Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (17 page)

I drove and listened while she wound down. When we reached my house, we made no effort to get out of the car. We sat in silence, facing the burned out hay barn and listening to the wack, awack, wack, awack of the windshield wipers. Finally she said, “You haven’t said a word since we left MaMa’s. I know you, and I can see something twisting and turning in your mind. Come on, other than MaMa hiding a child she’s probably afraid will be taken away from her, what’s bothering you?”

All the years of walking with damaged clients through the hells of childhood didn’t disappear just because I’d hung up my counseling practice in Atlanta. It was difficult to know where to start. “Several things, including that the child doesn’t speak and doesn’t seem to miss her life before Mrs. Allen. Both issues indicate she’s experiencing some kind of deep trauma— truly sad, and truly unhealthy. I have no experience with counseling children, so I’m at a loss as to the extent of trauma. Missy needs counseling. I can tell you that.”

Susan turned in her seat to face me. “I hear you. But, why do I think there is something else? Go ahead, finish telling me what’s on your mind.”

The rain had exhausted itself into misty spindrifts draped over the humpbacked mountains. There would be fog by morning—creeping silently into the valley, seeping against the house, crawling up against the windows. I shuddered and blamed the prickling goose bumps on damp clothes.

Susan persisted and asked again, “So, what is it?”

The engine silenced when I turned the ignition key. “When I went over to Mrs. Allen’s the other day— the day she gave me the letter— she was in the yard either burning a kitchen chair or putting out a fire someone else had started with the chair; I couldn’t tell which. I thought it an odd coincidence at the time, since my barn burned the night before. Then with everything else going on, the burning chair slipped way down on the priority list.” Susan’s furrowed brow almost stopped me from finishing. The last thing I wanted to do was worry her.

“And? Go ahead, what else?”

“The what else is that today, when I went to the bathroom at Mrs. Allen’s, the wall behind the towel rack was scorched about half way to the ceiling—like maybe someone had set a towel on fire.”

“Holy shit! What the hell is going on? You know MaMa isn’t running around setting fire to your barn or her bath towels, or hauling her kitchen chairs out to the yard for a barbecue. That leaves precious little Missy. Shit, shit, shit, MaMa has taken in a pyromaniac. I can’t believe this. Do you really think the child could find her way through the woods to your house and strike a match to your hay barn? And why your barn? You don’t even know the kid?”

The possibility did seem bizarre, although… “She found her way to the top of Fire Mountain. Your MaMa said she runs the woods all day. And, remember, she’s been to Fletcher’s house. My barn is next door. Maybe it doesn’t matter if she knows me or not. She just needs to set fires for some reason. Oh crap, I don’t know. I feel terrible accusing a sad, abandoned child. It’s just that…coincidences aren’t usually…”

“Yeah, I know, aren’t usually coincidental. Do you think she’s likely to set fire to anything else?”

“Oh Susan, I just don’t know. I have no experience with counseling children. I can tell you what the textbooks say about why they start fires, but beyond that, I’m clueless.”

“Oh Miz P, what are we going to do? She could burn MaMa’s house down and kill them both. We’ve got to call Daddy about this.”

“I know. Come on. Let’s get out of this car. Alfie’s in the kitchen, and he’s probably going nuts hearing us
out here. Let me feed him and let him out, then I think I know someone I can call for some answers. After that, we call your dad.”

Alfie was so glad to see us he broke into a barking frenzy that didn’t stop until I put his supper down in front of him. He’s a boy who knows his priorities. Cooked ground beef mixed with his dry food trumps the need to bark. As it happened, there was no need to call Daniel. He walked in carrying the local the newspaper, as I was searching my address book for the phone number of a professor I knew at the University of Georgia.
Was he filed under L for Lyn, or J for Jeffcoat? Or was it D for Dr. Jeffcoat?

Daniel was all smiles. “My two favorite ladies. How lucky can a man get?” Without waiting for an answer, he peeled off his worn Stetson, combed a hand through his hair, and wrapped Susan and I with one hug. “Daughter, are we still grilling steaks?” He asked on his way to the utility room to hang his hat on the coat rack.

