Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  Her melodious husky voice followed me as I retreated, “Hey, Pops. Anything interesting happening today?”

  “Not much,” Boo Turner replied, as he picked a sad blues riff on his guitar. “Not much at all.”

  “The best way out is always through.” …Robert Frost

  15.

  Double-timing it back to the Subaru, I slid behind the steering wheel and with trembling hands, locked all four doors. Just a fleeting sight of Angel Turner had frightened me more than I had thought possible. Some detective I was making. After several deep breaths, my racing heart slowed and stopped threatening to come up through my throat. I should have stayed and confronted Angel, but I didn’t, so I’d just have to trust Boo Turner would tell his granddaughter about my visit. She needed to be nervous enough to act tonight. As I calmed down and replayed my conversation with him, I was confident he would have to share with Angel. Turner depended on Angel and would want to protect her. As they say…whoever they are….’blood wins out.’

  Of course the old adage could be wrong this time. Becca Tournay was proving we don’t always look after our children. Pity for Becca. She was missing so much. I checked the rear view mirror. Angel was not storming out of the mall to accost me; however, there was a white Ford Explorer parked one row behind. Could it belong to Mitchell Sanders? I wrapped my violin purchase in an old sweater lingering in the back seat, and slowly circled around to the parked Ford. It looked like the one I’d seen in Paul’s drive, though I couldn’t be sure. White Ford Explorers are almost generic in style to me, and I was so rattled I couldn’t remember the letters Fletcher Enloe said he spotted on my night prowler’s car tag. I jotted down the license number of the Explorer on my Briar Patch receipt for future reference anyway; then I got out of the parking lot as fast as I could without looking like a fleeing bank robber.

  The dash clock told me it was too early for Susan to be in Atlanta. I decided to use my extra time to replenish my cash at the nearest ATM machine, and swing over to the corner of Clairmont Road and Lavista to a little takeout place where they make a chicken salad almost as good as Paul Tournay’s—white meat chicken loaded with pecans and juicy red grapes, perfect with a side dish of orzo, cranberries, and mandarin oranges. With a couple of plates to go, Susan and I could picnic in the car while I filled her in on the latest developments. Maybe I’d add an order of warm flat bread.

  Garland called just as I was getting back in the car with our supper to go boxes. When I told him about Mitchell Sanders being found dead in the Tournay basement and Paul’s predicament with his alibi, all he did was make a few uh-huh noises into the phone and say ‘really’ a couple of times. I know Garland; if he didn’t already know about Sanders he’d be popping a gut asking questions. Nobody loves a gruesome tale better than Garland Wang. I was satisfied he already knew the story. After all, it was Randall Barnes who—way back when—introduced me to Garland.

  Garland did volunteer that John Edgars was one of the best criminal attorneys in town and he felt comfortable Edgars could help Paul. That sounded hopeful, and very noncommittal. I let his lack of concern slide for the moment and made the lightning decision to drop the bomb about what I’d determined from the trust records in his office. I also told him why I thought Angel Turner probably killed Sanders, even though Becca also had a basket full of motives and the opportunity. Again very suspiciously, he didn’t ask any questions, though he told me again he didn’t care about Paul Tournay’s business dealings. As to the blackmail issue, Garland was as unconcerned about his client being the victim as he was about her son being first in line for a murder charge. Interesting. I could hear Garland’s situational ethics gears kicking in and had a clear picture of those three little monkeys; you know the ones: cute little hands over their ears, mouths, and eyes.

  Garland finally heard enough of my theories and interrupted. “Promise, Promise, stop. Don’t tell me this. I don’t want to know. I don’t need to know. You don’t need to know. All we signed on for, you and I, was to settle the matter of which Tournay would control the trust money. Even if Paul Tournay was an art thief and killed his wife back in nineteen fifty-seven, you can’t put a dead man on trial for murder. And, if Angel Turner killed Sanders, and not Becca, then good for our team. I don’t care either way. I don’t do criminal work remember? And lastly, why should I care what Becca Tournay does with the money after she gets it? She can give it to Angel Turner, or the Salvation Army, so long as she pays my fee. Who cares? Not my job. And, may I remind you, not your job.”

