Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing

by Morgan James

  With eyes rolling in my direction, Susan fairly snapped at me, “I’ll call her later. Can’t believe you are so nosy. You sound just like Daddy.” She quickly changed the subject, and I was left wondering what that little exchange was all about. Am I nosy? I don’t think I’m nosy.

  Susan continued, “Yeah, not reporting a missing child doesn’t make sense. And you know if the child were reported missing, Mac would have heard about it. Missing child alerts go out to law enforcement all over the country. The other thing is, I would’ve seen something in the newspapers I read online.”

  “You would think so. The other puzzling part to me is this thing about Mrs. Allen saying Missy doesn’t seem to miss anyone… doesn’t ask about her family. Hasn’t said a word about anyone named Fantell or mentioned she was with the circus. Of course, Mrs. Allen says she doesn’t really talk about much of anything, so who knows? As your dad said, she’s clinging to Mrs. Allen like she’s the last boat ashore.”

  Susan reached up and tugged at her hair in frustration. “Oh crap, I just thought of something. I should have asked Tempi where the Fantells are now. You know if that little jerk sold us information for a hundred dollars, he’ll call the Fantells and do the same with them; probably tell them I was asking questions. I wasn’t dumb enough to give him my name, but he has my cell phone number. Even a cretin like Tempi Jest probably knows how to trace the number. I better call Mac.”

  Susan punched in Sheriff Mac’s office number, only to be told by his secretary that he was out on a call, and we would have to leave a message. Susan frowned and dialed another number.

  “I’m calling a friend who works in dispatch,” she explained, and then I heard a voice answer. “Hey Pam. You all right? Baby get over the measles?” I couldn’t hear the response but wondered why a baby in this day and time would contract measles, since there is a vaccine to prevent it. I guess I am nosy. “That’s good. I’ll come by and see her real soon. Listen, I’m looking for Sheriff Mac. Any idea where he is?”

  Susan listened for a few seconds. Her eyes narrowed and she shot me a worried look. “Did you say Watauga? That’s on the down side of the mountain, isn’t it?” More listening. “Did they get to him in time?” More information from Pam, then Susan thanked her, hung up, and started the Subaru. As she pulled out onto Main Street and headed north, she filled me in on her conversation.

  “Mac’s at an accident over near Watauga Road. We’re going over there. Pam said some old man driving a red Ford came down Cowee at ninety miles an hour and lost it on the last curve coming down the mountain. From the description of the car, she thinks the man may be Fletcher Enloe.”

  My heart skipped. “Oh, my God. How bad is it?”

  “She doesn’t know. He went over the side of the mountain. That can’t be good. The rescue team is out there now.”

  We pulled off the shoulder about two hundred feet from the accident scene and hiked up the steep road. An officer walked hurriedly in our direction, probably to tell us to move, but Mac saw us and waved the young man away. Once we were beside him, we saw a team of four men and one woman below the steep slope. The men struggled for balance as they climbed the incline, carrying a blanket-covered body secured to a stretcher. A woman walked beside. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but did see a bloody face above the blanket. He must still be alive. As the party reached the top of the slope, Mac and the young deputy eased over the edge to give a hand with the stretcher. A siren screeched behind us, and the red and white ambulance pulled along side. In the few seconds it took the team to hand over the stretcher to the ambulance crew, and for them to secure an oxygen mask, I recognized the face as Fletcher Enloe’s.

  The ambulance made a U-turn and screamed toward town. Susan walked over to talk to Mac. I looked over the slope into bramble and winter bare trees. The Red Bird was visible about three hundred feet below, wedged against the base of a large oak. The Ford was folded in half like a paper origami twisted by the wind. Shortly, Susan was back beside me. “What’d Mac say?”

  Her voice was low and sad. “He said to meet him back at his office. I told him we might know something about where Missy came from.”

  “And Fletcher?”

  She sighed and put her arm around my shoulder. “He doesn’t know. No way to tell yet. Except, the rescue team told him Mr. Enloe was conscious when they pulled him out of car. He repeated the word, trespassers, three or four times before he passed out.”

  “Trespassers?”

  “Yeah. That’s what Mac said. What do you suppose he meant?”

