Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  John Edgars spoke the truth. I would need to be careful. I called Garland’s office to let him know the latest developments; Paige reported he was still in court in Gwinnett County and would probably not return any messages until later that night. I told her it wasn’t an emergency; I’d call back tomorrow and hung up. What to do next? I sat on the steps, trying to ignore the Second-guess Committee member in my head telling me I would have been better of if I’d ignored my dream of Stella, as well as Garland’s first phone call. Maybe listening to people’s problems within the confines of a cozy safe office wasn’t so bad after all. Nevertheless, there I was, and Committee or no Committee, I’m not a quitter; so I opted to eat my ham sandwich, with chips, and devise a next move. I felt better with the sandwich in my stomach, so much better in fact; that I ate a cinnamon curl, and drank a cup of tea I’d brought from hone in a thermos.

  Sugar always helps me think more clearly. There was just enough in the pastry to remind me why I came to Paul’s house in the first place: the letterbox his grandfather gave him. Didn’t Paul say he kept it on his dresser? I frowned, remembering I was ordered to stay outside the house. Then, as though on cue, the uniformed officer assigned to watch the house walked down the drive and turned right toward the house next door. Must be time to interview neighbors. I took this as a good omen and, when he was out of sight, stirred my courage and hurried back into the house, avoiding looking down the open stairwell to the basement. It was only a few steps down the dim hallway to Paul’s bedroom. There it was, just as Paul had said, a small metal box, about the size of a standard sized envelope, though maybe six inches high, hinged at the top, and nearly full of loose change: pennies, dimes, nickels, some quarters. Stacking the coins on the dresser, I took the box to the window for better light. Even though it was tarnished, a light rubbing with my moistened thumb revealed a motif of expertly wrought deer being chased through dense forest by large cats, perhaps leopards or jaguars. Enamel work accentuated details in reds, yellows and greens. I recognized the box immediately and scurried outside to confirm my belief against Tournay’s book I’d tucked away in my purse. Bingo. The box was photo number twenty, helpfully noted by Tournay as photographed by the author. Interesting, I noted, though the inclusion of the box in the book didn’t prove my theory. Tournay could have purchased the box in any number of galleries or shops.

  I returned to the stone steps outside to study the box, turning it over several times. It was when I looked inside for the second time at the hammered metal chamber that I noticed the actual repository was fairly shallow and took up only about half of the depth of the box. Why wouldn’t the maker of the box use the entire depth? I turned the empty box over again, bottom up, and shook it gingerly. There was an unmistakable sound of something moving inside. Surely if it had a false bottom, Paul would have heard the same noise over the years. Though, maybe not. He’d always kept loose change in the box. The metallic shifting of coins would mask the subtle sound I’d just heard. How to get to the hidden space? On the back was a border of flying birds worked into the metal that did not repeat on the front. I opened the box out on its side and tried to slide a fingernail between the bird border and the surface of the box. There seemed to be a seam, but it wouldn’t budge. That would be too easy, I told myself. Maybe, just maybe it was designed like an interlocking puzzle. One piece had to be in the right position to move the other. I closed the top and tried releasing the flying birds border again. Ah, I felt a easing of the raised metal, and armed with a fingernail file from my purse, I pried the flying birds outward to reveal a shallow wooden drawer behind. The aged smell of camphor bathed my face.

  A single sheet of paper was folded and fit into the drawer—the block lettering inside small and meticulous: “Remember not, Lord, our offenses, nor the offenses of our forefathers; neither take thou vengeance of our sins. Spare us Lord.” My mother’s voice came back to me, both of us are kneeling in a shadow cast through a rainbow-hued stained glass window of the Episcopal church of my youth, she is reading from The Book of Common Prayer. She is reading this prayer, a prayer for forgiveness.

