Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (22 page)

Turner was suddenly interested in my purchase. “What did you say? Hand me that thing.” I gave him the violin and he produced a magnifying glass from his pocket. Turning the top of the instrument towards the overhead florescent light, he aimed the glass at the paper label inside and began to shake with a snickering little laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

Digging a worn handkerchief from his pants pocket to wipe his eyes, Turner returned my violin. “Lord, Lord,” he said, still laughing. “This old world sure is a funny place sometimes. Here you are hunting me down about something happened a long time ago, not knowing nothing about fiddles, and there is old Marda. Why that raggedy old woman would try and sell you a mouse turd and make you think it was a black Russian opal. Now old Marda done outsmart herself.”

I was not following him. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

Turner stifled his laughter, grinned; showing a mouth full of tobacco stained teeth, and lowered his voice. “Cause, girl, this here looks like it really is a Frank C. Ball violin. Old Mr. Ball from Springfield worked for the Smith and Wesson gun factory by day back in the thirties, and carved fine pieces like this at night. The man only made about a hundred and twenty-five in his whole lifetime. And they sound real real good. Why just look at that flame maple back and spruce wood top. Feel how the top bulges up real graceful-like as you run your hand over it. It’s the fineness of them archings and the width of the wood there that gives the fiddle its heaven sound, most like the human voice than any other musical instrument. This here is a beauty! You get her cleaned a little bit, find yourself a fine pernambuco wood bow, and you got yourself something worth a lot more than a hundred dollars, maybe three or four thousand.”

“Really?” I asked skeptically.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the truth. Uh huh, it is for a fact.” In an instant his smile vanished and his voice became serious. “Now I know you didn’t come here looking to talk about fiddles. What do you want with me? I’m an old man living on borrowed days. You aiming to make what’s left of my time bad?”

I felt sadness for Turner; yet I had to follow this Tournay thing to the end. “That’s not my intention, Mr. Turner. I’m not the police. I just have a couple of questions for you. A history lesson, you might say.” He tilted is head to one side, assessing my words. “By the way, where is your granddaughter, Angel?”

“Ah, “he said. “Angel. Angel, she had business over in Marietta today, buying an estate of some old lady what died. You thinking of taking on Angel, I guarantee you outmatched. Do yourself a favor and don’t be messing with Angel.”

At that moment I didn’t know what I was taking on. I was flying purely on instinct. “Mr. Turner, Mitchell Sanders is dead. Murdered, probably. Young Paul Tournay found him at the bottom of his basement stairs this morning.”

“Mitchell Sanders,” Turner repeated, as though trying to conjure up a face to go with the name. “Is he that little blond white boy thinks he deserves to be a famous actor?”

“Yes, I think we are talking about the same person.”

“Uh huh. He got a booth around on the first aisle you come to, sells all that ugly fifties crap. All the time hanging around over here with Angel. I think he believe Angel can get him in the movies, what with the people she used to know up in New York. Course, that ain’t so. Folks like that New York City crowd lose your name soon as you get out of sight. I know that from personal experience. Mitchell Sanders, that boy so hungry for being famous he hears what he wants to hear, just like most of us, I reckon.” Turner paused for a few seconds to shake his head in pity. “Yes, ma’am. I saw plenty of boys like him in the music business. They don’t usually amount to nothing. You make it; you got to not want it so much. You want it too much, then you likely do something stupid to get at it. You know what I mean?”

Deepak Chopra could not have said it better. “Yes, sir, I think I do. Tell me. Does it surprise you Sanders was killed at the Tournay’s house?”

Turner played a three-note chord several times, perhaps conjuring memories of the house. “Naw, that don’t strike me as a surprise. Somebody should’a burned that place down long time ago. Nothing except heartache and misery living there.”

I sensed Turner might not know about the complicated alliance between Sanders and Angel. Although, if he didn’t, why wouldn’t he question Sanders’ being in the house? That seemed odd. But who was I kidding? Mamma Cat was a better detective than I was. What made me think I was smart enough to figure out any of this convoluted story? I decided to change directions to something I thought I did know about. “Mr. Turner, what happened the night Stella Tournay died? What was hidden in the house that made you and Paul feel you needed to carry her body down to the creek?”

