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Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing

Page 15

by Morgan James


  “Well, yeah, I guess. But it was more than that.”

  “Like what?” When I didn’t answer immediately, Daniel teased, “Don’t tell me your great granddad was one of those snake handlers—carried a croaker sack full of rattlers in his buckboard.”

  Having a snake handler in the family would have been easier for me to accept…maybe. Though, maybe not. I retreated to the kitchen counter, occupied myself with Alfie’s supper, mixing dry food with left over ground beef. Alfie was grateful, ate every morsel, and licked the bowl. Daniel wasn’t ready to give up the conversation.

  “So, was old January a snake handler? Is that what you’re so defensive about?” The humor in his voice was lost on me, but he kept on. “Seems like you don’t trust me enough to tell me the whole story. That really hurts. Didn’t I trust you enough to follow you to Atlanta last year to trap that Angel person, based on nothing but your intuition? And didn’t I help you get her arrested? It was a cockamamie scheme, but I went along. You know snake handlers are still around. I saw a PBS special about them not long ago. Weird stuff. It’s illegal in North Carolina, so they’ve all moved to Tennessee, supposedly.”

  “For crying out loud Daniel, will you stop that? January wasn’t a snake handler. Can’t we just talk about something else?”

  “Well we could, but now you’re so all fired determined not to tell me, my curiosity is up. Seriously, is what you found out so awful, you think I’d judge you by somebody in your family three generation back?”

  I don’t know how Daniel can spend his days either with cows or undelivered mail and be so perceptive. That was exactly what I worried about—being measuring by my great grandfather’s behavior. If January was an over the edge zealot, and a grave robber, what did that make me?

  Was I harboring some latent crazy-person gene? Or worse yet, how about my son, Luke? Maybe the latent crazy-person gene was responsible for him running around the world working for some secret governmental agency and telling me he works for Acadian Oil. No, I knew better than to chalk up any aberrant behavior the McNeals exhibit to latent genes. At least in Luke’s case. His father, my ex, Randall Barnes, the macho-man Atlanta cop, is the reason Luke would step up to the plate and volunteer for a dangerous job— anything to garner respect and admiration from his dad. Just the thought of Randall Barnes gave me acid reflux. How could I have been so wrong about him?

  Daniel waited for me to explain, and by the determined set of his jaw, he’d continue to wait until I offered up something plausible. “Okay. He went around town preaching about the Holy Spirit and The Second Coming…whatever. Apparently made a habit of interrupting church services to quote scripture and I don’t know what all else. From what Mr. Kolb says, he finally made such a nuisance of himself that he got arrested a couple of times. It seems one of his preaching points was no alcohol—a temperance man, it seems. No doubt that made him pretty unpopular in the land of corn liquor and apple brandy.”

  “Sounds like a regular hardened criminal.”

  “This isn’t funny. And it really does get complicated.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “Well, I think he was in jail when their first son died in a fire. Then he was off at a tent revival somewhere else in North Carolina when Reba died. The Sorley family—remember they raised Reba as their daughter—buried her in the Methodist cemetery before January got back to Perry County. I don’t know why, except he was about a hundred miles away, and they probably couldn’t reach him. It’s not like they had cell phones. And it was August, probably didn’t have fancy freezers in the funeral homes back then either— anyway, not long after that January was sort of asked to leave First Methodist Church.”

  “Promise, slow down a second. That’s confusing. It also seems kind of harsh for Methodist folks. Not like the Methodists I know to turn a man out for street preaching against booze and attending a tent revival.”

  It wasn’t fair to leave Daniel with such a negative impression of his Methodist brothers and sisters. Besides, he’d find out the whole story sooner or later anyway. While he waited for the other shoe to drop, I poured hot water in my cup for a second cup of tea. As I reached for a tea bag from the cupboard, the cell phone beeped at me from the muffled depths of my purse. I dug the phone out, but hesitated before I hit the play voice mail message button. Might as well go ahead and own up to January’s misdeed.

