Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing

by Morgan James

  I sniffed my hand where I’d petted the hound and cringed. Fletcher was right. He smelled like a city landfill on a hot August day.

  “Course, I know more about cows than dogs. Never had much use for one. Too much noise and too much need.” A sarcastic smile crept from Fletcher’s mouth to his small blue eyes. “But I reckon you’ll welcome both of them qualities and feed that sorry hound. Yes ma’am, I’d say he’ll stick around for good.”

  I was rapidly going over options and concentrating on not responding to Fletcher’s veiled insult. Too cold to use the hose on the back porch. Bathe him in the guest bathroom tub? Use my French soap for sensitive skin? No, probably not strong enough. Wipe him down first with aloe baby-wipes.

  “I didn’t say if I was keeping him or not.” The dog gave up a giant sigh, relaxing deeper into my lap. I felt a tugging, like an oar dropping into the sea of my heart and pulling against the tide. “I don’t need the responsibility of a dog; but, well, I won’t just run him off hungry. It was his barking that woke me to the fire. He probably saved my house, and Minnie and Pearl.” I got to my feet. So did the dog. I turned to face Fletcher. So did the dog. “I’m going inside and scramble him some eggs and cook some bacon. Can I fix you breakfast?”

  As the three of us headed into the kitchen, I heard Fletcher mumble, “Yes sir, I tell you what, you’ll learn soon enough a hound dog’ll bark an alarm at just about anything, anytime the wind blows in a new smell. All a hound does is bark, bark, bark. Won’t neither of us get any sleep ever again you keep that stinking hound. I mark his loud mouth barking will carry like a brass drum all the way to may house. Now that I think on it, if you wanting a dog get you one of them Yorki-Poos, more like you than an old Redbone. Yeah, what you need is a little bitty Yorki-Poo.”

  2

  By eight o’clock, breakfast done, dishes washed, Fletcher gone, and the dog snoring away on my favorite rag rug in front of the fireplace, I poured the last cup of coffee from the pot and stood at the kitchen window to survey the fire damage. Grim, gray clouds scudded west to east along Fire Mountain. Were we in for a late March freezing rain? Could someone in Perry County dislike me enough to burn down my barn? It would be foolish to discount the possibility. Acid boiled up the back of my throat. I poured the coffee into the sink and chewed two lemon flavored Tums—too much coffee, too much butter on my toast, and not enough sleep.

  The goats ambled into their house, perhaps to recoup lost sleep, or to munch hay now that the pasture was safe again. Hay. That reminded me I’d have to rebuild the barn. The phone rang and my hound guest raised a sleepy head to contribute a halfhearted ooof at the interruption of his dreams.

  Susan Allen, my young friend, daughter of Daniel Allen, and the able manager of my ill-fated business, Granny’s General Store, rolled off her sentences in one single breath. “Miz P.? You all right? I just heard somebody tried to burn you out. Why didn’t you call me? My God, you could have been French-fried in your sleep. Are the goats okay? Did they totally freak out?”

  When she paused, I interrupted to calm her down. “I’m fine, the goats are fine, and the cats are fine. Nobody tried to burn me out. That’s way too dramatic. The hay barn somehow caught fire, that all.”

  “Nothing catches fire on its own, Miz P.”

  As much as I love Susan, I wished she would not call me Miz P. I’ve asked her a thousand times to call me Promise, but she always reverts to the Miz P. thing. She was right, of course. Something had to start the fire. I just didn’t have any idea what or who. At that moment I was so relieved that my goats were safe, I didn’t want to think about it any more. “I know, I know,” I agreed, and took the cordless phone back over to the kitchen window.

  If I didn’t look at the charred building, but focused across the gentle rise of the pasture, there was a morning peacefulness spreading out like open arms where gray sky met tall hemlocks along the wood and wire fence. My eyes traveled beyond, to Fire Mountain. Oak, pine, poplar, and laurel climbed its hump back, and an abandoned logging road snaked from the rocky foot, just beyond my property line to somewhere above— out of sight and out of knowledge. Low on the mountain, a murder of crows dived earthward in fits of cawing. then streamed upward and were gone.

