Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  There was no way my “mender” personality could pass up an opportunity to set Garland on the road to a better understanding of his mother. That’s a nice way to explain my unsolicited counseling remarks that followed. “Sounds like your mother is giving you some heavy contradictory messages. I can see how that would confuse you.”

  “Confuse me! In Chinese terms we call that making you bat-shit crazy.”

  “Still, you’ve told me you love your mother.”

  “Sure I love her. And I think my dad does, too. Sometimes though, Mom’s a Looney Tune, with all her off the wall superstitions. Besides the number eight thing, she also believes it is bad luck to put a pot away with the lid off. Bad spirits get in the empty pot, she says, and ruin the food. Go figure. She’s also beautiful, and a great cook. Never any topless pots at our house! You can be sure of that. Hey, speaking of unusual names, when are you going to tell me how you happen to be named Promise? After almost ten years of being friends, I still don’t know. Wait a minute! I just had a revelation. Do you realize you are probably my oldest female friend, and the only woman in my life who actually likes me?”

  Ah, now I could hear it coming. The crown prince of smooth was playing me like a two hundred dollar accordion. Got me feeling sorry for him, add a little flattery, and now the other shoe will drop. I resisted asking him to clarify if I was the oldest in years, or the most sustaining woman friend. Time to cut to the chase. I still had bills to pay and cranberry scones cooking in the oven.

  “Garland, did you call to talk about the women in your life? Or is there some other point to this pleasurable conversation?” I turned over another Tarot card and winced. The Burning Tower, its grim point made by a color illustration of terrified souls jumping to their death from flame engulfed windows.

  Garland cleared his throat and lowered his voice, shifting into his business mode—the Garland I know and love. “Truth is, I need some of your magic, Promise. Can you come down to Atlanta tomorrow and see me about a client?”

  “Garland, you know I don’t do magic. It usually brings bad karma. Remember the old rule, what you do comes back to you three fold.” I selected the Knight of Swords card and covered the Queen of Hearts and the Chariot with him, then separated out the burning tower and turned it face down, resolving to research the card in the Tarot reference book for a more auspicious meaning.

  “Come on Promise, no jokes, you know what I mean. I really need your help. Just a little research on a family trust issue for a lady client of mine. It’ll be a piece of cake assignment. The problem is, I need the information in a hurry. It should only take you a couple of days.” The next card I turned over was The Wheel of Fortune, possible money, and for sure, uncertainty. “And, the money is good,” Garland continued. “Five hundred dollars a day, plus expenses, just for your astute brain and fabulous intuition. If somebody shoots at you, I’ll up it to six hundred.”

  “That’s not funny, Garland.” I did not like to remember a previous assignment, also a piece of cake, according to Garland, that led to contraband cigarettes, guys with whole body tattoos who spoke only in guttural inflections, and gun shots being fired into my beloved blue Subaru Forrester.

  Garland laughed, pleased with himself. “Just kidding, Sugar. Seriously, I’m really in a bind on this one and, as I may have mentioned, I have Mr. Pork-Chop’s divorce staring me in the face.”

  I tapped The Wheel of Fortune card several times on the desktop and glanced again at the balance in my checkbook. “Umm…Garland, please define family trust issue for me.”

  “It’s no big deal, really. The client’s daddy put all the family money in a trust. You know the drill, forming a trust keeps the greedy IRS from getting more than its share. My client already gets the earned interest. A nice tidy little sum, I might add; but soon, according to the trust terms, her grown son will have control of the day-to-day administration. She wants to control the trust herself. You know, Mommy knows best and all that. She wants to decide how the money is invested. All I need from you is some, shall we say, revealing information about the son to see if we have a decent shot at modifying the trust terms, or not. See, piece of cake. No illegal activity involved.”

  “You’ve said piece of cake twice, Garland. That makes me worry.” I shuffled the stack of unpaid bills again and made one single pile. “Okay,” I told him, reluctantly, “How about ten tomorrow. Remember, I ‘m at least two hours from your office.”

