Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (7 page)

I sighed. “When I grow up, I want to be Aileen.”

Barkley smirked. “Well,
yes
, you and half of Atlanta,” he shot back. “The other half wants to kill her!”

I knew that was probably true. Aileen had journalistically attacked just about everybody in Atlanta worth attacking, and her viewers loved her for it. In five minutes Barkley had me logged onto Aileen’s PC and into an archive of the Atlanta Journal and Constitution newspaper articles and I began my search for clues. Remembering Garland said he thought Stella Tournay died in the fall of 1957, and based on my past experience with Garland’s steel-trap memory for those things he wishes to retain, I started scanning newspaper articles from late August of that year. Bingo. I found what I was looking for on the front page of the September fourth edition, below a story of the Arkansas National Guard, bayonets raised in the photograph, following Governor Faubus’ orders to block nine black students from entering a Little Rock high school. The children looked terrified, the guardsmen determined. Oh, what sad times those were. Running below the fold, the local reporter’s account of Stella’s death took up one and a half columns and carried an old debutante photograph of the deceased.

After the usual basic facts of Stella’s birth, education, and marriage, as well as her family’s pedigree and a brief list of family real estate holdings in Atlanta, the reporter quoted her husband, Paul Tournay, a local art professor. Tourney had told the reporter he returned home late the night before, with their daughter, Becca, and found Mrs. Tournay absent from the house. The front door was not locked and there was no sign of a struggle. When Tournay failed to locate his wife at any of her friends or relatives, he notified the Atlanta police. Tournay offered no further information in the article. The Sergeant assigned to the case reported the yard was muddy from recent rains; yet no footprints were found leading away from the house to indicate Mrs. Tournay had left. Upon searching the area around nearby Howell Creek, police found Mrs. Tournay’s body hanging from an oak branch. She was wearing a white sundress and one unlaced tennis shoe. Ben Atkins, a ten year veteran of Fulton County’s medical examiners office, surmised Mrs. Tournay could have committed suicide; though more likely she was already dead when she was suspended in the oak tree. Atlanta police speculated Mrs. Tournay was walking down by the creek when an assailant attacked and strangled her. The reporter further noted the creek area where Mrs. Tournay was found adjoined her affluent Buckhead neighborhood.

I scanned forward for other information on Stella’s death. A subsequent article confirmed foul play by strangulation and that police were interviewing Atlanta city workers who were repaving a road in the area on the day of the murder. The medical examiner volunteered Mrs. Tournay sustained two broken ribs at her death. Two weeks later, another article cited interviews with Stella’s parents who were irate that no progress had been made in finding their daughter’s killer. The parents stated their daughter’s ring, a diamond and ruby wedding band, was missing from her person. In this later article, the reporter wrote Professor Tournay refused to make further comments; although police sources confirmed he had been questioned, and his statement of being with a student earlier on the night of the murder was verified. The student, a female, whose name police declined to reveal, was said to be taking private painting lessons from Tournay. A third report, in October, had Stella’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, calling for further investigation of Paul Tournay and his “so called alibi.” Paul Tournay was still not available for comment.

I reviewed the three articles and wondered why no details were given about the time of Stella’s death. Surely that piece of information would either implicate Paul Tournay, or not. Perhaps, I pondered, it wasn’t possible to narrow down a time of death to within a couple of hours. Regretting I didn’t know a forensics person like Dr. Kay Scarpetta to call about determining the time of death, I scanned forward to a fourth article in November. This time Stella’s death warranted one paragraph and simply stated there were still no suspects in her murder, and that Paul Tournay had been questioned several times and was not being held by police.

Interesting that the newspaper archives search revealed Stella had suffered two broken ribs when she died. Since she was strangled, how were the ribs broken? The newspaper accounts said nothing about her body showing signs of a struggle. Would the killer have overpowered her by striking her in the chest, and then strangled her? No, that didn’t make sense. Perhaps he broke the ribs lifting her out on the oak branch. That was also highly unlikely. The oak branch raised another question. If you had just strangled a woman, why would you stay around long enough to hang her out over the creek from an oak limb? And what about sexual assault? The newspapers said nothing about rape. Was rape not a subject reported in 1957? Or was it not reported if your parents were Chandless and Bennetts?
Oh, Stella, Stella, what are you trying to tell me?

