Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (21 page)

“But I do know. I’m asking you to tell the truth to save your son.”

“If I go to the police I’ll have to repeat the lies that Angel person is saying.” Becca lit another cigarette and spoke through the haze. I’d lost count of how many she’d smoked since we sat down. “It’s lies, all lies! They would ruin Papa’s reputation as a gifted artist and teacher with their filthy lies. I can’t let them do that. Papa would never forgive me.”

“What lies could they tell, Becca? The blackmail isn’t just about the sale of the shopping center, is it? It’s about your mother, isn’t it—about who killed her. Think, Becca, there is nothing the Turners can do to hurt your father now. It’s the living you need to protect. Paul needs you now, not your father.”

She put her hands over her ears. “Stop it, stop it! Why you are saying those dreadful things? I told you it was all lies. Just shut up. And get away from me. You are fired; you hear me, fired!”

This confrontation with Becca was developing into a familiar therapy session. The client wants to stay in denial, the counselor tries to lead her to acceptance, and the client throws down an avalanche of emotion to avoid the truth. It was time to reign in the emotions and get her to focus on helping her son. “Listen, please.” I tried to grasp her right arm; she jerked away and sat sideways on the bench. “We will never know what really happened with your mother. Maybe it was an accident, a terrible accident. What possible proof could the Turners have, after all these years?” I paused, and waded in the rest of the way. I had to find out how much she knew about the source of her father’s fortune. “Becca, turn around, please. Tell me. What else do they know about your father? Is there anything else they are threatening to tell?”

Becca spun around, removing her sunglasses, and glared at me with wild animal eyes. Both hands came up to claw at me. Fortunately, I was a half second ahead of her and intercepted her slim wrists, forcing them down on her lap. She struggled, then gave up trying to free herself. “There’s nothing else, you bitch,” she snarled. “Isn’t that enough?”

Her bruise-rimmed eyes were full of hate, and tears. I measured her answer and decided that Becca didn’t know anything about her father and Turner’s business ventures, other than the shopping center. And why would Angel and Sanders make threats to reveal that, anyway? They were still making profits from the old business. It also made sense that Becca, being Becca, would have found a way to con Paul out of the contents I thought were left stored in the basement, if she had known, and then there would have been no reason for Angel and Sanders to be there last night. I released her hands and she looked away. Protecting her father’s reputation, and her image of him, was all that mattered for Becca.

I wanted to tell her about her father sending me a dream. I wanted to say somewhere her father prays for forgiveness, and that her mother’s wedding ring still rests in her childhood house. I wanted to say her father loved her, but perhaps showed it less than she needed because of his own guilt in making her motherless. I wanted to say sons are meant to be loved and cherished, not used as scapegoats for our own jealousy. I wanted to say I was so sorry she had grown up without a mother to kiss her wounds and value her successes. Sadly, I would say none of these things. Today was not Becca’s day to hear.

“Yes, you are right,” I replied, “that is enough. But, if you don’t tell me the whole story about the Turners and Sanders, how will we help Paul?”

She sniffed and shook her plastic baggie of cigarette butts. Was she counting them? “I didn’t hire you to help Paul, or to meddle in my life. Your job is to make sure Paul shows up tomorrow to sign the trust papers. That’s all.”

So it seemed we were at a Mexican standoff, Becca and I, whatever that means. “Well, that could be difficult if he’s in jail for murder.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The Atlanta police will realize they have the wrong person, or his friend will come around with an alibi for him. I’ll call Garland Wang and get him to hire the best criminal attorney he knows.”

“Paul already has an attorney, John Edgars. I’ve spoken with him, and hopefully he’s on his way downtown now.”

“So there,” she quipped, as though the whole business was settled. “Edgars will straighten the mess out. We don’t have to worry about Paul.”

I shut my eyes and felt a tension headache swimming up my neck and backstroking for my brain. I just knew if I slapped Becca the pain would subside. What was going on with me? That was the second time in less than a day that I wanted to attack someone. I had to get a grip.

When I opened my eyes Becca was standing, gathering her purse, cigarettes, lighter, and suitcase. She spoke to me as though we were old friends catching up on news. “I have to go or I won’t make my appointment in Columbia. As part of my studio expansion I’m adding Yoga classes. Tonight I’m negotiating with Ram Habatta, a celebrated Yogi, to work for me. My studios will be unique in the dance world.” She checked her gold Piaget watch. “He’s flying in from Santa Fe and I can’t be late.”

I watched Becca walk away to her new pink Miata and wondered how she would explain the bruises and cuts on her face to her new business associate. No doubt the story would be a good one. I shook my head and wagered she would also find time to have her hair done before she met the famous Ram Habatta at the airport.