  “I remember. Though why you would want to leave Atlanta and live up there in the wilderness, I’ll never know. I mean do people in Western North Carolina even speak English? Or more importantly, do they speak Southern? Is there civilization that far north? I am told there isn’t a Starbucks within forty miles.”

  Oddly enough, while feeling less than totally anchored to my new home, I felt the need to defend it. “Seventy miles to a Starbucks. And yes, folks seem pretty Southern up here. I think Western North Carolina’s heritage is mainly Scots and Irish, just like down there. Atlanta just attracted more population diversity through the years, and this area didn’t. Not yet, anyway.”

  Garland grunted. Totally not interested. I ignored the sound of him shuffling papers again and finished the rationalization for my altered lifestyle. “You know, Garland, many people prefer the quiet life.” Which one of us was I trying to convince? “They see the Appalachian Mountains reclining just beyond the back door as comforting. Maybe the same way a cat likes to back up against something solid to sleep, makes it feel safer. Also, we don’t need fancy coffee shops; remember we have Granny’s General Store. You don’t have one of those in Atlanta.”

  The mention of Granny’s brought Garland back to our conversation. “Thank God! How could I forget? I helped you close the deal on that rundown money pit, friend that I am, and I still can’t fathom why you would give up a successful counseling practice to be a country shopkeeper. My mind just won’t wrap around you standing behind a dingy pink Formica counter selling loaves of white bread and packs of chewing tobacco. Speaking of the store, you won’t bring that tall scary Susan person with you tomorrow, will you? Holy Crap. Look at the time; I need to run. Got to be in court in twenty-five minutes. See you tomorrow. Drive carefully.”

  With that, Garland hung up. I sat for a moment contemplating all the questions Garland asked that went unanswered. Garland did not really require answers; he knew what he wanted to know already. He was a man sufficient unto himself, or so it would seem. I drew another Tarot card from the deck. Ace of Wands—a strong hand emerging from dense white clouds, holding out an offering of a wooden club, festooned with colored flowers. Well now! That’s better, I said to the still battling crows, this card could mean a new enterprise, maybe related to money, with several possibilities to consider. Let’s hope this ace with the big club trumps that burning tower over there. I’m not in good enough shape to jump from flaming windows. I think the crows answered that sarcasm can be a very helpful coping skill.

  “Dust thou art; to dust returnest,

  Was not spoken of the soul.”

  …Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  2.

  At daybreak the following morning, I wrapped my bathrobe around me against the autumn chill and waited at the bay window in the kitchen for coffee to brew. Lying west of my house, and still blanketed in flat half-light, the mountain ridge exhaled billows of ashen fog and blew it in long tendrils down across the valley. It moved quietly to settle on my pasture and creep against the porch. Eerie fingers silently counting secrets. I remembered being awakened around six by the groaning of metal-rimmed wheels negotiating potholes, and the slow labored clop, clop of a tired horse. Had there been a wagon lumbering past my house in the darkness? Someone on the abandoned logging road climbing the side of Fire Mountain? I lay still several moments waiting for the sound to come again, but nothing, only the stillness before dawn. Now, more awake and my mind clearing, I was not sure if the wagon traveled in a dream, or on the road outside.

  A short time later, I d
ressed in a sensible calf length taupe dress with matching jacket and was ready to drive south to Atlanta. Warming the engine of my Subaru, and still unable to see clearly twenty feet ahead of me, I questioned if this heavy fog was usual for fall in these mountains, and if children waiting for school buses feared the mist filled air. Perhaps they hopped on one foot to ward off any passing evil, or held hands with friends until the safety of the big yellow vehicle’s headlights broke the curtain of mist. Or perhaps, having been bred to the mysteries, they were not afraid at all. I, on the other hand, am a city person by birth, a newcomer to these mountains, and count navigating through an unseen landscape as pure terror. Yet responsibility has a compelling voice, so I tried to ignore the feeling of being watched by some shrouded force in the fog and gingerly guided my Subaru along the winding road towards town, then soon eased into the parking lot of Granny’s Store.

