Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  I sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a blanket from Paul’s guest room as he went about making sympathetic noises and brewing fresh coffee for everyone. Daniel disappeared for a short time then returned with a couple of folded towels. After he sandwiched ice cubes from Paul’s freezer between the towel layers, he knelt beside me and offered up one, “Take this and press it against your ribs. It’ll help with the bruising. I’ll hold the other on your arm. I guess you would prefer to ignore your busted butt for the moment.” My raised left eyebrow indicated he was right about my butt. Knowing the cold compress was going to shock when it touched my wounds, I took a deep breath and eased back into the chair to brace for the pain.

  Paul handed me a cup of coffee and lowered himself at my side. He spoke quietly. “Listen, I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight. I can be selfish, and I know I’m dense, so it took me until about five minutes ago to figure out why you were so intent on trapping that Angel person. If we caught her tonight, maybe they could prove she, or he, whatever, killed Mitchell and I’ll be off the hook. Right?”

  “Yes, something like that,” I replied, and patted his shoulder.

  “I’d hug you but I know you’re hurting. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s over now.”

  RB Barnes plowed into the room, rubbing his hands together and smiling—the happy cop. It is amazing how his energy will suck up all the oxygen in a space. “Oh good, fresh coffee, thanks,” he nearly sang, as he poured himself a cup.

  Daniel stood and helped himself to coffee. He and Barnes were now side by side. I couldn’t help comparing the two. Barnes: wide fair face, those cocky hazel eyes I’d once found irresistible, close cropped blond hair, body defined nowadays by Bow flex and probably a personal trainer. Mr. Hyper-Macho. And Daniel: well Daniel was Daniel, taller, more relaxed than Barnes, comfortable in his skin, solid from working outdoors, eyes as dark as a Scottish loch. I remembered how comforting his arms felt when he hugged me earlier in the yard, and drew the blanket closer. Barnes stepped back and leaned against the kitchen counter, well out of Daniel’s personal space. “So, Mr. Allen, with that Stetson hat and western boots and all, are you a real cowboy?”

  Daniel gave him a disgusted look. “Well, I do raise cows, Lieutenant Barnes. If that makes me a cowboy, then I reckon I am. That bother you?”

  Barnes grinned from ear to ear and replied, “Hell no, I got no problem with cows. I eat steak just about every Saturday night.”

  Daniel stirred his coffee and sat down across from me, without replying to Barnes. Atta-boy, I wanted to say to Daniel, ignore the bully. To Barnes I wanted to say…well, I don’t know what I wanted to say, just something to punish him for talking down to Daniel. As usual, I couldn’t think of anything clever. When his posse came in to report they were finished dusting the newly discovered basement room for fingerprints and were ready to leave, Barnes said goodnight and swaggered away.

  As soon as the front door closed, Paul piped up, “What an asshole!”

  “Ah. You noticed,” I answered and managed a small smile. Daniel was silent and kept his hands pressed firmly around the cold towel on my arm.

  “The known is finite, the unknown infinite.”

  …T.H. Huxley, 1887

  17.

  I don’t know how I managed to drive home to North Carolina that night. A couple of cups of coffee and Daniel’s truck headlights in my rearview mirror certainly helped. We finally drove down my driveway at about three in the morning. Susan was stretched out on the sofa, snoring softly, with Mamma Cat asleep beside her, and when we walked into the living room she bolted upright and swore she was awake and waiting up for us. I was so glad to see her, and so glad to be home we hugged as though it had been a month since we last saw each other. Daniel must have called her earlier because she didn’t ask any questions, and herded me into the bathroom where she drew me a hot bath. I haven’t felt so pampered since I was a little girl. When I emerged from soaking my aching body, dressed in clean soft sweats, Daniel had left.

  I think she read the disappointment clouding across my face. “Daddy said to tell you he’d come back tomorrow to check on you, or I guess he means today, since it’s almost morning. He had to go see to the cows and get ready for his mail run. Don’t worry. I’m gonna be here in case you need anything. You just go get some sleep.”

  I managed a thank you, and turned back to the bedroom where I crawled gingerly under my down comforter, trying not to rub any of my bruises against the surface. The last thing I remember before sinking into deep sleep was thinking I really should get up and take off my clothes.