He sighed and cradled the guitar flat on his lap. “Well, now we get to it. I figured that’s what you come for. I could see it in your eyes when you made a beeline over here to me. Yes, ma’am, your eyes say you put the most of it together already, but your curiosity got you fever burning to know the rest. That’s a fact.” His mouth crinkled in a sad frown and we sat quietly, him perhaps weighing what he would say and me wondering if I was as transparent as he had called. Was I so curious I was burning to know the rest? Was a base emotion like curiosity driving me…. not a righteous desire to help the Tournay’s? Labeling it curiosity brought to mind what curiosity cost the cat. I shot a glance to the front door, half expecting Angel to appear.

Turner shifted his position on the stool and sat up a little straighter, bringing me back to the moment. “Well, I’ll tell you this. Stella was one tetchy white woman. Lord, what a temper. Nothing suited her. I didn’t like her even the least little bit; but I didn’t kill her, and that’s God’s own truth.”

“I didn’t think you did, Mr. Turner. You did help Paul carry her down to the creek though, didn’t you?”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I did. I sure did do that. Out of the house and over the creek across the old mill wall, so we didn’t leave any footprints in the yard.”

He continued to nod his head, as though remembering. I waited. When he was ready, he began again. “Me and the band, we was playing at the Henry Grady Hotel in Atlanta that night. It was some big who-do for the Ansley Park ladies club, or something like that. Lots of rich white folks in tuxedos and ball gowns drinking champagne, and waltzing around impressing one another. Good money in it for us. We was in the second set; the piano man was going through Stardust Melody when a waiter come and got me off the bandstand. Paul was on the telephone, said to come to the house right away. He was crying and carrying on real bad. Said he’d been trying to give her air, mouth-to-mouth, and pumping and pumping on her chest to bring her back. It wasn’t no use. She was long dead when I got there.” I remembered the newspapers accounts of Stella’s broken ribs, and now I understood.

Boo Turner looked past me, off into the distance, seeing that night as it had happened. “I ain’t never been taken by anything, or anybody, like Paul was taken by Stella, lessen you count all the whiskey I used to drink. Never wanted to love a woman like Paul loved Stella. Too much pain. Lord-a-mighty, Stella, she was…” He stumbled over his words and paused. “…She was like, I don’t know, like a match you didn’t never have to light. It just sparked sometimes on its own and burned up everything it touched.” Turner sighed so heavily his already stooped shoulders rounded closer to his body.

“I knew it wasn’t right, but what was done was done. We carried her body across the creek. Then we went down stream some piece, far enough away the police wouldn’t be obliged to look too hard around the house.” Turner shook his head side to side with the same regret I’d have if I couldn’t swerve to miss a deer. “It was Paul decided we had to hang her out over the creek, to keep animals from getting to her. I was the one had to go back to the house and get a piece of clothesline. I remember I was pissed as a hornet about that and wondering how come I let myself get mixed up with this crazy white man in the first place. When I got back to the creek, he was crying again and saying how Stella lost her shoe while we was carrying her. Insisted we look for it so she’d have both her shoes. I wouldn’t do it. I’d had enough. Wasn’t no way I was rooting around in the dark looking for that damn shoe. I told him, I said, ‘Man, think about what you asking. Some neighbor just as likely see us as not. And who you think they’ll strap in the electric chair? My black ass, not yours!’ Directly, he calmed down and we done what we had to do and went on back at the house—had to clean up the mess where Stella broke about every glass and dinner plate in the place. Paul didn’t say nothing while we were sweeping up, real quiet, like Stella being dead was beginning to set in on him. I hated to leave him like that, but after a while I went on down to the hotel to play the last set with the band. He went on to his in-laws to pick up the little girl.”

“Becca?”

“Yeah, Becca. I seen her around here. She favors Paul some, but she ain’t nothing like him. More like her mamma, I expect.”

“You told Angel the story?”