She drove past me without so much as a wave. Well, that little confrontation certainly didn’t net the results I’d hoped for, except for the confirmation that Angel Turner and Mitchell Sanders were partners. What I didn’t know was if Boo Turner was part of the blackmail game. No matter, since I doubted he killed Sanders; that could wait.

I ‘d told Becca her mother’s death was probably an accident. Did I really believe that? I wasn’t sure. It was hard to envision how a person could accidentally lock their hands around another’s neck and strangle the life out of them. I’d counseled enough victims and perpetrators of domestic violence to know that, at then end of the day, one or both persons breaks the law and the legal definition of that defining act will determine accident, or intentional. It’s a woefully inadequate framework for such a complicated human dynamic, where extreme emotion rules; but having imperfect laws for domestic violence is better than having no laws. One thing I knew for sure: a dream of Stella’s death called me to Atlanta to find the box with Paul Tournay’s note and Stella’s ring inside, and accident or not, Paul Tournay bore the guilt of his wife’s death.

Well, all right, I told myself, enough philosophy. One of us has to come up with a plan to help Paul; and since Becca was driving her new sports car eastward to Columbia in a cloud of selfish pink denial, that left me. What could I do? I sat on the bench, trying to formulate a next step, and thinking about Howell Bennett saying Stella’s mother didn’t protect her from her father until it was too late, how Becca was unwilling to protect her son, and how many of us believe we don’t get the parents we deserve, and how that is
so
true. Some of us don’t. With the late afternoon Atlanta sun warming my face and the soothing sound of a chickadee flitting about in a nearby Bradford Pear tree, I resolved to help Paul, and regardless of her saying I was fired, I’d also find a way to bill Ms. Becca Tournay for the time I’d spend doing it: because, well, just because.

“A dream which is not interpreted is like
A letter, which is not read.”
…The Talmud

14.

I don’t think of myself as brave. The Lone Ranger I am not. I knew I needed help. After my conversation with Becca, I also needed a strong cup of coffee. In search of the coffee, and while thinking about the help part, I dragged the headache Becca had blessed me with back to the Subaru, turned left out of the hotel parking lot and waded through afternoon traffic on Peachtree Street four blocks to Starbucks Café. A la Grande Costa Rican Gold with plenty of half and half gave me the boost necessary to call Susan.

As I unfolded the story of Mitchell Sanders’ death, and my conversation with Becca, Susan kept saying, “Oh Glory, Oh Glory!” Then she stirred in the comment, “See, see, I told you this is a real mystery. Just like the Maisie Dobbs books. This is just
too
exciting. What are we going to do, Miz P?” She was way
too
happy about this whole Tournay drama. I almost asked her what she thought Maisie would do in a situation like this; then decided she would probably take the question seriously. I did remind Susan if a fictional character got into deep water, the author could always write her safely back onto shore. Mitchell Sanders’ murder was not fiction. Someone really had nailed a bald python snake to my front door and cut my phone line, and I really was sitting on Peachtree Street in Atlanta, Georgia, plotting a way to catch a killer, without becoming the next victim.

Susan finally sobered, somewhat, and agreed to press her friend Melissa back into service to finish out the day at Granny’s Store and then leave immediately to meet me at Paul Tournay’s house. She suggested it would be a good idea to call her dad and ask him to check my house and Mamma cat’s food bowl, and, as much as I hated to be obligated to Daniel, I acquiesced. “And I reckon I better go ahead and tell Daddy where I’m going. He’ll probably pitch a fit, but no use in trying to hide it, since he can find me anyway.”

What a curious thing to say. “What do you mean, he can find you, anyway?”

“Oh, Daddy worries a lot about me, on these mountain roads at night and all, so when I got my Jeep, he ordered one of these little finder dumabobbers and installed it in my glove box.”

I had no idea what Susan was talking about. “What little finder dumabobber?”

“Oh, you know,” she rattled on, “they advertise them in the guy magazines. It looks like a fat little metal disk. Hunters put them on the hounds’ collars to track the dogs when they are running coons, or bear, or whatever. Then the hunters use this little lap top gizmo to find the dogs. It’s just a mini computer, sort of.” Well, that explained why I’d never heard of a ‘dumabobber’. Articles on hounds and coon hunting are not the norm in
Psychology Today
. “That way, you see, if my Jeep breaks down or I have a wreck and the cell phone won’t work, which it most likely doesn’t up here in the mountains, Daddy can find me. It pissed me off at first. Like he was spying on me all the time. But I got to tell you, Miz P, when I was younger and stupid, just knowing that little tracking device was there sure kept me out of some places I didn’t need to be. Made me think about where I was fixing to go more than once or twice.”