  Now I interrupted him. “Garland, don’t you see it’s because of how the money was made that Becca almost got herself killed and now Paul is in danger.” I was exasperated with Garland and getting nowhere. While I was looking for justice, he was looking to wind up a case to his client’s satisfaction. I tried another approach. “Garland, if we don’t show Angel Turner killed Mitchell Sanders, Paul will be in jail and certainly can’t come to your office to sign the trust over to Becca.”

  “So? I’ll go down to the jail and get him to sign the papers.”

  This pragmatic line of thinking was why Garland spent his Easter vacation in Barcelona, and I, on the other hand…. well, never mind. I had to hold the phone out from my ear to keep from screaming. “Garland,” I said through clenched teeth. “I have to go now. Goodbye. Give my best to Aileen.”

  As I lowered the phone to press the disconnect, I could hear Garland saying, “Promise, Promise, don’t hang up on me. I know that tone of voice. Don’t do anything…” I think he was probably going to say anything stupid, but I hung up before I got the rest of it. Six o’clock traffic was backed up both ways on Briarcliff so I waited in the car for a few minutes before nosing out into the melee. It was times like these I wished for a built in wine dispenser in my Subaru. Press button; chilled Pinot Grigio would flow to the rescue. I settled for a stick of sugar free peppermint gum and thought about what I hoped to accomplish before the night was over. When the street traffic looked relatively sane, I wrapped the spent gum in a tissue and added it to the other ten or twelve in my ashtray, and joined the sea of cars inching toward Buckhead.

  A light rain was falling as I parked and waited for Susan. Periodically, I turned on the wipers to clear the windshield. I was fidgety, uncomfortable, and tired of being in the car. When I got back to North Carolina, I vowed no driving until the coffee or ice cream was gone. A familiar black truck with North Carolina plates backed into the drive in front of me. I was puzzled why Susan would drive her dad’s truck instead of her Jeep until I saw Daniel exit from the cab and run through the rain for my passenger-side door.

  He folded his tall body into the compact space and shook the water from his Stetson. “I sure hope those little white boxes in the back seat are supper. It’s way past my feeding time.”

  “Yummy chicken salad and orzo,” I told him, and then asked, “Where’s Susan?”

  “Well, I don’t know what orzo is, but I’ll take some so long as there’s plenty of it. Susan isn’t coming.”

  His tone of voice told me Susan’s absence was not her choice. I handed Daniel a Styrofoam to-go box and a package containing a plastic fork, knife, and napkin, then a tall cup of iced tea. Silence and the comfortable scent of Daniel’s damp jeans filled the small space in the car as he opened the box and ate. I offered him some flat bread with butter; he nodded thank you and paused long enough to take a deep swig of the iced tea. Concluding I was not going to get any more conversation from Daniel until he was fed, I reached for my own chicken salad supper and ate. Headlights intermittently washed across us, commuters bound for home after a long day’s work, as the rain pattered on the roof and streaked down the windows, tenting us from everything and everybody moving outside. Even under the weird circumstances, it was comfortable sitting there in the rain with Daniel. When our supper was eaten, I leaned around to the back and stuffed our empty boxes into a crumpled up Kroger bag.

  My violin purchase loomed large on the back seat. Suddenly I felt
mortified that I’d bought the thing for Daniel. Impulsiveness is not my middle name. Why did I do such a thing? He probably wouldn’t even like it. Maybe I’d just give it to Susan and she could give it to Daniel. Then he wouldn’t know where it came from. Thinking of Susan, I asked, “Daniel, are you angry with me for asking Susan to come down here?”

  He swallowed his tea and cleared his throat. “No. I’m not mad at you. Susan was excited and wanted to help you—chomping at the bit. At twenty-two years old, you probably think she’s old enough to go where she chooses. She certainly thinks so. Fact is, I put my foot down, wouldn’t let her rip down here and maybe get herself hurt. We argued awhile about it, she finally agreed.” He was silent for a moment; then he offered the best explanation possible for wanting Susan to stay at home. “I guess I feel I couldn’t protect her mother, but I sure as hell will do everything I can to protect my daughter.” He turned to face me and even in the semi-darkness I could feel his eyes locked on mine. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same to protect your son.”

