Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  At one thousand and four, Becca bolted from her chair and glared at Garland. “Mr. Wang. I refuse to be interrogated any further. If you think this Dr. (she emphasized the Dr.) McNeal is the right person to establish Paulie unstable and unable to administrate Papa’s trust, I suppose I shall trust you know what you are doing. Certainly, at the hourly price you are charging me, you should bloody well know! Call me when you have positive news. I have business to take care of in Atlanta.” With those words Becca stalked out of the room leaving the door wide open. I heard Paige wish her a lovely day as she whisked by the reception desk and caught the elevator going down.

  Garland shut the conference room door, loosened his tie, and grinned. “Wow, she makes Aileen look like Mary Tyler Moore.” He then removed his suit coat, slung it across one of the vacant chairs and rang Paige. “Hello, Sweetheart. Did that burst of frigid air freeze your lovely curls? Good, we wouldn’t want that, now would we? Would you please ask someone to bring us a cup of tea? I think Promise may need a refresher, and I know I do.” He hung up and reached behind his chair to the credenza for a yellow pad and pencil. “All right now, let’s see what we have.”

  I enjoyed his recovery from the formidable Ms Tournay. The Garland I knew and loved was back in business. Flipping from the few notes I’d taken during our brief conversation, I opened to a fresh page and started a list. “Okay. Number one, your client is the bitch from hell. That, of course, is a personal observation, not a professional assessment. We’ll get to that later.”

  Garland interrupted. “I know she’s a bitch, never the less, a well paying bitch. I don’t need a psychologist, or a psychic, to tell me that.”

  “Garland, please. For the hundredth time, I am not a psychic. A psychic is a person who wears long flowing robes and probably advertises in the personal columns of a new age newspaper. All I have is intuition, no robes. Everybody has intuition. Sometimes I get lucky with my intuition, that’s all it is, luck”

  “Right, whatever you say. Just remember, I’ve seen you in action. You pick up stuff from the universe like a vacuum cleaner, stuff the rest of us have no idea is working around out there. And, I saw your face when you shook hands with Becca. You saw something. What was it? What did you see? What’s Becca’s deep dark secret? Not that it matters, of course, since us attorney types don’t want to know too much about our client’s crimes and misdemeanors. It makes it too hard to spin a convincing story for a jury.”

  “Great, I’ll keep that piece of honesty about attorneys in mind. You are probably right though, what I sensed from Becca may not matter, at least not yet. It’s too early to see where it fits. Let’s just say I’m grateful she wasn’t my mother. Let’s go on to number two: the doll frightened her, though not enough to stop what she is doing. Here we have a very determined lady for a client. Three: she says she’s convinced her son sent the doll. I’m not so sure she is telling us the truth about that; she is too quick to point her well-manicured finger at him. On the other hand, I guess if he did send the creepy thing, it could help us. Tell me about the son.”

  Garland reached back to the credenza for a thin manila file folder just as Paige brought tea. “Thank you, Sweetheart.” He showed Paige a genuine smile and followed her fashionable slim body with appreciative eyes as she exited the room, making me wonder if calling her sweetheart was more than Garland’s usual sexist greeting. I hoped not. I knew Garland’s wife, Aileen, and, as much as I admired her, I felt certain she was the “take no prisoners” type. If she caught her husband in any indiscretion he would be reduced to a very small greasy spot on the road to divorce court. Garland opened the file and slid the top page towards me. It was an eight by ten glossy headshot of a pensive young man, facing the camera. Except for his dark hair, layered behind his ears and a tad longer than currently fashionable, his face could have been any sincere, handsome man, who just happened to photograph well. As I focused on him, though, I changed my mind about him being just any pretty face. His eyes were mysteriously deep set and knowledgeable, his slightly aquiline nose authoritative and perfectly proportioned to the face. No, unless men were now going in for Glamour Shots photo sessions, this picture was one of many copies a theatrical agent would keep on hand. This was the face of a man who wanted, needed, to connect with the viewer, his audience.

