Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  “I met him when I was an exchange student in Germany back in high school.”

  “Susan, you were an exchange student?”

  “Well, yeah! Traveling to Europe was fun. I got to go because I was honor roll and all that good stuff.”

  “You were honor roll? Wow, there is a lot I don’t know about you, Susan. Is there anything else you want to share this morning before I travel south into the jaws of the lion?”

  “No, I just wish you didn’t have to work for Mr. Wang, that’s all. I feel kinda responsible you have to take on extra work. You know, that Granny’s doesn’t make enough for you to be comfortable, and mostly, that the store isn’t exactly what you thought it was going to be. I’m real sorry about that, Miz. P.”

  “That’s not your fault, Susan. You didn’t lie to me. It was good ole Larry and Jerry, the infamous Goddard twins, who were not exactly, shall we say, forthright in their bookkeeping information.”

  “Well, I worked here for them and had a good idea what those boys were doing. I should have told you I suspected they were selling weed under the counter.”

  “It’s okay Susan. I really don’t blame you. I know you were probably afraid if you told anyone you’d be sitting in jail, while Larry and Jerry fished for marlin off the coast of Florida. And those two sleaze buckets would have blamed you, I’m sure. No, I’m a big girl. I should have checked the actual sales more carefully. Even I would have known Cheerios don’t cost fourteen seventy-five. What blows my mind is that the twins actually reported the income on the books. I guess they were more afraid of the IRS than the local law.”

  “Well, Duh,” Susan rolled her eyes, “that’s cause guess who helped them grow it and haul it down off the mountain in the first place?”

  “You mean the sheriff? Are you telling me our sheriff was a partner in the marijuana business with the Goddard twins?”

  “No, no, not Sheriff Mac. He and my daddy are first cousins. He’s all right. Not the brightest bulb in the box, but honest, as far as I know. I mean that skinny deputy of his, Howard.”

  “Oh, great. You mean the guy who hangs around here eating Little Debbie raspberry cakes and making moony eyes at you?”

  Susan made a face like a pug puppy. “Moony eyes! Oh Miz P. you are so, so, so old fashioned. You crack me up.”

  “Susan, can’t you just call me Promise and not Miz P?”

  “Oh, Lord. No, I just can’t. Every time I say the P word, you know, it makes me feel so committed. It’s so obligatory.”

  “Obligatory? Susan, you constantly surprise me. It’s just a name not a contract. Don’t worry about the committed part; none of the men in my life have ever bothered with that small, apparently very heavy adjective. I don’t expect a lifetime commitment from you; Granny’s General Store is not exactly a career destination for a smart and talented person like you.”

  “I’m not thinking about leaving you, Miz P., I’m really not. I like working for you. And now that the word is pretty much around town we’re not selling weed, I really think business could get a lot better, especially now that fall is here and the leaf lookers from the city are headed our way for weekends. You’ll see. We’ll do better.”

  “I hope you’re right, Susan.” I checked my watch: seven-forty. To make Atlanta by ten, I would have to get on the road and make good time, fog or no fog. The traffic would be bumper to bumper, as always; fortunately Garland’s office was on the north side of the city so I wouldn’t have to fight all the way into downtown. I headed for the door then remembered one last thing. “By the way Susan, you know that monster male goat I told you about? The one over on Fletcher Enloe’s side of the pasture? Well, he has eaten every blueberry bush along the entire fence line. I’ll have no blueberries come summer. And I can smell him all the way to the house when the wind turns. Do you happen to know Fletcher Enloe? He doesn’t seem to have a number listed in the phone book and I really want to talk to him about keeping that goat somewhere else on his property.”

  “Phone! Shoot, I hear that old man’s so cheap he’s probably still uses a Sears catalog for toilet paper. I doubt he’s got a telephone. I’ll ask Daddy if he ever sees him when he takes the mail around. When his wife was alive, they used to come in here pretty regular. Since she died, I haven’t seen him in a while. Somebody should probably go check on him anyway; he doesn’t have any close kin. It was real sad when his wife got cancer and passed away. She was a nice lady. I’ll ask Daddy. He won’t mind going over there, especially if he knows its you asking.” Susan shot me a mischievous look. “I think Daddy is sweet on you, Miz P. What do you think about that? Isn’t that interesting?”