Susan opened the refrigerator. “Sure. We gotta eat. Want a beer, Daddy?” I smiled to see how at home both of the Allens were in my kitchen.

Daniel rejoined us in the kitchen—still smiling— and tossed the newspaper on the table. He took a Corona from Susan and held it out to me. I shook my head no. I didn’t want a beer—still had a slight headache from a couple of days ago and didn’t think alcohol would be a good idea, just in case the bump on my temple signified a slight concussion. Susan and I locked eyes, each of us not wanting to be the one to tell Daniel about Missy.

Daniel picked up the paper and opened it out flat to the County Living section. “Come see who’s in today’s paper.”

A picture of Mrs. Allen smiled up at us. So, that’s what Daniel was so happy about. The headline read:
Local Grandmother, Honoree Allen, Has New Career
. The article was about the tea tree oil soap Susan brought me to bathe Alfie—that and several other homemade soaps and lotions Mrs. Allen was selling at local outlets and on the Internet. Though the article didn’t say so, I would bet the Internet marketing idea came from Fletcher Enloe.

“I know ya’ll went over there today. Did MaMa tell you she was in the paper?”

Susan was silent. She read over my shoulder as I scanned down the article. “No,” I answered him. “She didn’t say a word about the paper doing a piece on her new career. In fact, I didn’t know that making soap was a ‘new career.’ I thought she was only making a few bars for Susan, then selling the leftovers at Granny’s.” I read down to the end of the article. “Look at this Susan, it says this article first appeared in the East Tennessee Register newspaper. Wonder when it ran?”

“Yeah, and look,” Susan pointed to a line in the first paragraph. “This says she is the former Honoree Mullins of Marysville, Tennessee. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“And what
are
you thinking my dear daughter? And why do I have the feeling that you two know something I don’t know, and that I will probably wish I didn’t know, once you tell me?”

“Daddy, I don’t know what you are saying. That is
so
totally confusing. Just sit down and drink your beer.
You don’t want to hear what we have to say standing up.”

Daniel sat. “Okay, I’m ready. But let me tell Promise something before I forget. Babe, looks like you got the last word on the Georgia convict thing. I saw Mac late this afternoon. He said the state boys found the rock that killed Shane Long not fifty feet from where he fell—had his blood on it—also had two real good fingerprints on some mica chips on the face of the rock. You were right, the fingerprints do not belong to the escaped convict Fletcher shot.”

Now I had to sit down. “You are kidding? So whose prints are they?”

Daniel reached for a napkin to wipe the sweat from his beer and shook his head. “Don’t know. Not yet anyway. Mac made me promise that you would forget what I’ve just told you. We can’t talk about any of this. We might tip off the real killer. He could run and never be caught. You understand?”

What an insult. Of course I understood. “Daniel, I’m not some gossipy high school girl. I know all about confidentiality, remember. I’m a grownup counselor person. Do consulting work for an attorney.”

“Well now, don’t go climbing on your high horse, Dr. McNeal. I’m just repeating what the sheriff said. I mean he could have not even told me…”

Susan put her hands over her ears. “Stop it you guys…let’s not make it a federal issue. Daddy, do you want to hear what we found out over at MaMa’s or not?”

“Of course I do, Sweetheart. Go ahead, tell me. I’m listening.”

We spent the next fifteen minutes telling Daniel the Missy story, and he was right; he wished we hadn’t. When he began to pace the kitchen floor, Alfie took this movement as an opportunity to follow him back and forth, just in case there was food involved. “I’d like to say you two are way off base, but I think you are probably right. Somebody saw the newspaper article over in East Tennessee saying MaMa lives in Perry County and then tracked her down. Not too difficult since she’s in the phone book. Who in their right mind would leave their child with a stranger just because she makes homemade soap?”

Susan reached over and put her arm around her dad’s shoulder. “Oh Daddy, come on, probably has nothing to do with the soap.” She turned the newspaper toward Daniel. “I mean look at that sweet smile. Wouldn’t you trust your whole life and everything you hold dear to that face?”