  Last night’s dream came back to me. My great grandfather trapped in a jail cell, helplessly watching a killing fire burning a path to his family. My great grandfather speaking to me across time and space. But why was he speaking to me? Why now?

  “Susan, do you know why they call this little mountain over here, Fire Mountain?”

  In a soft measured voice, suitable for both kindergarteners and an unbalanced friend, Susan answered, “I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think it’s called that cause it makes things catch on fire.”

  I laughed. “No, I didn’t think that. Just wondering.”

  “Well okay, wondering is good, but the important thing is what are you going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “About your burned out barn.”

  “Oh, I’ll have to rebuild. I need the space to store hay. I’ll have to find someone reasonable though. I can’t pay a lot of money for a hay barn right now.”

  Susan was quiet for a moment. I could hear the wheels turning. “Hey, I know just the guy— Shane Long. He’s a local contractor. We were in high school together. He was two years ahead of me. He built Daddy’s cow barn addition. Daddy didn’t complain, so he must be okay.”

  The mention of Susan’s handsome daddy made me smile. Three years ago he was just Susan’s daddy to me. I was walking in the opposite direction from any kind of relationship. Then, who would have thought so much passion remained on the downside of fifty? I thought I’d spent my share. Daniel Allen, with his sideways smile, and gentle touch, proved me wrong.

  My long way home is done when I hold you, he tells me, as he rakes black curls away from his sun-lined face. What can I say to that? What more would anyone need to know? My logical mind tells me there can never be any guarantees. Still, I hesitate when the “m” word is spoken. Maybe I’m just too old to be disappointed again. Maybe I couldn’t survive another betrayal.

  “You want me to call Shane and ask him to come over to your house?”

  “Sure, that would be great. He could come by tomorrow. I have to go into town today—a couple of individual sessions at the shelter. Probably won’t have time to meet with him today.”

  “The family violence shelter? I still don’t get it. You’d think once a woman got away from her violent partner, she’d be so happy she wouldn’t need counseling.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s complicated. One thing I’ve learned from family violence victims is that many women don’t want to get away, not permanently. What they want, what they hope, is that the person they love will change, that the violence will stop.”

  Susan made a snorting sound into the phone. “There’s a bedtime fairy tale for you. People don’t change.”

  “Well, not usually. But it can happen. I guess if you love someone enough, you keep hoping to beat the odds. Like I said, it’s complicated. All I can do is my best to help a few women grow stronger and create better lives for themselves and their children. And, of course, the income to me is a big help. You know that closing my counseling practice in Atlanta was a crazy leap of faith, or maybe just plain crazy. Anyway, until Granny’s Store does a lot better, I’m mega strapped.”

  Susan groaned and I was sorry I’d mentioned the money part. “Oh, I wish Granny’s did better. I feel like it’s all my fault.”

  “Susan, stop it. We have stomped over and over that ground. It is not your fault I didn’t do my homework. I still can’t believe the Goddard twins had the nerve to hide proceeds from selling home grown pot in the profit and loss statement for the store.” At that moment, I was sounding fairly mature and philosophical about the conning Goddards, Larry and Jerry; but what I was thinking was I’d like to road trip them to the Okefenokee Swamp and see if they could swim in quicksand.

  “Oh,
oh, oh….that reminds me. I saw Larry and Jerry yesterday. I was in the drive-thru lane at McDonald’s getting a fish sandwich. And there they were, walked right in front of me; all dirty and scruffy in hunters camouflage outfits. Mud caked on their pants legs. Gross. Why do you suppose those guys are back in town? Hey, you don’t suppose they burned down your barn?”

  “The twins? I don’t see why they would. I paid their asking price for my house, the five acres, and Granny’s store. Speaking of the store, who’s working this morning while you go to your classes?”

  Susan was taking pottery classes at Western Carolina. Last semester it was jewelry design. Before that it was culinary science. She also plays banjo and sings with a local bluegrass band, The Lickers. Terrible name, though Susan’s plangent husky voice makes you not care. The band also has a rocking slide guitar player, a standup bass player who quips witty jokes between songs, and Daniel. He is the senior member of the band, anchoring the stage with his soulful fiddle, long legged blue jeans, and ever-present black Stetson. Since I’m a city girl from Atlanta, bluegrass is not so much part of my background, but even I can tell The Lickers are “good enough for prime time.”

