she enthusiastically emphasized the, however) a plea bargain is in the offering and the case will likely be settled without a long and drawn out jury trial. Count on
Listen Atlanta
to keep you informed.”

A truck commercial for a Chevrolet dealership in Jonesboro blared out at us and Susan muted the sound. “What a crock!” she bellowed. I was still to amazed to comment. “I can’t believe it! Not one word about how the thing got in Tournay’s basement in the first place, or if it will get back to France where it belongs. Or, excuse me, how you risked your life to bring the whole shoddy business to light. Or that, most importantly, Turner killed Mitchell Sanders because of all the stolen stuff!” She was on a roll now and stomped around in a circle, flailing her arms and continuing to enumerate the shortcomings of Aileen’s broadcast. “See there,” she pointed at me, “you and Daddy should have had me down in Atlanta that night. You two are just too passive for your own good. I’d have made damn sure somebody got the story straight!”

“What story?” Daniel stood in the doorway. Susan bombarded him with a three-minute capsule of Paul’s interview and he just shook his head. “Get a hold of yourself, Babe. You’re gonna blow a gasket.”

“Well, I might!” Susan hollered, “Aren’t you two pissed about it?”

Daniel arched an eyebrow at me. I was still trying to gauge what I felt. I was irritated, and more than a little disappointed in Paul for commercializing the affair; but I also knew Aileen Wang well enough to know she could talk a two-year-old out of an all day sucker and convince him it belonged to her in the first place, if she saw a good story in it. Who knows how much she had salted Paul’s version of what happened with her own slant of it? “I guess I’m wondering who’s the confidential source is that told Aileen the case is settling out of court.”

Susan jumped in on that remark. “Yeah, who do you think told her that? You know, I took a pre-law course and learned they do that a lot. That’s the way the system works.”

I really hadn’t thought much about the legal issues, though Susan was probably correct. It did seem odd to me that I was learning more about the case on television than from the DA’s office firsthand. After all, wasn’t I the victim of an assault? Daniel decided to change the subject. “Okay, ladies, leave all this sorry talk inside and come on out to my truck. I’ve got something to show you.”

When we walked outside into the parking lot, I noticed Fletcher Enloe lower his slim frame from the passenger side of Daniel’s Ford pick-up and walk around back to the bed. We met him there and I wished him a good morning and said I hoped he was well. He replied he was, and extended his arm into the platform of the truck and began removing a canvas tarp from something substantial. As the tarp fell away, a wire kennel towered well above the sides of the truck, and inside the homemade wire and wood house stood two of the most beautiful goats on God’s green earth. Mamma was deep madder brown, chamois soft, rear leggings of white with another kiss of white on her forehead. Her ears stood erect and slightly forward, as though listening for my approval. Her baby girl was the palest of brown, coffee with lots and lots of luscious cream, and long hooded Marlene Dietrich eyelashes. “Oh, my Lord!” was all I could say.

Fletcher cleared his throat. “Well, I heard you been laid up here lately and me and Daniel figured you wasn’t up for goat shopping. So, we took ourselves to Walhalla this morning to the auction. Now these here are fine girls. They’re Alpines, excellent milking breed, and we got the papers to prove it. He reached through the wire and scratched Mamma on the side of her face. She seemed to like it. “They’ll make you proud. And as I told you, I aim to milk her for you for a while, once her baby gets up well enough she can spare the milk. That being settled, I want you to know right up front, and I already told Daniel, he paid too much for these here goats, good as they are. He got to bidding and paid half again what he should. If you think we didn’t do right by you, I’ll kick in some to make the price fair. Can’t abide you thinking I’d squander your money.”

The phone rang from inside the store and Susan ran in to answer it. It was turning into quite a morning, full of surprises. Both men stared at me and I knew I should say something, but I was so captivated by the animals, I couldn’t think of a thing. Finally I managed to stammer, “They are truly beautiful, Mr. Enloe.”

Enloe dropped his head slightly and shuffled his feet a couple of times in the dirt. Had I embarrassed him? He announced he was going inside to get himself a cup of our free coffee. “Did I say something wrong?” I asked Daniel.

“No, no. Fletcher’s put out with me about bidding so high on the does. He thinks the fellow I was bidding against was probably a plant from the owner, just to drive the price up. I believe the price was fair. Fletcher will be fine once he realizes you aren’t going to make a big deal about what I paid.”

My little independent person alarm went off in my left ear. “How do you know I won’t make a big deal about it?”

Daniel crossed his arms and leaned against the bed of the truck. “Well, I reckon cause nobody’s asking you to pay for them, so why would you care?”

The alarm rang louder. “Daniel, I couldn’t ask you to pay for my goats. I made a deal with Fletcher and I’ll keep the bargain. When we get to the house, I’ll write you a check.”

