Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (16 page)

Susan raised a dark eyebrow. “Charming. Doesn’t look like a murderer of thousands now does he? Do you think he could have possibly misread Jesus’ message about compassion and bringing converts into the church?” Susan’s sarcasm was evident. She didn’t think any more of Charlemagne’s conversion tactics than I did.

We both questioned what, if anything, Tournay’s book had to do with recent events. I didn’t have an answer to the question, but felt there was something singularly odd about Tournay choosing such an obscure topic for a book. The man was a cabaret entertainer in France, then a landscape painter and painting teacher for the remainder of his life. He was educated, but not a medieval scholar. This book seemed to be his only foray into antiquities. What was his interest in artifacts from Charlemagne’s time? I had spent too many years working with people to believe choices are random. No. Paul Tournay had a good reason for publishing a book devoted to antiquities. Scanning down a couple of pages, I picked up again, reading to Susan, “His dedication to the forceful spreading of Christianity gained him the title of Holy Roman Emperor when Pope Leo III crowned him on Christmas Day, 800 AD. The new Emperor’s passion for remnants of a previous Roman culture as the birthplace of early Christianity, his love for all things Byzantium born from Mediterranean culture, and a drive to carry the Christian message contained in the Latin Bible drove Charlemagne to find expressions of his spiritual view through talented artisans of the times. Thus, as Emperor, he had the means and opportunity to forge through those various artists what we know as Carolingian art.”

Susan yawned and rubbed her eyes.

“Okay, now we get to the pretty colored pictures,” I offered, and opened the book flat on the table. Even though it was a slim volume, just one hundred and ten pages of text and color plates, the photographs were excellent. With informative paragraphs accompanying each color picture, Paul Tournay made a skillful argument that this period was innovative and seminal for the creation of later Romanesque and Gothic art.

Susan’s interest was sparked by a color plate of a enameled three part panel of Jesus enthroned in gold, his halo bejeweled in reds, blues and yellow, his eyes piercing black stones, which seem to look into eternity. Seated apostles turned toward Jesus filled each side panel. “How did they do that?” she asked. “The figures are painted head on, sort of flat looking, but the faces look three dimensional.” I had to agree, the artistry was phenomenal.

As we moved through the book, Tournay pictured intricate illuminated Bible manuscripts, enamels of Biblical scenes, metalwork objects used for churches and private households, carved ivory book covers, alter pieces fashioned from gold, filigreed enameled incense burners, and elaborate enameled encrusted crucifixes. Each text for the pictures brought the reader forward in time to compare like works of later periods given root in the Carolingian period. Cluny, Limoges, Rheims, and Tours were cited several times as origins of some of the later more accomplished works. Limoges appeared over and over again. “Susan, Paul Tournay was from Paris, or thereabouts. He spent the war in Paris, anyway. Isn’t Limoges near Paris?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why does that matter? Tournay studied art in France. He was French. France is a relatively small county. Over there, everything is close to something else famous. Believe me, I’ve been to Europe. A person gets historical overload in about twenty-four hours. Their cities were ancient when we were still trying to drain the swamps to build Washington, DC.”

“Umm. I guess. You know this book was published in the early sixties. Where do you suppose he got the photographs? They are so, so good.”

Susan drew the book closer. “I think an author usually makes a credit for the photograph below the picture.” She studied several photographs and turned a couple of pages forward. “That’s funny. There are no credits with the pictures. Oh, wait,” she flipped to the end of the book, “Here it is. He’s numbered the photos and then matched the numbers with acknowledgements for them at the back.”

We scanned down the list of photo credits matched with the numbered color plates. “Interesting. Look at that, Susan. Six, ten, fourteen, twenty. Twenty of the photos say they are by the author. And look, if you go back to the pictures, he gives you the origin of each piece, but not always the current location. You know, such and such museum or whatever. None of his own pictures cite current locations. Why would he do that? Doesn’t a credit usually tell you what museum or collection currently owns the piece? Why give some locations and not all?”

“I don’t know,” Susan answered. “Maybe he didn’t know where they were. Honestly this whole thing is so boring I’m having trouble caring about any of it.” She rose and paced the kitchen, arms crossed and mouth pursing from side to side, thinking. “Still, it’s like you said. Why did Tournay choose such an obscure subject? He could have written about landscape painters of the nineteenth century, or Dutch Masters, something he knew more about. Maybe he did his masters thesis on old Charlemagne.”

