by Morgan James
Questioning how all this information related to either my dream, or the Tournay trust, I sat at Aileen’s desk for a few minutes thinking about Stella and Paul Tournay. I made a list in my head. They met in Paris, survived the occupation together, he an art student and teacher, she a rebellious debutante turned dancer. When they returned to Atlanta married, they built a house and glided into the well-to-do Buckhead society of her heritage. He teaches, she—what did she do? No mention of a job—not unusual since in the late fifties well to do women usually didn’t work. They had a daughter, the lovely Becca; they had friends. Nice life. Maybe. Maybe not. I knew there was something else, something below the façade. Stella had pointed me to it in the dream; I just didn’t see it yet. Yes, my dream. I closed my eyes and went back to the dream. At first she was wearing ballet slippers, then not. The newspaper article said she was found with only one tennis shoe. What happened to the other shoe? And the one shoe, in my dream it was clean, no mud. If she had walked to the creek and been killed there, her shoes would be muddy, or at least dirty, from the walk. Stella must have been killed at the house. Then, if that were true, where were the murder’s footprints, left behind when he carried her through the damp yard? And why would the killer not just leave her at the house and run? Why go to the trouble to carry her to the creek? Tournay told the police the house had not been ransacked. The only thing missing was Stella’s diamond and ruby wedding ring, which she was probably wearing. Doesn’t sound like a very astute burglar. My ringing cell phone interrupted. Garland.
“Hey, Sugar. You on your way back to the mountains?”
“Not yet, and don’t call me Sugar, Garland. If you have a minute, let me fill you in on my visit with Paul Tournay.”
Leaving out the salient parts about curry chicken salad, dramatic exiting lovers, and cats in a laundry basket in my Subaru, I recounted my impressions of Paulie and dropped the present in Garland’s lap that he was willing to sign the trust over to Becca, if he got the Bennett Trace house. I reported I had seen what appeared to be a valid warranty deed on the house from Tournay Sr. to Paulie, dated long before he died. I didn’t mention the deed wasn’t recorded.
Garland sounded pleased. “Terrific. Well done, Promise. So all I have to do is convince Becca not to make waves about the house. Then, I can look forward to keeping her retainer and not suffering through a long court case with her. I love this plan! We can have the witch from hell on her way back to Columbia by the weekend.”
“Well, maybe.”
“What do you mean, ‘well maybe?’ Sounds great to me. Paulie gets the house; Becca gets the five million. I make my fee. What’s wrong with that plan?”
I hesitated. “Umm.” Gathering my purse and notebook, waving goodbye to Barkley, and easing quietly out of WQQX, I considered my answer. I didn’t want to go into my dream of Stella, though I felt the case was not as settled as Garland wished. My sense of being at the beginning of the book, and not the end, was too uncomfortable to ignore.
“What is it, Promise? I know you. I can hear your mind churning. What are you thinking? Do we have a problem you haven’t told me about? I don’t like this client well enough to look for other problems.”
Now that I was outside I could speak more freely. “Well, for one thing: I don’t think Paul sent the doll to Becca. If not him, then who? I know there is something else going on here, I’m just not sure what, yet. But I do know it has to do with Stella Tournay’s murder. Plus, where did the five million come from? Paul doesn’t know. He was genuinely surprised at the amount of his grandfather’s trust.”
Garland was silent, thinking, I supposed. I let myself into my car, did a quick check on the cat family, and made a mental note to find a grocery store, cat food, water bowl, litter box, litter, and cute little furry toys that jingle when they are batted around the floor. Oh, Lord, I thought for the second time, what was I thinking adopting three cats? I haven’t been tied down with pets in years. Forget the furry toys; what I need is a haircut and to have my hormones checked. “Garland, you still there?”
He cleared his throat and replied slowly, as though working out the details in his head as he went along. “I don’t really see how any of that is our problem. Stella Tournay has been dead for over fifty years. And who cares where the ugly doll came from, so long as our client wins? And who cares where the money in the trust came from? That’s not our business. Becca brought me copies of the trust records. The boxes are here in my office, and I went through them to make sure there was actually enough money to litigate about. The administrator is a reputable attorney in Columbia, South Carolina. The assets are real and kicking. What else do I need to know?”