  It slowly dawned on me that Paul Tournay left the paper for his grandson to find. Little wonder he harped to little Paulie never to part with the box, least he not discover the secret his grandfather wanted to confess. And there, wrapped in the creases of the paper, Tournay left something else to be discovered: a diamond and ruby wedding ring, the ring Howell Bennett described to me as coming from the Chandless family to Stella, and the ring missing from her body when she was found. I rubbed the ring between my thumb and forefinger; absorbing the panic Tournay must have felt when he removed it from Stella’s finger. That must have been the moment he faced the terrible reality of his violence. It was true. Paul Tournay killed Stella. This beautiful box of frightened deer running for their lives, the prayer, and the ring were his confession.

  Had Stella come into my dream to guide me to her killer? Parts of my conversation with Stella’s cousin, Howell Bennett, came back: her manic behavior the afternoon Bennett last saw her, her jealousy, her history of angry outbursts when she drank. Stella and Paul must have fought that night—a violent argument. Paul Tournay loved Stella with a passion beyond all reason, and yet he strangled her. It was then I saw, and felt, a swarm of clustered light behind my eyes, like a sparkler on the 4th. Of July, and knew without question it was Paul Tournay, not Stella, who had summoned me with the dream. He revealed his worst sin and guided me to the dangerous business he began so many years ago. He was ready for it to be over, for his daughter and grandson to be released from his past.

  I hear you Paul. I’m sorry it took me so long. I folded the ring back inside the prayer paper, replaced it in the drawer, and hurried back inside to return the box. I left the coins stacked beside it and the bird relief cracked, ever so slightly, then ran back to my position on the front porch. The last thing I needed was to be arrested for disobeying Barnes’ orders to stay outside. I was just in time. The officer had not missed me, and was leaning against his car smoking a cigarette. I walked to my car on wobbly legs, wanting to be gone, but as I eased beside him, curiosity got the better of me. “Did any of the neighbors hear or see anything?” I asked through the open window.

  “What do you think?” He snorted. “Whole neighborhood sleeps like the dead.”

  Poor choice of words, I thought, but I gave him a sympathetic look anyway. A white Chevrolet Suburban with the city of Atlanta emblem blazoned on his side turned into the drive, more forensic investigators I assumed. I checked my watch, mentally calculating how long I thought they might stay and moved slowly down Bennett Trace to Howell Mill Road.

  “Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee calls back the

  lovely April of her prime.” …..William Shakespeare

  13.

  I headed north to Lenox Square shopping mall and Becca Tournay’s hotel across the street, trying out questions as I drove that would tell me if she had killed Mitchell Sanders. After all, if Sanders had a part in the blackmail scheme, she would have an excellent motive. And if she didn’t kill Sanders, surely she would share what she knew to help her son. As I parked in a visitor space in front of the hotel, Becca exited briskly from the multi-story glass façade, wearing a signature pink silk suit, her face screened behind owl-eyed sunglasses. She pulled a small leather suitcase on retractable wheels and was clearly aimed towards a new pink Miata double parked in the guest lane. She was leaving and wasting no time in doing so.

  I speed walked across the narrow parking lot and caught up with her. No wonder she was wearing large dark glasses: her face was pocked with bb sized red welts from glass shards driven into her checks and forehead during the accident, her upper lip was blue and bulging at one corner, and the perfect hairdo was a wilted tuft of blond hair, cow licking in all the wrong places. When I touched her arm to slow her down, she jerked back and barred her teeth at me. I should have known better than to touch a crazy person. Not a very professional term: crazy person
. I was giving myself permission to be nonprofessional, temporarily, because I wasn’t her counselor and frankly I detested the woman. I was sorry for her injuries, but I still didn’t like her. “Get your hands off me,” she barked. Then squinting at me through the dark lens, said only slightly less viciously, “Oh, it’s you. What do you want? I’m in a hurry.”

  I kept my hand on her arm. “We have to talk.”

  She pulled away and continued to walk. I grasped her arm again, this time with more force. “Let me go or I’ll have you arrested for assault. Tell Garland Wang whatever you have to say. I don’t have time to deal with you.”

  “Becca,” I said through clenched teeth, “we need to talk. Mitchell Sanders was found dead in Paul’s basement this morning. The police have taken Paul downtown. Not arrested yet. But it looks very bad for him.”