“I don’t think so. That wasn’t in the info I found about him on the Internet. You’d think if he was some authority on medieval art, the bio would have said so.” I was mulling over Tournay’s possible motives for writing the book, so I did what I do to get my mind focused on a stubborn puzzle. I retrieved a half-gallon of Turtle Tracks ice cream from the freezer and two spoons from the drawer.

Susan and I sat silently and ate the delicious concoction of vanilla, chocolate and caramel flavors from the carton until she spoke again. “You know, Miz P. I can’t think of any reason he left out some locations of the art pieces, unless…” Susan licked the back of her spoon before diving in for another turn.

“Unless,” I repeated and finished her sentence, my spoon overflowing with melting ice cream, “unless, he didn’t
want
to say where the art pieces were located.”

She nodded in agreement. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Tournay obviously knew all of the art pieces well. He knew who owned them, and where they were located. Otherwise he couldn’t have taken the photographs. What if….?” My mind skipped ahead.

Susan’s eyes narrowed as she began to grasp where I was going. “You mean, what if he didn’t have to look very far to photograph some of the stuff?”

“Exactly.” I pushed the ice cream container away from me. “Yuck. If I eat anymore of this stuff, I’m going to throw up.”

“Me, too. Where’s the Alka Seltzer?”

“If one does not know to which port one is
sailing, no wind is favorable.”
…..Lucius Annaeus Seneca

11.

The Atlanta suburb of Roswell was one exit away when my cell phone rang. I rummaged frantically amid the mess in my purse and managed to dig the phone out one ring before it rolled over to voice mail. “Hello, Hello.”

“Hey, Promise, “Garland began, sounding equally frantic—though I doubted it was because he couldn’t find his cell phone in his purse. “I got your message. I have court today in Gwinnett County. The files are in the conference room. I still think looking into the trust is a waste of time, and has nothing to do with the snake on your door, or Becca’s drive-by shooter, but go ahead and read to your heart’s content. Paige will take care of you. Just remember, we won on the trust issue. Becca gets control. Paul gets the house. Course, he still gets income from the trust, so why complain? Right? One more thing—I talked to Becca and she says her son could be involved in shooting incident.”

“That is ridiculous. The woman is nuts!”

“Nuts?” I could hear him snickering. “Is that your professional opinion? Maybe Paul changed his mind, decided to shoot her instead of sharing. Greed usually wins. Nasty human trait, but it’s who we are.”

“Paul wouldn’t shoot at his mother,” I countered with conviction, but no real facts to back up my statement.

“And you are sure of that because…?”

I didn’t know why I was so sure, I just was. “Because the man is a great cook. A mundane little gun would not be the weapon of choice for a creative cook.”

Laughter streamed from my phone out into the car. The sound was contagious and I was happy to make both of us a little lighter for the day.

“Right. Another professional observation? Make sure you tell the DA that if they decide to build a case against him. In the meantime, can you check him out again while you are in town? Find out where he was when Becca’s car was being used as target practice. Back on the client’s payroll, of course.”

“Sure,” I happily volunteered, not telling Garland I wanted to see Paul anyway about his grandfather’s textbook.

“I’m at the courthouse now. Gotta go. And Promise, one last thing, I’m counting on you to keep Paul Tournay in line. Look at the records if you want to, just don’t make mountains out of mud hills. This little piece of trust work has gotten way out of hand. I want it over with by the time Becca is able to sign a check for the balance of my fee.”

Before I could correct his homespun idiom from mud hill to “mole hill,” Garland hung up. While traffic moved fitfully at starts and stops, I rooted around in my purse again, this time for Paul Tournay’s home number. There was no answer, so I called his cell phone. He answered, relaxed and cheerful. “Paul Tournay here, who’s calling please?”

He certainly didn’t sound like the kind of man who would don a Richard Nixon mask and try to kill his own mother; but then, I had to remind myself that to my knowledge, I had never had a would-be killer as a client. “Ah, Paul. This is Dr. McNeal, Promise. How are you this morning?”

“Actually, I am right as rain today.”

He did sound unusually chipper. Right as rain, molehills, this was a morning full of trite expressions. “Lovely, happy to hear that. How is your mother?”

“I talked to her last night as her supper was being served. I believe the word she used was “swill.” Judging by her complaints, I’d say she is doing great. She says the doctors will probably release her tomorrow morning, so she’s going back to Columbia. I offered to drive her over; but she’s already called someone from the leasing company to bring her a new Miata, pink of course. She insists on driving herself. Personally, I don’t think she’s in any shape to be on the road; but Becca is Becca and if she says she’s driving, then hell better make a path for her.”

“You sound concerned.”