I don’t know what else I expected from Garland, my Knight of Swords. The man is, if nothing else, practical. “Nothing, I guess,” I replied, unconvinced, “It’s just that unfinished business from the past always seems to come around again for resolution. Have you ever noticed that, Garland?”
“Yeah well, we are talking about a trust here, Promise, not one of your unhappy clients looking to shed some guilt about fucking her husband’s best friend. Just go on home. You’ve done a great job, as usual. And you did it in one day, instead of two or three. I’m proud of you. I’ll tell you what. I’ll get Paige to send you a check for two days anyway. How about that? I’ll call you after I talk to Ms. Becca and tell you what she says about Paul keeping the house.”
Garland hung up and I was left sitting in my car wondering why he was so anxious to pay me for a day I didn’t earn. Not at all like Garland Wang, the same guy who adds up the lunch check every time in his head to make sure the waitress doesn’t over charge. It occurred to me there was another name I wanted to check out on Aileen’s computer, however, I was reluctant to go back inside the studio and ask Barkley for help again. Instead, I called Susan.
“Granny’s. How can I help you?”
“Hey, it’s Promise. Are you having a good day?”
“Hey, Miz P. Actually, we are busy today. I think some early leaf lookers are in town. And you know, you were asking me about Fletcher Enloe this morning? Well, I was thinking, maybe we could offer free delivery for some of the old folks like him around here. I could drop a few orders off after the store closes. It might mean a lot to some folks who have trouble getting out. What do you think?”
Susan, bless her heart. Sometimes I think she is more invested in Granny’s than I am. I hated to think how much more difficult my life would be if she were not there. “I like your idea. I could deliver too. It would give me a chance to meet more of my neighbors. When I get back let’s work out the details.”
“Great. Hold on a second. I gotta ring up somebody.”
I could hear her in the background now. “Five seventy-three, please. Yes, Sir, just stay on this road, highway twenty eight north, and look for the sign on the right, about three miles. You can’t miss it.” Susan picked up the phone and continued. “It seems like everybody today needs directions. I feel like asking them didn’t they see the chamber of commerce building when they came through town. Hey, maybe we should start carrying maps for sale. How was your meeting with Mr. Wang? Are you going to be able to make him a happy camper?”
Trying to condense the forty-two different directions my mind was traveling on the road to Garland being a ‘happy camper’ seemed too difficult, as tired and frustrated as I felt at the moment. I opted to give Susan the details later. “Well, probably, I guess. There are a few loose ends that are bothering me, though. That’s where I need your help. When you get home could you look something up on the Internet for me? I haven’t gotten satellite service at my house yet, so no internet.”
“Well sure, Miz P. I don’t mind to.”
Now I was confused. Her reply, ‘don’t mind to,’ was another one of those mysterious mountain idioms. Was that a yes, or no? “Susan, does that mean you will do it?”
“Well, yeah, Miz P., that’s what I just said.”
“Okay, thanks. Have you got a pen?”
“Oh crap, here comes Luther Goss. I’m just going to put the phone down here on the counter till I see what he wants.” I was clueless as to who this Luther Goss person was, and had no choice other than to wait, and listen to Susan’s conversation. A male voice said something not understandable in an unmistakable hillbilly twang, and then Susan’s voice bellowed through the phone. “I done told you about a hundred times, Pinky, the Goddard twins sold out. We don’t sell what you are looking to buy. Just go on home and sober up?”
Goss yelled, “I mean it woman, get on back there to where they keep the good stuff and bring me a bag, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you dead!”
The next sound I heard was a loud whack, like a walnut being cracked, then a scream, and the male voice. “Shit! You done broke my fingers. I’m gonna sue your ass!”
“Go ahead, sue. I don’t care if you do. You come around here again making threats and I’ll break more than your sorry lazy fingers. Now get the hell out of here. I told you, we are out of the homegrown business.” There was a pause, and then Susan spoke again. Her voice was calmer. “You pitiful fool. You know I’ll call Sheriff Mac as soon as you walk out that door.”