  Becca’s arm went slack and dropped to her side. I took that as a partial truce and guided her a few feet to a trellised garden courtyard attached to the concrete and glass expanse of the hotel. We sat on an iron bench surrounded by knee high maidenhair ferns, blooming white camellias, and one beautifully manicured red Japanese maple tree. Under other circumstances the mini-garden would be a welcome retreat from city noise, today it was a private place to corral Becca. It took about three seconds for her to regain composure and hiss at me. “What are you talking about? That’s absurd. Paulie can’t stomp a spider without getting nauseous. He couldn’t kill anyone.”

  “I know that, the police don’t. Sanders was killed at Paul’s house, your father’s house, sometime last night and right now your son is the number one suspect.” Becca looked off into the distance and said nothing. Then with a deep sigh she slouched her shoulders and rubbed her eyes behind the sunglasses. Her hands were shaking and I was suddenly sad for her. She was human after all—maybe. “I’m so sorry to bring bad news Becca. You must still hurt everywhere imaginable from your accident. I have a thermos of tea in my car. Could I get you some?”

  She sat up straighter and cleared her throat. “Tea? No, I don’t want any tea. Just tell me what happened. Why would Mitchell Sanders be skulking around in Paul’s basement? I was under the impression their relationship was over.”

  Since I could see little of Becca’s eyes around her glasses, it was impossible to gauge her facial expression. She sounded sincere. Was it possible she didn’t know why Sanders would sneak around the basement of the Tournay house? “I‘m not sure why Sanders was there,” I hedged. “I had an appointment with Paul today, at your request, remember, to set up an appointment for him to sign the trust over to you. When I got to the house the police were there. Paul said he arrived home about eleven this morning and found Mitchell’s body at the base of the basement stairs. The detective isn’t saying much; though it’s doubtful Sanders just happened to fall down the stairs and inflict several scratch wounds on his arms and face as he fell. And there is something else: Sanders had a Halloween facemask of Richard Nixon with him when he died. That points to him being the one who shot at you.”

  I looked sideways at Becca in an attempt to see if she had scratches similar to Sanders on her arms and face; fruitless—there was no way to differentiate her accident wounds from ones possibly gotten from a struggle with Sanders. Then it finally hit me and I was embarrassed at my own density. So much for being trained to understand people and their motives better than the average bear…Becca would not kill Sanders in the Tournay house and then leave him at the bottom of the stairs. No, Becca would have arranged a meeting with a blackmailer somewhere else, far away from her father’s house.

  Becca looked suspicious. “Why would Mitchell Sanders shoot at me?”

  “I believe Mitchell thought he and Paul would get back together. If Paul controlled the trust, he might have some control over Paul and help himself to some of the money. So maybe he was trying to keep you from getting control of the trust when he shot at you.” Becca shrugged, as though she didn’t care what Sanders thought, or did. “Anyway,” I continued, “Mitchell Sanders is dead and Paul says he was with a friend all last night, except he won’t give the person’s name.”

  “Of course not.” Becca replied sadly, “My son, ever the gentleman!”

  I let her remark dissipate into the air, and then took a leap of faith onto the narrow ledge of connection between Sanders, the Nixon Halloween mask, and Becca. “I know Mitchell Sanders called you last night at the hospital. What did he want?”

  “What makes you think he called me?’

  “Becca, please. The police will find out soon enough when they check out the numbers dialed from his cell phone. Tell me what he wanted. It may help clear your son and find the real killer.”

  “Nonsense, “she snorted. “What makes you think you can find a murderer? You’re just Garland Wang’s middle-aged gofer. Butt out, Dr. McNeal. You’ll make a mess of things. The police will find the killer soon enough. And who knows, maybe the jerk just fell down the stairs and hit his head. No great loss to humanity.”

