Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (20 page)

18

The wheels of any given governmental agency wagon often roll, if they roll at all, with a wobbled motion, as though no two wheels are aware of the purpose of their invention, or that the goal is to propel forward. I honestly couldn’t say that about our Perry County social services agency if Director Peg Greene, who chaired the two o’clock meeting, was any indication of the rest of the department.

She knew the few facts of the case, had obviously discussed the issues ahead of time with Sheriff Mac, and came well prepared. Later, I learned Peg Greene was mother to Susan’s good friend, Melissa. That probably accounted for the fact that Mac, Peg, and Mrs. Allen, all seemed to know each other—another advantage of living in a small town.

From the way the meeting went, it seemed to me that Peg Greene had made the decision beforehand that leaving Missy with Mrs. Allen was safer than carting her off to a foster home populated by strangers. I wasn’t sure if her decision was based on the best
interest of the child, or fear that the child would burn down someone else’s house. At that point, I wasn’t even sure Peg Greene knew about the fire starter possibility. Of course, Mrs. Allen was in complete agreement with keeping Missy, so the meeting went smoothly.

The worst comment I could make about Mrs. Greene, a widow, was that she appeared to be smitten with Sheriff Mac. Since I was sitting across the table from her, I had a good look at the batting eyelashes and longing little smiles. Oh Lord, save me from making a fool out of myself like that. But oh well, there is no accounting for taste. Mac is attractive, I guess, in a pompous sort of way, though certainly not sexy, like his cousin, Daniel. Lucky me.

When Peg Greene got down to business, she explained why the State of North Carolina couldn’t look the other way with regard to locating Missy’s parents. No matter how remiss they might be, due diligent effort would be made to find them. She then presented a three part, short term, case plan for Missy. There would be a hearing in front of the juvenile judge within five days. There, she explained, she would recommend leaving Missy with Mrs. Allen, for now.

After an initial evaluation, Missy would attend weekly sessions with the child counselor appointed by the department. I was asked to act as backup counselor, in case of emergency. If the counselor advised, Missy would be enrolled in public school, with the department working out the details as to why she had no school transfer records or birth certificate. Mrs. Allen visibly stiffened at this requirement and opened
her mouth to object. Instead, she shifted her body in the old kitchen chair and said nothing.

Finally, Mrs. Greene affirmed the obvious: Sheriff Mac would investigate the circumstances of Missy’s arrival at Mrs. Allen’s house and attempt to locate her parents; however, the child would not be released to the parents without a hearing and a judge’s order.

While the grown-ups discussed her future, Missy sat silently in Mrs. Allen’s lap, hugging her blue elephant against her body. When Peg Greene asked her if she wanted to stay with Mrs. Allen, she nodded yes. When asked if she knew where her parents lived, she looked confused and said nothing. At one point, Missy reached over and rested her small hand on mine. She didn’t say anything or look up at me; she only touched my hand. It was as though she was testing the warm flesh and bone of my hand to confirm I was real. How strange?

Sheriff Mac beamed with pleasure, as well as visible relief, when Peg Greene concluded the meeting. He followed with effusive compliments for Mrs. Greene, the Department, and the State of North Carolina in general. My guess is that Mrs. Allen had made it clear that she expected him, being family, to show some steel and use his office, if necessary, to assure Missy stayed with her. He’d won without a fight. At the first opportunity, with a kiss for Mrs. Allen and handshakes for Peg Greene, and me, Mac excused himself. Mrs. Allen’s bird clock chirped once for a quarter past three—plenty of time to make the county commissioners’ meeting at four o’clock. Mac is the consummate politician. This must be a re-election year.

Not a word was said about the possibility of Missy being a fire-starter. And who would have thought the tiny, silent, compliant little child on Mrs. Allen’s lap was capable of such destruction? Except me, of course. I’d seen Mrs. Allen trying to hide the burning chair and the results of a fire in her bathroom. Then there was my hay barn—crumpled in the pasture, shrunken and crispy, like a charred marshmallow. I could only hope that Missy’s psychologist was up to the task. Thinking about the burned barn segued into another subject. I needed to find a contractor to clean up the mess and build another barn. Poor Shane Long. What was he really doing on Fire Mountain? And, who killed him?

Three toast-brown deer, ambling along the creek bank, raised their heads in unison when I drove across the bridge connecting Mrs. Allen’s driveway with Fells Creek Road. After the long hungry winter, this deer family was already hard at work browsing for available food. Regardless of the lingering cold night temperatures, perhaps spring had arrived, after all.

The first spring I moved to the mountains, I planted fifty-six fancy tulip bulbs in anticipation of a riot of color come Eastertide—I know there were fifty-six because I counted them as I crawled on my knees in the black dirt of the flower bed. The riot came not as colors of red, yellow, and deep purple, but as deer finding my tender, newly budding tulips, and then inviting twenty of their closest friends to a tulip feast. No more tulips.

Life can be hard for animals in the Western North Carolina Mountains. Last October, all the summer
blackberries were eaten and wild blueberries had dried hard and small on the bushes from lack of rain. From my front porch, I watched an irritable bear chase squirrels from a paltry fall of acorns and scoop his catch into ready jaws. That night, both my bird feeders were pulled down, broken open, and emptied of every last sunflower seed. The good news: this winter had been wet, with more than our usual snow days, rendering the ground fertile and sweet. Maybe the deer wouldn’t find it necessary to forage my early daffodils and hosta, and spring bear would find better pickings than seeds from my new Audubon bird feeders.