  The young officer walked up to us before my thoughts about Fletcher’s words could form. “Ma’am. You need to move your vehicle. Sheriff says this stretch of road is too dangerous for vehicles to be parked on the shoulder.”

  We drove back to town in silence and parked in front of the Perry County Sheriff’s Department. I’d been thinking. Sheriff Mac met us inside, and as soon as we sat in front of his desk, he picked up a pad and pencil to take notes. I took this as a good sign. Perhaps he was going to take our information seriously. “Mac, before I forget, I talked to Fletcher yesterday. Two things: he told me he was going to Waynesville today to have The Red Bird’s picture taken for the Smokey Mountain News, said a reporter was interested in classic cars. I suppose that’s why he was coming back over the mountain in The Red Bird; he also mentioned he’d found trespassers recently up on Fire Mountain. Don’t know if those two things are related to his accident, just thought I’d mention it.”

  Mac jumped on my comment a little too quickly. “Let’s don’t go off halfcocked and look for more trouble than we already got,” he shot back. Then he dropped the pad and pencil on the desk and rubbed both eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m sorry. Man-o-man, I’m whipped. Fletcher’s was the second accident today. First one got me out of bed at three thirty this morning. A tractor-trailer load headed down to Gainesville jackknifed—chickens all over 441 South. Biggest mess you ever…” Instead of completing his sentence, he stood up and poured a cup of coffee from a stained Mr. Coffee plugged in on a metal rolling cart under the window ledge. “You ladies want a cup?”

  We both declined and he stood by the window. The smell of burned coffee drifted over. I wondered how many hours the pot had sat with the red ready light on.

  “Like I said to Susan out there on the road, can’t imagine why Fletcher would be saying trespassers after they pulled him out. Brain does crazy things when it gets battered around and slammed against an oak tree the size of a small freight train. Can’t believe the old man even survived the crash. I tell you one damn thing; if he lives it’ll be one mighty miracle. The witness who called in the crash was behind him going down the mountain. She said the Ford’s brake lights were lit up the whole way down, but Fletcher was still making about ninety. Sounds like that old Ford’s brakes quit him.”

  Mac shook his head and smiled. “Damn, that old man is still one hell of a driver, to even hold that Ford in the road at ninety as long as he did. Lord-a-mighty, I bet he was running faster than his tripper days carrying moonshine. Must’ve looked like a big red scaled dog coming over Cowee Mountain.” Mac turned away from the window, his smile forgotten. “Still and all, I know how careful Fletcher is to keep The Red Bird in top shape. We’ll get someone to check out the brakes once we get it unwrapped off that tree.”

  Chucking his half drunk coffee into the paper-filled trash can by his desk, Mac took a piece of gum from his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and folded it into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he said to us, “tell me all about this circus stuff. Sounds like a corny forties movie I saw Saturday night on the Turner Classics movie channel.”

  Maybe I was wrong about Sheriff Mac taking us seriously.

  23

  That was Tuesday. On Wednesday, Susan and I went to the Perry County Hospital to check on Fletcher. We were told he was still in ICU—no visitors allowed, other than immediate family. It was a relief to see a neatly dressed blond-haired woman about my age coming out of hi
s room. I took a chance, walked over, and asked if she was Fletcher’s daughter, Rosalie Snyder. She was pleasant, smiled, said she was, and told us Fletcher was in guarded condition but improving. I remembered what Sheriff Mac had said about Fletcher and Rosalie being estranged since Mrs. Enloe died. It was comforting to witness living proof that often, when times get tough for families, petty grievances fade.

  Rosalie’s Fletcher Enloe, bluer-than-blue, eyes twinkled when she remarked she could tell her dad was improving when he ranted at one of the nurse’s aides earlier for attempting to feed him. Taking out the colorful language, Rosalie said Fletcher felt he was capable of feeding himself, or else he’d starve to death rather than be spoon-fed. Sounded like Fletcher to me.

  Rosalie thanked us for coming and I told her I’d come by again, after my counseling appointments at the family violence shelter, to see if she needed anything. We left the hospital relieved that Fletcher’s chances for recovery were better than we’d thought. I wondered if anyone had dared tell him about The Red Bird’s sad condition. Doubtful, I decided. Otherwise, we probably would have heard his cursing long before we reached his third floor room.