“Good Lord, woman. Can’t you just accept a gift and say thank you? We aren’t talking about thousands of dollars here!”

This was not going well. “Please don’t take offense. I appreciate you taking the time to go all the way to Walhalla for me, and it’s not the amount of money so much as…” I hesitated.

“As what?” Frown lines deepened between his eyebrows, and his ever-present Stetson was tugged down farther on his head.

“As,” I waffled, thinking of what to say. “Well, as it is a matter of boundaries. I need boundaries. It feels a little presumptuous of you and Fletcher to go and shop for me, without my asking, and I just need to know… well, I just need to know, that is I need to feel…”

“Well, hell,” Daniel broke in, “If you want to pay me for these two presents I was trying to give you, then fine. You can write me a damn check. I know what you’re getting at, Ms Therapist. I’m not as dumb a mountain boy as you think. I hear what you say. You want to keep your independence and not be beholden. I understand. I’ve been single a long time myself.” He stopped and readjusted his hat, replacing it to the same position low on his forehead as before. The thought crossed my mind that I had not found the courage to give him the violin I’d bought—the one he didn’t ask for—and I felt my face flush. I wondered if his reaction would be similar to mine. I would definitely have to ask Susan to give him the thing and be done with it. “I’ll tell you what,” he offered, “let’s get these girls unloaded and settled in your pasture, and then we can have dinner tonight and talk this out. What do you say?”

I grimaced. “Oh, Daniel, I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I appreciate your offer, but dinner may not be a good idea.”

Now he removed his hat and slapped it against his jeans, sending a puff of dust up between us. “Woman, you’re making me squirrel-nuts. I’m telling you I’m trainable, and I don’t bite. There are just two little goats in this truck, not a herd of registered Angus, and all I’m talking about is sharing a side of ribs and some barbecue. It ain’t a lifetime commitment.”

The goats began stomping anxiously at the floor of the truck bed. “Do they have names?” I sidestepped.

“They do. Minnie and Pearl. Pearl is the baby.”

“You must be kidding. Someone gave these elegant creatures tacky, old fashioned names like Minnie and Pearl?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, yes they did. Could be that someone wasn’t looking hard enough at what she had and missed how special they are.” He let a couple of beats roll over me, just to make sure I’d gotten the point. “Will you have dinner with me or not? If not, I’ll respect your decision and not ask again.”

The man made a compelling, if not subtle, argument. “How about six-thirty?”

“This is a court of law, young man, not a court of justice.”
…..Oliver Wendell Holmes

19.

For the next several hours the Tournay business hovered somewhere in another universe. I was much more concerned with learning from Fletcher how much feed Minnie and Pearl required and whether store bought goat rations were as good as mixing your own. Fletcher instructed me on basic goat anatomy while Minnie patiently allowed me to inspect her hoofs and scratch her lightly along her face, much as I would to sooth a cat. I had no idea goats have only between six and eight teeth, depending on the age, all located on the lower jaw, and are in the ruminate family, possessing four stomach chambers for digestion of hay, pasture grass, and my blueberry bushes. There was the matter of adding minerals to their diet and settling on the proper monthly wormer, since goats are highly susceptible to debilitating intestinal worms. Fletcher favored the herbal variety available from a supplier south of Atlanta, whose catalog he “conveniently” produced from his jacket pocket and gave to me. I was amazed at the products available, everything from stainless steel milking pails, to cheese making equipment and various medicines with names totally foreign to me. The reality hit me that I needed to learn a lot more about raising goats than I had imagined necessary. It was similar to being deluged with so much baby information when Luke was born. Each new fact confirmed how unprepared I was for the experience of motherhood; then each time I held him, I knew I would somehow find a way to meet the challenge.

Finally, hay was in the barn and feed stored in an airtight plastic container away from scavenging mice and opossum. Daniel rigged up a system to assure fresh water was available at all times, and he and Fletcher repaired the sagging gate from the pasture to the yard. The whole time we worked to settle the goats in my pasture, Hubert pranced up and down the fence on his side, snorting and trying his best to get their attention. Minnie pretty much ignored him and gave him a, “can’t you see I’m not studying you right now cause I’m busy,” look. Fletcher said her lack of interest was normal, and the fact that she made eye contact with him was enough to give Hubert hope. They would get along fine, he assured me. Goats, he observed, are not nearly as picky as some people.

When Fletcher and Daniel left, I gave the goat girls one last pat on the rump and went back to the house. I’d missed lunch and was thirsty for a tall glass of iced tea. As I was making myself a banana, peanut butter, and mayonnaise sandwich—my favorite comfort food, except for chocolate—I noticed the green light on the phone was blinking, so I listened to the message while I chewed, then replayed it to make sure I got the number down correctly. A Ms. Porter from the DA’s office, in Atlanta, was trying to reach me, and wanted a call back as soon as possible. I could guess what the call was about and really didn’t want to talk to her.