I heard the bell on the store’s front door jingle and Susan pick up the phone. Her voice was a lot more composed than I felt, just listening to the exchange between her and the Goss person. “Can you believe that Luther Goss? Comes in here drunk trying to threaten me with a stupid Wal-Mart water pistol. He must think I am about as dumb as a dirt pile, or one of his….”
“Susan, Susan,” I interrupted. “What happened? What was that cracking noise? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Just let me take a couple of deep breaths.” She exhaled into my ear. “I’m just royally pissed at Pinky.” I counted three more audible breaths, and she continued. “Well, what happen was, Luther, aka Pinky, Goss– who was nicknamed Pinky in high school for reasons we do not want to go into right now, or ever, because I can assure you I have never seen, nor do I ever want to see, any of his hidden body parts—just stumbled in here insisting I sell him some pot. I tried to tell him those days are over. Fool’s all tanked up—pulled a little plastic pistol out of his jacket pocket and waved it in my face. I’m sure not going to put up with that crap, especially not from Pinky Goss, of all people. That’s why I have a sawed off baseball bat under the counter. I knocked the pistol out of his hand. Well,” she hesitated and reconsidered, “actually, I wracked him across the knuckles and he dropped the gun. I don’t think I broke any bones.”
“A baseball bat? Good grief, I heard him holler. Has he left the parking lot? You need to call the Sheriff, in case Goss comes back.”
Even though I couldn’t appreciate the humor in the situation, Susan’s explosion of deep-throated infectious laughter made me want to laugh along with her. “Pinky won’t come back. The fool sashayed over to the cooler on his way out the door and snagged a six-pack of Budweiser. I can see him from the front window, he’s pedaling down the road with the beer in the basket of his bike.”
“Susan, are you telling me this Goss person came to Granny’s to buy pot, armed with a water pistol, and then made his getaway on a bicycle?”
“Yeah, he’s riding off down the road on an old junker American Flyer. That’s cause he keeps losing his drivers’ license to drunk driving charges. It’s really kind of sad, when you think about it. His Mamma worked like a mule all those years at the mill to raise those boys, and look at what she got for her misery. Not one of the three is worth a ripped umbrella in the rain. Lord, you just never know about kids, do you Miz P?”
True enough, but I was still concerned Goss may come back. “Susan, shouldn’t you call the sheriff about Goss’s threat to kill you, and about him stealing the beer?” Susan didn’t answer. “Are you still there?”
“Yes Ma’am I’m here. I was just thinking. Maybe we should let him alone so he’ll run his mouth to all his worthless friends. If he’s not in jail, the word might get around faster that the Goddard twins’ side business is over. Two or three of those no-account guys have come in lately, hanging around looking suspicious, acting like they are about to ask for the extra special cornflakes.”
“Umm,” I considered Susan’s logic. “I think you are right. Just promise me that if any of them come around again and even hints of trouble, call the sheriff. I don’t want you getting hurt trying to fight off a bunch of dopers with a ball bat.”
“Don’t worry, Miz P., I may be country, but I’m smart enough to know my limits.”
“Good girl. Now back to what I called about. Write this down. I need you to Google someone for me. The name is Boo Turner; he’s a musician, or was. If he were still alive he would be an old man by now, maybe in his eighties. Boo Turner. You got it?”
“I got it. You want me to call you at home later tonight with the information?”
It was six-fifteen, and all I saw was bumper-to-bumper Atlanta traffic in my rear view mirror. “No. I think I’ll stop and spend the night at my son’s house in Dahlonega. That’s only about thirty miles north of here. I’m too tired to drive back tonight. I’ll call you later this evening. Lock up and go home. You’ve had enough of Granny’s for the day. And Susan, thank you for everything you do.”
“Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t going away.” …Elvis Presley
6.