“Yeah. When Paul died I thought I could forget, but it got to haunting me worse and worse. I wasn’t drinking, though I sure wanted to. Was having bad nightmares, thinking maybe somebody would come after me for Stella’s death. See, with Paul gone, who’s to know it wasn’t me killed her? I was worrying myself sick about it and needing to tell somebody. Should’ve kept my mouth shut, that’s what I should’ve done. Since Angel come back home she’s hard, angry. Maybe she’s fighting to be her own self, or just mad cause that fancy modeling thing didn’t last forever. I don’t know. Hell, I told her nobody gets to do nothing really good forever. Just look at me and my music. It’s all gone, pissed away like yesterdays beer.”

“What was in the Tournay house, Mr. Turner? What was so important you had to hang Stella out over Howell Creek to hide it from the police?”

He rubbed a thin wrinkled hand the color of ash across his mouth and sat silently for a few seconds. When he continued it was a whisper. “Stuff,” he said, “Just lots of old stuff. Church stuff, fancy gold pictures painted on wood, china, silver, and glass stuff made to look like jewels, peoples’ watches and rings. Stuff Paul said was high-class art and was worth something. All looked like junk to me back then. You see, me and Paul, and Stella, worked at the same club in Paris. We never thought the Germans would take France. It surprised us when they marched into Paris like the devil laying claim to hell. Then we heard the French government was cooperating, paying them money and shutting eyes to the killing. It wasn’t long before they started stealing. This one smart-ass officer, Horst was his name, was making Paul, and some of the others, round up all kinds of belongings from the rich Jews around Paris. He knew Paul was hiding Stella, her being American and all, so there wasn’t much choice in the matter. I helped Paul cause we was friends. Paul didn’t have no street sense about him and I figured he’s get caught just on his own.”

That German bastard would sit in his office like a king and make Paul tote what they’d taken down to him so he could paw over it, and then ship the good pieces to the higher ups in Berlin. At least, that’s where they told Paul it was going. Who knows? I never went to the office. Horst didn’t want me around. To him I was schwarze: that’s like saying nigger in German. He didn’t never know if I was American, or not, didn’t care. Suited me fine; I hated the murdering fuckers. Time went by and Paul got more and more pissed at the Nazis. That’s when he started to hold some back. Could have got us all shot by the Nazi’s, but Paul did it anyway. Then it was one for Horst, and two for us, one for the Nazi, two for us.” Turner laughed, pleased I guess that Paul Tournay had fooled the Nazis, and lived to tell about it.

Turner reached into a cooler under the table and brought out a can of Pepsi. He offered me one. I declined, and he drew a long swig on the cold drink before he resumed his story. “Stella and Paul left for the States pretty soon after the allies took Paris. I stayed behind and shipped the stuff we’d hidden stateside a box or two at the time. Said it was musical instruments for my band. Nobody asked nothing about it.”

“Paul found buyers for the shipments and you two shared the profits?”

“Yeah, he sold a little bit at a time. After a while, I was back on this side of the big pond, traveling with the band, doing pretty good for a long spell. Playing horn was my life. Paul made deposits in my bank account. I trusted him. Then when I was drinking so bad I kind of lost track of what was happening, made some real bad decisions, and drank up most of my share. I thought Paul had sold all the stuff.”

“You thought he had, until Paul died and you told Angel your Paris story?”

He nodded yes, then his eyes flicked suddenly towards the front door. I stood up quickly. “I have to go now, Mr. Turner. You take care of yourself, you hear?” I walked briskly towards the rear of the store as Angel Turner rounded the front corner of the aisle. I got a pretty good look at her over my shoulder. She was over six feet of dark orange silk pantsuit, black leather high heel boots, and long beaded cornrows that clicked as she walked.

Her melodious husky voice followed me as I retreated, “Hey, Pops. Anything interesting happening today?”

“Not much,” Boo Turner replied, as he picked a sad blues riff on his guitar. “Not much at all.”

“The best way out is always through.” …Robert Frost

15.

