Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (19 page)

I hesitated sharing Mr. Kolb’s information about January McNeal being asked to leave the First Methodist Church. I guess it bothered me more than I was willing to admit. And truth be told, I was concerned about what Daniel might think about me having a relative like January. In any event, I copped out, telling myself he didn’t have time to listen to the rest of the story. Besides, I didn’t have all the facts yet. Daniel only partially bought into my explanation.

“I hear what you’re saying; but that still doesn’t tell me why you couldn’t wait. These woods aren’t like a stroll at the Mall of Georgia. You need to think about that before you tear off by yourself.”

Was Daniel scolding me? He sounded just like Fletcher Enloe. Did both of these men think I was totally incompetent? I stood up and leaned against the porch railing, looking out into the yard and trying to hold my temper. Minnie and Pearl emerged from their
house and ambled out into the pasture looking for morning. Lucky goats. No one second-guessed them. I certainly wasn’t going to have Daniel telling me what I could do and what I couldn’t, but I was trying not to be angry with him for trying— only because I knew he was being bossy out of concern for me. “Umm. I’m sure you’re right.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d said a June Cleaver kind of thing. Sold out to avoid a confrontation. Shame on me. My generation—one foot on either side of the river of feminism indeed.

Daniel smiled and shook his head. I think he knew he hadn’t convinced me of anything. “By the way, on another subject, I mentioned it before, but I hadn’t made it formal. I’m officially retiring from the post office. Guess you’ve heard the talk about the postal service needing to cut back employees and services. We hear they are putting together early retirement packages for some of us, and I’m going to say yes to whatever offer is made. I’ve carried the mail long enough, and if Susan is hell bent on doing this restaurant thing, I want to help her. We’ve talked about it. I’ll run the business side. She can be the creative side. What do you think?”

“I think you should do what makes you happy.”

“Me, too. But listen, if you don’t want to sell Granny’s Store to us, that’s okay. We’ll find another spot. With the economy the way it is, there are probably several restaurant sites available in Perry County.”

“No need to look around, I’ve decided I
do
want to sell. Without the worry of making a mortgage payment for Granny’s every month, life would be a lot less stressful. I’ve had to go into my savings every month
since I bought the store, and that worries me. It worries me a lot. It’s time I cut bait on being a shopkeeper and found a side business requiring less capital outlay every month. I’ve got retirement to think about.” My friend Brooks Threadgill’s admonition that I needed a man to take care of me in my old age echoed from the back of my mind. I shook my head to send her voice back to Atlanta.

Daniel rose from his rocking chair, handed me his empty coffee cup, and kissed me good-by. “Then we are agreed. We’ll work out the details as soon as we can think about something other than lost little girls. Speaking of which— did I mention when I called Mac last night he asked if you could sit in on a meeting with MaMa, him, and a social services person today at two?”

“Yes, you did. Don’t know what I can contribute, but I’ll go.”

Daniel settled his Stetson atop his black curls and strode out to his truck. As I watched him, it occurred to me he was a man infinitely at peace with himself and the world he’d made for his daughter. On that icy night years ago, when Cowee Mountain claimed Susan’s mother, surely his heart was shattered beyond recognition. And yet, he’d healed. He’d managed to… Alfie made a polite ooof noise and rested his head in my lap. Must be breakfast time. Once he was happy, I would read the book on the outlaw, Lewis Redmond.

17

A diminishing balance in my checkbook motivated me to transcribe session notes for the family violence clients I’d seen during the past the month. Once that paperwork was done, I could fax a billing statement to the shelter business office, and my conscious would be clear to indulge in the saga of Mr. Lewis Redmond. Sadly, three of the women I’d counseled at the beginning of the month had returned to their abusive partners. Still, I typed up detailed accounts of our sessions together, with hopes that we would meet again.

Over lunch of a peanut butter and fig jam sandwich, I read the thin volume on Redmond, hoping to discover connections with the Sorley family. I learned Lewis R. Redmond was a notorious moonshiner who did little to hide the fact that he made and supplied illegal whiskey. He was a tall young man reportedly considered handsome by women and his peers, who, by 1876, at the age of twenty-one years, had became a mountain folk hero.

On March first of that year, Redmond shot and killed a twenty-four year old federal revenue officer, Deputy U.S. Marshall Duckworth, who was attempting to serve him with an arrest warrant for moonshine activities. It was reported Redmond shot the deputy in the throat at close range with a derringer, and the man died moments later. As word spread of Redmond’s audacity in defying federal whiskey laws, fellow distillers and local newspapers rallied to his stand on the mountain man’s right to make and sell his own whiskey. Some even held the opinion that Duckworth brought on his own demise by being on the wrong side of the moonshine issue.

According to the book, Redmond’s whiskey business covered a wide geographical area, from Rabun County, Georgia, to Pickens County, South Carolina, and back my way to Transylvania and Swain Counties, and over to Bryson City, North Carolina. He was finally captured in 1881 after being wounded six times by revenuer bullets and sent to prison in Greenville, South Carolina. The book reported President Chester A. Arthur granted Redmond a pardon in 1884. Upon his release from prison, Redmond returned to South Carolina where he died in 1906.