  “All right. If you insist on knowing, January wasn’t thrown out of the church for preaching. The church members, and probably the whole county, believed he dug up Reba’s coffin from the Methodist cemetery, along with the child who had died a couple of years before, and carried them up Fire Mountain. They asked him to leave the church because he was a grave robber. You satisfied now?” Daniel’s mouth dropped open. What was the word Susan used? Gobsmacked? That’s what Daniel looked like: gobsmacked.

  I entered my password and Susan’s voice escaped into the kitchen. “Hey. It’s me. Listen, I tried to reach you, and Daddy. Neither of you are answering. When you see him, tell him what I found out about the circus fire, okay? I closed the store early. Decided to make a run over to Hiawassee and didn’t want to drive it in the dark. Who knows, maybe the Circus Fantell is still around. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

  Daniel was up and out of his seat, grabbing the phone and punching in Susan’s cell number, before my mind could process her message. The phone immediately rolled over to voice mail, said the party was not available. She must be in a bad cell spot. Then her plans for going to Hiawassee dawned on me. She intended to drive over to the circus in Hiawassee and ask questions about a missing little girl with a talent for doing handstands. A bad idea, the Shoulda-Woulda-Coulda Committee pronounced in my head. For once, I agreed with them.

  Daniel’s daddy-radar was up and blinking red alert for danger. He waved the cell phone at me, as though I could coax more information from the tiny flat machine. “What the hell is she talking about?”

  Oh crap. When it rains, it pours. I spent the next thirty minutes answering Daniel’s questions, retelling Susan’s theory about little Missy. He vacillated between wanting to charge out and follow Susan or not, and wore a path on the pine floor in the kitchen from pacing around. Finally, he called Sheriff Mac. Having a man-talk with his cousin calmed him down a bit, especially after Mac agreed to check out the Circus Fantell and the Knoxville fire; nevertheless, Daniel continued to dial Susan’s cell number every five minutes for the next two hours.

  20

  “Daddy! Stop treating me like a twelve year-old.”

  “Well, sometimes you act like a twelve-year-old. Thinking you’re invincible. Going off halfcocked.”

  It was after ten o’clock. Susan and Daniel had been bickering from the second she returned from Hiawassee. “Are you going to sit down and stop yelling at me so I can tell y’all what happened, or not?”

  End of March, or not, I hadn’t been able to get warm all day and sat on the hearth with my back to a crackling fire. Let the two of them wear themselves out. I’d wait for the story I knew Susan would have to tell, in detail. She’s like that. Not in a bad way. It’s just her enthusiasm for life.

  Daniel finally stopped fussing but wouldn’t sit. He leaned against the oak timber mantle and propped one booted-foot up on the hearthstones. “I’m not yelling. Go ahead, tell us what happened.”

  Susan crossed her legs, Indian style, on the sofa and winked at me. I looked down at my lap to keep from laughing.

  “I mean, it isn’t like I didn’t know where I was going,” she said, looking up at her dad. “Remember we went over there to the Georgia Fiddler’s Convention last year. The Georgia Mountains Fairground is right on Highway 76, not hard to find. The music hall is just inside the grounds entrance. Where else would they have a circus in Hiawassee, Georgia, population eight hundred and ten?”

  Daniel must have been anxious for her to cut to the chase, because he interrupted her. “Okay, okay. So was the circus still there?”

  �
��Well, of course not. Do you think I’d get that lucky? I drove over to the music hall and the parking lot was deserted, so I got out and went to the front entrance. It was locked, but I did see this cardboard poster stapled to the events board beside the door.” Susan held up the eight-by-eleven brightly colored advertisement announcing The Circus Fantell, showing a man and woman, dressed like dancers from the Nutcracker Ballet, leading a fancy decked out horse into a circus ring. Standing atop the horse was a young girl, costumed in silver sequins, a tall white feather plume in her pale hair and a huge smile on her face. The child could be our Missy, maybe.

  She handed her dad the poster so he could get a closer look. He looked doubtful. “Then, as I was sitting in the parking lot, thinking what to do next, you will never guess what, or who, I saw.”

  Daniel made a rolling circle gesture with his right hand. I think that’s musician speak for speed it up, get on with it. “Okay, okay. A compact white sedan, just like the one MaMa described, drove slowly past me. I got a pretty good look at the driver, and she had yellow hair. Just like the girl who dropped Missy on MaMa’s porch. So, naturally I followed her.”