“Well, I am. Becca hasn’t exactly been a June Cleaver mom, but then I’m no Beaver either. The accident must have been terrifying.” Paul hesitated and then continued, “You know, Dr. McNeal, I’m having trouble believing this was a random act of violence. Especially after that crazy doll thing. What do you think?”

I took a deep breath and thought for a moment about my answer. I wasn’t sure I was ready to share what I thought with Paul right now. “I’m having trouble with that too, Paul. Can we get together later today and talk? I could come over to your house, say around one o’clock? I could stop by Henri’s bakery and bring lunch. I’ve been craving one of their ham on rye sandwiches for days.”

Paul did not hesitate. “You know, I would like that, Dr. McNeal. It would be good to see you again, even if you do technically work for the other side. I have one stop to make at our set designer’s shop, just off Chattahoochee Avenue. I’ll be home well before one.”

“Paul, since we are sharing Henri’s sandwiches, please call me Promise.”

“Well,” he replied, with a relaxed laugh, “I always obey a lady’s wishes. I’ll see you around one o’clock, Promise.”

“Sounds good. Do you want ham?”

“No, I don’t eat beef or pork. I’ll have the turkey with provolone.”

“No problem. And Paul, one last thing. I’ve read your grandfather’s book on Carolingian art. He must have really loved that period of history. Did he own any of the artifacts he wrote about? Maybe display pieces around the house.”

“Oh, my Lord, I can’t believe you waded through that dry piece of work. I loved Papa dearly, but what a boring book! I can’t say I remember Papa having any medieval stuff around the house—except the knight carved on the front door, and I’m pretty sure that’s a reproduction. He painted mostly landscapes, and we always had canvas propped up all over the house, but I don’t remember any old art.”

Paul was quiet for a moment. I sensed he was searching for some scrap of memory, so I waited. After several seconds, he spoke again. “There is one small box Papa gave me when I was a teenager. I remember he made a big issue of telling me he realized it didn’t look like much to me then, but one day I would understand why I had to promise not to part with it. I guess he thought I was just a dumb kid, might throw it away or something. I guess I was pretty dumb; but still, I wouldn’t part with that box for anything. Mitchell bugged me for ages to have it appraised. Somehow that felt, I don’t know, sort of disloyal to Papa. Like I was sneaking a look at a price tag on a Christmas gift. Besides, if it’s worth five dollars or five hundred, I still wouldn’t sell it. I think Mitchell finally got it into his thick head how much I love the box, because he stopped pestering me about an appraisal. Another one of those unattractive Mitchell traits: the man thinks everything is for sale.”

Yes, I could imagine Mitchell would think that way. “A box, you say? That’s interesting. So you still have it?”

“Oh yes! It has been on my dresser since Papa gave it to me. I keep loose change in it. I’ll show it to you when you come over, if you like.”

“Yes, I would like that very much, Paul. I’ll see you later. Take care now.” I hung up feeling a tiny bit guilty about prying information from Paul about his grandfather and the Carolingian art connection. I could have come clean and told him his dead grandmother was nudging me from the grave to solve her murder—somehow that did not seem like a good idea. Better to shoulder the guilt of prying.

You know, there is something so very charming and genteel about an English accent. I swear, Paige could tell me I had a face like a dried up South Georgia pothole, and I’d be all over myself thanking her. I wonder if she had the same effect on Garland. No, it was not her voice that made him smile. Being beautiful is still solid currency, brains or no brains. Paige was fortunate: she possessed beauty and brains, plus the upper class accent. When I stepped off the elevator into Wang and Wang’s eighth floor offices, the beautiful Paige was not up front behind the telephone brain center of Garland’s law practice. Another young woman explained Paige had just stepped to the kitchen for her midmorning tea break, and she would show me to the conference room. That was fine with me. All I wanted was to dive into the Tournay trust information. I could listen to Paige’s lovely English accent some other time.

Two cardboard storage boxes were on the conference room table, the same type of boxes I use to dump all my business records in during the year, before I panic on April 1 and sit down to sort out the various cryptic pieces of paper in order to do my income taxes. However, these two legal sized containers did not contain a jumbled up mess. The content of each box was divided by neatly labeled green hanging folders. Whoever administered the Tournay trust was certainly organized. Every expense from the beginning of the activation of the trust to date was housed in a separate folder by months, and years, and then itemized by category on the front of each folder. Nice, I thought, I should use that system. It would save hours of sifting through bits of paper.