  Though Garland is not impressed by the store, I find it comforting to drive up to the slightly listing turn-of –the-century converted tobacco barn. Because the building fronts the old Bryson City Road and sits on a rise with the Little Tennessee River behind, I suspect a past owner thought the location would capitalize on the popularity of river rafting by selling supplies and groceries to tourists. With high hopes the owner rebuilt the dilapidated front porch in 1996, put in a bathroom, and installed two storefront windows. Fortunately, the aged, dark stained wood interior, smelling forever of coal fire and curing tobacco, was left untouched, except for electrical service snaking here and there through metal conduit, and a room constructed at the top of the open stairs to the old drying loft for inventory storage. To the left of the front door, a stamped red and black metal sign announcing “Granny’s” across the top with “Nehi Orange” below swings from a rusted metal chain affixed to an equally rusted flagpole. Granny’s may not be very profitable; but we are nothing if not picturesque. Too bad most of the river rafting happens upstream of us. I unlocked the front door and let myself in, switched on all the lights, and started the coffeemakers standing sentinel on the front counter. Eight months ago, when I bought Granny’s from the Goddard twins, who’d owned it for five years, it was a package deal with my house and land. The new coffee makers were the only changes I’d made to the store, unless you consider refusing to continue to sell homegrown marijuana from under the counter a change, which I didn’t. I considered that decision just good sense. Jail time did not sound like good time to me. Therefore, we no longer sold “weed” at Granny’s as the Goddard twins had apparently done. We substituted rich Costa Rican coffee—the first cup on the house, for our early morning customers.

  It was just before seven-thirty when Susan’s red jeep careened into the parking lot and she bounced into the store, stomping loose dirt from her boots on the mat as she entered. “Hey, Miz. P. Oh, good, you got the java going.”

  “Susan! How can you drive so fast in this fog?”

  “Shoot, that ain’t nothing, Miz P. It’ll burn off by ten o’clock. You should have seen it last night when we headed back over the mountain from Slyva. I mean seriously pea soup! The guys and me were picking over at Baby Petree’s. Pretty good crowd for a weeknight. Lord, I do need a cup of coffee. We didn’t get home till nearly two-thirty.”

  “Who’s Baby Petree?”

  “No Ma’am. Not a who, a what. Baby Petree’s is a bar-b-que and beer joint. They have local groups like us in to play from time to time.”

  Susan, besides being Granny’s manager, plays banjo, and sings, with a Bluegrass band called the “Lickers.” I can’t say much for the name, however the stand up bass player is witty with one-liners, as all bass players should be, and keeps the audience grinning between songs. Susan’s fingers are nimble and sure, her voice mellow and throaty. The real star though is Susan’s daddy, Daniel Allen. When he plays the fiddle he can conjure just about more sadness with his bow than a heart can endure. I imagined, each time he cradled the fiddle to his chin, he played out the grief of losing his young wife to an unforgiving icy mountain road. Or perhaps he’d made peace with her death and is just a man inherently comfortable with the sorrow his fiddle speaks.

  I watched Susan pour cream and add two sugars in her coffee and remembered what Garland said yesterday about her being “scary.” What was it about her that would make him say that? True, at about six feet she does tower over me, as well as Garland, by about eight inches, but then, most people do. Her black eye makeup, dark lipstick, garnet nose stud, and short spiky black hair persona is no different from many other young women in their early twenties living in Atlanta. At least her hair is naturally black, and I might add, always clean. Maybe it’s that her usual day costume is a long, shapeless, gray jumper dress worn with a black tee shirt and darker gray-pocketed apron. Spit-shined black army boots always compliment Susan’s outfit. As I thought about it, her work outfit combination did give her more of a surprised Lizzie Borden look than “downtown Atlanta chic.” No matter, I love the self confident statement she makes; and Susan is far from the Lizzie Borden type. Her kindness radiates soul outward. Susan was probably just trying to dress the part; after all, the store is called, “Granny’s.”