  The acidic Becca had returned. My sympathy evaporated. Was I the only one sitting there on the bench concerned about Paul? “Look Ms. Tournay, you don’t seem to understand the process here. If the police think Paul is the killer, they won’t go looking anywhere else. Do you want your son to spend the rest of his life in some grimy cinderblock cell scared to death of being attacked by a real killer? I’m a psychologist, Becca; I know what I’m talking about. Criminals are not nice people and prison is not a pretty place.”

  Becca’s lips tightened. At least I’d gotten her attention. She reached in her designer purse and brought out a package of Marlboro Lights and a slim gold lighter. After she lit a cigarette she sat smoking and staring out into the traffic on Peachtree Street. I was wondering how a person could tout the epitome of health through dancing, and still abuse her body with tobacco, when she spoke again. “Okay, Mitchell Sanders did call me at the hospital last night. Though I don’t know what difference it makes.”

  Finally, a glimmer of cooperation. “What did he want?”

  Becca drew deeply on her cigarette and continued to look away from me. “Money. He wanted money. I told him I wouldn’t have any more until I had control of the trust. I’m borrowed to the hilt right now with expanding my studios. There is no extra cash.”

  “Did he just accept that, and say fine, have a nice day, sorry I bothered you?”

  She crushed her cigarette on the concrete walkway at her feet and dropped the butt in a plastic baggie in her purse. “Of course not,” she huffed. “The little shit didn’t believe me. Kept going on and on about what he would do, if I didn’t pay. We argued. I finally told him I was not going to deal with them separately, to bring his partner and meet me here at my hotel this morning, at ten. Nobody showed, of course. I was leaving to go back to Columbia when you stopped me. I have a business appointment at eight tonight.”

  That was just about what I had figured. As for the rest of the details, I was skating on thin ice. I needed more details. “His partner? You mean Angel Turner?”

  Another cigarette came out of the Marlboro box and Becca paused to light it. I held my breath thinking she was not going to answer me when she shrugged and said, “The tall queen of antiques! They made a striking pair, don’t you think. Two weasels sneaking around right under Paul’s nose.” Then she was quick to add, “Don’t you see, there is no way Paul would kill Mitchell Sanders, because he doesn’t know anything about Turner and Sanders being together, or that I know either of them.”

  I didn’t take time to correct her about Paul thinking Sanders was unfaithful to him with Angel Turner. It didn’t matter at that point. I needed to get the rest of the story before Becca closed up on me. “How long have you been giving Angel Turner and Sanders money?” I hesitated to use the word blackmail, thought that was clearly what it was.

  After a theatrical look of innocence, which I returned with my best scowl, Becca answered, “Oh, all right. Whatever. I’m tired of the whole mess. I gave them fifteen thousand bac
k in July, then I told her two weeks ago when she badgered me on the phone—just like I told Sanders, I won’t have any more cash until I get control of the trust. They are both pond scum. However, I did not kill Sanders.”

  No wonder Becca was pressing to get her hands on the Tournay money. If Paul had control, she would have to confess the blackmail business in order to pay Turner, and her father’s secrets would no longer be secrets. “So, you made the appointment for this morning to delay them until Paul signed the papers?” She nodded yes. “Did you know Angel Turner before this past July when you gave her the money?”

  Another cigarette was crushed and added to the plastic bag. “I’ve known her for several years. Her grandfather and Papa were partners at one time in a shopping center over on Briarcliff. Papa told me they were friends from the war, both of them in France together. From what I gathered, her grandfather, Boo Turner, was some sort of musician. Anyway, Papa bought out Turner’s interest back in the seventies. Then about five years ago Angel surfaced and sold Papa on the idea of converting the empty Winn-Dixie store on the front of the shopping center into an antiques mall. She keeps sales space there for her antiques business, Aunt Sue’s, or some tasteless name like that, and rents the rest of the spaces out to other dealers. Papa thought it was a great idea. After he died the arrangement was continued by the trust attorney.”

  Ah, now I saw the connection. How clever of Angel. “And for handling the dealer space rentals Angel gets a management fee paid to SBT each month? Was Mitchell Sanders one of the antique dealers who rented space?”