Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (19 page)

Paul continued to pat his face with the damp towel and whispered, “They do if that ‘whom’ is married and works for the governor.”

My counselor’s alarm went off with a ding, ding, ding. “Oh Paul. When this is over, we need to have a long talk about how you make choices.”

He wet the towel again and mopped at the same places he’d already covered “I know. I know. My mother is right. I am a fool.”

“No, I didn’t say you were a fool. Believe me, I’ve been there. Lonely people sometimes do foolish things. But murder is way beyond foolish, so right now you need to give RB Barnes the guy’s name. He made the choice to spend the night with you, now he will have to accept the consequences.”

Paul was still whispering when he replied. “I just can’t do that Promise. I’ve known him for years; he’s a wonderful man and his life would be ruined. He might weather the gossip with his job. He’s one of the governor’s press secretaries, so he’d tilt the truth to make it work; but his wife would know better. She’s always suspected and she’ll clean his clock if she finds out for sure. She’ll take every dime he has and he’ll never get to see his kids.”

Randall reappeared in the kitchen. “Well, folks, what’s the good word?”

I looked from Paul to Randall and back to Paul. “Well, “I answered sadly, “I guess the good word is Mr. Tournay doesn’t want to say anything more until he has a chance to speak to his attorney.”

From years of practice, Randall skillfully dumped the responsibility of the situation at my door. “I guess I over estimated you, Dr. McNeal. Here now, I’ve been told you were a world class counselor, and you can’t even convince your client it’s to his advantage to share the truth with us, unless of course the truth will…” Randall let his sentence trail off for us to complete. The man always did know just where to twist the knife.

Maybe because I hadn’t had lunch, or maybe because I’d wanted to say it for a long time, and always lacked the courage, I volleyed back. “Shut up, Randall! You don’t know what the hell you are talking about. And your bully routine is pitiful. Or maybe I’ve just heard it once too often over the years to be impressed.”

Randall was opening his mouth, no doubt to say something smart-mouthed back to me, when the blue suit came into the kitchen and asked if they were ready to leave. Stole his thunder. I loved it. Randall did not. RB turned to his partner with hands on his hips and bellowed, “Yeah, we’re going! Mr. Tournay here is riding downtown with us to make a written statement, and his good friend, Dr. McNeal, is going to call his attorney. After that, I guess we’ll all have us a friendly little party downtown.” Randall glared at me and continued, “Dr. McNeal here will also be very careful to stay outside the house to make her phone call, far away from the areas surrounded by our crime scene tape, namely the stairs to the basement and the basement itself, and anywhere inside the house, because we don’t need any civilians messing around until forensics is finished with the scene. Right, Dr. McNeal? Outside!” I nodded my agreement.

After instructing me for the second time not to touch anything and to stay outside, RB shoved a business card in my hand with his office and cell numbers printed on the bottom. “On the off chance you might have something instructional to tell me.” One of the uniformed officers, he added, would be around the house for several hours canvassing neighbors, in case anyone had heard or seen anything unusual, or in case I should forget to stay outside the house.

As they walked towards their car, I called after him, “Randall, wait, just a second.” I was amazed that he actually paused and turned towards me. “I was just wondering, what was in the zip-lock baggie your tech carried out with Sanders?”

Flashing another of his self-serving brilliant white smiles, he sniped at me. “Evidence, Dr. McNeal, and I shouldn’t even discuss it with you. On the other hand, I’m such a nice guy what the heck—a Richard Nixon Halloween mark. It was under the body. I guess Sanders was headed to an early spook party.” I knew better, but wasn’t ready to share my information with Randall Barnes. Shortly the three of them drove away, Randall and his partner in the front seat and poor Paul in the back, leaving me standing alone on the front stoop.