Mamma Cat meowed for my attention and I bent down to stroke the top of her head. “Hello, Sweetheart. I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?” She meowed again, a long drawn out cry of distress. “What?” I asked her, and looked towards the utility room and her basket of babies. My heart sank. The basket was empty. The sandwich got tossed on the counter and I hurried to where the babies were supposed to be napping in between nursing. The problem was evident: one tiny baby was behind the door trying to navigate the waxed utility room floor on frail spidery legs, the other had wedged himself between the washer and dryer. As soon as I managed to extricate baby boy from the crevice and onto the open floor again, Mamma snatched him up in her mouth and deposited him back in the basket. I gently lifted the second baby from the floor and returned her to mother’s side. “I know it’s not fair, Mamma,” I explained, as I stroked her head again, “but take it from me, once they learn to walk, our control as a mother goes down hill rapidly. I know this from experience. Next thing you know, you call them on the cell phone and they are hanging out with people who call them, ‘Bucko,’ and you don’t even know what country they are in.”

With a mental note to make the utility room safer for toddling kittens, I ate a couple more bites of my now soggy sandwich and placed a call to Garland. I figured he probably already knew what Ms. Porter’s news would be, unless he and Aileen were at war and not speaking to each other, again. After I dutifully stayed on hold until he finished a call from a paying client, Garland agreed to get Ms. Porter on the phone for a three-way conference call. I waited. A short time later a female voice came on the line.

“Meredith Porter here. How may I assist you?” I pictured her as an over worked, recent Emory University graduate, still trying to hold onto her college-styled long hair and youthful ideals. She would have seen
Lord of the Rings
at least three times and usually voted Democrat. Garland gave the appropriate introductions and I said hello and thanked her for calling. Now that the pleasantries were dispensed, I waited for her announcement. She plunged into a rather curt canned speech unlaced with any vestiges of youthful ideals. So much for first impressions.

“As I am sure you are aware of, it is the job of our department to bring alleged criminals before the court for adjudication to the fullest extent of the law.” Her accent moved noticeably north, possibly as far as Massachusetts as she continued. “It is also our job not to hamper the courts with unnecessary trial burdens when we can expedite cases.” Yes, yes, whatever, I wanted to say, just get on with it. “Tell me, Dr. McNeal, do you feel Angel Turner is a continued threat to you?” How in the world would I know that? When I didn’t immediately answer, Ms. Porter pressed forward. “Of course, there are safeguards built into any agreement reached with Angel Turner. For instance, the defendant will be restrained from coming within five hundred yards of you, or your home, or business, and is not allowed phone or written contact with you.”

Reassessment was in order. Ms. Porter would definitely not respond to
Lord of the Rings
, unless she got to keep the ring for herself. No, she was a
Terminator 2
person, and probably didn’t go to Emory.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I interrupted. “Why don’t you just began by telling me what agreement is being considered?”

There was a moment of silence. Garland spoke up. “Ms. Porter, come on, half the town knows your office has already cut a deal with Turner’s lawyer. Christ, we heard that much on the television this morning. Don’t be cagey, just tell us what the deal is, so we can all get back to our lives.”

Miss
Terminator 2
took a deep breath and forged ahead. “Well, Mr. Wang. If you want the clipped down version, here it is. Number one: Turner has no prior criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. Number two: his, or her, whatever the case may be, allegation is that Dr. McNeal attacked him, or her, in the woods along Howell Creek and he, or she, was only defending himself, or herself. Unlikely, to be sure; still, an arguable point.” I was thinking it wasn’t much of an argument for me since I was the one with bruises and Angel was the one with the three-foot iron rebar. “Number three,” she enumerated, “Turner will testify that the object taken from the house was given to him, or her, by a former resident of the house, Mitchell Sanders, and that he was simply taking what was rightfully his.” I wanted to interject she forgot to include the untidy bit of luck about Sanders being dead and not able to verify Angel’s story. There was no need. She covered that loose end with her next comment. “Sanders, of course, is dead and can’t confirm or deny that fact.”

“Perhaps that’s because Angel Turner killed him.” I inserted into the conversation.

“Well, that’s number four,” Porter said, “the coroner’s report is inconclusive at this point as to whether Sanders fell down the stairs, causing his own death; or was pushed. Although, I will say Lt. Barnes is convinced it was murder and is pushing hard for more time to investigate. We don’t have evidence to place Turner at the scene that night because the grandfather says Turner was in the apartment when he went to bed and was there when he woke up the next morning. So far nobody at the apartment complex saw Turner leave, or return, during the night. In short folks, we have zip, nada, nothing.”

“What about fingerprints in the basement area?” Garland queried.