  Daniel drove in Thursday, hauling a rented trailer stacked with esoteric items like warming ovens, indoor roasting spits, and icemaker machines. I met him and Susan at Granny’s to look over his auction finds and to share the excitement of all the new big-boy toys.

  Susan brought out a plan for her proposed restaurant layout. She’d drawn every detail of the kitchen area on graph paper, down to the sink faucets—tall, swan-necked, stainless monsters—capable of telescoping out to rinse even the largest cooking pot. I was impressed. Her excitement almost made me reconsider and throw in with them as a partner—chef Susan and her able assistant, Promise—almost. No, I needed to lean down my expenses, be rid of the mortgage on Granny’s Store, and think about how I’d live once I really and truly retired. Still, it was fun to watch the two of them check the drawings on the graph paper against the space available for every table and chair, then argue about entrees on the menu.

  After a couple of hours comparing Susan’s layout with the actual floor space available in the current general store, we realized an additional room needed to be built on the kitchen side for supplies and freezer space. For Granny’s store operation, we kept overages in inventory upstairs— in the loft remaining from the store’s tobacco barn past life—which was reached by an open stairway built almost in the center of the store. That storage plan wouldn’t work for the restaurant. It was too far removed from the kitchen and too visible from the dining area. We climbed the worn wood-plank stairs and looked down over the railing. What could we do with this leftover space?

  “What about a gift shop?” Daniel offered. “You know, like Cracker Barrel.”

  “No, Daddy. That would be tacky. It only works for them because they cater to tourists who love all that cutesy stuff. Those folks won’t be our customers. We’ll get mostly local folks cause we’re way out here on the river.”

  “Yeah, you are probably right,” Daniel agreed. “We could take out the stairs, close up the loft.”

  And ruin the original tobacco barn design? I couldn’t tolerate that. “No way, we can’t do that. We have to keep the integrity, the history, of the place.”

  Father and daughter stared at me with amusement. “Well, Babe, didn’t know you were so all fired attached to this gaping money pit, as I have heard you call it on so many occasions.”

  I turned around and surveyed the roughly fifteen by forty foot space of the loft. “Well, I am. At least to the physical building…it’s the business that makes me so frustrated. And you know the business is a money pit, that’s for sure. Maybe I’ll lease the space back from you. Think of something interesting to do with it. Maybe I’ll have a little antique shop up here. It would be fun to buy a few things and sell a few things. Nothing grand. Not a big investment. Maybe hunt for local North Carolina pieces, or at least Southern pieces…”

  Daniel came over and put an arm around my shoulder. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been thinking about this antiques thing for awhile?”

  I smiled. He was right. I had a picture in my head from right out of Antiques Magazine. Cherry tall case clock, curly maple high boy, lovely turned gate legged table, quilts, and quilts, and quilts…

  We closed the store at six and treated ourselves to dinner in town at our favorite restaurant, a little hole in the wall bistro with a mouthwatering aroma of fresh baked bread, olive oil, and pesto. We told ourselves this was a fact finding trip, comparing their food to what Susan and Daniel would serve at the new restaurant. That story helped ease the guilt of drinking a bottle of their excellent California wine with our mussels and fresh garlic. I had tiramisu for dessert and felt no guilt whatsoever.

  It was a delightful evening, all the sweeter because Daniel stayed the night with me. Such a joy, at my age, to be able to slow down lovemaking. No frenetic hurry up, nowhere else to be except in that one moment of now, where every touch is a gift. Through a sweet hum of peace, I remember telling Daniel I loved him. What I said was true. He responded that he loved me. I believed him. He’d kept his word. No talk of marriage or what would happen tomorrow, only the now. I smiled and snuggled closer to his warm, naked body. “Sing me a song, Mr. Fiddle Man,” I pleaded.

  “A song? You just said it, pretty girl. I’m a fiddle man, not a singer.”

  “Come on. You have a wonderful, sexy voice. Susan gets her voice from you, and you know it.”

