Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (21 page)

Susan typed something into the computer. “Did you say
handstand
? You mean like acrobats in the circus…ride in on the horses and do tricks?”

“The circus? Well, yes, I guess. Why do you ask?”

She continued to type. “Hang on a second. I want to check something I saw in the Tennessee newspaper.”

I added a box of Liver Snap dog treats from the shelves to my groceries on the counter and returned the ice cream to the freezer. Did I really need all those calories?

Susan finally looked up from the screen. “I found it. Come around and look at this news article from February.”

I walked behind the counter and read over Susan’s shoulder. The screen showed a color picture of some sort of post-fire ruins. The caption below, with a short accompanying article, said the Circus Fantell had experienced a fire in the kitchen facility immediately after the closing show in Knoxville. No one was injured. The owner, Mr. Phillip Fantell, stated that the circus would replace damaged equipment and there would be no cancellation of performances scheduled in March at
the Georgia Mountain Fairgrounds, in Hiawassee, Georgia.

“There was a circus fire in Knoxville about the same time Missy showed up here. You’re thinking she started the fire? Is that your point?”

“My point exactly. You said she did a handstand on Hubert’s back, just like they do in the circus. Interesting coincidence. Don’t you always say you don’t believe in coincidences?”

I changed my mind again and got the ice cream back out of the freezer. “Yes, I do say that. But linking Missy to a fire in Knoxville just because she does a handstand is really a stretch, don’t you think? Not even severely troubled kids want to burn down the circus. At least not usually.”

Susan rang up my items and hit the key making them house purchases.

“You may be right. But I’ve got a feeling there is a connection. I’m going to surf the web and see what I can find out about the Circus Fantell.”

I know Susan was disappointed when I didn’t jump up and down about the Knoxville fire. But honestly, I was trailing a lingering echo from January’s voice in my mind and feeling the heavy sorrow he must have felt when he returned home to learn his wife was dead. I wanted to go home and sit quietly with the new information about Reba’s death— try to envision a scenario other than the one that was playing out in my mind, something other than dry bones rising up in Ezekiel 37.

I drove the short distance home with family history as my passenger. If what I’d learned so far was
correct, when Reba died, my grandfather James was about five. January died about four years later. Did the Sorley family take James in and raise him as they had Reba? I was close to tears thinking about what those years must have been like for poor little motherless James?

I had little knowledge of grandfather James’s life. Only that he arrived in Atlanta as a teenager and found work in the Fulton Cotton Mill. Later, he completed school and obtained the required certification to teach sixth and seventh graders, which he did, so far as I knew, for the remainder of his life. He died at an early age, probably from lung problems contracted at the cotton mill, and left my grandmother McNeal to cope with a wild but charming, ne’er-do-well son—my father, James McNeal Jr.

Grandmother McNeal did not live to be an old woman. I understand her health was always poor and her disposition even worse. Perhaps she lacked the optimism necessary to deal with my father—optimism that my mother possessed in abundance. My mother, the beautiful Rose Marie Fitzgerald McNeal, adored my father. Her face would glow with love whenever he walked into a room, and she forgave his transgressions time and time again. She once said to me, “Sweetheart, when a man gives you all he has to give, how can you fault him?” That question has always stuck in my throat like a stick turned sideways. Something about the assumption that we should be willing to settle for short shrift makes me angry. Maybe the “all” my father parceled out was veiled selfishness. But no matter, my mother loved him unconditionally.

My mind jumped back to January and the impact this Christian Third Awakening movement must have had on him. Did he believe he could speak in tongues, and was baptized by The Holy Spirit? Did he blame God for his wife’s death? Did he blame himself? Did he hide his grief deep inside and tell himself her death was God’s will?

I couldn’t know what January thought. There was no way to look up the answers on the Internet. However, what I did know, and couldn’t bring myself to share with Daniel or Susan, was that January was calling to me in my dreams. He was not at peace in The World to Come, as the ancient Jews called that place beyond death, and needed something from me, something from this side of death, from the world of the living.

At that moment, I felt that if my disturbing dreams were what Mrs. Allen called
the sight
, I’d just as soon close my eyes and will the gift away.

19

Fletcher Enloe, my good neighbor and rescuer up on Fire Mountain, was soldiering along our common property line, tugging randomly at fence posts, when I drove in. I left my purse and groceries on the porch, let Alfie out of the house, and walked across the goat yard to catch him before he evaded me. “Evening Fletcher. What’s up?”

He gave me his usual you’re as dumb as dirt look. “What’s up? Gasoline and taxes, that’s what. You walk all the way out here to ask me that?”

Best to ignore the sarcasm. “Are some of the fence posts loose?”

“Not so far as I see. Just checking the line. Hubert has a habit of rubbing and leaning against’em, trying to look fetching for your girls, I reckon.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks. I’m glad I saw you though. Wanted to ask you a question.”

He stopped walking and raised his steely blue eyes to mine. How can a man manage to be so confrontational just by looking at you? Is it years of practice,
or a gift from birth? He waited for my question, no doubt composing a pithy comeback. I smiled, thinking I might disarm his surly nature. Well, I didn’t really think the smile would disarm him. Adding fuel to the fire would be more likely. I can be just as contrary as Fletcher.

