Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  “I can see you appreciate the old stories this one could tell, my dear,” she purred in a gravelly northern voice. “My name is Marda. This is my booth. For you I will make a discount and you can have it for one-fifty.” A hundred and fifty dollars! I was thinking of maybe a thirty-dollar cover to make me look legitimate. I must have looked startled because she took my arm, preventing me from returning the violin to its velvet nest. “Ah, I know. There is no case and no bow—those you can buy anywhere.” She took my hand and passed it across the violin’s surface again. I did love the sensual curve of the shape. “Feel the wood calling out to you? It speaks your name.” She crooned as though we shared a delicious secret. “A fine violin is like a woman, you know. It sweetens with age and playing.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or run like hell. A modern day gypsy hanging out at the Briar Patch Antiques Mall? Probably not. Salesmanship is a strange and creative talent. I took a step back and regained my composure. “Do you know anything about the maker of the violin?” I asked in a businesslike tone, though I don’t know why since I know absolutely nothing about violins.

  She released her hold on my arm. “The maker doesn’t matter, darling,” she replied haughtily, “unless you are buying a Strad, which you are not for the price I quoted you. Okay, today is your lucky day. One hundred dollars and this is my best price.” With that announcement, she sawed her hands together and outward as though she released something into the air. How could I resist? I gave her five twenties, got a receipt for myself and to show the ladies up front I’d paid the dealer direct, and walked away with my purchase. I hoped there was an ATM machine nearby since that left me with six dollars in my purse. At least I’d bought something and looked like a legitimate shopper. Since I was the only one who knew I was too broke now to buy anything else, I wandered down the rest of that aisle and onto the next, stopping often to inspect merchandise, and keeping an eye out for the owner of Aunt Sue’s.

  As I was asking myself just how many Beanie Babies the world needed, and what someone would do with a single wrought iron leg of an ancient treadle sewing machine, I saw a wizened black man perched on a green metal kitchen stool in the last booth of that section. He was gently picking the stings of a worn guitar and pretending to look in another direction; but I could feel him watching me. He looked alone in the booth, no Angel. Mustering courage, I walked in his direction. I don’t know what I expected of Boo Turner since the pictures I’d seen of him were over fifty years old; but this old, tired looking man was not it. Where had the joy and the energy gone? Sometimes the price of living a long life seems entirely too high.

  I stopped at his booth to study a small sweet grass basket; he looked away, not meeting my eyes. “Good afternoon, sir,” I said pleasantly. “Are these South Carolina low country baskets?” I moved closer to him, forcing him to look up at me from his stool. He nodded yes, closed his eyes, and continued to finger out chords on the guitar. Picking up another basket to examine, I looked around nonchalantly and saw no one who might be Angel, then fueled by a thin burst of bravery, I dragged a plastic chair next to him and sat down. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting for a bit. It has been a long day.”

  He shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter if I did, now would it?”

  “No, I suppose not,” I replied, and smiled. We sat silently for a moment. When he finally opened his eyes, I held out my purchase to him. “Bought this violin. Or is it a fiddle? I don’t know if there is a difference.”

  “Only to the man playing it.”

  “Good. I thought I’d give it to a fiddling man. Do you play the fiddle?”

  His fingers rested atop the guitar strings, and he turned his cloudy eyes to me. He seemed to be trying to get my face into focus. “No Ma’am. No fiddles. I fool around with this here guitar box to give me something to do with my hands these days. Used to, I was a horn man, till the whiskey took my wind. I expect you know that already, now don’t you?”

  I kept his watery gaze and answered, “Yes, I expect I do, Mr. Turner.”

  “I thought so,” he said softly and looked off in the direction of the front entrance. I followed his look, wondering if he was expecting Angel. “I felt in my old bones that was you when I seen you talking to Marda. I knew you’d be coming, just didn’t know when.”

  I was having trouble following him. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Turner?”

  He began picking a familiar tune I couldn’t quite place and replied, “I don’t know your name; but I know you the one to tell it. Angel can’t do nothing bout that now. I knew it when I had me a dream the other night, old friends and old memories.”

