Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (17 page)

I made notes on my yellow pad about the deed and the construction receipts. Apparently, part of the sale was for Trust Company to do some repairs to the property prior to closing. Sweet deal, I mused. Paul Tournay was a good businessman. So then, why would he and Boo Turner be partners? I didn’t think the partnership was forged just because they had once known each other during the war. I wrote that question across the top of the pad and closed my eyes.
Is that it, Stella? Are you trying to tell me something about your husband’s relationship with Boo Turner?
I didn’t get an answer to my question, though the moment of quiet did affirm a few facts for me. Stella, Paul Tournay and Boo Turner were together in Paris during the war. All three seemed to be in touch after the war. Stella was in all the photographs with Turner hanging in the Tournay house, so chances were Stella was part of whatever had forged the alliance between the two men. And that alliance lasted a very long time. They met in 1944; Stella was killed in 1957. Tournay and Turner bought a shopping center in 1973. A long time, indeed. There were various later receipts of utilities, roof repairs, parking lot paving repairs, and rental income records. Looked like in the early years, Tournay managed the property himself. Paul had mentioned his grandfather came to Atlanta once or twice a month. That would make sense if he were taking care of the shopping center. So then I had to ask what Boo Turner did to earn his partnership? What had Susan learned about Boo Turner in the seventies? As I remembered her research found he was pretty much retired, except for a few appearances at Blues and Jazz festivals.

Further down the stack of papers I discovered another deed. This one was from Solomon Turner selling his half interest in the shopping center back to Paul Tournay. It was dated early in 1975. Ah, yes, I remembered Susan saying Turner had two drunken driving violations, one in 1972 and another in 1974. So, maybe Turner was drinking heavily during this time and needed his part of the investment cash back. Somehow I didn’t think that was the end of it. There was the matter of all those management checks going to SBT, LLC,—fees still being paid to that entity. Who was SBT, LLC? Was it a coincidence the initials matched Boo Turner’s? If I had the canceled checks I’d know who was cashing them; too bad I’d not found one single canceled check in the box.

I dialed Susan at Granny’s Store. “Hey, Miz P. How’s it going? Did you find some good stuff in the trust records?”

“Some. I have a string attached to one piece of the puzzle, I think. Can you pull on that string for me and see what we get?”

“Huh?” Susan replied, the metaphor being lost to her.

“I mean I need you to get on the computer. Can you get into the Internet and mind the cash register at the same time?”

“Well Duh…” She was indignant. “I can multi-task better than most folks, Miz P. What am I looking for?”

“Paul Tournay’s estate has been paying a company named SBT, LLC a management fee for years, and it doesn’t seem they do anything for the fee. Can you go to the Georgia Secretary of State’s web site and see if there is a limited liability corporation named SBT? I’ll wait.”

“Hang on just a minute. Mabel Sessions is in here with three of her wild-ass kids. I got to watch them to make sure those pint-sized criminals don’t steal a pocket full of Tootsie Rolls.” I could hear Susan put the phone on the counter and then the humming sound of the new computerized cash register totaling up a sale. While I waited, I continued to leaf through the stack of papers. There was a deed to Tournay for the Columbia, South Carolina parcel of land and the Georgia acreage on Friendship Road, both bought during the late eighties. No one else was listed on those deeds. There was a survey of the Columbia property showing it located between a carwash and a Texaco gas station. So I was right. It was also commercial property. All these records were pretty straightforward. A fifth grader could figure out what investments Tournay transferred into the final trust. Becca probably brought the boxes to Garland, so she had to know what her father had, and Garland no doubt had seen the boxes. This one was under his desk, for goodness sake. He had to know the source of the trust wealth. So why did he tell me he had no idea where the trust money came from? Why was that information not on my “need to know” list?

Susan came back on the phone. “I got it, Miz P. It looks like there is a SBT Holdings, Inc. and a SB&T Inc., but no SBT, LLC.”

