Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (10 page)

During the night, I woke to the sound of Mamma cat crunching goodies from her food bowl and debated whether to leave the soft sofa cushions for Luke’s guest room bed. Before I finished the discussion in my head, I fell back asleep into a fitful Technicolor dream: I was a customer in a crowded noisy bar. From the small round table where I sat and sipped a bitter green drink, I watched a mime on stage—black tights and sweater, top hat, white gloves, and ghostly white painted face. He produced a bouquet of carnations from his hat, and then drew a long red scarf from the center of the white flowers. He pulled and pulled on the scarf; it grew longer and longer and began to dance in the air above me, curling around my head like a snake. I wanted to get away, but the crowd, wild with laughter, was so thick I couldn’t push my way through to freedom. I awoke thrashing about, twisted in the quilt, and grasping for air. Luke’s desk clock announced six-forty and I staggered into the kitchen to make coffee.

“In the city of Brahman is a secret dwelling, the lotus of the heart.
Within this dwelling is a space
And within that space is the fulfillment of our desires.”
…Chandogya Upanishad

7.

Once I was awake enough to make a complete sentence, I called Susan. As promised, she had researched Boo Turner on the Internet. I listened to her report and scanned my notes from the night before. She had also learned Turner was born on St. Helena’s island, near Charleston, and that he seemed to be retired from performing.

“Hey, Miz P., you sound disappointed.”

“No, not with you. I appreciate you searching Boo Turner. It’s just that I found that information last night in a book here at Luke’s. I was hoping for something more recent.”

“Sure, I figured you might want to know what the old guy has been doing lately. Course, if I knew why you were looking for him it might be easier, and more interesting. Anyway, I also checked a web site that posts famous people’s death certificates. He wasn’t listed. Then I called Howard.”

“Howard? You mean Deputy Howard, good friend to the Goddard twins?”

“Yeah, the man of marginal scruples. Since he likes me I asked him to run Turner through his sheriff’s department computer to see if he had a criminal record. Guess what? Turner had two drunk driving offenses in Georgia: one in seventy -two and another in seventy-four, then another in South Carolina in seventy-five. So, we know he was at least alive in seventy-five. You want his social security number, I got that too?”

“Really? His social security number? That is interesting. Hang on to it. We might need it later, though I can’t imagine why, unless a credit report would tell us something. Sounds like the man has, or had, an alcohol problem.” I was amazed so much information could be gleaned from a computer in such a short time, but concerned about the source. “Let’s not ask Howard for anymore help. Neither of us wants to owe him a favor. Don’t you agree?”

“You got that right. But wait, it gets better. I Googled the white pages of the Beaufort/St. Helena phone book and there is a Solomon B. Turner listed at 61 Cedars Grove Road. Isn’t that cool? It could be your man. You want the phone number?”

“No, not yet. I’ll get it from you when I get back today. Great work, Susan. Thank you so, so much. And I’ll fill you in on the details when I get home.” I was ready to hang up when something else occurred to me. “Susan, do you know of a way to check that address on Cedars Grove to see if anyone else lives there with Boo Turner?”

“Wow! Great idea. Give me a few minutes and I’ll call you back.”

I hung up with Susan and searched Luke’s desk for a Gainesville, Georgia, phone book. Gainesville, located one county over from Dahlonega, and the location of Brenau College, was only a short detour as I headed back home to North Carolina. I figured, as long as it seemed we were on a run of good luck, maybe, just maybe….and there it was, a home phone number for Howell Bennett. This was too easy, I thought. Couldn’t be him. Warming up my coffee and sharing the last of Luke’s half and half with Mamma cat, I considered whether to pester Mr. Bennett at barely eight o’clock in the morning. As I weighed the variations on how rude Mr. Bennett could be when asked about something that happened fifty years ago, I checked my bra and pantyhose that I’d washed last night and hung over the bathroom shower rod to dry. Slightly damp,
yuck
. I dressed in a long brown knit skirt and cream jersey from the limited cache of clean clothes I carry in the car. The sweater was not a great match for the skirt, but it would have to do; besides, I reminded myself, my whole wardrobe was a mishmash of questionable matches. So, what’s new? My cell phone rang. It was Susan.

“You are going to absolutely love this, Miz P.” She was so excited you’d think she’d found Elvis alive and well on Granny’s front porch. “I cross-referenced Turner’s phone number on this way-cool telephone directory web site and the Cedars Grove address came up. It says, as of 2008, two people lived there, Solomon Turner and Angel Turner.”