  “Naturally,” Daniel echoed, and rolled his eyes.

  “The sedan drove deeper into the Fairgrounds, going slow like she was looking for someone, or something. When she got to the RV camping area, she turned into a campsite. There was one of those thirty-foot Winnebago bus things parked there. Must have been parked awhile cause the roll out awning was out with a couple of folding lawn chairs underneath, and a charcoal barbecue. I saw the yellow haired girl get out and go inside, so I pulled in the lot on the lakeside across the street. Thought I’d wait and see who came out. Not a good idea. As soon as I parked, I could tell the Winnebago had a perfect view of me, and my red Jeep. I pulled back out, went down to where the road forked back to the highway, and circled back past the music hall. I met the little white sedan headed out of the Fairgrounds. I guess I could have followed her, but I decided to go back to the Winnebago instead.”

  Alfie yawned and turned his other side to the fire. I think Daniel wanted to do the same, but he nudged Susan instead. “Okay, we get the picture. Did you find out anything or not?”

  “Daddy. I’m trying to tell you. As soon as I stopped in front of the Winnebago, this tall, lanky, sort of young dude comes swaggering out. The guy is shirtless. I mean it’s probably fifty degrees, and he wearing no shirt. I cannot tell you how gross he was. Greasy hair back in a ponytail. Whole upper body, arms, chest, everything, covered in tattoos. Don’t know why, but I said. Cool, Is that Wild Bill Hickok on the horse? He grins like he’d just won the Miss America contest, and raises his arms to flex his skinny muscles. That’s when the smell of weed and no shower for three days drifted my way. I really did want to puke.

  “‘Absolutely,’ the guy says. ‘Got Hickok in Florida year I was eighteen.’ Then, oh my God, he turned around, and there was Sitting Bull tattooed across his back. Feathered headdress and all. Now wouldn’t you just know this guy had to be with the circus? Wow. Some artwork, I said to him.

  “When he sees the poster in my hand, he stops grinning, and asks me—sort of mean like—if I’m lost. Sounded to me like he was trying to sound tough and not just mega stoned. I ignored his question. You with the circus? I ask him, like I already know the answer to my question. He snarks back at me, what’s it to you? I’m trying to sound cool and collected so I say, I’m just looking for someone with the circus, that’s all?

  “He starts back peddling and tells me they weren’t with the circus anymore. He puffed himself up, all important like and said, ‘we’re selling this piece of crap RV tonight to some rich guy in town, and we’re moving on. Buying a carwash, on account of the Old Man says that’s about the only damn thing can’t be farmed out to the freaking Chinese.’ I’m thinking this is a long speech for a stoner. I took it the Old Man was his father. I nodded like I agreed with him about the Chinese. Then I asked him where the circus had moved.

  “Before he could answer, or tell me a lie, the Winnebago door opened and this really, really, short guy jumps down the stairs and hurries over to us. I mean he’s way shorter than you, Miz P. and he looks madder than hell. Had to be a dwarf. Kind of bowed legs and short fingers. Maybe forty years old, or so. It was hard to tell. Mad, or not, I can tell you he was a lot cleaner than the tattooed guy. Dressed in nice gray slacks and a white button down dress shirt.

  “Now I begin to think I’m trapped in the Twilight Zone, or something—a tattooed guy and a dwarf— but I figured I was already there so might as well go with it. Good evening, Sir, I say to the little person. I’m with the Allied Insurance Company out of Denver, and I’d like to ask you a few questions. I think I was pretty convincing.”

  Daniel crossed his arms over his chest and boomed out, “Allied Insurance? Is that what you told them? You impersonated an insurance agent?”

  Susan continued, “Yeah, well, I don’t think that’s like against the law or anything. Is it? Anyway, as soon as I said it, the little person calmed down—no angry look—and reached out his hand to me.

  “I’m Dick Jest, and this is my son, Tempi, he says to me all friendly like.

  “I told him I was pleased to meet him, and shook his hand. Tempi? Interesting name, I say to the little guy. Then he points to the Tempi guy and says to me: his mother was Basque, what can I say? Basque like to fight. You here about the Knoxville fire?