  I sympathized with him, but I didn’t come to compare dreams. I had so many questions for Boo Turner; I didn’t know where to begin. Thinking I would start on neutral ground, I said, “I wonder about my old violin here. The label on the inside says Frank Ball, Springfield Massachusetts, 1932. I paid a hundred dollars for it. Do you suppose I made a good trade?”

  Turner was suddenly interested in my purchase. “What did you say? Hand me that thing.” I gave him the violin and he produced a magnifying glass from his pocket. Turning the top of the instrument towards the overhead florescent light, he aimed the glass at the paper label inside and began to shake with a snickering little laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Digging a worn handkerchief from his pants pocket to wipe his eyes, Turner returned my violin. “Lord, Lord,” he said, still laughing. “This old world sure is a funny place sometimes. Here you are hunting me down about something happened a long time ago, not knowing nothing about fiddles, and there is old Marda. Why that raggedy old woman would try and sell you a mouse turd and make you think it was a black Russian opal. Now old Marda done outsmart herself.”

  I was not following him. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  Turner stifled his laughter, grinned; showing a mouth full of tobacco stained teeth, and lowered his voice. “Cause, girl, this here looks like it really is a Frank C. Ball violin. Old Mr. Ball from Springfield worked for the Smith and Wesson gun factory by day back in the thirties, and carved fine pieces like this at night. The man only made about a hundred and twenty-five in his whole lifetime. And they sound real real good. Why just look at that flame maple back and spruce wood top. Feel how the top bulges up real graceful-like as you run your hand over it. It’s the fineness of them archings and the width of the wood there that gives the fiddle its heaven sound, most like the human voice than any other musical instrument. This here is a beauty! You get her cleaned a little bit, find yourself a fine pernambuco wood bow, and you got yourself something worth a lot more than a hundred dollars, maybe three or four thousand.”

  “Really?” I asked skeptically.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s the truth. Uh huh, it is for a fact.” In an instant his smile vanished and his voice became serious. “Now I know you didn’t come here looking to talk about fiddles. What do you want with me? I’m an old man living on borrowed days. You aiming to make what’s left of my time bad?”

  I felt sadness for Turner; yet I had to follow this Tournay thing to the end. “That’s not my intention, Mr. Turner. I’m not the police. I just have a couple of questions for you. A history lesson, you might say.” He tilted is head to one side, assessing my words. “By the way, where is your granddaughter, Angel?”

  “Ah, “he said. “Angel. Angel, she had business over in Marietta today, buying an estate of some old lady what died. You thinking of taking on Angel, I guarantee you outmatched. Do yourself a favor and don’t be messing with Angel.”

  At that moment I didn’t know what I was taking on. I was flying purely on instinct. “Mr. Turner, Mitchell Sanders is dead. Murdered, probably. Young Paul Tournay found him at the bottom of his basement stairs this morning.”

  “Mitchell Sanders,” Turner repeated, as though trying to conjure up a face to go with the name. “Is he that little blond white boy thinks he deserves to be a famous actor?”

  “Yes
, I think we are talking about the same person.”

  “Uh huh. He got a booth around on the first aisle you come to, sells all that ugly fifties crap. All the time hanging around over here with Angel. I think he believe Angel can get him in the movies, what with the people she used to know up in New York. Course, that ain’t so. Folks like that New York City crowd lose your name soon as you get out of sight. I know that from personal experience. Mitchell Sanders, that boy so hungry for being famous he hears what he wants to hear, just like most of us, I reckon.” Turner paused for a few seconds to shake his head in pity. “Yes, ma’am. I saw plenty of boys like him in the music business. They don’t usually amount to nothing. You make it; you got to not want it so much. You want it too much, then you likely do something stupid to get at it. You know what I mean?”

  Deepak Chopra could not have said it better. “Yes, sir, I think I do. Tell me. Does it surprise you Sanders was killed at the Tournay’s house?”

  Turner played a three-note chord several times, perhaps conjuring memories of the house. “Naw, that don’t strike me as a surprise. Somebody should’a burned that place down long time ago. Nothing except heartache and misery living there.”