  Okay, it’s true. I’m proud of Susan and Daniel. How Susan finds time for the band and everything else she does amazes me. And you’d think, as much as Susan flits around from one project to the next, she’d be ner-do-well at all of them; but that’s not true. Susan is exceptional at everything she does.

  Well, maybe not everything. Maybe not dressing well. But then, I shouldn’t talk. Everything in my closet looks like it was chosen from a Chinese menu—one from column “a” and one from column “b”, egg rolls on the side. For the entire first year I knew her, Susan’s day costume consisted of long gray dresses, aprons, and spit shined combat boots. Maybe in keeping with the theme of Granny’s General Store, or was she going through a Goth phase? Add her six-foot frame, short spiked black hair and garnet nose stud, and you have an interesting picture. Susan has now graduated to soft, calf-high black leather boots, black leggings, and an assortment of earth-toned sweaters which reach mid thigh. It’s cute. Sort of yoga inspired.

  I like the new look. It’s less scary, according to my fair-weather friend and sometimes employer, Atlanta attorney Garland Wang. He’s the one who labeled the old look “the surprised Lizzie Borden style.” I think Garland’s comment was a little over the top, and I don’t care what Susan wears. She is a joy and one of my favorite people.

  Susan picked up the conversation. “Melissa’s working at Granny’s until I get back from school, and my hair appointment.”

  “Hair appointment?”

  “Yeah, I need a trim. If it gets longer than two fingers I can’t get the top to stand up, no matter how much pomade I slick on it. Course, if I had your thick mane of auburn curls, who’d bother?”

  Auburn? More likely, plain brown. I smiled at Susan’s half compliment. At my age, even a half is appreciated. “Wavy and thick, I still have, thank goodness. The color part is coming more and more out of the bottle these days. But I’m not ready to be a gray hair— not yet.”

  “Good for you. I say dye till you die. Do you need anything before I get myself together and head for class?”

  “Well,” I answered hesitantly, “as a matter of fact, do you still have that tea tree oil soap your MaMa Allen made you? I need to bathe a really dirty dog.”

  “A really dirty dog? I can’t wait to hear the rest of that story. I’ll be over to your house in about twenty minutes, with the soap. First, I’ll call Shane and set him up for day after tomorrow. Daddy’ll be back from his Cattlemen’s Association meeting by then, and he’ll probably want to be there to make sure Shane treats you right. Bye.”

  Susan hung up before I could argue that I didn’t necessarily need Daniel present for the contractor’s meeting. I could certainly take care of getting a barn built on my own. After all, I’d raised my son pretty much alone while my ex-husband concentrated on sailing his boat on Lake Lanier, chasing younger women, and being a hotshot homicide detective for the city of Atlanta.

  I’d also returned to school and earned a doctorate in psychology, thank you very much. All in all, I’d say I’d gotten along fine as a single, divorced woman for twenty years, before I met Daniel. Well, mostly fine, except for the terrible loneliness, and you’d have to omit the buying Granny’s General Store part. Buying Granny’s was an impulse decision. I fell in love with the ambience of the converted tobacco barn perched on the bank of the Little Tennessee River, but ambience won’t pay the bills. At the moment, I was stuck with a negative cash flow business, at least until Susan and I could think of a way to turn the store into a profit maker.

  The Shoulda-Woulda-Coulda Girls Committee snickered at the idea of making Granny’s profitable, and began to chant: when pigs fly, we’ll all sup on pork-pie pie. I didn’t need to hear that, and I didn’t want to admit how much I missed Daniel, so I turned on the radio. Alison Krauss was singing about a truth in your eyes sayin’ you’ll never leave me. Must have been the sci-fi station.

  3

  “Will you hand me another towel? Thanks.” I was sitting on the edge of the tub drying the last paw, and listening to Susan.

  “Are you sure you can clean that dog up enough to let him roam around in the house?”

  I wondered the same thing. The bath helped, but he still smelled like wet garbage. “I don’t know. But he’s obviously homeless, and I owe him a better life for waking me up. I hate to think how bad it could have been if I’d slept through the fire. I mean I could have been sleeping for eternity.”