Double-timing it back to the Subaru, I slid behind the steering wheel and with trembling hands, locked all four doors. Just a fleeting sight of Angel Turner had frightened me more than I had thought possible. Some detective I was making. After several deep breaths, my racing heart slowed and stopped threatening to come up through my throat. I should have stayed and confronted Angel, but I didn’t, so I’d just have to trust Boo Turner would tell his granddaughter about my visit. She needed to be nervous enough to act tonight. As I calmed down and replayed my conversation with him, I was confident he would have to share with Angel. Turner depended on Angel and would want to protect her. As they say…whoever they are….’blood wins out.’

Of course the old adage could be wrong this time. Becca Tournay was proving we don’t always look after our children. Pity for Becca. She was missing so much. I checked the rear view mirror. Angel was not storming out of the mall to accost me; however, there was a white Ford Explorer parked one row behind. Could it belong to Mitchell Sanders? I wrapped my violin purchase in an old sweater lingering in the back seat, and slowly circled around to the parked Ford. It looked like the one I’d seen in Paul’s drive, though I couldn’t be sure. White Ford Explorers are almost generic in style to me, and I was so rattled I couldn’t remember the letters Fletcher Enloe said he spotted on my night prowler’s car tag. I jotted down the license number of the Explorer on my Briar Patch receipt for future reference anyway; then I got out of the parking lot as fast as I could without looking like a fleeing bank robber.

The dash clock told me it was too early for Susan to be in Atlanta. I decided to use my extra time to replenish my cash at the nearest ATM machine, and swing over to the corner of Clairmont Road and Lavista to a little takeout place where they make a chicken salad almost as good as Paul Tournay’s—white meat chicken loaded with pecans and juicy red grapes, perfect with a side dish of orzo, cranberries, and mandarin oranges. With a couple of plates to go, Susan and I could picnic in the car while I filled her in on the latest developments. Maybe I’d add an order of warm flat bread.

Garland called just as I was getting back in the car with our supper to go boxes. When I told him about Mitchell Sanders being found dead in the Tournay basement and Paul’s predicament with his alibi, all he did was make a few uh-huh noises into the phone and say ‘really’ a couple of times. I know Garland; if he didn’t already know about Sanders he’d be popping a gut asking questions. Nobody loves a gruesome tale better than Garland Wang. I was satisfied he already knew the story. After all, it was Randall Barnes who—way back when—introduced me to Garland.

Garland did volunteer that John Edgars was one of the best criminal attorneys in town and he felt comfortable Edgars could help Paul. That sounded hopeful, and very noncommittal. I let his lack of concern slide for the moment and made the lightning decision to drop the bomb about what I’d determined from the trust records in his office. I also told him why I thought Angel Turner probably killed Sanders, even though Becca also had a basket full of motives and the opportunity. Again very suspiciously, he didn’t ask any questions, though he told me again he didn’t care about Paul Tournay’s business dealings. As to the blackmail issue, Garland was as unconcerned about his client being the victim as he was about her son being first in line for a murder charge. Interesting. I could hear Garland’s situational ethics gears kicking in and had a clear picture of those three little monkeys; you know the ones: cute little hands over their ears, mouths, and eyes.

Garland finally heard enough of my theories and interrupted. “Promise, Promise, stop. Don’t tell me this. I don’t want to know. I don’t need to know. You don’t need to know. All we signed on for, you and I, was to settle the matter of which Tournay would control the trust money. Even if Paul Tournay was an art thief and killed his wife back in nineteen fifty-seven, you can’t put a dead man on trial for murder. And, if Angel Turner killed Sanders, and not Becca, then good for our team. I don’t care either way. I don’t do criminal work remember? And lastly, why should I care what Becca Tournay does with the money after she gets it? She can give it to Angel Turner, or the Salvation Army, so long as she pays my fee. Who cares? Not my job. And, may I remind you,
not
your job.”

Now I interrupted him. “Garland, don’t you see it’s because of how the money was made that Becca almost got herself killed and now Paul is in danger.” I was exasperated with Garland and getting nowhere. While I was looking for justice, he was looking to wind up a case to his client’s satisfaction. I tried another approach. “Garland, if we don’t show Angel Turner killed Mitchell Sanders, Paul will be in jail and certainly can’t come to your office to sign the trust over to Becca.”