  Daniel’s statement really didn’t need a reply. I looked out the rain-streaked window and stifled back tears. Would that I could protect Luke, oh Lord, would that I could. I love you, Luke. Be safe; please be safe. I coughed and reached over to turn the defroster fan on. “Wow, it is getting warm in here,” I said, and cracked my window, allowing a dribble of rain to ease down the inside. So there we were, two stubborn world-weary parents, hanging on by our fingernails to the hope of our children’s safety. “You are right Daniel. My cockamamie plan could get us hurt. It was wise to leave Susan out of it. I appreciate you coming.”

  “All righty then,” he said and rubbed his hands together, “tell me the rest of the story and let’s get to it.”

  “Did you bring the tracking device from Susan’s Jeep.”

  “I did, both the receiver and locator. What are we tracking?”

  The rain cleared; we opened windows to smell the fresh evening air while I told him the rest of the story. He listened without interruption until I finished and then recapped. “So, if I understand this tangled up mess, you think it was Mitchell Sanders and Angel Turner who nailed the snake to your door, but only Sanders who shot at Becca on the road. He was trying to play two poker hands at the same time, and when Angel found out, she killed him? And you think they originally got together when Sanders caught her sneaking into the Tournay basement, masquerading as Paul’s grandmother’s ghost.”

  I interjected one correction, “I don’t think she was actually masquerading as a ghost. I think Paul jumped to the conclusion the figure he saw was his grandmother’s ghost.”

  “Naturally,” he quipped. “Who wouldn’t?” I frowned at him. There was no reason to reply. If he didn’t believe me, there was no use in arguing.

  Daniel continued. “So, after Sanders caught Angel sneaking out of the house, the two teamed up and used the antiques business to sell off some of the leftover loot.” I agreed and again disregarded the humor in his voice. Well okay, maybe my theory did have a wild touch; that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. I’d seen Tournay’s handwritten notes at Garland’s office, and his book, to back up my conclusions, plus Boo Turner admitted Sanders and Angel were together. Daniel’s next comments carried no humor. “You know, if you are right and Angel Turner killed Sanders, she probably won’t mind killing again. At what point do we bring in your ex-husband and the real crime fighters?”

  “When we know I’m right and she takes the bait. If she doesn’t show, I don’t want to look like a fool.”

  “Umm,” he commented. “I hope this whole exercise isn’t about somebody wanting to prove she is not a fool.”

  “This is not about my pride. It is about making sure Paul Tournay doesn’t go to jail and Angel Turner does. It’s about justice. It is about…” I stopped myself before I said something about dreams and Stella’s murder.

  He winked at me and seated his Stetson atop his dark curls. “Well, okay then. Justice being the goal of this late night party, I guess we better leave our vehicles here, walk down to Tournay’s house, and see can we break into his basement.”

  I began gathering up what I thought we needed from my car. “Daniel, if I’m right, we won’t have to break in at all. Do you have a good flashlight in your truck? Or did I ask Susan to stop and bring mine?”

  “Both,” he replied. Seconds later we stood beside his truck. It was dark, but at least the rained had stopped. He easily hefted the backpack carrying supplies he’d brought, and I slung my giant purse over my head to one side for a makeshift sling. We crossed the street and walked briskly down the verge of Bennett Trace. In one hand I carried an unlit flashlight and in the other my necessary tea thermos, filled with fresh brew from the chicken salad takeout. I just hoped we didn’t look too much like a couple of redneck cat burglars.