  I sensed Turner might not know about the complicated alliance between Sanders and Angel. Although, if he didn’t, why wouldn’t he question Sanders’ being in the house? That seemed odd. But who was I kidding? Mamma Cat was a better detective than I was. What made me think I was smart enough to figure out any of this convoluted story? I decided to change directions to something I thought I did know about. “Mr. Turner, what happened the night Stella Tournay died? What was hidden in the house that made you and Paul feel you needed to carry her body down to the creek?”

  He sighed and cradled the guitar flat on his lap. “Well, now we get to it. I figured that’s what you come for. I could see it in your eyes when you made a beeline over here to me. Yes, ma’am, your eyes say you put the most of it together already, but your curiosity got you fever burning to know the rest. That’s a fact.” His mouth crinkled in a sad frown and we sat quietly, him perhaps weighing what he would say and me wondering if I was as transparent as he had called. Was I so curious I was burning to know the rest? Was a base emotion like curiosity driving me…. not a righteous desire to help the Tournay’s? Labeling it curiosity brought to mind what curiosity cost the cat. I shot a glance to the front door, half expecting Angel to appear.

  Turner shifted his position on the stool and sat up a little straighter, bringing me back to the moment. “Well, I’ll tell you this. Stella was one tetchy white woman. Lord, what a temper. Nothing suited her. I didn’t like her even the least little bit; but I didn’t kill her, and that’s God’s own truth.”

  “I didn’t think you did, Mr. Turner. You did help Paul carry her down to the creek though, didn’t you?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I did. I sure did do that. Out of the house and over the creek across the old mill wall, so we didn’t leave any footprints in the yard.”

  He continued to nod his head, as though remembering. I waited. When he was ready, he began again. “Me and the band, we was playing at the Henry Grady Hotel in Atlanta that night. It was some big who-do for the Ansley Park ladies club, or something like that. Lots of rich white folks in tuxedos and ball gowns drinking champagne, and waltzing around impressing one another. Good money in it for us. We was in the second set; the piano man was going through Stardust Melody when a waiter come and got me off the bandstand. Paul was on the telephone, said to come to the house right away. He was crying and carrying on real bad. Said he’d been trying to give her air, mouth-to-mouth, and pumping and pumping on her chest to bring her back. It wasn’t no use. She was long dead when I got there.” I remembered the newspapers accounts of Stella’s broken ribs, and now I understood.

  Boo Turner looked past me, off into the distance, seeing that night as it had happened. “I ain’t never been taken by anything, or anybody, like Paul was taken by Stella, lessen you count all the whiskey I used to drink. Never wanted to love a woman like Paul loved Stella. Too much pain. Lord-a-mighty, Stella, she was…” He stumbled over his words and paused. “…She was like, I don’t know, like a match you didn’t never have to light. It just sparked sometimes on its own and burned up everything it touched.” Turner sighed so heavily his already stooped shoulders rounded closer to his body.

  “I knew it wasn’t right, but what was done was done. We carried her body across the creek. Then we went down stream some piece, far enough away the police wouldn’t be obliged to look too hard around the house.” Turner shook his head side to side with the same regret I’d have if I couldn’t swerve to miss a deer. “It was Paul decided we had to hang her out over the creek, to keep animals from getting to her. I was the one had to go back to the house and get a piece of clothesline. I remember I was pissed as a hornet about that and wondering how come I let myself get mixed up with this crazy white man in the first place. When I got back to the creek, he was crying again and saying how Stella lost her shoe while we was carrying her. Insisted we look for it so she’d have both her shoes. I wouldn’t do it. I’d had enough. Wasn’t no way I was rooting around in the dark looking for that damn shoe. I told him, I said, ‘Man, think about what you asking. Some neighbor just as likely see us as not. And who you think they’ll strap in the electric chair? My black ass, not yours!’ Directly, he calmed down and we done what we had to do and went on back at the house—had to clean up the mess where Stella broke about every glass and dinner plate in the place. Paul didn’t say nothing while we were sweeping up, real quiet, like Stella being dead was beginning to set in on him. I hated to leave him like that, but after a while I went on down to the hotel to play the last set with the band. He went on to his in-laws to pick up the little girl.”

