Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (25 page)

Susan drove slowly past Tempi Jest’s immobile body. The only movement I noticed was a trickle of blood running out of his nose. Perhaps he was playing opossum, thinking it was safer to lie still on the ground, or less humiliating. “You don’t think he’s seriously hurt, do you?”

Susan’s eyes were wide, her hands shaking on the steering wheel. “Ask me if I care. Have you got a tissue? I need to wipe my face.”

I dug a pack of Handi-Wipes from the console and handed her a moist sheet. She scrubbed her forehead as though she’d been spattered with snake venom, handed me the sheet, and then took another from the package to repeat the scrubbing. “I can drive back, if you want me to,” I offered.

“No. That’s okay. I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute to calm down.”

I took the Handi-Wipe package and handed Susan a bottle of chilled well water we’d been sharing on the trip up the mountain. She said thanks and took a
deep swallow. “Crap. I told you Tempi was a doper. He smelled so strong with the stuff my stomach was churning. One more minute and I really would have puked.”

“I can’t believe you actually gave him the money.”

She looked surprised. “What do you mean? Of course I gave him the money. I said I would, didn’t I? You think I’m unethical?”

“Unethical?” Under the circumstances I had to let the word,
unethical
, sink in. “No, of course not. It’s just…” It was becoming hard to hold back a smile. “It’s just, well, he, umm, sort of attacked you; and you sort of, probably, broke his nose…and…”

Susan was catching my smile. “Yeah, well, what’s your point?”

We both broke out in raucous, snorting laughter. It’s interesting the effect fear can have on a person.

On the way back into town, Susan pulled into the drive through of The Bean Hut; a coffee kiosk camped beside the Bi-Lo, and ordered two lattes. “And don’t give us any of that skim milk stuff. We want the heavy duty fat,” she said to the young man at the window. After witnessing Susan’s performance up on the mountain, if I’d been the coffee person, I would have been very careful to use cream and not skim milk. I was calm enough now to wonder where and why Susan learned the skills necessary to break a man’s nose. She handed me my coffee and pulled over into an empty parking space.

“Did you hear everything Jest said up there?”

“I think so. Basically, he thinks you work for the insurance company investigating the Knoxville
fire. Doesn’t know how the fire started, and doesn’t know Missy’s real name. Actually, we don’t even know for sure if the little girl in the poster is Missy.”

Susan blew on her hot coffee and took a sip. “Come on, how unlikely is that? Missy looks like the child in the circus poster. There was a circus fire about two months ago, then she showed up here, and you saw her doing handstands on a goat’s back. I’d say, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, I think we have us a duck. And don’t forget, Tempi said the little girl doesn’t speak English very well.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Another one of those crazy coincidences.”

“Speaking of which, Tempi also said the only time he’d seen the child was at the Knoxville show. She wasn’t in Hiawassee. If she was the Fantell’s child, don’t you think he would have seen her before now?”

“So, if she isn’t their child, whose child is she? We still don’t know.”

“No, we don’t know for sure. But I’ll bet the Fantell girl with the electric yellow hair is the woman who dropped Missy off at MaMa’s house.”

“Yeah, could be. Remember Dr. Jeffcoat’s comment that a child who starts fires comes out of some terribly traumatic family situation?”

“Sure, I remember. If the Fantells
are
her parents, and she started the Knoxville fire, do you think they had the other daughter bring her over here to MaMa’s to keep the police from finding out about her?”

I sipped the warm. creamy latte and thought for a moment. “No, that doesn’t ring true. The Fantells don’t
sound like the kind of people who would drop off a child with a stranger, especially if they thought she was a moneymaker for their show. No, they’d leave her with other circus people, someone they could control, until the questions about the fire died down. Then they’d go pick her up and put her back to work. No, I think you’d only leave a child with a stranger if you were trying to make her disappear.”

Susan nearly shrieked her next question. “Oh my God, you think the daughter left Missy with MaMa to keep her
away
from the Fantells, don’t you?”

I nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Pokey and Nan Fantell wanted her as a novelty child act. Maybe the daughter realized they mistreated Missy, just as they mistreated her as a child, and used the fire as a diversion to get the child away. Didn’t Jest say the daughter would stay with them whenever life with her parents got too rough? That would explain why the yellow-haired girl is hanging back in Hiawassee with Uncle Dick—waiting for the dust to settle. She’s afraid they’ll figure out she took the child. But even if that were true, why wouldn’t the Fantells report Missy as missing? That doesn’t make sense.”

We sat drinking our coffee and thinking. So many possibilities. An attractive red-haired girl, driving a canary yellow Beetle, ordered at the coffee kiosk and waved at Susan. Smile like sunshine. Happy to see Susan. With only a slight suggestion of a smile, Susan returned the wave, and then looked away.

I was curious. “Who is that pretty person? All those long bouncy curls make me think of the little red haired
girl in the Peanuts cartoon. Is she a friend from around here?”

Susan looked down at her lap, blotted at an errant drop of coffee. “Oh, that’s Sam. She’s a potter. I mean she has a day job, but she also throws pots. She’s from Asheville. Met her the last time the Pot Lickers played over at Baby Petree’s Barbecue in Sylva.”

Susan’s banjo and her singing are always popular when the band plays. Everyone loves her three-finger, Earl Scruggs, picking style, even me, and I don’t know bluegrass from fescue grass. “She was waving like she wanted to talk to you. Maybe it was important.”

With eyes rolling in my direction, Susan fairly snapped at me, “I’ll call her later. Can’t believe you are so nosy. You sound just like Daddy.” She quickly changed the subject, and I was left wondering what that little exchange was all about. Am I nosy? I don’t think I’m nosy.

Susan continued, “Yeah, not reporting a missing child doesn’t make sense. And you know if the child were reported missing, Mac would have heard about it. Missing child alerts go out to law enforcement all over the country. The other thing is, I would’ve seen something in the newspapers I read online.”

“You would think so. The other puzzling part to me is this thing about Mrs. Allen saying Missy doesn’t seem to miss anyone… doesn’t ask about her family. Hasn’t said a word about anyone named Fantell or mentioned she was with the circus. Of course, Mrs. Allen says she doesn’t really talk about much of anything, so who knows? As your dad said, she’s clinging to Mrs. Allen like she’s the last boat ashore.”

Susan reached up and tugged at her hair in frustration. “Oh crap, I just thought of something. I should have asked Tempi where the Fantells are now. You know if that little jerk sold us information for a hundred dollars, he’ll call the Fantells and do the same with them; probably tell them I was asking questions. I wasn’t dumb enough to give him my name, but he has my cell phone number. Even a cretin like Tempi Jest probably knows how to trace the number. I better call Mac.”

Susan punched in Sheriff Mac’s office number, only to be told by his secretary that he was out on a call, and we would have to leave a message. Susan frowned and dialed another number.

“I’m calling a friend who works in dispatch,” she explained, and then I heard a voice answer. “Hey Pam. You all right? Baby get over the measles?” I couldn’t hear the response but wondered why a baby in this day and time would contract measles, since there is a vaccine to prevent it. I guess I am nosy. “That’s good. I’ll come by and see her real soon. Listen, I’m looking for Sheriff Mac. Any idea where he is?”

Susan listened for a few seconds. Her eyes narrowed and she shot me a worried look. “Did you say Watauga? That’s on the down side of the mountain, isn’t it?” More listening. “Did they get to him in time?” More information from Pam, then Susan thanked her, hung up, and started the Subaru. As she pulled out onto Main Street and headed north, she filled me in on her conversation.

“Mac’s at an accident over near Watauga Road. We’re going over there. Pam said some old man
driving a red Ford came down Cowee at ninety miles an hour and lost it on the last curve coming down the mountain. From the description of the car, she thinks the man may be Fletcher Enloe.”

My heart skipped. “Oh, my God. How bad is it?”

“She doesn’t know. He went over the side of the mountain. That can’t be good. The rescue team is out there now.”