“So? I’ll go down to the jail and get him to sign the papers.”

This pragmatic line of thinking was why Garland spent his Easter vacation in Barcelona, and I, on the other hand…. well, never mind. I had to hold the phone out from my ear to keep from screaming. “Garland,” I said through clenched teeth. “I have to go now. Good-bye. Give my best to Aileen.”

As I lowered the phone to press the disconnect, I could hear Garland saying, “Promise, Promise, don’t hang up on me. I know that tone of voice. Don’t do anything…” I think he was probably going to say anything
stupid
, but I hung up before I got the rest of it. Six o’clock traffic was backed up both ways on Briarcliff so I waited in the car for a few minutes before nosing out into the melee. It was times like these I wished for a built in wine dispenser in my Subaru. Press button; chilled Pinot Grigio would flow to the rescue. I settled for a stick of sugar free peppermint gum and thought about what I hoped to accomplish before the night was over. When the street traffic looked relatively sane, I wrapped the spent gum in a tissue and added it to the other ten or twelve in my ashtray, and joined the sea of cars inching toward Buckhead.

A light rain was falling as I parked and waited for Susan. Periodically, I turned on the wipers to clear the windshield. I was fidgety, uncomfortable, and tired of being in the car. When I got back to North Carolina, I vowed no driving until the coffee or ice cream was gone. A familiar black truck with North Carolina plates backed into the drive in front of me. I was puzzled why Susan would drive her dad’s truck instead of her Jeep until I saw Daniel exit from the cab and run through the rain for my passenger-side door.

He folded his tall body into the compact space and shook the water from his Stetson. “I sure hope those little white boxes in the back seat are supper. It’s way past my feeding time.”

“Yummy chicken salad and orzo,” I told him, and then asked, “Where’s Susan?”

“Well, I don’t know what orzo is, but I’ll take some so long as there’s plenty of it. Susan isn’t coming.”

His tone of voice told me Susan’s absence was not her choice. I handed Daniel a Styrofoam to-go box and a package containing a plastic fork, knife, and napkin, then a tall cup of iced tea. Silence and the comfortable scent of Daniel’s damp jeans filled the small space in the car as he opened the box and ate. I offered him some flat bread with butter; he nodded thank you and paused long enough to take a deep swig of the iced tea. Concluding I was not going to get any more conversation from Daniel until he was fed, I reached for my own chicken salad supper and ate. Headlights intermittently washed across us, commuters bound for home after a long day’s work, as the rain pattered on the roof and streaked down the windows, tenting us from everything and everybody moving outside. Even under the weird circumstances, it was comfortable sitting there in the rain with Daniel. When our supper was eaten, I leaned around to the back and stuffed our empty boxes into a crumpled up Kroger bag.

My violin purchase loomed large on the back seat. Suddenly I felt mortified that I’d bought the thing for Daniel. Impulsiveness is not my middle name. Why did I do such a thing? He probably wouldn’t even like it. Maybe I’d just give it to Susan and she could give it to Daniel. Then he wouldn’t know where it came from. Thinking of Susan, I asked, “Daniel, are you angry with me for asking Susan to come down here?”

He swallowed his tea and cleared his throat. “No. I’m not mad at you. Susan was excited and wanted to help you—chomping at the bit. At twenty-two years old, you probably think she’s old enough to go where she chooses. She certainly thinks so. Fact is, I put my foot down, wouldn’t let her rip down here and maybe get herself hurt. We argued awhile about it, she finally agreed.” He was silent for a moment; then he offered the best explanation possible for wanting Susan to stay at home. “I guess I feel I couldn’t protect her mother, but I sure as hell will do everything I can to protect my daughter.” He turned to face me and even in the semi-darkness I could feel his eyes locked on mine. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same to protect your son.”