  Garland called about two in the afternoon while I was trying to shake the grogginess with a toasted cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. “Hey, Sugar,” he said happily. I might as well give up correcting him on calling me Sugar. The man is incorrigible. “You among the living?”

  “I will be,” I offered, with more determination than I really felt. “How are you?”

  “How am I?” Immediately, I regretted asking. The long-suffering tone of his voice told me I was in for a lengthy explanation. “If you really want to know, I have a royal pain in my neck from an hour on the phone with my mother. Finally, she tells why she’s been mad at my dad for months. You know my dad was seventy-four on his last birthday, and my mother is convinced he is having an affair. I swear she really believes it. So, ask me how she knows he must be having an affair, go ahead, ask.”

  “Okay, Garland. I’m asking. How does she know?”

  “Because, she whispers to me on the phone, Dad hasn’t had sex with her for the past three months. Three months, she says. What would she expect from a man of seventy-four? And he still does all his Rotary stuff and works a ten-hour day.”

  Talking to Garland about his parents was not at the top of my list of things I wanted to do. All I wanted was to stay prone on the sofa, nurse my wounds, maybe have a bowl of ice cream and watch Andy Griffith re-runs. Wasn’t going to happen. My little helping gene kicked in and I said, “Umm,” in my best sympathetic voice.

  “Umm? What does that mean?”

  “Well, Garland, many men, and women, in their seventies are still sexually active. Your mother knows your dad better than anyone else. Perhaps your dad is having some health problems that prevent him from…”

  Garland cut me off. “You know, Dr. McNeal, this is far more information about my parent’s personal life than I want. Yuck! I don’t even want to think about them having sex. Yes, I will find some discrete way to get my dad to have a physical checkup; no I will not do what my mother wants. And that’s final. I mean, really.”

  My better judgment told me I didn’t need to know what his mother wanted him to do, my nosy side had to ask. “What does she want you to do?”

  He moaned. “I shouldn’t have started this conversation with you, Promise. I really shouldn’t have. Forget I mentioned it.”

  “It’s okay, Garland. You don’t have to tell me.” I waited. Drat. He really wasn’t going to tell me. “Does it have anything to do with grownup toys?”

  “Stop it, stop it! I told you I’m not doing it.”

  Poor Garland. Poor Garland’s mother. Poor Garland’s father, for that matter, but at least the conversation provided some much-needed comic relief for my otherwise fragile mental state. Stifling a laugh, I put back on my sympathetic hat. “Well, why don’t you get your dad to the doctor first, and then we can talk about other possibilities.”

  “There are no other possibilities. I’m not getting involved in this issue beyond a doctor’s visit. I’m changing the subject. I understand you had a bad night. Got the crap beat out of you by a six foot Amazon cross-dresser.”

  “Well, that’s a little bit of a stretch, and I’m not sure what the deal is with Angel Turner, aka Raymond Angelo Turner. She was too busy whomping on me for us to have a meaningful conversation, so I don’t know if the issue is cross-dressing, or a sex change, or what. I survived to tell the tale, as they say. For tha
t I am grateful. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “Good girl. I knew you were tough. Guess what?”

  I could feel him gloating through the phone. “I don’t know, Garland. What?”

  “Paul Tournay came in this morning and signed management of the trust over to Becca, and Becca overnighted me a Quit Claim Deed to Paul for his house. Now she has no claim to it, and everybody wins. Isn’t that great?”

  Hearing about Becca and Paul made me sad—I’m not sure why—and deflated my moment of good humor. “Yes, that is great,” I managed to reply, “Congratulations Garland. I guess you can close the case now.”

  “Absolutely. The best news is: Becca’s up front retainer was enough that I can expense out my fees and not have to talk to her ever again. Of course my office will send her a detailed accounting of the time and expenses, and I’ll have to record the Quit Claim Deed at the Fulton County courthouse; no problem, I can spring for the ten dollar fee.”

  “I’m happy for you Garland.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “Well, I am. I just had a difficult night, remember. Today I feel like a semi-truck ran over me and then backed up to scratch off on my ribs.”

