Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (27 page)

“That’s probably best. You are the victim, but you know the DA has the last word, so long as the judge takes the recommendation, and it sounds like to me, if we read between the lines, that Porter wants to keep Turner where she knows she can reach him for the murder charge. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be sharing info with us. I think that’s probably her way of asking us to live with the decision and sit tight.”

“Your are probably right, Garland. Going to jail for beating me up is only one of Angel’s issues at the moment.”

Garland seemed pleased that I was not going to ask him to buck the system in Atlanta. He perked up. “You got that right. I know Turner’s attorney, a fellow named Toby Brice. He’s one of the good old boy Roswell crowd. Saw him today having lunch at the Mill. We sat together and he gave me an earful.”

I wasn’t sure what Garland was saying. “Do you mean he was talking about Turner’s case with you over lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought talking about your client’s business wasn’t ethical.”

“Well, it isn’t. He didn’t use any names. Of course I know the story has to be Turner’s. Here’s what he said, you decide.” Garland was loving this bit of gossip. “Turner must have paid close attention to the news stories about OJ Simpson’s book, because he told Toby he didn’t kill Sanders and in fact wasn’t even there at the time; but if he had been there, which he wasn’t, here’s what would have happened.”

Garland took a breath and settled in to tell his story. “According to Turner, what could have happened is this: the two of them argued about Sanders wanting to go upstairs and take some old box. Turner didn’t want Sanders doing that because it would tip off Tournay someone had been in the house. Turner and Sanders fight; both get scratches, exchange a few punches, and Sanders pulls away and starts up the stairs. Turner is behind Sanders on the stairs. Suddenly the door into the hall at the top of the stairs swings open, and Sanders screams, ‘Oh, my God!’ Turner looks up and sees what looks like a long, flowing white dress disappearing behind the door. Sanders tumbles down the stairs, hits his head on the cement floor, and Turner runs like hell.

“Angel Turner says, of course, this is only a fictional account of what could have happened, if he had been there. I’m betting if Sanders did fall down the stairs, Angel Turner cracked his head with the rebar while he was out, just for insurance. Good way for Angel to dissolve a bad partnership. Toby says Turner believes Sanders saw someone in the upper hall and that someone scared him enough to make him lose his balance and fall. That someone, Turner told Toby Brice, was a ghost. A ghost in a white dress. Turner says the two of them had seen the same figure once before down by the creek. Isn’t that a hoot? Especially, when you consider Paul Tournay also thought he saw a ghost in the yard. Remember that? He told his grandfather he’d seen his grandmother’s ghost. A ghost, can you believe it?” Garland paused his story to laugh.

I wasn’t laughing. “Hey, Promise, did you hear what I said? A ghost. I thought you’d get a kick out of Turner’s story. Why aren’t you laughing?”

So, that was it. Now it made sense. Sanders was trying to get upstairs. He planned to steal the antique letterbox. If Mitchell Sanders had taken the box, Paul Sr.’s secret might have stayed hidden.

When I didn’t say anything, Garland waded into the silence. “Hello, Promise. Are you there? Come on, Sugar, talk to me. Your silence tells me you know something I don’t. You are the worst poker player in the state. What is it? Tell me. You wouldn’t hold out on me, would you?”

“Now, Garland,” I answered, “You know I wouldn’t hold out on you. No more than you would hold out on me.”

“Why does that answer not give me reassurance?”

Call it petty, but Garland had that one coming to him, after he conveniently forgot to share the Tournay trust information stashed under his desk. Susan was right; of course, my friend Garland Wang does have hidden agendas. Don’t we all? “Thanks for being with me on the Ms. Porter conversation, Garland. I really appreciate it. I mean it. You being on the line for moral support made the medicine go down a lot easier. Give my best to Sara and Aileen. I have to go now. Believe it or not, I have a dinner date.”

“Covering with moss the dead’s unclosed eye,
the little redbreast teacheth charitie.”
Michael Drayton
(The Owl, 1604)

20.