  In the silence that followed, space expanded between us. Daniel sighed and pulled himself up to lean against the headboard. I did the same, not knowing what I’d done to separate us, and waited for him to tell me.

  “Fact is, Susan got her voice from her mama. Not from me. Her mama had that same throaty, honey tone. Could have sung professional, I believe. Course, I reckon I was prejudice. Sad thing is, Susan can’t remember hearing her mama sing.”

  Oh no. What bad timing. Calling up the ghost of Daniel’s wife was the last thing I wanted to do. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea what I said would upset you.”

  He put his arms around me. “Hey, you didn’t say anything wrong. I’m grateful that wound is long healed. I’ll always remember her and our life together with love. That’s the way it should be. But I’ve made a new life for myself, and for Susan; had to, otherwise I couldn’t do right by my daughter. Now she’s grown and has her own life. It’s just that when you said that about her voice, I wished Susan could remember her mama singing to her.”

  “Oh Daniel, I wish she could too. Maybe, one day she will remember. That can happen. Long forgotten memories sometimes fly to the surface of the mind, escape like birds from a cage.”

  He held me tighter. “That’s downright poetic, memories fly like birds from a cage. I could write a pretty good song from that line.”

  I could see his smile in the half-light of the bedroom. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Nah. Would I do a thing like that?” Before I could answer, he slid out of bed and pulled on his jeans. “I’m hungry. Let’s make some popcorn.”

  So popcorn it was, at one in the morning. No wonder, at sometime around six, when I awoke to find Daniel gone to tend his cows, I snuggled down in the covers for another thirty minutes of sleep.

  24

  By seven-fifteen I was standing at the kitchen window, half way through my first cup of coffee and talking to Alfie about my day. Daylight was slow in coming, the morning sun a mittened orb, low in the east. Scoops of gray, patchy fog hugged the ground. Through the mist, out beyond my pasture, I could see, just barely, lights on over at Fletcher’s house. I watched as one light flicked on and then off, then another went on, stayed on for a few seconds, and then went off again. Could Rosalie be staying at her dad’s house? No. She’d told me yesterday at the hospital that she’d booked a room at the Hampton. When I saw the long beam of a high-powered flashlight breaking through the fog, traveling from Fletcher’s house to his barn, I had
the sinking feeling something was wrong. I dialed Daniel’s cell number. It went over to voice mail. He must be out with the cows.

  The light bounced around near Fletcher’s barn then disappeared. Was whoever carrying the flashlight going into the barn? What were they looking for? I dialed 911 and explained what I was seeing. The operator was less than impressed by my concerns. She told me that because I couldn’t say there was a crime in progress, the best she could do was refer my message to dispatch. She explained when they had an available unit they would send a deputy out to Fletcher’s for a wellness check. Wellness check? What did that mean? Of course things weren’t well. There was some stranger plundering around in Fletcher’s house. It was bad enough for him to be lying in the hospital, let alone some burglar sizing up his belongings for the pawnshop. Everything he owned could be stolen by the time a deputy arrived.

  During a righteous moment, or a foolish moment, depending on how you looked at it, I decided I had to do something. This was the man who’d saved my life. I couldn’t watch blithely from my kitchen window while someone robbed him blind.

  I called Daniel again, left a message on his cell phone to call Sheriff Mac, and put on my L.L. Bean boots. As I pulled on my jacket and shoved a flashlight into the pocket, the fog registered with me like a stone dropping into the hollow of my stomach. How could I walk out into that shadowy mist? I would be so exposed. God knows what could be hiding out there. Maybe I should wait for a sheriff’s deputy. But what if the deputy didn’t get there for an hour, or two hours? I opened the kitchen door for a closer look at the fog. Okay, it wasn’t exactly London pea soup. I could see the goats beginning to mill around in the pasture.

  Alfie whined at my side and did a little two-step dance. He was ready to go, fog or no fog. “Well, all right big guy. We’ll do it, but no barking and stay close to me. No running off to reconnoiter on your own. We’ll only get close enough to see what’s going on. Then let the Sheriff do his job. You got that?” The coonhound bolted outside as soon as I unlatched the screen door, then settled down next to me as soon as we were feeling our way across the yard.