We pulled off the shoulder about two hundred feet from the accident scene and hiked up the steep road. An officer walked hurriedly in our direction, probably to tell us to move, but Mac saw us and waved the young man away. Once we were beside him, we saw a team of four men and one woman below the steep slope. The men struggled for balance as they climbed the incline, carrying a blanket-covered body secured to a stretcher. A woman walked beside. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but did see a bloody face above the blanket. He must still be alive. As the party reached the top of the slope, Mac and the young deputy eased over the edge to give a hand with the stretcher. A siren screeched behind us, and the red and white ambulance pulled along side. In the few seconds it took the team to hand over the stretcher to the ambulance crew, and for them to secure an oxygen mask, I recognized the face as Fletcher Enloe’s.

The ambulance made a U-turn and screamed toward town. Susan walked over to talk to Mac. I looked over the slope into bramble and winter bare trees. The Red Bird was visible about three hundred feet below, wedged against the base of a large oak. The Ford was folded in half like a paper origami twisted by
the wind. Shortly, Susan was back beside me. “What’d Mac say?”

Her voice was low and sad. “He said to meet him back at his office. I told him we might know something about where Missy came from.”

“And Fletcher?”

She sighed and put her arm around my shoulder. “He doesn’t know. No way to tell yet. Except, the rescue team told him Mr. Enloe was conscious when they pulled him out of car. He repeated the word,
trespassers
, three or four times before he passed out.”

“Trespassers?”

“Yeah. That’s what Mac said. What do you suppose he meant?”

The young officer walked up to us before my thoughts about Fletcher’s words could form. “Ma’am. You need to move your vehicle. Sheriff says this stretch of road is too dangerous for vehicles to be parked on the shoulder.”

We drove back to town in silence and parked in front of the Perry County Sheriff’s Department. I’d been thinking. Sheriff Mac met us inside, and as soon as we sat in front of his desk, he picked up a pad and pencil to take notes. I took this as a good sign. Perhaps he was going to take our information seriously. “Mac, before I forget, I talked to Fletcher yesterday. Two things: he told me he was going to Waynesville today to have The Red Bird’s picture taken for the Smokey Mountain News, said a reporter was interested in classic cars. I suppose that’s why he was coming back over the mountain in The Red Bird; he also mentioned he’d found trespassers recently up on Fire Mountain. Don’t
know if those two things are related to his accident, just thought I’d mention it.”

Mac jumped on my comment a little too quickly. “Let’s don’t go off half-cocked and look for more trouble than we already got,” he shot back. Then he dropped the pad and pencil on the desk and rubbed both eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m sorry. Man-o-man, I’m whipped. Fletcher’s was the second accident today. First one got me out of bed at three thirty this morning. A tractor-trailer load headed down to Gainesville jackknifed—chickens all over 441 South. Biggest mess you ever…” Instead of completing his sentence, he stood up and poured a cup of coffee from a stained Mr. Coffee plugged in on a metal rolling cart under the window ledge. “You ladies want a cup?”

We both declined and he stood by the window. The smell of burned coffee drifted over. I wondered how many hours the pot had sat with the red ready light on.

“Like I said to Susan out there on the road, can’t imagine why Fletcher would be saying
trespassers
after they pulled him out. Brain does crazy things when it gets battered around and slammed against an oak tree the size of a small freight train. Can’t believe the old man even survived the crash. I tell you one damn thing; if he lives it’ll be one mighty miracle. The witness who called in the crash was behind him going down the mountain. She said the Ford’s brake lights were lit up the whole way down, but Fletcher was still making about ninety. Sounds like that old Ford’s brakes quit him.”

Mac shook his head and smiled. “Damn, that old man is still one hell of a driver, to even hold that Ford
in the road at ninety as long as he did. Lord-a-mighty, I bet he was running faster than his tripper days carrying moonshine. Must’ve looked like a big red scaled dog coming over Cowee Mountain.” Mac turned away from the window, his smile forgotten. “Still and all, I know how careful Fletcher is to keep The Red Bird in top shape. We’ll get someone to check out the brakes once we get it unwrapped off that tree.”