Days accumulated into weeks after Paul Tournay’s guest appearance on Aileen’s show. Susan told me she’d learned from later shows he would be a frequent guest, reviewing art and entertainment around Atlanta. I had not watched
Listen Atlanta
again, nor had I heard from Paul. I think I felt a little betrayed by Aileen and Paul’s easy alliance, or should I say, collusion. I recalled Barkley’s side comment to me on the day I’d visited the studio: that half of Atlanta wanted to be Aileen, and the other half wanted to kill her. Whatever partnership Paul had struck with Aileen, I hoped what he netted was worth it. Not that there was anything wrong with Paul becoming a television personality. In my opinion he was certainly talented enough for prime time television. It was just that Paul’s new found talent bloomed from his grandfather’s theft and smuggling; and that didn’t sit right with me, nor did it mesh with my image of Paul being a man of integrity.

I seemed to be the only person who considered Senior Paul Tournay’s World War II exploits criminal. Even Susan said that after giving it more thought, she decided he and Boo Turner only took what the Nazis were determined to steal for themselves. Better them than the Germans, she’d said. That seemed too pat an answer for me. What about returning the stolen property after the war? Daniel wouldn’t give an opinion at all.

A few times over the past week, my constant companions, the Should, Second-guess, and What-if girls committee members sang me a chorus of the pitfalls of being self-righteous and reminded me that in my counseling days, there were more than a handful of clients whose faulty thinking, and thus bad choices, regularly ignited my judgmental nature. In truth, I’ve never mastered the—don’t get heavily invested in the outcome, just be there for the journey—part of counseling. At my core, I want everyone to straighten up and fly right. Just as well I retired when I did. At least I’d curbed my controlling urge and resisted doing a Tarot card reading on Paul, just to see what may be marching his way. Spreading out cards on Paul’s life, without his permission, felt invasive, even if I only half believed the cards. And besides, what if I did see trouble for him in the cards? What could I do about it?

October finished ripe with cool temperatures and frequent rains. On the Monday before, I’d invested the morning at the public library researching the McNeal family and found January McNeal’s name mentioned in a 1901 purchase of fifty-two acres located in the area later named Fire Mountain, the same mountain I see from my kitchen window. The seller was a man named Daniel Joab Sorley. I supposed Daniel is still a good name for men in Perry County.

The county census for the following year reported January as being twenty-seven years old, a farmer, living on his own land with his wife, Reba, and one male child. It was a mystery to me what crops January could farm on the steep slopes of Fire Mountain. I must be getting more comfortable with the idea of this Perry County January McNeal being my kin, because when I ciphered the aged backhanded cursive handwriting completing January’s census information, I was not surprised to find his son’s name, James, matched that of my grandfather’s. I did not know my great grandmother’s name was Reba and wondered how she came to marry January. So far, one land sale and one census entry were the only official records I’d located, excepting a current property tax listing showing the Forestry Service now owned some of the Sorley/McNeal acreage and Fletcher Enloe owned the rest. That information didn’t surprise me. Fletcher Enloe had been baiting me all along and probably could recite an extensive history of the McNeals.

The librarian, a Perry County native about my age, who helped me sift through stacks and stacks of census information, recalled hiking and hunting Fire Mountain many years ago with her brothers. On one such adventure, she remembered tracing a small waterfall up one side of the mountain and finding a burned out cabin with the rock chimney still standing. How the cabin was burned, and when, she didn’t know. I feel in my soul she is right about the cabin being on the mountain. It waits for me. In my mind, I smell the cabin’s damp soot married with blooming honeysuckle vines, and see hundred-year-old charred timbers lying crosswise in the doorway, where they collapsed into each other arms. At some point, I know I’ll swallow my pride and ask Enloe about January McNeal, but not yet. For now, I will sit with the few facts I know about the McNeal family, and wait.