  “Would it make you feel better to know I billed an extra thousand for you from Ms. Becca?”

  That was news I could get happy about. “Actually Garland, that would make me feel a lot better. Let me make sure I understand what you are saying. Is the thousand dollars in addition to the invoice I’m going to send you for the two days at five hundred dollars a day?”

  After a pregnant pause, Garland replied, “You strike a hard bargain; yes, that is over and above your invoice. I’ll get Paige to mail you a check this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Attorney Wang. You are an honorable man,” I chided him. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you. There’s no rush. Tomorrow will be fine.”

  I hung up and rested my head back on the sofa pillows trying to work up some righteous indignation over Garland not asking the reason Angel Turner was sneaking around Tournay’s house—proving to me that he already knew about the pirated antiquities—but I was too happy about the bonus to get angry with him. Soon, I fell into fitful sleep until Susan came back at six with Daniel, and a large mushroom and green pepper pizza. The three of us sat around the coffee table in the living room drinking beers, eating pizza, and avoiding talking about the night before.

  Susan finally broached the subject. “I still can’t believe Angel Turner was a big shot model in New York and she is really a he. How did she, or he, pull that off?”

  I wiped a drop of melted cheese off my chin and took a sip of beer before I answered, “I have no idea. I’m just as surprised as you are that Angel could get away with it. Although, I saw her at the antiques mall and she sure looked tall, gorgeous, and female. Her grandfather did say she was angry because her modeling career was cut short. Maybe someone did find out and she was fired, or just not given any more work. I mean, we really don’t know if Angel is in the middle of a sex change, or what.”

  “Have you ever counseled someone during a sex change?” Susan inquired.

  “No. That is a whole specialized field in itself. I’ve attended my share of sexual identity seminars, but I’m not even close to knowledgeable enough to discuss what Angel might be going through. Though, from the little I do know, my heart goes out to anyone struggling with sexual identity.” I sneaked a sideways look at Daniel to see if he was uncomfortable with our girlsex talk. Typical guy—tuned out expression on his face–tightly focused on coordinating his beer swallows with manly bites of pizza.

  Susan’s neck stiffened and she leaned across the table towards me. “Hello! Are you telling me you feel sorry for Angel? She tried to murder you with an iron rebar.”

  Murder me? Did Angel really try to murder me? I wasn’t sure. If she had wanted to kill me, she could have stood her ground and beat me to death with the rebar. Still, her attack could have been fatal. A chill shuttered across my shoulders and I felt tears of fear burn my eyes. I pretended to wipe more pizza cheese and cleared away the tears with a napkin. Did I have compassion for Angel? Maybe later. Right then the physical pain was too fresh for me to see the hurt person behind the attack. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m only saying sexual identity issues are complicated. Very complicated. What happened last night was about a person, Angel, attacking another person—me. The sexual identity of either of us makes no difference. I am definitely not giving her a pass on her bad actions. By Becca’s accounts Angel is a blackmailer; by Angel’s actions she is a thief, and by my bruises she is a violent person. Possibly a murderer.”

  Susan reached for another slice of pizza. “So you still think Angel killed Mitchell Sanders, Miz P?”

  Chewing a crunchy corner of crust, I thought for a moment. “I believe they fought about Mitchell going off alone and trying to bilk more money from Becca. And I think Angel was probably angry if she knew Mitchell had been dumb enough to terrorize Becca by shooting at her car. After all, since most of the art was sold, part of her meal ticket was Becca’s blackmail money. Where would she be if Becca died in an accident? And then there is the business of both of them coming up here and nailing the snake to my door. Mitchell must have lied to Angel about my part in the trust issue to get her help, when he was really still trying to assure Paul kept the trust management. That must have ticked her off big time, if she found out the truth. So yes, I keep coming to the conclusion Angel felt Mitchell was a loose canon, out of her control, and killed him. There is one thing that bugs me about what happened. I have a clear sense of them fighting in the basement; then it’s like something else is happening, something I can’t quite bring into focus.” I paused, letting the sensation of being in the basement with Angel and Mitchell wash over me. “Yes, that’s it. Something else happened in the basement, and then Sanders fell. When he fell, I believe Angel finished him off with the same weapon she took to me.”