  “I have no idea what the Basque remark meant. But I said yes to the fire question. He gave his son with the interesting name a nod and the son walked off and sat in one of the folding chairs under the awning—close enough to hear us, but too far away to be part of the conversation.

  “‘Listen lady,’ Jest says to me in sort of a condescending voice, ‘I’m real sorry, but we don’t know anything more about the fire than what we told the police. You can go get a police report. Nothing says we have to talk to a private cop. Know what I mean?’ Course he was smiling the whole time. Then he says I will have to excuse them because they have an appointment.

  “I smiled back at him and said, Sure. No problem. Then I tore off a corner of the poster, wrote my cell phone number on it, and handed it over to Mr. Dick Jest, the soon-to-be car wash owner. In case you think of something, I said to him, and got back in the Jeep and left. Now really, you guys, can you believe it? A tattooed doper and a dwarf? Is this not too weird?”

  Susan blew out a deep breath and leaned her head back against the sofa. As she was telling her story, I thought at first she was frightened by the encounter with the Jest family. Then I realized she was so pumped with adrenaline, fear wasn’t a factor. Susan loved her adventure, much like a skydiver loves the plunge. I stood up and stretched my back, not knowing what to say.

  Daniel was not at a loss for words. “Sweetheart. What you did was reckless and could have been dangerous. Sometimes you scare the crap out of me.”

  “Are you going to start yelling again?”

  “No, I’m not,” Daniel replied, as he flexed his long fingers and shoved his hands into his back jeans pockets. “So what did you find out? Doesn’t sound like much to me.”

  Sitting upright again, Susan shot back at Daniel, “Daddy you are just too mad at me to think straight. Those Jest guys know something. I can feel it. And also, the important connection is that I saw the girl with the yellow hair driving a little white car. She went inside the Winnebago and must have talked to them. If she’s the woman who brought Missy over here to MaMa’s house— and I believe she is—then there is a good chance Missy is the child in the poster, and they know who she is.”

  Daniel dropped his head, semi-defeated. “Well, maybe. That’s possible. But don’t you think there are probably a lot of young women with yellow hair who drive little white sedans?”

  “Sure, but you have to admit, we have several huge coincidences working here.”

  I had to agree with Susan.

  21

  Susan and Daniel left around midnight. I believe s
he would have talked on and on about her adventure with the Jest men, but Daniel insisted they go home. It was just as well. I was tired, and he was driving over to Charlotte bright and early the next morning to inspect some used restaurant equipment scheduled to go on the auction block later in the day. A trip all the way to Charlotte must mean he was serious about Granny’s Store becoming a restaurant. I meant to ask if they’d chosen a name for the new restaurant, but with all the excitement, I forgot.

  When they were leaving and Susan was well out of earshot, Daniel hugged me and asked, “No hard feelings about me teasing you so bad on old January?”

  I shook my head no, and he added, “I was thinking though, about what you said. Technically, I think a grave robber is someone who digs up bodies for some nefarious purpose, to sell them for research or something like that. Don’t think a man wanting to move his wife and child closer to home is exactly grave robbery. It’s strange, I’ll admit, but I’m not sure it’s grave robbery.”

  “Umm,” was about all I could say. A fleeting question did run through my mind. How did Daniel know a word like nefarious? Another surprise from my cowboy, fiddle playing, mail carrier lover. And would January’s reasons for taking Reba and the baby home fall under the nefarious category?

  After they left, I took a long hot bath and tried to relax. Even so, when I finally slept, I drifted into fitful dreams. Too many thoughts of abandoned little girls, fires, and dry bones made flesh in the book of Ezekiel. I dreamt I was inside a shrinking room with January. I was using all my strength to push back the walls with my hands. No matter which way I turned, cold plaster walls closed in on me, the space between my great grandfather and me smaller and smaller, until he was standing at my back, whispering in my ear—something about the mighty power of the Holy Spirit. I strained to make sense of his words, but his voice trailed away, far into the distance. I looked down. January and I were barefoot—his feet sheet-white, long and boney—mine were covered with bilge-green foam. I smelled the brine of the ocean at low tide.

 

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