Earlier in the day I hiked up the abandoned logging road along the lower crust of January’s mountain. I didn’t find a waterfall, or cabin. It must be higher up. When I stood atop the lower ridge looking back down on the road, I listened, my breath held, for the metallic whine of wagon wheels, a sound I’d awakened to several times now in the predawn stillness. There was no wagon on the road in the full light of day; only the wind and a hawk’s cry split the blue, cloudless sky. Was it possible the lumbering wagon was just an ordinary dream, with no connection to my great grandfather? Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to relive the sadness sung by those wagon wheels climbing January’s mountain. No, that was not possible. The presence of January McNeal in this place was substantial and real. I was sure the vision, the wagon, and the cabin, would nudge me to January’s story sooner or later.

After studying the narrow potholed roadbed again, and committing the washed out ruts to memory, I looked down, back towards the valley, where my gray clapboard house and side porches seemed a great winged bird hovering on the fall-kissed ground. Minnie and Pearl grazed the remaining October grass in the pasture, oblivious to being watched. I wondered if goats felt happiness, or loneliness. The morning was cold and still, yet, under the stillness of the here and now, the mountain’s soul exhaled mist with each breath I took, and where I stood, a gathering of sweet smelling hemlocks and pines began to blow a breeze as they bent toward each other, whispering secrets to the laurel. This wasn’t Atlanta. Not home yet. Nevertheless, I could feel all of them—trees, water and stones—slowly beginning to settle in my heart.

Later, from the back yard where I worked, I had a front row seat to the mountain’s panorama of acres upon acres of black oaks dried to burnished copper, and red maples, sixty foot tall scarlet bouquets, dressing the ridge above me. It is no wonder they call it Fire Mountain. I could imagine a person named January McNeal wanting, needing, to possess such beauty. My jeans and hooded sweatshirt felt good against the late afternoon chill as I raked fallen leaves into a round wire frame for composting, and separated out sticks and small limbs to toss into the metal burn barrel. Daniel called earlier in the afternoon. Said he wanted to drop by with some dried rosemary, sent by MaMa Allen from her herb garden. I’m not sure what that’s all about. No harm, I guess, in sharing a cup of coffee with the man. He’s easy company. Maybe today, since Susan had refused to do it for me, I could think of a casual way of giving Daniel the Frank Ball violin.

I stood upright; rubbing still tender bruises on my side and arm, and smelled crackling cinders mixed with the aroma of wood smoke circling back to me in the breeze. Though physically busy, my mind worked elsewhere, turning over and over the Tournay business for the hundredth time, questioning if my interaction helped any of them, or set anything to right in the universe. Becca was still Becca—not speaking to Paul, that I knew of, and it seemed Paul was adrift with his newfound notoriety and fifteen-minutes of fame.

Garland’s fee had helped stave off my financial worries for another couple of months. I was very grateful for the respite. Yet the whole experience, bruises and all, surely had to be about more than paying my bills. I could not forget it was Paul Tournay Sr. who had called to me from the dream of Stella’s death and set the events into motion. I knew if I could retrace my steps, I would walk the same path. I would have to.

I’d spoken to Garland a couple of times about the stolen art work, and, of course, he was right in that Tournay’s business records didn’t give enough information to trace down exactly what antiquities were originally stolen, or who finally purchased them, or if they were stolen at all. I think Garland was being honest with me, mostly because if there was enough proof, I believe Aileen would be on the story like white on rice. Being the voracious reporter, Aileen would throw Paul in the lion’s den in a New York minute, in exchange for an exclusive expose’ of his grandfather’s success in duping the Nazis.

That left Boo Turner to tell the tale, and I suspected his admissions to me that day at the antiques mall were probably all we would ever get from him. The only physical evidence remaining was the golden enameled triptych and what silver and china was found in the half-empty crate in the Tournay basement. Not much to go on. As to the triptych, the beautiful Madonna and child panels, Garland’s information from Aileen was that it would stay on loan to the museum whose curator was the expert appearing on her show, until, and if, Interpol could determine it was indeed stolen from France, or wherever. I saw somewhere, a magazine maybe, that Interpol has been instrumental in recovering over three hundred fifty-five million dollars worth of stolen art since 1991, so it was possible the Madonna and child would be returned to the rightful owner. In one conversation, Garland told me a bit of gossip—according to Aileen, Paul and Barkley were “an item” on the
Listen Atlanta
set, acting like happy lovebirds. Maybe I’d send Paul a card; let him know I’m happy for him. He and Barkley might be the perfect match.