“Angel? Who do you suppose Angel could be? What do you think, Susan, is Angel a male or female?”

“Definitely female.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because then I went to the Charleston/St. Helena local businesses website and searched for Angel Turner as a business owner—I figured she had to do something for a living down there. She came up on the website and I cross-referenced her to the Cedars Road address.”

“Wow! Aren’t you clever? And?”

“And the name of the business is ‘Auntie Sue’s Antiques, Inc.’ Sounds like a name a female person would choose, not a guy. A guy would go for a power name, like ‘Yesterday’s Gold,’ or something like that, don’t you think?”

“Umm.” I mulled over her logic for a moment. “You are probably right. Angel could be his wife, daughter, niece, or even granddaughter. Was there any other information?”

“No, just that the business has been open since nineteen ninety-eight, and of course, the address. I did try to locate a birth date for Angel Turner; I came up blank for her, just a couple of other male Turners born in and around St. Helena’s.”

“Susan, you are fantastic! Remind me to give you a raise when I get back.”

Susan laughed. “Thanks. I am fantastic; too bad you can’t afford to give me a raise. When are you coming back?”

“Well, I may have one other stop to make. Then I’ll head north. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I’ve adopted a mother cat and two scrawny kittens. They are traveling with me and I need your help naming them.”

“I can’t wait to hear how three cats are related to Mr. Wang’s case. I hope you didn’t trade your fee for them. The bread man is going to want a check when he delivers on Monday, and I don’t think I’m going to have enough in Granny’s checking account to cover him. The good news is business has been good for the last few days; leaves are turning and tourists are traveling. See you later, Miz P. Be careful driving back.”

Susan hung up and I labored for a few seconds trying to remember exactly how much I had in my personal checking account. Not enough, I was sure, to keep subsidizing Granny’s Store, indefinitely. What in the world had made me think I knew anything at all about being a shopkeeper? My mind closed on that question and skipped back to Susan’s new information. I added another circle to my pad for Angel Turner and her antiques business. Paul Tournay told me Mitchell Sanders was also an antiques dealer. Just an interesting coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. I wondered just when Mr. Sanders found he had a knack for buying and selling antiques. Could it have been after he moved in with Paul Tournay? After Paul reported seeing the ghost?

Fortified by Susan’s successes, I felt I could take the rejection if I got brushed off, so I dialed the phone number for Howell Bennett. Surprisingly, when I introduced myself and asked if he was related to the late Stella Bennett Tournay, he agreed to see me. With the cats, basket, litter, food and water hastily loaded in my much-loved blue Subaru, I slung my purse on the passenger side of the car and began the twenty-five mile drive east to Gainesville. Armed with Mr. Bennett’s careful directions to his condo, located in a development on Lake Lanier named Sundown Villas, I easily found the neighborhood. The morning was cool and the sky an overcast blue as it pushed thin white clouds asunder, any warmer and I would have worried about leaving the cat family in the car, again, while I kept my appointment. Thirty minutes, girls, I swear, I told them as I parked.

Mr. Bennett was sitting, as he said he would be, on a bleached out garden bench at the shore of the lake, near the villa’s wooden boat ramp. As I walked towards him, the ramp rocked on the water’s surface like a shaken cradle, a reminder that the wind was picking up, and our uncertain blue sky could turn nasty with an afternoon storm. He was an older man, to be sure, with a full shock of white hair and tight angular face some men settle into as they age. His thick mustache was carefully trimmed and he was fastidiously dressed in creased yellow golfing slacks, a black cardigan sweater over his cream polo shirt, and yellow socks to compliment expensive looking black leather loafers. Bennett was Neiman-Marcus, definitely not J.C. Penny’s. Lake Lanier’s churned waves lapped at the sandy beach just beyond his feet as he portioned out bits of bread from a plastic sandwich bag, then tossed each piece purposefully at the birds skimming over the water’s surface.

“Look at that,” he remarked as I approached, “Those are seagulls, no doubt blown this far inland by a storm. Have you ever seen gulls in North Georgia before, Ms. McNeal?”

“No, I have not,” I admitted, and shaded my eyes to better see the screeching white birds. “Well, I do believe you are correct. I can’t imagine they would confuse Lake Lanier for Saint Simon’s Island. That is curious.” Turning towards Howell Bennett, whose long spare frame brought to mind another longer legged sea bird, I offered my hand. “Mr. Bennett. So kind of you to see me, especially on such short notice.”