Not what I expected to hear. Then, bingo! I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Susan, I’m sorry. Forget what I said and go to the South Carolina Secretary of State’s site. The Turner’s live in South Carolina, not Georgia.”

“Right. I knew that. But you didn’t tell me I was looking for Turner again. Hold on a second while I bring it up.”

I apologized again, and waited. Further down in the box I found something helpful, a small bundle of bank statements held together by a decaying rubber band that snapped in my hand as I removed it. For some reason, Tournay determined these particular bank records were worth saving. Good sign, I told myself. Each monthly statement had at least one deposit circled in red, some more than one, and all ranged from 1958 to 1970. It would take time to total up all the deposits; but just adding quickly in my head, I figured the amount would be over two million dollars. Small handwritten notes climbed the margins of many of the statements. I held one page up to the light, trying to cipher the tiny words, and was reminded of the fine print on prescription drug notices. You know the ones: if you really read the precautions and side effects, you wouldn’t take any of the meds at all because none of it makes any sense to a lay person.”

Susan came back on the line squealing with excitement. “I found it, Miz P., and you are not going to believe it!”

Oh yeah, I thought, I probably would. I wished Susan could see my smile. “Tell me, O’Great Detective.”

“Well, LLC stands for a ‘limited liability corporation.’ I guess you probably knew that already. The big news is SBT is registered in South Carolina and the address is the same as the Turner’s. And get this. Angel Turner is the ‘managing member,’ whatever that means.”

My smile broadened. “What that means, Susan, is that Angel is the one who calls the shots, even though the corporation has her grandfather’s initials. When was the corporation established?”

“1999. What does that mean?”

I thought for a moment. “Umm. She was back from New York by that time, had already opened the antiques shop in Charleston. I think that date tells us the idea for SBT was probably hers. I’m betting she contacted Paul Tournay way before he died and got him on board with whatever her game was.”

“Why would anybody get ‘on board’, as you call it, to pay a fee to a company that doesn’t earn it?”

‘Why indeed, Susan?”

“Shoot,” I heard Susan hiss through the phone. “I bet you ten bucks that tall broad with the dolled up jewelry in her hair was blackmailing Paul Tournay, and the fee was how he paid her.”

A week ago I would have told Susan she was reading entirely too many mystery books. Today, her assessment had a loud ring of truth. And if it were true, did Becca Tournay know what was going on? I decided she had to know. After all, I was sure she’d seen the records. Maybe she wanted to control the trust, not because she thought Paulie was incompetent, but to keep the information the Turners were holding over her father a secret. Was the blackmail because the Turners knew Tournay had killed Stella? Well, maybe. There had to be more. Stella’s death was a long time ago, and her death did not generate all that money Tournay had deposited in his bank account.

“Hey, Miz P, you still there? What do you think about my blackmail theory?”

“Yes, Susan. I’m here. I was just thinking. You may be right about the blackmail, but I notice in the trust records Angel has continued to get the monthly fee since Paul Tournay died. If she was blackmailing him, I should think that would dry up when he died. We have to figure out how all this connects to the ugly snake on my door and Becca’s so called accident. Why would the blackmailers try to kill her?”

“That’s a good question. They would want to keep her alive to keep on paying and get rid of Paul. And how would Mitchell Sanders play into all of this mess? Do you still think he’s involved?”

“Yes, I do. Maybe he and Angel are in this together, but they disagree. She wants Becca to have the trust and he thinks he’s got a better shot at more of the money for himself if Paul gets the trust. Two con artists trying to con each other. Maybe it was only Mitchell who shot at Becca. Becca didn’t mention a second person in the car.” I wondered how a person as determined as Angel seemed to be might react if she thought she was being double-crossed. My guess was she would be pretty pissed off. “Susan, I have to go now. I’m going to call Paul and see if he has heard from Mitchell. Thanks a bunch for your help.”

“Wait, don’t hang up yet,” Susan said hurriedly. “Fletcher Enloe came by the store looking for you. He said to tell you he wants an answer about the nanny goat.”