I began at the earliest date and worked through the information. I learned an old Decatur law firm whose partners were familiar names in both legal and social circles administered the trust in the early years, before a Columbia, South Carolina, firm took it over. Tournay must have maintained his Georgia residency all those years. Of course, there is nothing illegal about that; he did have a house here. The original trust agreement stated pretty much what I already knew, except there was a list of assets and monies covered by the trust. Paulie was right. The Buckhead house was not listed as part of the trust, so at least the administrator knew Tournay had already deeded it to his grandson. Strange Becca didn’t know that. The Columbia house was owned free and clear by the trust. No mortgage. Smith Barney managed a small stock portfolio. A one-half acre piece of property on Trenholm Road in Columbia was also listed, as was seventeen acres on Friendship Road in Hall County, Georgia. I suspected the Columbia property was commercial, and was familiar with the area around Friendship Road where there was a new Wendy’s and a Kroger. Tournay had made very good investments. There was not a single piece of artwork listed as an asset of the trust. However, there was one asset that intrigued me—a shopping center situated on Briarcliff Road in Atlanta. The name was very familiar: Cliff Palisades. Good Lord, that shopping center had to be worth over a million dollars, maybe two million. How did Tournay buy all this property?

I moved on to files containing expenses. There were various monthly expenditures for the two houses, tax payments, an appraisal bill for the Friendship Road property, and management fees for Cliff Palisades paid to Bozell Realty Management, an Atlanta firm. Then I noticed something else. There was a separate second management fee paid each month for twenty-five hundred dollars to a SBT, LLC. Why would one shopping center need two management companies? Each month contained the same twenty-five hundred dollars fee to SBT. I went through every folder. Where were the canceled checks? I didn’t find even one cancelled check.

The conference room door opened and Paige eased in with a steaming white china mug in hand. “Good morning, Dr. McNeal,” she purred. “So nice to see you. I suspected you were properly parched by now, so I’ve brought tea.” After she set the cup safely to my left, away from the trust papers, she stood back and folded her hands demurely in front. “Are you finding everything you need?”

“Actually, no, I’m not. But thank you for the tea,” I responded, trying to sound friendly through my frustration. “Are you sure these two boxes are all of the Tournay information? There seem to be some documents missing.”

“Oh, dear me,” she answered, her brow wrinkling with concern. “I should think so. Mr. Wang personally carried them in here from his office.”

“His office?” I echoed.

“Well, yes, his office.” Paige said hesitantly, and stroked her peaches and cream chin lightly with her forefinger. I waited, hoping she would reach the correct conclusion. “Unfortunately, Mr. Wang was in a terrific hurry this morning, off to court in Gwinnett County, you know. Nasty divorce case. And aren’t they all when big money rides on the outcome?” I nodded. “Well, let’s just have a look-see in his little cubbyhole, shall we? Could be he missed something in his scurrying about.”
Yes.
I wanted to shout.
Right answer.

A couple of minutes searching Garland’s office yielded another box under his desk knee space, one identical to the others I’d already searched. “Well, there we are, Dr. McNeal,” Paige announced triumphantly, as she retrieved the box. “We’ll just leave this one with you in the conference room.” I could tell by her hurry to leave Garland’s office, she was ambivalent about us rifling around his ongoing work. I don’t know what she was worried about, with at least twenty knee high piles of papers stacked on the office floor, snooping would be a slow go. I wondered if Garland’s tall columns of papers rising from the carpet constituted case management and preparation.

Paige left me alone in the conference room and I lifted the box to the table and removed the top. It was disappointingly light, only about a third full, and unlike the other two, there were no neatly labeled file folders. In fact, there were no folders at all, just stacks of paper. I turned several pieces of paper over, looking for canceled checks. I found none. Finally I turned the box on its side, and scooped the sheaf of papers out on the table. I was determined to go through everything. The first group seemed to be receipts from repairs done on the Cliff Palisades shopping center. They were all dated in the early seventies and invoiced to Trust Company Bank. What is this? I was puzzled until I looked further and found a creased and folded Limited Warranty Deed from Trust Company Bank selling the property. Ah yes, the sale must have been during the devastating Atlanta real estate downturn in the early seventies. Lenders who had extended overly optimistic credit to under capitalized developers took back the collateral in the form of scores of commercial properties and raw land. Technically the assets were called “workout properties” and the task for the banks was to workout of the lost revenue by making cash deals whenever they could. So, Paul Tournay had the cash to take advantage of one of Trust Company’s non-earning asset sales. Completely unfolding the deed, I saw Paul Tournay was not the only name listed on the deed. There were two owners of Cliff Palisades: Paul Tournay and Solomon B. Turner. I wanted to jump up on the table and do one of those victory dances the football payers do when they score a touchdown.