  I was shocked. Daniel, sweet on me? Now who was old fashioned? It was way too early in the morning for that kind of information. Susan stood her ground and waited for an answer. It had been so long since I even considered a man being “sweet on me” the whole concept felt foreign. True, I had not been exactly celibate since my divorce. Fact is, I’d had probably more than my share of short-term relationships, mutually satisfying sometimes, sometimes not so. The plan was don’t become too attached, and thus too dependent on another man. The “Father Knows Best” concept of happy housewife being loved and cared for by the big strong husband, had not worked for me. Not that I didn’t want to be cared for. Who doesn’t? Sadly, I guess my ex-husband hadn’t read the script about fidelity. Besides, Daniel—well Daniel didn’t seem to be the kind of man who would be content to just be sweet on someone. Handsome as he was, Daniel seemed to be still water, running deep. Long term. Too risky for my cautious nature. I opted for a major sidestep to Susan’s question. “I think you misconstrue your Daddy’s kindness. That’s what I think.”

  Susan reached over and topped off my coffee, adding extra cream to my mug and continuing to smile.

  “Thanks. I’ll call you later to see how your day goes,” I added, and made a quick get-a-way.

  Back in my car, I checked my reflection in the visor mirror as the engine warmed. Big surprise, still the same unruly mop I had when I left home. I dragged a brush through it and tried to hem up a few errant curls behind my ears with a pair of tortoiseshell combs I found on the dash, and was grateful I’d chosen a good pair of silver and amethyst drop earrings and a scarf to add a classier look to my plain dress. If I was headed to the big city, I needed to blend in with the crowd and not look like country come to town. A closer study of my washed out, early morning face told me I should have added some color, maybe subtle blue eye shadow, a little mascara, though trying to apply eye makeup so early in the morning usually results in dried goop working its way behind my contact lens and is more aggravation than it’s worth. The mirror also reminded me I was beginning to favor the wild witch of the north and really did need a cut and style. And what was this with the color? Lighter blondish strands looking suspiciously pearly gray in the daylight were invading me. Pretty soon I’d have to face the fact that I needed heavy stock in L’Oreal to stave off the aging. Or, give up and just let it all go gray. As I weighted that possibility, I drove out of Granny’s parking lot, headed south, and also weighed my decision to move away from Atlanta.

  Why on earth did I think a move was a good idea? This morning, picking my way back south in the fog, it was hard to actually list the reasons for leaving Atlanta. Sure, the traffic was murderous and the constant motion of people and vehicles was bordering on claustrophobic; and there was that pervasive sense of restlessness I’d developed, telling me I needed to make a change in my life. Did I really think a different place would give me a different life? As a counselor, I should have known better. And what was so bad about my old life, anyway? I had my modest debt free townhouse, good friends who made me laugh, and lots of choices for shopping and eating out. Maybe I should have stayed where people and things were familiar, kept my small counseling practice going and waited for the feelings to pass. That’s what I always tell clients-feelings are usually transitory. Like the weather: just hang on, they change.

  The infamous
Committee—members being: the Should, Second-Guess, and What-if girls—convened in my head, chiming in with the flip side. On the other hand, the committee pointed out, the North Carolina Mountains are breathtakingly beautiful. They had called my name for several years as I came weekend after weekend to drive the winding back roads. My house, backed up against Fire Mountain and nesting on five acres of green rolling pasture, overlooking laurel banked Fells Creek, was perfect. The mountains to my back and rushing water in my front yard, who could ask for anything more? And, I needed a new focus for my life. I wasn’t exactly burned out as a counselor, but let’s just say I was singed around the edges.

  So, if I loved my house and the mountains, the Committee wanted to know what was the problem? Why did I continue to worry that moving was a mistake? Thinking maybe a month long Caribbean vacation may have been a better choice. For one thing, being cut off from my deep Atlanta roots was more painful than I envisioned; and the debt for the house and store was even more painful. I needed income from Granny’s to help float my mid-life adventure, and the store was not paying the bills, unless I was willing to pick up where the Goddard twins left off, which I was not. It wasn’t hard to conclude, given the available choices; Garland Wang was my best bet to make the mortgage this month.