“There are prints all over the basement, including Dr. McNeal’s, as well as Sanders’. Turner maintains she, or he, had been in the basement area often with Sanders because they stored antiques down there, antiques Turner says they owned jointly.”

“This is ludicrous,” I exclaimed. “How do you account for the fact that the owner of the house, Paul Tournay, knew nothing about such an arrangement? And besides, Paul kicked Sanders out days before he took a dive down the basement stairs. Thus, Turner didn’t have the right to be in the house, at all.”

“That’s true, although Turner says he, or she, didn’t know Sanders no longer lived there, and didn’t know Sanders was dead.”

“Well, I know that’s a lie because I told her grandfather myself.”

“I understand you are frustrated, Dr. McNeal. Frankly, so are we.”

Garland was losing patience with our little banter back and forth. “Okay, You’ve made your point, Porter. What is the DA going to do?”

I took the cordless phone out on the porch and sat in one of the rockers. I might as well be comfortable. “Here’s the deal on the table,” she announced, “Turner gets to plea down to theft on the Madonna panels, a lesser charge from burglary, and enters a plea of battery for attacking Dr. McNeal. On Sanders’ death, we sit on that for right now to see if we come up with something to link Turner. Maybe Turner did killed Sanders, pushed him down the stairs. There is one possibility that might help us: the coroner’s report notes a narrow straight-line indention bruise on Sanders’ skull, apart from the other massive injury sustained from the fall. If we can make that match the rebar Turner hit you with, Dr. McNeal, we may have a case. Of course, what I just told you is totally confidential and if you should repeat it, I would have to bring charges against you for interference of justice of an ongoing case. We never discuss an ongoing case with outsiders. I repeat: we never discuss an ongoing case with outsiders. You get my drift?”

I could hear Garland thumping the erasure end of a pencil on his desk. He was ready for this conversation to be over. “So, how much time will Turner do for assaulting Dr. McNeal?” he asked.

Ms. Porter sniffed and cleared her throat, very ladylike, of course. No doubt the Southern fall had given her northern constitution allergies. “No jail time, intense probation for ninety days, confined to his house and wearing an ankle monitor. After that, another two years standard probation. All this would be concurrent with the theft sentence.”

The thumping pencil sound stopped. I heard Garland’s desk chair squeak, maybe as he sat upright. I know I certainly sat upright. “You mean Turner gets to stay home and watch soaps on TV for three months, no jail time?”

“That’s it, Mr. Wang. That’s the deal. I know you aren’t happy, but for your information we have other problems with Turner also, like if there were jail time, where do we send him, or her? His lawyer makes a point. Because of Turner’s, shall we say, current undecided sexual identity, we don’t know whether to put him with the men or women. Either would be a problem. He was only in a holding cell for three hours the night he was arrested and some cracker beat the living shit out of him. What do you think will happen if he goes to Reidsville prison?”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this Porter. Sounds like you feel bad for Turner,” Garland carped.

“Oh please, don’t try to shovel that shit in my lap!” She volleyed back, “I could care less about the
alleged
perpetrator. My job is to do what’s best for the county and the State of Georgia, and I don’t want one of my cases reversed on some kind of stupid technicality, or have the ACLU up my back because Turner gets killed in jail over some low rent assault and theft charge. If he goes down later on a murder charge—different ballgame—I want him alive. Right now, I’m cutting the best deal for the justice system, and seeking a realistic punishment for the crimes involved. What about you, Dr. McNeal? What would you want in a deal with Turner?”

I left the rocking chair and faced the sun disappearing over Fire Mountain. Acid was rising in my throat and burning the back of my mouth. “What do I want? I want our laws enforced; that’s what I want. I want Turner to take full responsibility for his, or her, actions. Silly me, I’m big on personal responsibility. I want what’s right to be rewarded and what’s wrong to be punished.”

“Oh yes, speaking of responsibility, part of the deal is Turner offers you a face to face apology, if you so desire.”

I almost laughed. That seemed a ridiculous idea to me. “I’ll pass on that, thanks. I can’t imagine an apology at this point would be in any way sincere.”

She ignored me and went on to her last point. “Turner will also pay any doctor bills you incurred due to your injuries, and compensate you for any loss of work time. You will need to fill out a form on the monetary losses. I’ll mail it to you. Get it back to me right away. Now, if you two don’t have any further questions, I have to hang up now. I have someone waiting in my office. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. Have a good day.” Her line went silent.

For a moment I thought Garland had hung up as well. Then he spoke quietly. “What about it, Promise? Do you want me to stir up some trouble downtown about Turner? Or, can you live with Ms. Porter’s solution?”

I guess I was hoping Garland would be irate. That’s certainly the way I felt. He wasn’t. All I could hear was a jaded,
oh well; today someone else gets to make the rules
, tone to his voice. After calming down for a few seconds, I knew I didn’t want to fight. “I’ll live with it, Garland. Just let it be.”