  “Paul Alaine Tournay, the second, his grandfather being the first, or senior, however you want to put it.” Garland began, and pointed to the photograph, “Only son of Becca. Thirty-four years old.”

  “So, Becca was about what age when he was born?”

  “Eighteen. A student at the University of South Carolina, where her father was a professor, when her son was born. No marriage. Sperm donor unknown, at least to me. She refuses to talk about it; so, we can assume giving birth was not Becca’s first choice. Obviously, the baby was named for his grandfather. Paulie, as his mother calls him, was raised by Becca and Sr. Tournay, and graduated from the University of South Carolina with a degree in history and theater. Began acting and singing as a teenager and was well received at USC with the Shakespearean players. Plays classical piano. Toured for a while with a group called the Upstock Players doing the usual, The Fantastics, Music Man, that kind of stuff. Somehow got tagged for a short stint as Ronald in a disgusting soap titled, Forever. Soap only lasted one season. Must have been pretty bad. Three years ago Paulie moved back to Atlanta into the old Tournay house off West Wesley Road and Howell Mill. Lived there about a year, presumably with grandpa’s permission, before Tournay, Sr. died. Now the trust allows him to stay in the house.”

  “What does he do for a living now?”

  “He still acts locally and actually has a paying job as director of the Sixteenth Street Theater; not big bucks, but since he lives rent free in grandpa’s house and the trust pays all the household bills, except food. I guess he does okay. Grandpa even gave him a vintage Jag, so I guess no car payments. Though, upkeep on a Jaguar must be more than some car payments. Oh, and his mom says he buys and sells antiques and vintage stuff like that.”

  I nodded my head to show I’d taken in Garland’s recitation about Paulie Tournay. “So, what is the deal with the trust? How much money, and how does it work?”

  “About five million. How does it work? Ah, that is interesting.” Garland took a deep sip of tea. “It’s one of those beautiful set-ups to keep the IRS from getting all the inheritance. When Reagan was President, his administration got this and a couple of other trust formulas through Congress to save rich folks some inheritance taxes. This type of trust was available for five years and then expired. Tournay was lucky, or smart, enough to get in on it before it expired. Basically, Becca and Paulie, as he is so lovingly called by his mommy, get interest only on the trust for the first ten years and then Paulie gets the principal in one lump sum to control. At that point he can liquidate most of the assets by an ingenious convoluted tax formula if he chooses, at no penalty. Sweet deal! The only holdout will be Becca continues to get a monthly allowance from the trust, in the amount of the last year’s interest, until her death.”

  “That means Paulie doesn’t even get control of the trust for another eight years. Why is Becca so hot to do something now?”

  “No mystery there, not really. Even though the administrator can’t cash in the trust until then, there are things that can be done into the third and following years to free up parts of the cash and still not trigger an IRS rape of the funds. And most importantly, one of the many rules for this type of trust is that any objection by the heirs must be filed within twenty-four months of the activation of the trust. The activation, of course, would technically have been Tournay Sr.’s death. That, my dear, brings us to the urgency of the matter. We only have sixteen days left to file our objection.”

  “Sixteen days. Garland. Bring me in on the last roll of the wave, will ya.”

  Tapping out a short rat-tat-tat on the table with the erasure end of his pencil, Garland frowned. “We’re both on the tail end of the wave. Ms. Becca
just breezed into my office two days ago. Didn’t I tell you I needed a little magic?”

  I nodded in sympathy. “Okay, so what do you have on Paulie that makes him an unfit administrator? Any drugs, alcohol, past criminal record?”

  “Nada. That’s why I need you, Dr. McNeal, psychologist extraordinaire. The good news is that we don’t have to prove him a total nut case, just not fit to manage the sizable Tournay fortune. He can be mentally unstable, a criminal, or just plain stupid. Take your pick. It doesn’t matter which. Just get me something I can take to a judge.”