  Once we trekked to Paul’s house, I motioned Daniel to the right where we eased between overgrown azaleas and spindly acuba bushes, their white stripes marking green leaves invisible in the moonless night. If my hunch was right, we should be able to find what we were looking for near the pyracantha where Paul and I located Mamma Cat and her kittens. And there was the pyracantha, just as I remembered: man-high, thick, covered with spiky thorns, and red berries, and looking very uninviting. This had to be it. Mamma used the same route when she navigated from the upstairs of the house to her babies. As we raised the chain link cover, just as Paul had done to show me the kittens, a car drove into the front yard, its headlights making a wide arc across the side of the house. We squatted down out of sight and eased the cover back into place. I was grateful Paul did not believe in trimming his bushes close to the house. The vehicle stopped. I heard a door slam and a familiar voice call out, “Thank you so much, John. I really owe you.” Then a hardy laugh. “Yeah right, I will definitely be looking for your bill.”

  “It’s Paul, “I whispered to Daniel. He immediately stood up and I pulled him back down by the pants leg. “No, wait until the car leaves.”

  “Good Lord, Promise, you are really into this sneaking around stuff. What difference does it make?” He asked peevishly. The car pulled away, saving me from arguing, and we worked our way back around to the front of the house. Paul was fishing around in his old Jag, sifting through the contents of the glove box. I called his name and turned on my flashlight so he could see us.

  He jerked his head out from the vehicle and peered into the darkness. “Holy shit! Dr. McNeal? You scared the begeez out of me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean to frighten you. What happened with the police? Did John Edgars convince them they had the wrong person, or what?”

  “Well, believe it or not, my old friend from last night came downtown, with his wife no less, and gave a statement that I was at his house all night. He told them I had too much champagne and he wouldn’t let me drive, which I guess is sort of true. I think his wife just doesn’t want to know the rest of the story.”

  “Yeah, there is a lot of that going around these days,” I said, thinking of Garland.

  “Well, whatever works. I would feel terrible if I ruined his life.”

  I resisted the impulse to fall into my therapy mode and discuss why his friend’s life being ruined would not be his fault. “I’m glad you are okay.”

  “Well, of course Barnes made it real clear I wasn’t to leave town until I heard from him, and I was to stay away from his precious crime scene tape, as if I wanted to visit that spooky basement anyway. All I want to do is get some clean clothes, my toothbrush, and a good bottle of wine and I’m checking into the Hilton for the rest of the night. And by the way, Dr. McNeal, I mean, Promise, what is it with Barnes? He acts like he hates your guts.”

  I felt a deep frown burrow into my face. There was no way I wanted to count the ways Barnes and I disliked each other. “Don’t worry about it, Paul, the feeling is mutual.” I gestured towards Daniel. “Oh, please forgive me. Paul, this is my friend Daniel Allen. Daniel, Paul.” The two men shook
hands in that manly sizing one another up kind of way, and nodded.

  “Good to meet you, Paul,” Daniel offered pleasantly. “I don’t usually help Promise break into people’s houses, but she’s been worried sick about you.”

  Paul cocked his head and looked first to Daniel and then to me. No doubt he was trying to make the connection between my being worried and us breaking into his house. He recovered quickly. “So, did you manage to break in?”

  “Not yet,” was Daniel’s reply, “we just got here.”

  I took a step closer to Paul and said, “Paul, I need to explain what we are doing here. I wanted to talk to you about it this afternoon, then all that business with Mitchell sent us all off in another direction.”

  Daniel raised his hand, looking like a ten year old asking for a hall pass. “Hey, listen, good news here. Paul is a free man now and your worries are over. How about we all head on back to North Carolina? Paul can stay at the Hilton, or with you out at your place, until all of this sorts out and I can go on home and see about my cows.”

  “No, we can not do that, Daniel,” I snapped. “We have to finish this. Paul can we please go inside so I can explain?”

  “Believe me, I’d love to go inside. I want to take a shower and wash off the Atlanta jail smell. But, here’s the bad news: the reason I asked if you had managed to break in is that I think my keys are locked inside the house. I was going through the Jag on the off chance I had a second set stashed. No luck. I came up empty handed. Looks like I can’t get into my own house!”

  “Okay,” I told them, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing. “Now we have to try my theory if we are going to get into the house, and believe me, Paul, we need to get into the house. Come on around to where we found Mamma Cat and her babies.”