I stayed very still for a few minutes, listening and thinking. Well, wasn’t that convenient Mitchell Sanders just happened to have a mask matching the description Becca gave of her drive-by shooter? It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Mitchell was the person who shot at Becca. I did believe he was the shooter. It was just an odd coincidence he would have the mask with him again last night. Or maybe it wasn’t so odd. If Mitchell was planning to be in and out of the house, he may have wanted to disguise his face, not be recognized. Or, maybe whoever killed him wanted to make sure Mitchell was identified as the shooter. There was so much I didn’t know, or couldn’t prove. I needed to get down into the basement; look around for hiding places RB’s crew had missed, places they wouldn’t be looking for because they didn’t see a connection between what might be in the basement and why Mitchell died. Of course, I couldn’t get down into the basement now because of Randall’s directive and the officer lurking around in the yard. Later, I decided. I’ll come back later.

Sometimes death lingers for a long time in a place, its residue a bloated heavy absence of sound and energy. That’s what I felt standing on the porch of Tournay’s empty house: a stone silent void, weighted down by Mitchell Sanders’ angry soul, and Stella’s memory. I closed my eyes.
Fly away, Mitchell
, I whispered,
there is nothing for you here anymore. Leave this place and fly away home.
I wondered if this new death in the house would change Paul’s affection for it and if he would sell it and move on. I retrieved my purse and cell phone from the car to dial the number Paul had given me for his attorney friend. Sitting on the mossy front steps, I listened to several rings of his office phone and watched dappled afternoon sunlight splinter like stair steps down from the sky through old growth oaks. It was a clear and glorious fall day in Atlanta, not a day to contemplate murder. Another thought crossed my mind. Mitchell’s white SUV was not in the driveway. He must have ridden with someone else, and that someone else was probably the killer. Surely Randall and his partner would have thought it odd Sanders’ car was not here, or did they assume he came home with Paul?

When the attorney’s office finally answered the receptionist quickly informed me her boss was in conference and could not be disturbed. “Look,” I told her, “I know the drill; please ring through and tell him Dr. Promise McNeal is calling and there is an emergency regarding Paul Tournay.” I waited about five seconds and a man’s voice came on the line.

“John Edgars here. What’s going on?”

Good, I thought. This is a no nonsense man. He knows how to take care of business. I began explaining who I was. “I know who you are, Dr. McNeal,” Edgars interrupted, “Paul told about his mother’s accident and about the trust. You gave him some good advice about the house deed, and he seems to trust you. What’s the emergency?”

I explained about Mitchell Sanders’ death and Paul being taken down to the Atlanta justice complex.

There was a long silence. Perhaps Edgars was digesting what I’d told him. When he spoke, it was with conviction. “That’s ridiculous. Paul would not kill anyone. I saw Paul last night at a party for the Alliance Theater. We talked quite a long time. After he left I saw Mitchell Sanders, alone, and alive and well. I thought it odd at the time because Mitchell doesn’t usually get invited to the crème de la crËme parties unless he’s with Paul.”

“Do you think Mitchell and Paul spoke? Do you think Mitchell saw Paul leave with someone? If he did see Paul leave, he might think Paul would not be at home and believe he could walk in here unseen and not be disturbed.”

Edgars thought for a moment. “I’m not sure, on both counts. I didn’t talk to Sanders. Frankly, I didn’t like the guy. I don’t understand though, why would Mitchell Sanders trespass onto Paul’s property? And why would he be in the basement?”

Oh well, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. At the risk of John Edgars thinking I was totally nuts, I explained my theory of why Mitchell Sanders wanted back in the house, about the snake on my door, and about the Nixon Halloween mask. Perhaps Edgars, being a criminal attorney, was accustomed to far-fetched stories, because he didn’t laugh at me. When I finished, he asked a couple of excellent questions. I could visualize him making notes on a pad with bold black script. I answered his questions as best I could, with only my intuition to fill in the missing gaps, and he was silent again. “Mr. Edgars, are you still there?” I was afraid he’d decided I was a nutcase after all and had hung up on me.

“Oh yes, I’m here. I was just thinking about several things I’ve observed about Mitchell Sanders since he latched onto Paul, and how what you say about him seems plausible. I always thought he was nothing but an opportunist and didn’t give a wit for Paul. As for the other part of your theory, being a history major as an undergraduate, I’m not all together ignorant about occupied France during World War II. The Third Reich was murderous and avaricious, and I don’t doubt some private collectors would care less how something came to be for sale. In fact I understand, according to Interpol, the black market for art is the fourth largest international criminal enterprise. In any event, I know who Paul left with last night. I’ll call him. Ask him to come forward.”