Daniel’s statement really didn’t need a reply. I looked out the rain-streaked window and stifled back tears. Would that I could protect Luke, oh Lord, would that I could.
I love you, Luke. Be safe; please be safe
. I coughed and reached over to turn the defroster fan on. “Wow, it is getting warm in here,” I said, and cracked my window, allowing a dribble of rain to ease down the inside. So there we were, two stubborn world-weary parents, hanging on by our fingernails to the hope of our children’s safety. “You are right Daniel. My cockamamie plan could get us hurt. It was wise to leave Susan out of it. I appreciate you coming.”

“All righty then,” he said and rubbed his hands together, “tell me the rest of the story and let’s get to it.”

“Did you bring the tracking device from Susan’s Jeep.”

“I did, both the receiver and locator. What are we tracking?”

The rain cleared; we opened windows to smell the fresh evening air while I told him the rest of the story. He listened without interruption until I finished and then recapped. “So, if I understand this tangled up mess, you think it was Mitchell Sanders and Angel Turner who nailed the snake to your door, but only Sanders who shot at Becca on the road. He was trying to play two poker hands at the same time, and when Angel found out, she killed him? And you think they originally got together when Sanders caught her sneaking into the Tournay basement, masquerading as Paul’s grandmother’s ghost.”

I interjected one correction, “I don’t think she was actually masquerading as a ghost. I think Paul jumped to the conclusion the figure he saw was his grandmother’s ghost.”

“Naturally,” he quipped. “Who wouldn’t?” I frowned at him. There was no reason to reply. If he didn’t believe me, there was no use in arguing.

Daniel continued. “So, after Sanders caught Angel sneaking out of the house, the two teamed up and used the antiques business to sell off some of the leftover loot.” I agreed and again disregarded the humor in his voice. Well okay, maybe my theory did have a wild touch; that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. I’d seen Tournay’s handwritten notes at Garland’s office, and his book, to back up my conclusions, plus Boo Turner admitted Sanders and Angel were together. Daniel’s next comments carried no humor. “You know, if you are right and Angel Turner killed Sanders, she probably won’t mind killing again. At what point do we bring in your ex-husband and the real crime fighters?”

“When we know I’m right and she takes the bait. If she doesn’t show, I don’t want to look like a fool.”

“Umm,” he commented. “I hope this whole exercise isn’t about somebody wanting to prove she is not a fool.”

“This is not about my pride. It is about making sure Paul Tournay doesn’t go to jail and Angel Turner does. It’s about justice. It is about…” I stopped myself before I said something about dreams and Stella’s murder.

He winked at me and seated his Stetson atop his dark curls. “Well, okay then. Justice being the goal of this late night party, I guess we better leave our vehicles here, walk down to Tournay’s house, and see can we break into his basement.”

I began gathering up what I thought we needed from my car. “Daniel, if I’m right, we won’t have to break in at all. Do you have a good flashlight in your truck? Or did I ask Susan to stop and bring mine?”

“Both,” he replied. Seconds later we stood beside his truck. It was dark, but at least the rained had stopped. He easily hefted the backpack carrying supplies he’d brought, and I slung my giant purse over my head to one side for a makeshift sling. We crossed the street and walked briskly down the verge of Bennett Trace. In one hand I carried an unlit flashlight and in the other my necessary tea thermos, filled with fresh brew from the chicken salad take-out. I just hoped we didn’t look too much like a couple of redneck cat burglars.

Once we trekked to Paul’s house, I motioned Daniel to the right where we eased between overgrown azaleas and spindly acuba bushes, their white stripes marking green leaves invisible in the moonless night. If my hunch was right, we should be able to find what we were looking for near the pyracantha where Paul and I located Mamma Cat and her kittens. And there was the pyracantha, just as I remembered: man-high, thick, covered with spiky thorns, and red berries, and looking very uninviting. This had to be it. Mamma used the same route when she navigated from the upstairs of the house to her babies. As we raised the chain link cover, just as Paul had done to show me the kittens, a car drove into the front yard, its headlights making a wide arc across the side of the house. We squatted down out of sight and eased the cover back into place. I was grateful Paul did not believe in trimming his bushes close to the house. The vehicle stopped. I heard a door slam and a familiar voice call out, “Thank you so much, John. I really owe you.” Then a hardy laugh. “Yeah right, I will definitely be looking for your bill.”