  His patience exhausted, the coon dog jumped out of the tub and onto the tile floor, shaking water from his back as he landed. Susan and I both got a face slapping of dirty bath water and she grabbed two more towels for us. We followed him out into the great room where he plopped down on the rug in front of the fire. Smart dog. Best spot in the house.

  “Okay, I’m having a little trouble switching gears from watching my barn burn before the crack of dawn this morning. Tell me again why you want me to go snooping around over at your MaMa Allen’s.”

  Susan made one last swipe at her wet face and hair and threw the towel into the utility room, landing a perfect shot into the open washer. “It’s like I said, before Daddy left for the Cattlemen’s Association meeting in Raleigh, he went over to MaMa Allen’s house to see if she needed anything. He said when he drove up, she was outside, hanging up wet laundry. He noticed there was a small pair of pink corduroy jeans and a Hello Kitty sweatshirt on the line. When he pointed to the clothes and asked her if she was taking in wash for the neighbors, she laughed and said something like, ‘Now, Daniel, you know I done told you one of my Tennessee cousins sent her granddaughter over here till she gets feeling better.’

  “Daddy swears she’s never sad a word about a Tennessee cousin left alive enough to send a child over here, and she sure didn’t tell him the girl was here. And another thing, except for the clothes on the line and some coloring books on the kitchen table, Daddy didn’t see any sign a child was around. MaMa Allen said the girl was off playing, but he stayed about an hour and she didn’t show up. Now don’t you think that’s weird? Daddy’s afraid MaMa is so lonely over there she’s got herself a make believe child to keep her company. With you being a psychologist and all, we thought maybe you could go for a visit and see if you think poor old MaMa has come down with dementia, or something horrible like that.”

  “And your MaMa Allen is what, eighty-three or -four?”

  “That’s right.” Susan took my damp towel and made another perfect shot into the washer. This time, Cat was eating tuna kibbles from her bowl on the floor beside the washer. She jumped about a foot when the damp wad hit the metal tub with a thud. “Oh crap, sorry Cat,” Susan called out. Cat glared at her and assumed the classic feline—you will pay for that—look.

  “I have a hard time keeping the family time frame straight. Mrs. Allen married your dad’s grandfather when Daniel’s d
ad was about sixteen, right? And she was just a few years older than Daniel’s dad? Young enough to be her new husband’s daughter. Did I get that right?”

  “That’s right. Back then nobody cared about stuff like that. I think he and MaMa were happy together, but it was sad because he only lived about another five years after they married. His tractor turned over on him when he was plowing up a steep slope. Poor guy died trying to grow a few rows of corn. Both Mac and Daddy were babies when it happened, so they don’t remember him at all.”

  “Mac being your dad’s first cousin, the Perry County Sheriff. I saw him yesterday, by the way. Is it my imagination, or is he so vain he gets his hair permed? If he’s trying to look as good as your dad, it isn’t working.”

  Susan grimaced and put her head face down on the table. “Yuck. I don’t want to know, but I think you’re right about the permanent wave. Whatever. Perry County folks like him, and he does a pretty good job.”

  “I’m sure he does. Your dad thinks so, anyway,” I said, and retrieved two Diet Cokes from the fridge. We sat at the kitchen table in silence while I thought about Mrs. Allen and how devastating dementia can be for the person who suffers from it, and for the family who watches the disease erode the person they love.

  “If your dad wanted me to go over to Mrs. Allen’s house, why didn’t he call and ask me?” Susan twisted her mouth left and right. I was sure she was thinking up a plausible story. “Come on Susan, tell the truth.”

  “Oh, all right. Daddy actually told me not to ask you to go over there. He said he didn’t want to impose on you. But I know you won’t mind. Will you?”

  I could believe that was true. Daniel and I were walking a tenuous line between being involved and not being involved, which meant he was angry with me at the moment because I’d sidestepped his marriage proposal the night before he left on his trip. He told me he would wait a month, and if at the end of that time I didn’t come back to him with an answer, he wouldn’t ask again. His attitude struck me as manipulative, like he was trying to back me into a corner to get the answer he wanted. One thing led to another. I shot off my big mouth, and he huffed out of the house. I wanted very much to repair the damage to our relationship, but I wouldn’t jump into marriage to say I’m sorry.