He unfolded his tall body from the kitchen chair and rinsed out his beer bottle in the sink. “Yeah, I guess I would at that. Her sweet soul does shine through. You recycle these bottles?”

“Blue trash can in the utility room.”

The bottle clinked against several brothers in the can, and Daniel walked back into the kitchen, Stetson firmly planted over his black curls. He also brought Alfie a rawhide chew-chew from the pantry.
Happy dog
. “Susan, go ahead and put some potatoes on to bake. I’m over to MaMa’s. Be back directly.” I got a quick kiss and he was out the door.

When he was beyond earshot I asked Susan, “Your dad seems really upset; you don’t think he’ll do anything rash over there, do you?”

“Rash? What a polite way to put it. Will a bull stomp a rodeo clown if he gets in his way? But don’t worry. He loves MaMa Allen. It’ll be okay.”

The phone rang over to voice mail when I called Lyn Jeffcoat. I left a message and asked for a call back as soon as possible. About twenty seconds after I hung up, he called back.

“Yes, this is Promise. Dr. Jeffcoat, Lyn, thanks for calling. I have a situation here and I need your help.”

“Give me one good reason why I should even talk to you. You treated me terribly shabbily, you know that.”

Terribly shabbily
? How pretentious is that? One of the big reasons our relationship didn’t work out had slipped my mind. “Lyn, my memory is of us mutually agreeing to go our separate ways. I don’t understand why you think I treated you badly, but if I did, I apologize.”

“After those three fabulous days in Savannah, I really thought you and I were soul mates.”

“Lyn, you and I never went to Savannah together. Are you sure you know who I am? Promise, Promise McNeal. From Atlanta. Or used to be.”

“How can you even think that I don’t remember you? Of course I remember. I know who you are. Promise McNeal. Rather short, quick wit, full high breasts, and all that thick nutmeg colored hair.”

What? Well, sort of— Okay, maybe five years ago when the good doctor and I were a short,
over-the-summer, item. I was beginning to regret calling Lyn Jeffcoat; except (putting aside his decidedly smarmy behavior) he was the most knowledgeable person I knew about children’s issues. “Umm, right. I’ll note that description for updating my social resume. However, this is a business call, Dr. Jeffcoat. I need to ask your professional opinion about a little girl who may be setting fires.”

“So you’re not calling because you miss my body and want to beg for one more chance at my brass ring?”

The man must be bored out of his tree. How sad. “No Lyn. Strictly professional courtesy.”

“Okay. If you insist. A girl child, you say? How interesting. Fire starters are more likely to be boys. I assume this child is a client of yours?”

“Uh, well, it’s sort of a family thing. Let me give you a little background…” And that’s what I did, gave him a
little
background. Even though the Shoulda-Woulda-Coulda Committee was pretty much divided on whether I needed to tell all, I made an executive decision against sharing the unknown-woman-drops-child-off-and-disappears-into-the-sunset part.

A few minutes later, when I joined Susan in the kitchen, she’d started the potatoes baking and was marinating steaks. I folded the notes I’d taken while Dr. Jeffcoat talked and put them in my shirt pocket. “I’ll do salad. How come you are going to the trouble to marinate the meat?”

She turned from the counter with the meat fork raised and gave me a ten second lecture on how she just knew the steaks would be tough if we didn’t help them along. “You see, Miz P, I know these things.
That’s why I’m a natural chef, and you should give the idea of converting Granny’s into a restaurant serious consideration.” I made an assembly line of tomatoes, mixed greens, carrots, and cucumbers on my side of the counter. “Don’t put the tomatoes in until we are ready to eat. They’ll make the greens soggy.”

Okay, the restaurant could be a great idea, but I knew then I didn’t want to play second chef and take orders from Susan. Not that I don’t love her, because I do. It’s just that living through my teenage years with my mother giving me directions on every tiny detail of my life was quite enough. No, I made up my mind, over the tomatoes, that if Susan and Daniel wanted to be restaurateurs, I’d cheer them on—after depositing my proceeds from the sale of Granny’s Store in the Perry County Bank. “Okay, Chef Susan, tomatoes go in last. I wish Daniel would get back. I’m worried.”