I had an idea. “Susan, can you detach the tracking device?”

“Well sure, I guess I could. But you think I want Daddy to beat my butt all the way to Tennessee, and back?”

“No, I don’t mean permanently. I mean just for a little while. We could put it back.”

“Well, I guess. But why?”

“Listen,” I was excited about the prospects of my idea. “Just drive your jeep down here, and bring the laptop Daniel uses to locate you, and also bring a tube of really strong glue from the store. I’ll explain when you get here. And don’t forget the power cord, in case the computer thing needs charging.” Course, I had to admit my whole theory might be a wild goose chase and I’d look like a fool later on. Since it wouldn’t be the first, or the last time I’d been a fool, I decided to ignore the foolish pitfall. After all, I was on a mission to catch a thief and expose a murderer.

I instructed Susan to wait for me on Howell Mill Road, at the entrance to Bennett Trace, in the drive of a vacant house I’d noticed with a for sale sign in the front yard. That was just in case RB Barnes’ crew was still at the house. My next stop, I told her, was going to be a little antique shopping on Briarcliff Road.

Finding Tournay’s shopping center was easy. Back when Randall and I were married we lived in a red brick ranch off Briarcliff Road. It was a cute house: Pooh Bear wallpaper in the nursery, a huge droning attic fan to cool down the Atlanta summer nights and lull you into an unreal sense of security, and three giant pecan trees on the front lawn. I hoped the pecan trees fared better than the marriage. In those days, when I grocery shopped at the now defunct Winn-Dixie, the center was a modest tan brick L-shaped affair with the leg of the L being two stories to accommodate sensible services like dentists, tax preparers, and insurance agencies. The roof was early fifties, low sloped, and the second story balcony had iron railings and stairs. The grocery store was free standing and sat forward of the business center, facing Briarcliff, with lots of open asphalt parking spaces. Utilitarian would be the word for the whole shopping area. There wasn’t a tree or shrub on the entire lot, unless you counted the seasonal plants—hanging baskets of Petunias or baby tomato bushes, sometimes found outside the Winn-Dixie entrance.

Today, as I drove into the parking area, had I not been sure of the location, I would not have recognized the place. Briarcliff Palisades had definitely been remodeled to reflect some marketing person’s concept of success branding. Now the entire L design was two stories of arched textured stucco walls. A second wing jutted to the right of the original center. The color was either desert sunset or one of the garish Mary Kay corals, depending on your point of view, and the addition of a round stucco fountain surrounded by pockets of lush landscaping made me think of The Alamo. Every rentable space was filled with upscale shops: nail salons, hair salons, video and phone stores, and the like. Apparently folks around this area of Briarcliff now had no tooth problems, bought their car insurance on line, and did not file taxes. A chic looking taqueria, advertising vegetarian and fish tacos, perched on the left front of the parking lot. Fish taco? Surely that was an oxymoron.

My destination was to the right of the restaurant, the old Winn-Dixie, now the new Briar Patch Antiques Mall: complete with a grinning five foot tall Brer Rabbit, or maybe it was a more politically correct Peter Rabbit, sporting a top hat and tails and standing at the entrance. Was the rabbit the Mall’s idea of a Wal-Mart greeter? I raked a comb through my hair and put on a little lip-gloss before I gave the rabbit a wave and passed through the glass doors.

A rush of cold air conditioning and soothing oldies music swirled around me as I entered. I was grateful the rap crowd hadn’t discovered antiques, yet. The place was logically arranged with a long glass checkout counter up front and multiple aisles marching perpendicular to it from front to back. Given the size of the store, it looked as though this could take hours, and I would have to cruise up and down the myriad of individual booth spaces looking like I was a typical shopper in search of bargains. Of course, I could just ask the clerk up front to point me to Aunt Sue’s Antiques, but that seemed too obvious.

I settled on a plan to quickly find something to buy, and with my new treasure in hand, I would look less conspicuous searching the store for Angel Turner. Working from left to right, I sauntered down a couple of aisles and fingered about a hundred pieces of colored glass and delicate china, which I know nothing about, and looked at a couple of old prints. One was of a little girl pouring milk from a pitcher for her kitten. It was sweet, but there was a water stain on the top left corner and I doubted I could live with its extreme cuteness for very long. The other looked promising: a fine lined black and white drawing, until I realized I was studying a lithograph of Marie Antoinette on her way to have her head chopped off. No sale on that one. I was telling myself to quit being so choosey, it didn’t matter what I bought, I just needed to pick something I could carry, when I saw the deep amber-colored violin lying atop a piece of black velvet. As I lifted the scrolled neck and stroked its worn arched face, a tall olive skinned woman in a long patchwork skirt and ruffled red blouse materialized at my side, casting a shadow across the instrument and bringing with her the scent of Patchouli and the tinkling of a score of silver bracelets.