Thinking about food reminded me—I needed to pick up half and half, a box of kitty chow, and Raisin Bran before I went home. Since technically I’d already paid for groceries at Granny’s Store, I decided to drive over there to shop. The only car in the parking lot was Susan’s.

“You had a slow day?”

Susan looked up from the laptop resting on the checkout counter. “Yeah. I’m thinking a flood is coming and the whole county has been evacuated. We’re the only ones who didn’t get the email to build an ark.”

I retrieved the three items I came in to buy and added a pint of Turtle Tracks ice cream to the cluster on the counter. “That what you’re doing, checking for flood warnings on the web?”

My cell phone rang before Susan could respond to my teasing. Sifting through the surplus of my life collecting in my purse, I found the phone and checked the caller id. First Methodist Church. “Hello.” When
Mr. Kolb answered, I hit the speaker button so Susan could hear the call.

“Yes, Ms. McNeal. Fortunate you gave me your cell phone number. I found something you may be interested in. Is this a good time to chat?”

“Of course. What have you found?”

“Well, I realize it isn’t much, but, by chance, I was cataloging minutes of the burial and cemetery committee meeting from the year your great grandmother died. There seems to be a reference to her. Do you want to hear the entry by the recording secretary for the committee?”

The Rev. Mr. Kolb had our attention. Susan and I stared at the cell phone as though it were an ancient oracle. “Absolutely. Can you read it to me now?”

“Surely. The burial committee entry reads: ‘August 25,1905. Emergency meeting convened. Our sister in Christ, Reba McNeal, passed into glory yesterday. As Mr. McNeal was reported to be attending a revival gathering in Pitts County with the Rev. A.H. Butler and could not be summoned home, Mr. and Mrs. Joab Sorley requested the committee approve them as guardians to finalize funeral arrangements. So approved. Mrs. McNeal will be buried in the church cemetery beside her infant son, Ephraim, who passed in 1901.’ I’m afraid that is it, Ms. McNeal. There may be more information in future minutes. If I find anything else, should I call you?”

“Yes, please do. I would appreciate it. Do you have any idea who Rev. A. H. Butler was?”

“Oh, I most certainly do.” I could visualize a smile breaking across Mr. Kolb’s freshly shaved face. “Butler
was from Greenville, North Carolina. He was one of the most noted of the fire-branding Pentecostal preachers during the Awakening. Rev. Butler preached that all true believers must be born again and baptized in the Holy Spirit to receive salvation. Butler also professed that speaking in tongues is one of the gifts given to the sanctified. A.H. Butler, G.B. Cashwell, Charles Fox Parham—
all
interesting men. Their careers make for fascinating reading. Check them out on the web, sometimes. After all, it’s the modern thing to do. A library at your elbow, don’t you know.”

The Rev. Kolb had lost me just after the words, ‘fire-branding Pentecostal.’ I grimaced at his pun about the Internet and replied, “Yes, perhaps I will. Check them out.” Though I doubted I would actually research Butler, or any of the other more fundamentalist preachers. I have a hard enough time grasping my own loose interpretation of Christianity, and what concerned me was not the firebrands themselves, but
how
my great grandfather chose to apply their preaching. Still, I appreciated Mr. Kolb’s efforts. It was kind of him to call. “Thank you again, Rev. Kolb.”

“My pleasure, Ms. McNeal. Take care and God Bless.” The line went silent and I tossed the phone back into my purse.

I don’t think it had time to settle among the half used Kleenexes before Susan blurted out, “How weird is that? Your great grandfather was off at some tent meeting, maybe getting baptized by the Holy Spirit and speaking in tongues, when his wife died.”

“You make it sound like he was off bar-hopping.”

“I didn’t mean it to sound that way. It’s just… holy crap, that must have been horrible, to ride back into town and be told your wife is dead and buried.”

“Umm. Terrible. Heartbreaking. Can you imagine the guilt? To be out of town when she needed him beside her.” We were quiet, letting the weight of January’s loss sink in. What would January do with so much guilt and sorrow? His face from my dream came to mind. There was assurance in his voice, certitude in his luminous blue eyes. No guilt. But this was before Reba died. In the dream, with Reba and his child beside him, he proclaimed
Ezekiel 37
to me as though it was the answer to all questions. What had her death done to his certainty?

“Miz P. Did you hear what I said?”

January’s face faded and I came back to the moment. “No, I’m sorry. What?”

“How was the meeting over at MaMa’s?”

“It went well, actually. Missy stays with her for now and we see what Sheriff Mac can find out about her parents.”

Susan tapped her laptop to wake the beast. “That’s what I’m working on. Looking up back copies of the East Tennessee Register. Figured if a child went missing over there, it would be in the newspaper.”

“Find anything?”

“Nada, zip, nothing. No missing children. Was Missy happy about staying with MaMa?”

“Happy? If you can count her sitting in Mrs. Allen’s lap and not looking terrified, then I guess we could say happy.” I remembered her touching my hand. “She is a strange child.” Susan’s brows knitted to a tight arch.
Did I add to her worry about her MaMa by saying the child was strange? Maybe I shouldn’t have said it. I moved on to something less threatening. “You know though, I did see Missy genuinely happy earlier this morning. I was out on the back porch; she was over on Fletcher’s side of the pasture visiting with Hubert. One minute she was feeding the old goat a carrot, the next she was climbing up on him like he was a pony. She even executed a pretty good handstand on his back. When she came down, she was grinning ear to ear.”