Night moored peacefully in the North Georgia valleys by the time I drove from Atlanta to Dahlonega; but higher mountain slopes, visible in the near distance, held fast the purple and pink of disappearing day, like a lover unwilling to release a kiss. Early settlers, ravenous for newly discovered gold, called these hills, sown tight with pine, dogwood, and oak, the promised land when their greed expelled the Cherokee off the landscape during the 1830’s. Today, the gold was in the land itself. Cows grazed tentatively beside multimillion dollar golf courses, and upscale retirement communities marched up the hills along the highway leading into town. How long would it be before the cows went the way of the Cherokee?
Even though I was hungry, I didn’t want to stop again after my hurried shopping for cat family supplies at the Kroger, just south of Dahlonega. Besides, I hoped my son, Luke, would be home and we could have dinner together. I could make home cooked biscuits, bacon, and cheese grits. His favorites. My mouth watered.
Once I crossed the Chestatee River Bridge into Dahlonega and snaked up Crown Mountain to drop down into the town proper, I tried a third time to call Luke. His home phone rolled immediately to voice mail. Knowing his job with Acadia Oil required traveling, I tried to remember if he’d called to tell me he would be gone on another extended trip. Surely, I wouldn’t forget something as important as that. Of course, Luke was a grown man and certainly didn’t have to check with Mamma to leave town. Still, I worried. I’m a mother, what else do we do? By the time I listened to Luke’s voice mail message repeat itself, I was through the town square, past the Gold Museum celebrating the 1828 gold rush, and passing North Georgia College and State University. I quickly turned left into the horseshoe at front campus and parked to rummage in my purse for Luke’s new cell phone number. Why he gave up his old number with the four zero four exchange, I had no idea. This new one carried an exchange I didn’t recognize and was still not imprinted on my brain for recall. Probably Acadia Oil’s idea to consolidate costs.
Speaking of Acadia Oil, I wondered, not for the first time, why an oil company would recruit a double major in languages and psychology. Maybe because Luke was one of the few graduates having at least a passing command of Arabic? Well, perhaps it is a good thing, I mused. He certainly seems to make more money at Acadia than I ever made with psychology, doctorate and all.
Luke picked up on the second ring. “Yes?”
I was a little taken aback. Yes? What kind of hello for your mother was, yes? “Hey, Sweetheart. I’m headed to your house. Could I maybe spend the night? Are you going to be home later? I’ll cook if you are.”
“Mom. Uh…hey.” He hesit
ated. I imagined him raking thick, mahogany-colored hair from his forehead. Beautiful McNeal hair, Mamma always said, certainly not a Barnes trait from his father. “Well, uh, I’m…not there. I’m out of town. You know where the spare key is. Go on over. I’ll call you when I get stateside. Maybe sometime next week.” Luke sounded anxious and in a hurry to get me off the line.
“Are you okay?” A few seconds of silence. “Luke?”
“Sure, Mom, I’m fine. Just a little busy right now. No problem. You go on to the house and enjoy yourself. You know where everything is.”
Suddenly I remembered something. “Wait, don’t hang up yet. Do you still like jazz?”
“Mom, that is a truly weird question right now. Yes, I do. Why?”
“I just wondered if you recognize the name, Boo Turner?”
“Mom, is this a trivia contest? Or are you snooping around in something you don’t belong in, again?
“No, I am not. Are you laughing? I hear you laughing. I just need some information on Boo Turner, that’s all.”
“Mom, anybody who knows anything about the history of jazz knows Boo Turner. Why do you need to know about Boo Turner? Wait, don’t answer that question. I really don’t have time. But Mom, tell me there are no contraband cigarettes as part of this scenario.”
Why can’t everyone just forget about the highjackers and my car being peppered with bullets? After all, the guy was Garland’s client, not mine. I heard another male voice over the phone line.
“Let’s boogie, Bucko.”
Had I heard correctly? Bucko? “Luke, who is that?”
“Mom, I have to hang up now. When you get to the house, check some of those books Dad gave me the last time he moved, bookshelf to the right of the desk. I think you’ll find Boo Turner in one of them. And Mom, stay out of trouble. Okay? Love you.” The line was silent.