I wanted to scream. That old man was the most aggravating human being I’ve ever known. He knew about my prowlers, surely he could figure out I had other things on my mind other than looking for a lady friend for Hubert. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t say anything except I’d relay the message. He’ll be back later today. What do you want me to tell him? Are you going to get a nanny goat and maybe some babies?”

“Just tell the old geezer I’ll see about a nanny goat when I finish this job for Garland Wang. I just can’t deal with him right now.”

“Oh goody!” Susan was obviously elated. “Baby goats are so cute. They smell just like puppies you know, so warm and cuddly.”

“Do they really?” I was suspect. Cuddly puppy things in the yard and kittens in the laundry room—what was I thinking? We hung up and I sat for a moment, my mind bouncing between the notes I’d found scribbled on the bank statements and the realization of what a person might do for a trust worth millions of dollars.

I dialed again. “Hello, Paul. It’s Promise. Sorry to bother you again. Is this a bad time?”

“No, no. I’m just headed to the house. What’s up? I hope you aren’t going to stand me up. I’m starving.”

“No, no. I’m coming…with sandwiches. Listen, I’m here at Garland Wang’s office, going over some of your grandfather’s trust papers, and I’ve come across some hand written notes, maybe his handwriting. I wonder if you could help with the meanings?”

“I’ll try. What do the notes say?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, one notation looks like ‘email’ followed by a number.”

“You mean he was writing down someone’s email address?”

“Well, no, I don’t think that could be it, because the papers date from 1970 and before—long before we had email addresses. And the numbers beside the notes are all just two digits. Another word looks like
panneau
.” I spelled the word for him. “And another either
foile
or
toile
.” I spelled those also.

“The email word, does it have a little slash mark above the ‘e’?”

I held the paper back up to the light. “It could have. The writing is with a sort of dark green colored pencil, and very small.”

“Hang on just a second. Let me pull over. I’m having trouble hearing you. Okay, now, spell the email word for me.”

“Just like it sounds, e.m.a.i.l.” I spelled. “And maybe a slash over the e.”

Paul answered quickly. “Oh, okay, I got it. Papa was French, remember. For what it’s worth, unlike my mother, I speak some French. Sounds to me like he was making notations about some work of art. Toile is French for canvas, panneau is panel, and email, with a slash, means…” He hesitated, “I think it means polished glass, or something. No, that’s not it. Email means enamel. You know, like some of those pieces Papa wrote about in his boring textbook. Sounds like you found research notes for the book. Though, I can’t imagine why his notes would be in the trust papers.”

I knew then what I was looking at was definitely not research notes for Tournay’s textbook of Carolingian art; but his book did hold the key to the double-digit numbers following some of the words. I cringed. Poor Paul. He didn’t have a clue how Papa made his fortune. “Yes,” I lied, “you are probably right. The notes may have been mixed in with a bunch of other papers. Just one more thing, before I hang up. Have you talked to Mitchell Sanders since your mother’s accident?”

Paul scoffed into the phone. “No chance. I’m through with him, over and done! Speaking of my mother, I just called her room at the hospital. A decidedly Spanish speaking male person answered the phone, so I called back and talked to the floor nurse. She says the night nurse told her this morning that Mother got a cell phone call last evening about eight when she was in Mother’s room taking her blood pressure. She said Mother was angry at whoever was on the phone, and about ten minutes after the call she marched by the nurse’s station and announced she was checking herself out of the hospital. Can she do that, Promise? Can she just walk out before being released by the doctors?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head with worry. “Have you tried her cell phone?”

“Well, sure. She doesn’t answer, Wait a second; I’ve got a call coming through. Maybe it’s her.”

I held the phone tightly against my ear, counting the seconds until Paul might connect again. Shortly the phone clicked and he raised his voice like a petulant child. “I can’t believe that woman! Forget what I said about caring about her. She is a first class witch, and always will be.”