by Morgan James
The repetitive motion of bending and gathering leaves and tossing sticks into the fire left my thoughts free to wander from Paul, Garland and Aileen, and Angel Turner, to my ex-husband. RB Barnes was a failure as a husband, but he is a first rate cop. I was certain he would pick at the facts of the Mitchell Sanders case like an old scab until he exposed enough evidence to prosecute somebody for murder. Fortunately, he’d told Garland that he didn’t think that someone would be Paul.
I was no longer dreaming of Stella. That was a good thing. Had the discovery of his prayer for forgiveness, and Stella’s ring, given her husband peace in the next world? Was revealing the truth of Stella’s death part of what Tournay wanted from me? I didn’t know the answer to either of those questions, probably never would. Digging the rake deeper into moist ground, I released its rich earthy breath and drew it deep into myself. I recalled something I’d read in the Tao Te Ching. I believe the line is: “darkness within darkness, the gate to all mystery.”
Late in the afternoon, as I stirred the waning embers of the metal barrel, two quick horn blasts startled me and I turned to see the UPS truck bounce down my driveway and stop. By his wild driving, I surmised this was the same young man I’d seen regularly at Fletcher Enloe’s house. He jumped easily from the truck and flashed a broad smile. “Here you go ma’am,” he said, and thrust a letter-sized cardboard envelope my way. “Hope you won the lottery.”
I returned his smile and watched him sprint back to his vehicle. When I noticed the Beauford, South Carolina, origination on the package, my smile disappeared. Not that I expected a lottery win, but I certainly didn’t expect this, either. In my heart I’d hoped for a letter from Luke. He’d called once since the Tournay case ended, saying he was in New York for three days, and then would leave again for Texas. I wanted to believe my son was safely conducting oil business in Texas, but couldn’t. RB Barnes’ half admission of what business Luke was really conducting had confirmed my fears. How would I ever take a peaceful breath knowing Luke’s life could be in danger every day? Would I be better off not knowing? Maybe, though I knew I didn’t want that either. What I wanted was for my son to be safe. I ripped the tab off the envelope and drew out the single sheet of paper.
Dear Violin Lady, the letter began in a careful rounded hand. I had me some worrisome nights, so I took myself to see the boy. We had a long talk and he showed me Stella’s ruby and diamond ring. Said he’s had it all along and didn’t even know it. Ain’t that something? I’d most forgot Paul got it off her that night and put it in his pocket. Didn’t see no need in telling him that. Better to let it go. I think he’s a good boy. For all the trouble you went to for him, you must think so too. When I got back to South Carolina, I remembered I was the one took Stella’s scarf from around her neck. Don’t remember why I did, or why I kept it all these years. It don’t weigh hardly nothing, except lately that little piece of nothing has been heavy on my soul. I’m not meaning to pass the burden on to you, I just can’t think of what else to do with it. Couldn’t give it to the boy, don’t seem right, not after what that scarf done to Stella. I read the letter again, pausing to think about the last sentence. The letter was signed, “Yours truly, Solomon Beaumont Turner.”
The faded red scarf came easily from the envelope, its silk tender soft through my fingers. I held it to my face and smelled the worn remembrance of another time. For a moment there was pulsating Cuban rhythm played on bata drums, ballet slippers following suit across polished wood floors, and a woman’s frenzied laughter. I listened to the feverish music and felt the woman’s heartbeat deep in my chest. Too soon the music stopped; there was only a crow cawing above me, taunting growing shadows of nightfall. When I released the scarf, freeing it into the flames, it caught instantly, igniting into a shower of fine white lights. Then, it was gone.
……. Here is a preview of the next
Promise McNeal mystery…….
Quiet Killing
1.
“Wake up, Girl. There’s fire on the mountain.”
January McNeal’s plea was a hard whisper on the cold night air. If he had spoken louder the voice would give proof of a lingering Irish lilt, and the soreness of his mouth from the beating delivered by the High Sheriff’s deputy when they threw him in the Perry County jail. But he didn’t speak louder. Not yet. He watched the midnight darkness beyond the window and held the raspy sound deep in his throat, contained by enough force to bend the bars separating him from his home, wife, and child. By that force, that power, he willed his whispered words to travel time and distance until they fell into the ears of the sleeping Reba. “Git the baby and make for the cave. Hit’s fire you smell, Girl. And hit’s coming for you.”
The wind turned, blowing a puff of burning pines into his face and he coughed on the bitter taste. Tears spilled down his face, stinging cuts left by the deputy’s fists. He pressed his body against the iron bars and stretched his right arm into open air. With long fingers extended upward, his voice erupted full, deep, and loud enough to wake the sleeping drunk sharing his cell.
“And the righteous shall know God, and be delivered from their enemies,” he shouted into the wind. “Rise up oh Israel and be delivered!” Lightning bull whipped across the night sky, a cluster of devil claws convulsing along the top of the mountain ridge and illuminating the fire marching up the slope towards his cabin. Thunder and his animal scream exploded behind the lightning, roiling and shaking the very ground where he stood.
“All right.” I heard myself call out, as I fought up from the dream and sat upright in bed. I had heard thunder. There was no thunder outside my house, but an incessant, whooping ear-piercing bark came from just beyond the bedroom window. “Whose dog….” I said aloud, and hit the floor with an angry thud at being awakened from much needed sleep. I opened the shutters for a look into the back yard but didn’t see the barking dog. What I saw was my barn burning like the fires of hell, and my goats, Minnie and Pearl, huddled tightly in a panic at the far right of the small pasture.
Morgan James lives in Western North Carolina with her husband, dogs, cats, goats, and one loud Cockatiel. Like Promise McNeal, she has deep Atlanta roots and an abiding love for its history and people. Look for the next Promise McNeal mystery available soon on Amazon.