He took my hand lightly and sat upright. “Not kind at all. Selfish really. I’m retired now with little of consequence to do with myself, unless you count feeding the birds each morning, and besides,” he raised his still clear hazel eyes to meet mine. “I’ve waited over fifty years for someone to ask me about Stella. Pardon me for not rising, old bones don’t respond with the alacrity they once possessed.” He gestured to the empty space on the bench, and waved his arms expansively as he spoke.
“And therefore sit you down in gentleness, and take upon command what help we have, that to your wanting may be minst’red.”
I sat down, puzzled by his thespian outburst. “That, dear lady, is from Shakespeare’s
As You Like It
. That’s what I’ve done with myself since Stella died you know, taught Shakespeare, at Agnes Scott in Atlanta and then here in Gainesville, at Brenau. I was equally comfortable with both schools, seeing mostly young women every day, the gentler sex, as it were. Though lately I’m not so sure where the gentleness resides: tattoos, nose rings, sailor language, and such. Alas, that is another topic all together. What prompts you to ask about Stella after so many, many years?”

“I am retained by an Atlanta attorney, Garland Wang, to sort out some details regarding the trust left by Stella’s husband, the late Paul Tournay.”

“I didn’t know Tournay had passed. Pity.” His tone of voice showed no feelings of sorrow. “A trust you say? What a surprise. That term usually implies a considerable sum of money. Where did that mealy mouthed little twerp acquire such wealth?”

Good to know I was not the only person curious about the origination of Tournay’s money. “You know, I wonder that myself. I take it you don’t think he inherited the money from his family in France.”

Bennett wrinkled his eyebrows and frowned. “Good Lord, no. The man didn’t have two nickels to rub together when he came back to Atlanta with Stella. Married they said. I wonder about that, too. And as to his family, I understood his father was a baker. Not many fortunes made in croissants, I should think.” Bennett chuckled at his own small joke. To be polite, I smiled.

“The newspaper reports said Stella’s diamond wedding band was missing. Tournay must have had some cash to buy her a diamond ring.”

Expelling a disgusted, “Ha,” he hurled the remainder of the bread out over the water. “The ring of which you speak, Madame, a two carat ruby flanked by four perfect diamonds, came to her at her marriage from Stella’s maternal side, the Chandless’, not from Tournay.”

“Ah, I see. Do you recall Stella ever mentioning a friend of hers and Paul’s by the name of Boo Turner?”

Bennett answered quickly. “Good heavens no. I can’t imagine anyone in our social circle being called Boo. Must have been one of those trashy artist types Tournay dragged home.”

“Doesn’t sound as though you cared for Paul Tournay, Mr. Bennett.”

“I loved Stella, Ms. McNeal. She was difficult and often treated me badly, but I loved her. We were first cousins, you know, her father and mine brothers. Our mothers were also cousins, both Chandless. Father died when I was very young and I spent a great deal of time at Stella’s house when we were children. We were inseparable growing up. In another time perhaps we would have married, keeping the two families intact, as it were. However, first there was all that mess with her running off to Europe, and then she came back married to little Paul Tournay. The artist.” He said the word, artist, as though it was something found on the bottom of his expensive loafers. “After that, I was thrown aside like last week’s newspaper. Discarded. No longer needed. Forgotten. Of course I despised him.”

No wonder the man wanted to talk about Stella, years of hatred must be overflowing from every crevice of his heart. “Who do you think killed Stella?”

“Tournay, of course. I’ve always known that.”

“I don’t mean to be argumentative, Mr. Bennett, but how do you know that?”

Bennett frowned at me and folded his arms across his boney chest. “The police failed to interview me, though I may have been the last person to see her alive. I’d gone over that afternoon to the house, their house, that ugly monster of a stone crypt they built on Uncle’s old mill site, to take Stella a few things from the grocery. Paul had the car at school she said, and she wanted to actually cook supper for the two of them, something she rarely did, said he was coming home early and she wanted to surprise him. She knew I would do anything for her, so I played delivery boy. I didn’t mind, really. It was a chance to be with her. Anyway, when I got to Stella’s, the record player was on as loud as it would play, and she was drinking gin and orange juice… dancing all over the living room trailing that red scarf of hers over her head like a gypsy.” I nodded, remembering the red scarf from my dream.