  Susan’s eyes widened. “Miz P. you look like MaMa Allen when she sees one of her visions. Is that what you are seeing?”

  “Good Lord, no, Susan. I just have intuition about people, sometimes.”

  Susan sat upright and belched. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t mean to do that. I was about to say a vision is a vision, no matter what you call it. I think we need to introduce you to MaMa Allen. See what she says.”

  Daniel interjected, “That ought to do it.”

  “Do what?” I asked, defensively.

  Now it was Daniel’s turn to wipe his greasy chin with a napkin. “Lord, Lady. You got to learn the language up here. I just meant MaMa Allen would settle the issue. She can tell a vision from a daydream.”

  This conversation was beginning to strike too close to home. I didn’t care to have MaMa Allen, or anyone else, poking around in my head, thank you very much. From there it would be a very small jump to talking about my dreams, and I was not ready to go there. “Well,” I offered, just to close the subject, “maybe when I’m not so busy, we’ll go meet your MaMa Allen.”

  Daniel’s eyes never left my face. “Couldn’t be you’re afraid of meeting Granny?” he dug at me. Before I could answer, he gathered his tall frame from his sitting position and bent to kiss Susan on the cheek. “I got to go, Babe. I’m bone tired and got an early day tomorrow. Don’t keep Miz P up late. She needs to rest.” Susan smiled at her Dad, and he nodded to me and turned to leave.

  Just as he reached the front door, I called to him, “Daniel.”

  He turned. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Thank you. Thank you for everything.” I hoped I sounded sincere, because I was.

  “Fame is only good for one thing, they will cash your

  check in a small town.” …Truman Capote

  18.

  Over the next three days I nursed my wounds and stayed close to home. By midmorning of the fourth day I was going stir crazy and beginning to feel guilty about pampering myself. Susan called about eleven. She was excited and talking a
blue streak. As best I could tell, she was saying if I felt like driving I should get down to Granny’s Store in the next fifteen minutes. “Hurry, but be careful,” she said and hung up.

  I grabbed my purse and keys from the kitchen counter; told Mamma Cat to mind the farm and drove into the parking lot at the store in just under ten minutes. Susan met me, literally jumping up and down. “Oh, my God, you are not going to believe this!” she pulled me in the door and back to the counter where the television droned. “I knew you couldn’t get the Atlanta station at your house worth a flip. That’s why you just had to come down here. Are you ready for a heart attack?” She was hopping up and down again while adjusting the volume louder.

  Aileen Wang peered out at me from the television with her fabulous haircut and penetrating black eyes. “Our next guest is Paul Tournay,” she sounded as though she had discovered the secret of the century. “Recently, an art treasure of inestimable value was mysteriously discovered in Mr. Tournay’s Buckhead home. Experts believe the three-part eleventh century liturgical panel of the Madonna and Child once called a small church in Limoges, France, home. Today, here on Listen Atlanta, we will give you an exclusive first time look at this treasure. First, Mr. Paul Tournay, welcome to our show.”

  The camera panned over to Paul. He played humble to the audience, giving Aileen a shy nod of acknowledgement. For the next ten minutes we listened to Aileen draw out Paul’s version of the discovery of the triptych, which by the way, had only a small resemblance to my own recollection. The best thing I could say about his story was that I was identified only as a close friend who was visiting on the night of the theft. Daniel’s presence was omitted all together, as was his nifty little tracking device and the trap we’d set for the thief. According to Paul’s recount, he’d called the Atlanta police when he suspected an intruder in the basement. After milking the story for all it was worth, Aileen cut to a clip of her interviewing an expert on church art from some mid-western museum. The short recitation showed Aileen on one side of the three-part panel, and the expert on the other, with the expert extolling the exquisite beauty of the enameling and gold leaf encrusting the piece. There was no mention of the panel being pictured in Paul Tournay Sr.’s earlier book on Carolingian art. I wondered how she managed to film that segment when RB Barnes had told me that night the art would not be released, or touched by outsiders, until it was no longer needed by the District Attorney as evidence. It would be a mistake to ever underestimate Aileen Wang.