  “By the way, how did the Sr. Tournay make the money?”

  Garland waved his right hand and studied the ceiling. “Hell, I don’t know. The how doesn’t matter to our case. He taught art in Atlanta at the Art Institute and then at USC for years after they left Atlanta. He did write one book, Carolingian Art, Diverging Genius. Whatever Carolingian art is.”

  “Catchy title. I think Carolingian has to do with the reign of Charlemagne.”

  Garland’s cinnamon brown eyes narrowed. “How do you know that, and I don’t?”

  “It’s okay Garland. Don’t be hurt. When you were busy with predator skills at law school, I was yawning through art appreciation class. It doesn’t sound like Sr.’s book would have made the bestseller list. Where else could the money have come from?”

  Garland shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. Like I said. It doesn’t matter. Maybe good investing back when you could make a killing in the stock market. I don’t know, and don’t care. Becca’s story is some of it came from Tournay’s family in France. He was French. Did I mention that? I have copies of Tournay’s accounts that merged into the trust showing intermittent deposits since the early fifties. He seems to have kept one investment account separate from what he earned teaching. Some of it goes out over the years, but he seems to have been a thrifty Frenchman and much of it stays in for growth. Anyway, we aren’t concerned with where the money came from, only that the charming Becca gets to keep it. Why are you so interested?”

  “Umm. Well, you know me; inquiring minds want to know. Don’t worry, I hear you. I am being paid to investigate Paulie and not Paul Sr.’s money. So, other than the possibility Paulie sent his mom a somewhat bizarre voodoo doll, what makes Becca so sure he is insane?”

  “Ah, another interesting twist. She says after he moved into the Tournay house, Paulie called his grandfather several times babbling he had seen the ghost of his grandmother on the house grounds. Becca says old Papa was horrendously upset by young Paul’s stories and she is sure the calls sent Papa to an early demise. To say she is very angry with Paulie would a gross understatement. I gather Becca and good old Papa were very close.”

  “Closer than she is with her son, it would seem. What about the grandmother? When did she die?”

  Garland fidgeted in his seat and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, that seems to be a long story Becca also refuses to talk about. The short version I got from one newspaper clipping and an obit Paige dug up on line is that Becca’s mom, Stella Chandless Bennett Tournay, an Atlanta debutante with money of her own from the Chandless and Bennett side of the family, either hanged herself, or was murdered while she and Paul Sr. lived at the house in Atlanta. Becca was only five, so understandably she wouldn’t really know anything first hand about her mother’s death, and you can bet your last dollar Papa wasn’t forthcoming with any information, since the newspaper clipping stated he was apparently the main suspect, if there was foul play. I take it the Atlanta police couldn’t make a case for murder against him and the whole case just withered away. Soon after that, Tournay moved himself and little Becca over to Columbia, where he took a teaching position at the University of South Carolina. Stella’s family tried to get custody of Becca. I gather they were unsuccessful. I think she has not seen any of her mother’s people since then, though she did inherit some money from her mother by way of the Chandless side of the family. I checked that out to make sure she could pay me. I surmise that money is what jumpstarted her business ventures. I’m not sure.”

  My mind tumbled at each of Garland’s words about Stella Tournay, and the face in my dream came back with fierce clarity. “Garland, stop for a second. Did you say Stella Tournay died by hanging? Was she by chance found hanging out over a creek?”

  “Yeah, she was actually,” Garland said with surprise, “the newspaper article said she was found about half way out a sturdy oak limb extending over Howell creek. Strange way to commit suicide, don’t you think? The paper hinted she might have been killed elsewhere and then taken down to the creek. Creepy, don’t you think? Boy, I’m glad I don’t do criminal work. I hate this weird shit. Wait a second, how’d you know she was hanging over the creek?”

  I kept my eyes focused down at my pad, finishing the somewhat crudely drawn ballet shippers I’d been sketching while Garland talked. “Oh, I don’t know. I must have read the story at some point in time.”