“Since you seem to know all the local lore worth knowing, tell me the story about the outlaw Lewis Redmond hiding his moonshine gold over here in Perry County.”

Fletcher laughed. Actually it was more like a hoot. If a nearly eighty year old man can hoot. “I know Hot-lanta folks ain’t eat up with common sense, but I wouldn’t figure even you’d believe a story that dumb.”

At this point I didn’t care about Fletcher’s derisions. I accepted the fact that I would always be an outsider from Atlanta, no matter how many years I lived in Perry County. “Why is the story dumb? Redmond was a major moonshine outlaw. If he didn’t make a lot of money doing it, why risk prison?”

Fletcher’s answer sounded as though he was giving directions to a three year-old on how to tie sneakers. Very slowly, he said, “There ain’t no gold, never was. Get yourself a history book and study up. Back then folks made whiskey to sell like other folks farmed or shoed horses. Times were hard. You did what you could to get by. There wasn’t no real money in whiskey running till folks figured out you could haul branded whiskey from wet counties over to dry counties, jack up the price to cover the risk. Redmond was long dead by that time.”

I wasn’t sure I was buying his story and wanted to ask about his own bootlegging days, but since I rarely get a straight answer from the man, I hesitated. Wonder of wonders. He continued to talk. Not at all like the Fletcher Enloe I’m used to encountering. “Shine’s always been the common man’s drink. Unlessen you’re talking about high-drawer mix like apple brandy. In Redmond’s time, the cooker was likely to be as poor as his customers. Nah, I tell you, Redmond got famous for outsmarting the law for a long spell, but like as not, all that hoop-la got him was his picture in the papers and his face drawed up on wanted posters. Way back of this, I heard tell his wife and family woulda gone hungry when he was in prison, iffen his wife, Adeline, hadn’t got helped by family.”

“So, you don’t believe Redmond buried any gold over here in Perry County for safe keeping?”

He laughed again. “No. And I don’t believe in Santa Claus neither. Besides, use your head, girl. If there was any gold, Redmond woulda come fetched it when he got out of prison.”

Alfie padded over and stretched himself up on the fence to greet Fletcher, receiving a grudging pat on the head for his effort. “Dang dog still smells.”

I rubbed Alfie’s ears as consolation for Fletcher’s insult. “We’re working on it. He smells better every day, I think.” Fletcher grunted. “I am asking about Redmond because I’m still puzzled by Shane Long sitting along a hiking path reading a book about an outlaw—an outlaw who, it is said by some, buried a treasure in the area. Maybe Shane was looking for the gold?”

Fletcher shook the last fence post at the corner of the pasture and quipped back. “Shane Long was a decent carpenter, but he didn’t have sense God gave a wooly worm. I’m sorry the boy got himself killed, but I guarantee he wasn’t smart enough to cipher out where some imagery gold got hidden.”

“Up there on the mountain, I saw you take what looked like a map out of Shane’s backpack. Did you look at it?”

“Yeah, I looked at it and it weren’t no treasure map.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Just a piece of map of where he was hiking. Showed the National Forest area and a piece of my land. I reckon the half that got torn up was the rest of the eastern part of the county.”

“So maybe he was looking for something.”

“More likely he was afraid of getting lost. I done told you the boy was about as dense as a maple log.”

“Umm.” I wasn’t convinced.

Fletcher raised his arm and waved. I turned around and saw Daniel wave back. “Yonder’s your man. You need to get on back to the house and quit pestering me. I got work to do.”

I secured both hands on my hips and leaned toward Fletcher. “Daniel is not ‘my man’. You say that like my car, or my shovel. And I thought we were having a conversation. Excuse me for pestering you.”

Fletcher shot me a sideways smirk as he turned to walk away. “Whatever you say, Miz McNeal. You just remember to stay off my mountain. I done had to run off trespassers a day or two back of this.”

It was impossible for me to let him have the last word. “And by the way, thanks for not telling me about January McNeal. Being humiliated by Rev. Kolb’s history of the Methodist Church really
made
my day.”

He stopped and turned back to me. Silence for a few seconds. Both hands went deep into his knife-pressed chino pants pockets. I immediately regretted my whiny comment. I’d only embarrassed myself by letting Fletcher know how upset I was. Fletcher cleared his throat, and I steeled myself for another insult. “I admit that was a might mean spirited,” he said, his voice carrying about the same emotion you’d express ordering a hamburger at the drive-through. “Didn’t calculate you’d take it thataway. Come around in a day or two and I’ll take you up on Fire myself. I’ll tell you what I know.”

His half- apology stung like a razor cut. I opened my mouth to say something; I don’t know what. Probably something conciliatory. Fortunately, I stopped myself from uttering a June Clever remark, and asked him if tomorrow would be a good day to hike up the mountain.

He frowned but managed a civil response. “Not tomorrow. Got to take The Red Bird over to Waynesville to get her picture took for the
Smoky Mountain News
. Young buck newspaper writer favors old Fords, I reckon.”