A second website got me into photocopied death certificates and medical examiners reports. Stella’s death certificate contained the usual information of her birth date and maiden name. Cause of death was listed as heart failure. Well, that is interesting, I mused, I guess we all ultimately die of heart failure. No other information was available since the medical examiner’s reports prior to 1977 were not logged on line. I tried a couple of other ideas by cross referencing Paul Tournay and found only a short book review of his one commercial publication on Carolingian art. A review complimented the effort to “shine a brilliant light on the genius of this much neglected period of history,” and applauded the excellent color plates of representative works. Even with those kind accolades, I doubted the book made five million dollars to establish a trust. Out of curiosity, I clicked over to Amazon and ordered a used copy of the small out of print volume from an outlet in Charlotte, at seventeen-ninety plus extra for overnight shipping.

Questioning how all this information related to either my dream, or the Tournay trust, I sat at Aileen’s desk for a few minutes thinking about Stella and Paul Tournay. I made a list in my head. They met in Paris, survived the occupation together, he an art student and teacher, she a rebellious debutante turned dancer. When they returned to Atlanta married, they built a house and glided into the well-to-do Buckhead society of her heritage. He teaches, she—what did she do? No mention of a job—not unusual since in the late fifties well to do women usually didn’t work. They had a daughter, the lovely Becca; they had friends. Nice life. Maybe. Maybe not. I knew there was something else, something below the façade. Stella had pointed me to it in the dream; I just didn’t see it yet. Yes, my dream. I closed my eyes and went back to the dream. At first she was wearing ballet slippers, then not. The newspaper article said she was found with only one tennis shoe. What happened to the other shoe? And the one shoe, in my dream it was clean, no mud. If she had walked to the creek and been killed there, her shoes would be muddy, or at least dirty, from the walk. Stella must have been killed at the house. Then, if that were true, where were the murder’s footprints, left behind when he carried her through the damp yard? And why would the killer not just leave her at the house and run? Why go to the trouble to carry her to the creek? Tournay told the police the house had not been ransacked. The only thing missing was Stella’s diamond and ruby wedding ring, which she was probably wearing. Doesn’t sound like a very astute burglar. My ringing cell phone interrupted. Garland.

“Hey, Sugar. You on your way back to the mountains?”

“Not yet, and don’t call me Sugar, Garland. If you have a minute, let me fill you in on my visit with Paul Tournay.”

Leaving out the salient parts about curry chicken salad, dramatic exiting lovers, and cats in a laundry basket in my Subaru, I recounted my impressions of Paulie and dropped the present in Garland’s lap that he was willing to sign the trust over to Becca, if he got the Bennett Trace house. I reported I had seen what appeared to be a valid warranty deed on the house from Tournay Sr. to Paulie, dated long before he died. I didn’t mention the deed wasn’t recorded.

Garland sounded pleased. “Terrific. Well done, Promise. So all I have to do is convince Becca not to make waves about the house. Then, I can look forward to keeping her retainer and not suffering through a long court case with her. I love this plan! We can have the witch from hell on her way back to Columbia by the weekend.”

“Well, maybe.”

“What do you mean, ‘well maybe?’ Sounds great to me. Paulie gets the house; Becca gets the five million. I make my fee. What’s wrong with that plan?”

I hesitated. “Umm.” Gathering my purse and notebook, waving goodbye to Barkley, and easing quietly out of WQQX, I considered my answer. I didn’t want to go into my dream of Stella, though I felt the case was not as settled as Garland wished. My sense of being at the beginning of the book, and not the end, was too uncomfortable to ignore.

“What is it, Promise? I know you. I can hear your mind churning. What are you thinking? Do we have a problem you haven’t told me about? I don’t like this client well enough to look for other problems.”