Margaret Connell’s letter mentioned the governor of South Carolina was attempting to intercede with the President on Redmond’s behalf. That was certainly a connection to the Sorley letter, but it didn’t answer the question of why Shane Long took this particular book along as a guide on a hike up Fire Mountain. I wondered, as I closed the Redmond book and made a fresh pot of coffee, if Shane had read the Connell
letter found in Mrs. Allen’s old suitcase. Or, since the Goddard twins had probably seen it, did they mention the letter to Shane Long? And if they did mention it, what relevance did it have to him?

Moonshiners. Bootleggers. Hard to understand, being a city girl, how illegal whiskey could play such a substantial role in the culture, economy, and folk legends of my adopted Appalachian Mountains. I smiled to remember that my neighbor, Fletcher Enloe himself, was in the moonshine business before he was shipped overseas in the Korean conflict. His sarcastic comment about the business was that learning to use a typewriter in Korea was more useful than running moonshine the rest of his life. What a tough old bird. He probably types better with two fingers missing than I do with all ten. Still, Fletcher must have made a pretty good living in the whiskey business. I’d heard from Daniel that he’d paid cash for his land and his house before he went to Korea.

Had Lewis Redmond made his fortune in illegal whiskey? In his book, Bruce Stewart wrote that Redmond was an expert distiller and worked for a legitimate whiskey manufacturer after he was released from prison. But was he a wealthy man because of his illegal whiskey ventures? If he was, why did he bother to work at all? Perhaps working was a condition of his pardon?

I scanned through the book again. The author wrote that many people at the time
assumed
Redmond made a fortune in moonshine. Assumed. Apparently, no one actually knew if he was a wealthy man. Not that his wealth, or lack of it, seemed to be the connection to my
family, or the Sorleys. In fact, it seemed from Margaret Connell’s letter that Redmond’s wife, Adeline, was simply a distant cousin who was willing to help an orphaned baby. Poor Reba. I hoped the Sorley family filled her heart with the safety of being loved and wanted.

Wait. Wasn’t there something in Margaret Connell’s letter about Adeline being grateful to Joab Sorley? Margaret wrote something like: his guiding hand saved her and her family from Yankee bandits? What was that all about? I’d have to ask Mrs. Allen if she knew how Joab Sorley had helped Adeline Redmond while Lewis was in prison. Could Joab Sorley have kept Redmond’s whiskey fortune—if there was a fortune— safe from bandits? The letter said Adeline would bring Reba by wagon, guarded by members of the Redmond gang. Maybe they were guarding more than a woman and baby. Maybe the trunks Margaret mentioned carried more than a dowry for baby Reba.

I took my coffee out on the back porch and called Sheriff Mac. Surprise. He answered his own phone. “Sheriff Allen. How can I help you?”

“Hey Mac. How come you’re answering the phone?”

“Lunch time. Short handed. You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just wanted to confirm the meeting at Mrs. Allen’s at two.” As I talked, I looked out beyond my goat yard to Fletcher’s side of the fence. Fletcher and Mrs. Allen were chatting in his yard. Little Missy was visiting with Hubert, rubbing his ears and feeding him carrots. In the short space between my words to Sheriff Mac and his response, the little girl climbed up
on the fence and leapt onto Hubert’s back, riding him out into the sun dappled grass like a Welsh pony.

“Yes, ma’am. Two o’clock. Don’t be late. I need to get back to town for a commissioner’s meeting at four.”

Did I see what I thought I saw?
Missy stood up on Hubert’s back, raised her arms over her head, leaned forward, and executed a graceful handstand. She held her pose for a few seconds and then eased herself back down astride the goat.

“Did you hear me, Promise?”

Amazing
. And Hubert seemed to be enjoying himself. He made no effort to buck the child off or turn and bite her. I smiled, considering just how much tea tree oil soap Missy would require to wash away the gamey goat smell. Alfie would smell like a Cherokee rose in comparison.

“Yes Mac, I hear you. I’ll be there. One more thing before you hang up. It’s about that book on the outlaw Lewis Redmond. I keep wondering why Shane Long was reading it. Do you know of any connection between Lewis Redmond and Perry County?”

“If you’re talking about those old stories that Redmond buried his gold over here before he was thrown in jail, forget it. The state boys have already raised the possibility that Shane was looking for the mysterious, and I might say,
nonexistent
, Redmond gold on Fire Mountain. Far as I’m concerned, the whole idea is crap. There’s no reason to believe Long was doing anything but reading an interesting paperback book when someone killed him. Tell me, if he was reading
Star Wars
would we be hunting around for Darth Vader? No, we wouldn’t, now would we? Remember,
you gave me your word you’d stay out of my business. I’d sure hate to lock up my favorite cousin’s lady for interfering with an ongoing investigation.”

Was Star Wars a book?
I didn’t think so, at least not until the movie came out. My mind was clicking off the possibilities of who would know the stories about Lewis Redmond’s gold? “I’m not interfering, Sheriff Mac. Just asking a question.”

“Leave the Long murder to us professionals. I got to go. See you at two.”

The Historical Society. Somebody down there probably knew the Redmond story. I was now a dues paying member; maybe I could make a trip to town and ask a few questions. Or better yet, Fletcher Enloe seemed to know all the gossip worth knowing. Since he was so anxious to na-na-na in my face about January McNeal, maybe he would like to share a story about Lewis Redmond.