  Garland glanced at my pad. “Promise, why are you drawing ballet shoes? Did I tell you Stella Tournay was a dancer and that Becca owns several dance studios? She owns that franchise, Danse. However you pronounce it in French. Have you heard of them?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I replied honestly.

  “Well, apparently my client does very well on her own. Doesn’t really need Papa’s money. In fact, I don’t think this trust thing is about the money. I honestly think she hates her son’s guts. Just doesn’t want him to have any part of her Papa. You’re the expert. Tell me, Promise, is that possible? Can a mother just plain hate her son’s guts?”

  I allowed myself to exhale a deep sigh I had been holding for what seemed to be a long, long time. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Garland. Although sadly, it is possible for a mother, or a father, to have only feelings of anger and resentment for their own child. Sometimes the bond of love just doesn’t develop. It’s not a random happenstance though, and parents can’t catch it like the flu. From what I understand, we are talking about pretty emotionally damaged mothers and fathers here.”

  “Crap. I hate this case already. Let’s do what we have to do and get it over with.”

  Remembering Becca’s cold hand, and sensing her equally cold heart, I was wishing I’d stayed in North Carolina. “Does Paulie know his mom is trying to cut him out?”

  “My guess is he does. When I phoned him and asked if he would talk to you, he agreed without any hesitation. I think I heard him laugh. Then he said, ‘Come on over, it’s always interesting to see what mean stew my mother is cooking up.’ Clever, huh?”

  I know I must have rolled my eyes at the bad pun. “Yes. Very clever. Did you make an appointment for me?”

  “I did. One o’clock today. His house. Down in Buckhead.”

  I checked my watch: twelve-ten. I would have to hurry to be anywhere by one o’clock in the snarled Atlanta traffic. “Garland, don’t you ever call me again and say an assignment is a piece of cake. If you do, you are dead meat.”

  Garland favored me with one of his charming boyish smiles and handed me Paulie Tournay’s address.

  “Love never dies a natural death…” Anais Nin

  4.

  The Tournay house was located on Bennett Trace, deep in Buckhead, one of Atlanta’s most prestigious in town neighborhoods. The street was unfamiliar to me, even though I had previously lived near that area of Atlanta for twenty-five years. After following Garland’s hand drawn map from Peachtree Road, Atlanta’s signature north-south byway, and winding west along West Wesley Road, then traveling Howell Mill Road through a section of much desired, and thus expensive addresses, I finally found the green and white city street sign for Bennett Trace. As I navigated the sharp right turn, I noted Bennett Trace was little more than a long narrow cul-de-sac sandwiched between a pair of two-story colonial homes. The street appeared to have been sliced from each residence’s side yard, and ended at Paul Tournay’s house, which was crouched low as though hiding behind its two regal red brick neighbors.

>   Passing beneath a heavy shading of old oak trees, I stopped the car for a moment to digest the flat roofline and gray stone façade of the nineteen-fifties contemporary design. The house was a case of Frank Lloyd Wright camped out in the backyard of Gone With The Wind’s Tara, as out of sync with its neighbors as Saint Peter playing a pennywhistle. For lovers of this style of architecture the house probably exuded artistic genius. To me, it was only cold right angles hunkered down in the leaf-strewn ground. There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen, and what remained of the overly mature azaleas grew spiky tall and sparse against the stone facade. Trust me, this was not a house of apple pie fragrances and Christmas cheer. It was easy to imagine Paul Tournay’s grandson seeing ghosts sneaking about its somber yards. I said a prayer of thanks for my warm little cabin on Fells Creek, with its cherry wood floors and friendly wrap around porch, and parked my Subaru beside a late model white Ford Explorer in the drive. An older dark blue Jag, no doubt Paulie Tournay’s gift from his grandfather, was parked nearer to the front of the house. Grabbing my purse and cradling the infamous shoebox containing the “Becca doll,” I told myself I might as well get it over with, and headed for the house.