  All right, I told myself, with a conviction only financial insecurity can produce. The fog is lifting and WSB radio says Georgia 400 is clear southbound, all the way to Roswell. I’ll give the mountains six more months and see how I feel. The worst that can happen is I’ll sell the property and tuck tail back to Atlanta.

  “Harpy: …Depicted as a bird of prey with a woman’s face.…”

  The New Oxford American Dictionary, Second Edition

  3.

  Negotiating the bumper-to-bumper traffic along Georgia 400, I exited right onto Holcomb Bridge Road. Fortunately, Garland’s office, elegantly ensconced in a quasi-Williamsburg styled brick building, popular when the small city of Roswell exploded into yet another extension of Atlanta proper, was only a mile further, because the traffic moved like meandering cattle in the Texas heat. Why would I even think of believing the radio report of Georgia 400 being clear to Roswell? It is never clear. Never! Finally, I pulled my Subaru into the parking lot and gathered my worn leather briefcase containing pad, pen, and other assorted necessaries and prepared to assume the persona of “expert from afar” for hire.

  Stepping off the elevator onto the eighth floor where Wang and Wang occupied the penthouse, I had a long-range view through a wall of windows of the highway along Georgia 400 to the east, Holcomb Bridge Road to the north, and historic old Roswell village to the south. I remembered from earlier visits that Garland, being “king” of the penthouse, looked out on a red brick structure squatting on the bank of the Chattahoochee River known as the Roswell Mill, once infamous for producing the gray woolen “rebel” cloth suiting southern soldiers during the Civil War. With his pugnacious enthusiasm, Sherman destroyed the mill during his Atlanta campaign and shipped the workers, all women and female children, north of the Ohio River, ostensibly to a better life far from the evil South; though, one has to wonder if the workers had any choice in the relocation. After the war ended, the mill was rebuilt and produced cotton cloth until 1977. Today, the square brick building, and the surrounding area fronting the Chattahoochee River, is developed into upscale retail shops and restaurants. From Garland’s expansive office window you could watch the who’s who of Roswell gentry strolling along the river’s edge, shopping and remarking who is doing what, where, and for how much. Garland declares he learns more business and political news by watching the lunch crowd at The Roswell Mill than by reading the newspapers.

  Garland’s receptionist, the very svelte and very honey blond, Paige, rose and disconnected herself from the computer telephone system that was the life of the large law firm. In two seconds she was around the desk and gently guiding me across the reception room towards the conference room. “Oh, Dr. McNeal, so lovely to see you. Mr. Wang requested I bring you in straight away.” Before I could reply to her charming English accent, I was whisked into the sun-filled conference room and the door closed behind me. Garland, rising from his perch at the head of the massive mahogany table, smiled, a little too eagerly I observed, and came around to shake my hand. When he said good morning and thanked me for coming, it seemed we were near strangers and not ten-year friends. A small bead of perspiration glistened on his temple, then retreated into his hairline. He gestured to his right and took a step backwards.

  “Promise, Dr. McNeal, may I present Ms. Becca Tournay.”

  I extended my hand across the table and felt the reluctant grip of long slender fingers attached to an equally slender hand. It wasn’t so much a tenuous handshake, as one of someone who did not want to carry out the pleasantry at all. Cold hand, no rings, single strand diamond bracelet, five foot seven, more or less, thin, sinewy, rod straight back. As I held Becca Tournay’s hand, I had a fleeting picture of a baby crying in a crib. He had been crying for some time; tears mixed with his running nose to give his face a feverish sheen. My heart ached for the sad child in the crib. Then the image was gone. I focused on Becca again. Her short platinum hair was heavily moussed back from her face into sculptured stiff layers, accentuating her chiseled chin and nose. No smile was offered, only judging sapphire blue eyes. I noted the elegantly designed double breasted cut of her soft pink gabardine suit and decided it probably cost more than the book value of my Subaru. Remembering Garland had mentioned his client was about my age, I wondered if this could be true. If so, I needed to find whatever vitamins she was taking, because this woman could be late thirties and not early fifties. Now I really wished I had gotten a haircut, or at least added makeup to my early morning routine. She quickly withdrew her hand and sat down at the table, leaving Garland and me standing awkwardly at her attention.