  Truthfully, it amused me that Susan intimidated Garland. Besides, Susan is an excellent store manager and it doesn’t hurt that she seems to be related to about half the county. How wonderful to be young and so full of life and possibilities, and yes, so attractive, for I do think Susan attractive, in her own quirky fashion. At least Susan is distinctive, a trait I’ve never possessed. I could rob a bank in broad daylight and all the witnesses would remember is me being short.

  How did my mother, tallish, slender, dark curly hair, illuminated by sunlight, produce such an ordinary daughter? Her complexion was brown in the summer with only the suggestion of exposure. She moved with grace and purpose in everything she did. Stocking seams always straight (yes, that was before pantyhose), shoes matching outfits. My dad—to put it kindly—was irresponsible and a poor provider; thus my mother supported us, leaving our duplex apartment in the Virginia Highlands neighborhood six days a week to ride the bus downtown to Rich’s department store, where she sold “better dresses” to the well-to-do Atlanta matrons. However, Dad was rakishly handsome; I’ll say that for him, and my mother loved him unquestionably. He was a big, smiling, freckled face redhead, always laughing, nicknamed “Rooster” by his friends, and always quick with an entertaining story. From those memorable parents, I inherited the watered down versions of each. On me, my dad’s cobalt green eyes are more chlorine colored, flecked with gold thrown in by the gene pool as a reminder of the absolute randomness of the universe. A few of his freckles splash across my nose and checks, so forget trying to get a tan. I go from stark white to ruby-red peel in the time it takes to say the Pledge of Allegiance. As for the hair: my ex, may he choke on a peach pit, once said it was the color of Samuel Adams Lager. I think that means brown. By the way, you would think someone whose hair had just been compared to a cold beer would pretty much realize the maturity level of the man making the compliment. Not so. I am living proof that love can be blind, and deaf. At least I was way back then. Now I’m older and far more jaded.

  “Susan,” I said, as I returned from strolling memory lane and gathered my purse and another cup of coffee for the road, “I have to see Garland Wang this morning on some business. He has a small job for me. I’ll be back tonight.”

  Susan moaned and rolled her eyes. “I wish you didn’t have to work for Mr. Wang. I don’t like him.”

  I was surprised. Susan is usually charitable about most people. “Really? Why not? I’ve known Garland for almost ten years and have done consulting work for him for at least five. He pays well, and right now I really need the income.” I tried to gauge her frown to see if my reply had softened her assessment of Garland. Her face remained unchanged, so I added, “Garland may suffer from a minor case of situational ethics, sometimes; though I think he is basically honest, and a good attorney. Are you sure you aren’t a tad prejudiced?”


  Her frown flipped to indignation. “Miz P! I can’t believe you said that. It isn’t because he is Chinese. Well, I know he’s American and all that, but his way-back kinfolk were born in China. Right?”

  “Yes, mainland China, I think. I’m not really sure. I do know his father’s people immigrated to Savannah, Georgia, before the Civil war, which makes him as much American as us Scots-Irish. I’m not sure about his mother’s people.”

  Susan sipped her coffee and then wagged her right index finger towards me to make her argument. “Well, I’ll tell you Miz P, it’s not his kinfolks. I don’t care if he’s Chinese or Pekinese. No, it’s something else. That man just always seems to have some hidden agenda going on.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Susan, the man is an attorney. Hidden agendas go with the package. It’s a special course they take in law school, along with: Lying With a Straight Face and Creative Subterfuge 101. Maybe you just don’t trust him because he’s from Atlanta?”

  “No that’s not it, I’m sure. I’m not a prejudiced person and it doesn’t matter where he is from. I mean like, I slept with a Hungarian guy once, and he didn’t even speak English.”

  “Well, that must have been interesting!”

  “Interesting? Well, yes, I guess it was interesting. It was okay. You really have to think about communicating when a guy doesn’t speak English.”

  “Umm, I would guess so.” I hoped Susan wouldn’t offer any details about her definition of communicating. Discussing sex with someone half my age, who is not a client, especially at seven-thirty in the morning, could be uncomfortable.