“Do you think he will? Do the right thing and come forward?”

“Who knows?” Edgars’ two words were ripe with skepticism. “I think the guy is basically a good person. But then, you never know what a person will do under pressure. I’ve seen crooks do honorable deeds and upstanding members of the community screw their partners for a pittance. I’ll catch up with Paul downtown at APD; hopefully make sure he isn’t charged with murder tonight. In the meantime, you be careful. If what you suspect is true, it is doubtful the killer will just ride away into the sunset and leave anything incriminating behind.”

John Edgars spoke the truth. I would need to be careful. I called Garland’s office to let him know the latest developments; Paige reported he was still in court in Gwinnett County and would probably not return any messages until later that night. I told her it wasn’t an emergency; I’d call back tomorrow and hung up.
What to do next?
I sat on the steps, trying to ignore the Second-guess Committee member in my head telling me I would have been better of if I’d ignored my dream of Stella, as well as Garland’s first phone call. Maybe listening to people’s problems within the confines of a cozy safe office wasn’t so bad after all. Nevertheless, there I was, and Committee or no Committee, I’m not a quitter; so I opted to eat my ham sandwich, with chips, and devise a next move. I felt better with the sandwich in my stomach, so much better in fact; that I ate a cinnamon curl, and drank a cup of tea I’d brought from hone in a thermos.

Sugar always helps me think more clearly. There was just enough in the pastry to remind me why I came to Paul’s house in the first place: the letterbox his grandfather gave him. Didn’t Paul say he kept it on his dresser? I frowned, remembering I was ordered to stay outside the house. Then, as though on cue, the uniformed officer assigned to watch the house walked down the drive and turned right toward the house next door. Must be time to interview neighbors. I took this as a good omen and, when he was out of sight, stirred my courage and hurried back into the house, avoiding looking down the open stairwell to the basement. It was only a few steps down the dim hallway to Paul’s bedroom. There it was, just as Paul had said, a small metal box, about the size of a standard sized envelope, though maybe six inches high, hinged at the top, and nearly full of loose change: pennies, dimes, nickels, some quarters. Stacking the coins on the dresser, I took the box to the window for better light. Even though it was tarnished, a light rubbing with my moistened thumb revealed a motif of expertly wrought deer being chased through dense forest by large cats, perhaps leopards or jaguars. Enamel work accentuated details in reds, yellows and greens. I recognized the box immediately and scurried outside to confirm my belief against Tournay’s book I’d tucked away in my purse. Bingo. The box was photo number twenty, helpfully noted by Tournay as photographed by the author. Interesting, I noted, though the inclusion of the box in the book didn’t prove my theory. Tournay could have purchased the box in any number of galleries or shops.

I returned to the stone steps outside to study the box, turning it over several times. It was when I looked inside for the second time at the hammered metal chamber that I noticed the actual repository was fairly shallow and took up only about half of the depth of the box. Why wouldn’t the maker of the box use the entire depth? I turned the empty box over again, bottom up, and shook it gingerly. There was an unmistakable sound of something moving inside. Surely if it had a false bottom, Paul would have heard the same noise over the years. Though, maybe not. He’d always kept loose change in the box. The metallic shifting of coins would mask the subtle sound I’d just heard. How to get to the hidden space? On the back was a border of flying birds worked into the metal that did not repeat on the front. I opened the box out on its side and tried to slide a fingernail between the bird border and the surface of the box. There seemed to be a seam, but it wouldn’t budge. That would be too easy, I told myself. Maybe, just maybe it was designed like an interlocking puzzle. One piece had to be in the right position to move the other. I closed the top and tried releasing the flying birds border again. Ah, I felt a easing of the raised metal, and armed with a fingernail file from my purse, I pried the flying birds outward to reveal a shallow wooden drawer behind. The aged smell of camphor bathed my face.