Now that I was outside I could speak more freely. “Well, for one thing: I don’t think Paul sent the doll to Becca. If not him, then who? I know there is something else going on here, I’m just not sure what, yet. But I do know it has to do with Stella Tournay’s murder. Plus, where did the five million come from? Paul doesn’t know. He was genuinely surprised at the amount of his grandfather’s trust.”

Garland was silent, thinking, I supposed. I let myself into my car, did a quick check on the cat family, and made a mental note to find a grocery store, cat food, water bowl, litter box, litter, and cute little furry toys that jingle when they are batted around the floor. Oh, Lord, I thought for the second time, what was I thinking adopting three cats? I haven’t been tied down with pets in years. Forget the furry toys; what I need is a haircut and to have my hormones checked. “Garland, you still there?”

He cleared his throat and replied slowly, as though working out the details in his head as he went along. “I don’t really see how any of that is our problem. Stella Tournay has been dead for over fifty years. And who cares where the ugly doll came from, so long as our client wins? And who cares where the money in the trust came from? That’s not our business. Becca brought me copies of the trust records. The boxes are here in my office, and I went through them to make sure there was actually enough money to litigate about. The administrator is a reputable attorney in Columbia, South Carolina. The assets are real and kicking. What else do I need to know?”

I don’t know what else I expected from Garland, my Knight of Swords. The man is, if nothing else, practical. “Nothing, I guess,” I replied, unconvinced, “It’s just that unfinished business from the past always seems to come around again for resolution. Have you ever noticed that, Garland?”

“Yeah well, we are talking about a trust here, Promise, not one of your unhappy clients looking to shed some guilt about fucking her husband’s best friend. Just go on home. You’ve done a great job, as usual. And you did it in one day, instead of two or three. I’m proud of you. I’ll tell you what. I’ll get Paige to send you a check for two days anyway. How about that? I’ll call you after I talk to Ms. Becca and tell you what she says about Paul keeping the house.”

Garland hung up and I was left sitting in my car wondering why he was so anxious to pay me for a day I didn’t earn. Not at all like Garland Wang, the same guy who adds up the lunch check every time in his head to make sure the waitress doesn’t over charge. It occurred to me there was another name I wanted to check out on Aileen’s computer, however, I was reluctant to go back inside the studio and ask Barkley for help again. Instead, I called Susan.

“Granny’s. How can I help you?”

“Hey, it’s Promise. Are you having a good day?”

“Hey, Miz P. Actually, we are busy today. I think some early leaf lookers are in town. And you know, you were asking me about Fletcher Enloe this morning? Well, I was thinking, maybe we could offer free delivery for some of the old folks like him around here. I could drop a few orders off after the store closes. It might mean a lot to some folks who have trouble getting out. What do you think?”

Susan, bless her heart. Sometimes I think she is more invested in Granny’s than I am. I hated to think how much more difficult my life would be if she were not there. “I like your idea. I could deliver too. It would give me a chance to meet more of my neighbors. When I get back let’s work out the details.”

“Great. Hold on a second. I gotta ring up somebody.”

I could hear her in the background now. “Five seventy-three, please. Yes, Sir, just stay on this road, highway twenty eight north, and look for the sign on the right, about three miles. You can’t miss it.” Susan picked up the phone and continued. “It seems like everybody today needs directions. I feel like asking them didn’t they see the chamber of commerce building when they came through town. Hey, maybe we should start carrying maps for sale. How was your meeting with Mr. Wang? Are you going to be able to make him a happy camper?”

Trying to condense the forty-two different directions my mind was traveling on the road to Garland being a ‘happy camper’ seemed too difficult, as tired and frustrated as I felt at the moment. I opted to give Susan the details later. “Well, probably, I guess. There are a few loose ends that are bothering me, though. That’s where I need your help. When you get home could you look something up on the Internet for me? I haven’t gotten satellite service at my house yet, so no internet.”