  “Well, then,” Garland recovered, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  “Yes, let’s.” I said, and sat to fumble through my briefcase to retrieve my pad and pen. I would not, I vowed, let this Becca person unnerve me. I had dealt with enough types of angry clients over the years to recognize fear hiding behind defiance. Looking squarely at her, I assumed a noncommittal look and tried to catch her eyes with mine. She evaded and picked at a non-existent piece of lint on her lapel.” Why don’t we start with you giving me some direction about what you want me to accomplish for you, Ms. Tournnay?”

  “Really, Mr. Wang,” She said, ignoring me. “I thought you had explained all of this to Ms…” She faltered, no doubt purposely not remembering my name.

  “McNeal, Dr. Promise McNeal,” I interjected, feeling the need to add the Dr. to the name. True, I hold a doctorate in psychology, not medicine; still it is a legitimate degree and I was determined this woman would not discount my achievement.

  “Yes, McNeal. Whatever. I’ve been over this already. I don’t choose to reconstruct my troubles once again.” As she finished her statement she turned slightly away from me and slid a shoebox resting on the table a few inches toward Garland. It was only a few inches, but the gesture was not wasted.

  Garland looked at me pleadingly, hoping for what, I couldn’t tell. I returned a reassuring smile and accepted Becca’s clue. “So, let’s take a look at your shoebox, Ms. Tournay, and perhaps you could begin with how it connects with your father’s trust, and your son.” Becca Tournay gave me a look filled with hate and determination as she pushed the box across the table to me. The outside was ordinary enough; the end printing identified a pair of size eight black shoes made by Jangles—a manufacturer’s brand I did not know. The inside, however, was another story. As I eased the top off it was impossible not to gasp. Garland’s eyes darted back and forth between Becca Tournay and the box, though he said nothing. I surmised he’d seen the contents: a platinum haired, hard plastic doll reclining on a bed of white tissue paper. She was dressed in a pale pink suit, not unlike Ms. Tournay’s, and her one remaining startling blue glass eye
stared up at me. I say one remaining eye because the other, as well as the left side of her face in which the eye once lived, was crushed into about forty pieces. Her left leg was broken as well, and twisted up behind her at an unnatural angle. Without touching the doll I closed the box top.

  “I can understand how this would upset you, Ms. Tournay.”

  “Upset,” she shot back, “an understatement. It came Federal Express this morning to the hotel. Obviously a threat, and obviously from my insane son.”

  “Was there a note?”

  “It is plainly there, Ms. McNeal. Didn’t you see the card beside the awful creature?” She pointed her index finger without touching the box.

  Trying to be nonchalant, I opened the box again and extracted a small plain white gift card from the side packing tissue. On the reverse side, someone had cut letters from magazine print to form two words, ‘Your Choice.’ Ms. Tournay, who would know where you are staying?”

  “My son, of course! I have already told you he must have sent the awful doll.”

  “Did you happen to notice the origination of the package?”

  “Charleston. Why does that matter? He could easily drive to Charleston and send the package.”

  “The suit, it looks very much like the one you are wearing. Do you often wear this suit?”

  “I own eleven pink suits, Ms. McNeal, all custom made for me. I travel often with my business and find it easier to accessorize similar outfits. Accessories are so important to one’s first impression. And by the way, that purple scarf thing you are wearing is not at all attractive with your hair color. And it looks an afterthought with your drab beige dress. It is all very unsettling.”

  I felt my face flush. Taupe, the dress is taupe, I wanted to blurt out. And I bought it from Chico’s for crying out loud. It cost far too much to be labeled drab. Fortunately, I kept my mouth shut, sat back in my chair and studied Becca’s face. Why was this woman being so obviously rude? And what button was she pushing that made me want to return her bad behavior with equally bad behavior? Suck it up, Promise, my “committee” warned, she’s a paying client. I resisted feigning denseness by asking her if it was my cheerful purple scarf, or the broken doll, she found unsettling. No point in poking a stick at an ill-tempered opossum. I loved that crinkled linen scarf; the graduated pale purple to eggplant pattern made me happy. Maybe it didn’t go with my hair, but you know what? By tomorrow, I could dye my hair to go with the scarf; Becca would still be a miserable, angry person. Resolving to put on my inscrutable therapist face and wait her out, I began to silently count…one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three…