“I can see you appreciate the old stories this one could tell, my dear,” she purred in a gravelly northern voice. “My name is Marda. This is my booth. For you I will make a discount and you can have it for one-fifty.” A hundred and fifty dollars! I was thinking of maybe a thirty-dollar cover to make me look legitimate. I must have looked startled because she took my arm, preventing me from returning the violin to its velvet nest. “Ah, I know. There is no case and no bow—those you can buy anywhere.” She took my hand and passed it across the violin’s surface again. I did love the sensual curve of the shape. “Feel the wood calling out to you? It speaks your name.” She crooned as though we shared a delicious secret. “A fine violin is like a woman, you know. It sweetens with age and playing.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or run like hell. A modern day gypsy hanging out at the Briar Patch Antiques Mall? Probably not. Salesmanship is a strange and creative talent. I took a step back and regained my composure. “Do you know anything about the maker of the violin?” I asked in a businesslike tone, though I don’t know why since I know absolutely nothing about violins.

She released her hold on my arm. “The maker doesn’t matter, darling,” she replied haughtily, “unless you are buying a Strad, which you are not for the price I quoted you. Okay, today is your lucky day. One hundred dollars and this is my best price.” With that announcement, she sawed her hands together and outward as though she released something into the air. How could I resist? I gave her five twenties, got a receipt for myself and to show the ladies up front I’d paid the dealer direct, and walked away with my purchase. I hoped there was an ATM machine nearby since that left me with six dollars in my purse. At least I’d bought something and looked like a legitimate shopper. Since I was the only one who knew I was too broke now to buy anything else, I wandered down the rest of that aisle and onto the next, stopping often to inspect merchandise, and keeping an eye out for the owner of Aunt Sue’s.

As I was asking myself just how many Beanie Babies the world needed, and what someone would do with a single wrought iron leg of an ancient treadle sewing machine, I saw a wizened black man perched on a green metal kitchen stool in the last booth of that section. He was gently picking the stings of a worn guitar and pretending to look in another direction; but I could feel him watching me. He looked alone in the booth, no Angel. Mustering courage, I walked in his direction. I don’t know what I expected of Boo Turner since the pictures I’d seen of him were over fifty years old; but this old, tired looking man was not it. Where had the joy and the energy gone? Sometimes the price of living a long life seems entirely too high.

I stopped at his booth to study a small sweet grass basket; he looked away, not meeting my eyes. “Good afternoon, sir,” I said pleasantly. “Are these South Carolina low country baskets?” I moved closer to him, forcing him to look up at me from his stool. He nodded yes, closed his eyes, and continued to finger out chords on the guitar. Picking up another basket to examine, I looked around nonchalantly and saw no one who might be Angel, then fueled by a thin burst of bravery, I dragged a plastic chair next to him and sat down. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting for a bit. It has been a long day.”

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter if I did, now would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” I replied, and smiled. We sat silently for a moment. When he finally opened his eyes, I held out my purchase to him. “Bought this violin. Or is it a fiddle? I don’t know if there is a difference.”

“Only to the man playing it.”

“Good. I thought I’d give it to a fiddling man. Do you play the fiddle?”

His fingers rested atop the guitar strings, and he turned his cloudy eyes to me. He seemed to be trying to get my face into focus. “No Ma’am. No fiddles. I fool around with this here guitar box to give me something to do with my hands these days. Used to, I was a horn man, till the whiskey took my wind. I expect you know that already, now don’t you?”

I kept his watery gaze and answered, “Yes, I expect I do, Mr. Turner.”

“I thought so,” he said softly and looked off in the direction of the front entrance. I followed his look, wondering if he was expecting Angel. “I felt in my old bones that was you when I seen you talking to Marda. I knew you’d be coming, just didn’t know when.”

I was having trouble following him. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Turner?”

He began picking a familiar tune I couldn’t quite place and replied, “I don’t know your name; but I know you the one to tell it. Angel can’t do nothing bout that now. I knew it when I had me a dream the other night, old friends and old memories.”

I sympathized with him, but I didn’t come to compare dreams. I had so many questions for Boo Turner; I didn’t know where to begin. Thinking I would start on neutral ground, I said, “I wonder about my old violin here. The label on the inside says Frank Ball, Springfield Massachusetts, 1932. I paid a hundred dollars for it. Do you suppose I made a good trade?”