The repetitive motion of bending and gathering leaves and tossing sticks into the fire left my thoughts free to wander from Paul, Garland and Aileen, and Angel Turner, to my ex-husband. RB Barnes was a failure as a husband, but he is a first rate cop. I was certain he would pick at the facts of the Mitchell Sanders case like an old scab until he exposed enough evidence to prosecute somebody for murder. Fortunately, he’d told Garland that he didn’t think that someone would be Paul.

I was no longer dreaming of Stella. That was a good thing. Had the discovery of his prayer for forgiveness, and Stella’s ring, given her husband peace in the next world? Was revealing the truth of Stella’s death part of what Tournay wanted from me? I didn’t know the answer to either of those questions, probably never would. Digging the rake deeper into moist ground, I released its rich earthy breath and drew it deep into myself. I recalled something I’d read in the Tao Te Ching. I believe the line is: “darkness within darkness, the gate to all mystery.”

Late in the afternoon, as I stirred the waning embers of the metal barrel, two quick horn blasts startled me and I turned to see the UPS truck bounce down my driveway and stop. By his wild driving, I surmised this was the same young man I’d seen regularly at Fletcher Enloe’s house. He jumped easily from the truck and flashed a broad smile. “Here you go ma’am,” he said, and thrust a letter-sized cardboard envelope my way. “Hope you won the lottery.”

I returned his smile and watched him sprint back to his vehicle. When I noticed the Beauford, South Carolina, origination on the package, my smile disappeared. Not that I expected a lottery win, but I certainly didn’t expect this, either. In my heart I’d hoped for a letter from Luke. He’d called once since the Tournay case ended, saying he was in New York for three days, and then would leave again for Texas. I wanted to believe my son was safely conducting oil business in Texas, but couldn’t. RB Barnes’ half admission of what business Luke was really conducting had confirmed my fears. How would I ever take a peaceful breath knowing Luke’s life could be in danger every day? Would I be better off not knowing? Maybe, though I knew I didn’t want that either. What I wanted was for my son to be safe. I ripped the tab off the envelope and drew out the single sheet of paper.

Dear Violin Lady
, the letter began in a careful rounded hand.
I had me some worrisome nights, so I took myself to see the boy. We had a long talk and he showed me Stella’s ruby and diamond ring. Said he’s had it all along and didn’t even know it. Ain’t that something? I’d most forgot Paul got it off her that night and put it in his pocket. Didn’t see no need in telling him that. Better to let it go. I think he’s a good boy. For all the trouble you went to for him, you must think so too. When I got back to South Carolina, I remembered I was the one took Stella’s scarf from around her neck. Don’t remember why I did, or why I kept it all these years. It don’t weigh hardly nothing, except lately that little piece of nothing has been heavy on my soul. I’m not meaning to pass the burden on to you, I just can’t think of what else to do with it. Couldn’t give it to the boy, don’t seem right, not after what that scarf done to Stella
. I read the letter again, pausing to think about the last sentence. The letter was signed, “
Yours truly, Solomon Beaumont Turner
.”

The faded red scarf came easily from the envelope, its silk tender soft through my fingers. I held it to my face and smelled the worn remembrance of another time. For a moment there was pulsating Cuban rhythm played on bata drums, ballet slippers following suit across polished wood floors, and a woman’s frenzied laughter. I listened to the feverish music and felt the woman’s heartbeat deep in my chest. Too soon the music stopped; there was only a crow cawing above me, taunting growing shadows of nightfall. When I released the scarf, freeing it into the flames, it caught instantly, igniting into a shower of fine white lights. Then, it was gone.