  “Becca?”

  “Yeah, Becca. I seen her around here. She favors Paul some, but she ain’t nothing like him. More like her mamma, I expect.”

  “You told Angel the story?”

  “Yeah. When Paul died I thought I could forget, but it got to haunting me worse and worse. I wasn’t drinking, though I sure wanted to. Was having bad nightmares, thinking maybe somebody would come after me for Stella’s death. See, with Paul gone, who’s to know it wasn’t me killed her? I was worrying myself sick about it and needing to tell somebody. Should’ve kept my mouth shut, that’s what I should’ve done. Since Angel come back home she’s hard, angry. Maybe she’s fighting to be her own self, or just mad cause that fancy modeling thing didn’t last forever. I don’t know. Hell, I told her nobody gets to do nothing really good forever. Just look at me and my music. It’s all gone, pissed away like yesterdays beer.”

  “What was in the Tournay house, Mr. Turner? What was so important you had to hang Stella out over Howell Creek to hide it from the police?”

  He rubbed a thin wrinkled hand the color of ash across his mouth and sat silently for a few seconds. When he continued it was a whisper. “Stuff,” he said, “Just lots of old stuff. Church stuff, fancy gold pictures painted on wood, china, silver, and glass stuff made to look like jewels, peoples’ watches and rings. Stuff Paul said was high-class art and was worth something. All looked like junk to me back then. You see, me and Paul, and Stella, worked at the same club in Paris. We never thought the Germans would take France. It surprised us when they marched into Paris like the devil laying claim to hell. Then we heard the French government was cooperating, paying them money and shutting eyes to the killing. It wasn’t long before they started stealing. This one smart-ass officer, Horst was his name, was making Paul, and some of the others, round up all kinds of belongings from the rich Jews around Paris. He knew Paul was hiding Stella, her being American and all, so there wasn’t much choice in the matter. I helped Paul cause we was friends. Paul didn’t have no street sense about him and I figured he’s get caught just on his own.”

  That German bastard would sit in his office like a king and make Paul tote what they’d taken down to him so he
could paw over it, and then ship the good pieces to the higher ups in Berlin. At least, that’s where they told Paul it was going. Who knows? I never went to the office. Horst didn’t want me around. To him I was schwarze: that’s like saying nigger in German. He didn’t never know if I was American, or not, didn’t care. Suited me fine; I hated the murdering fuckers. Time went by and Paul got more and more pissed at the Nazis. That’s when he started to hold some back. Could have got us all shot by the Nazi’s, but Paul did it anyway. Then it was one for Horst, and two for us, one for the Nazi, two for us.” Turner laughed, pleased I guess that Paul Tournay had fooled the Nazis, and lived to tell about it.

  Turner reached into a cooler under the table and brought out a can of Pepsi. He offered me one. I declined, and he drew a long swig on the cold drink before he resumed his story. “Stella and Paul left for the States pretty soon after the allies took Paris. I stayed behind and shipped the stuff we’d hidden stateside a box or two at the time. Said it was musical instruments for my band. Nobody asked nothing about it.”

  “Paul found buyers for the shipments and you two shared the profits?”

  “Yeah, he sold a little bit at a time. After a while, I was back on this side of the big pond, traveling with the band, doing pretty good for a long spell. Playing horn was my life. Paul made deposits in my bank account. I trusted him. Then when I was drinking so bad I kind of lost track of what was happening, made some real bad decisions, and drank up most of my share. I thought Paul had sold all the stuff.”

  “You thought he had, until Paul died and you told Angel your Paris story?”

  He nodded yes, then his eyes flicked suddenly towards the front door. I stood up quickly. “I have to go now, Mr. Turner. You take care of yourself, you hear?” I walked briskly towards the rear of the store as Angel Turner rounded the front corner of the aisle. I got a pretty good look at her over my shoulder. She was over six feet of dark orange silk pantsuit, black leather high heel boots, and long beaded cornrows that clicked as she walked.