by Morgan James
Adrenaline pumped through my system when I went back to bed, and my mind jumped about, playing out several Stephen King type scenarios of who, or what, could be prowling around outside my house. Finally, exhaustion won over and I slept, not waking until almost nine, feeling groggy and out of sorts.
I had just finished brushing my teeth, and was leaning barefoot and sleepy-eyed against the kitchen counter, willing the coffee to brew faster, when a loud knock rapped behind me. I jolted upright and turned to see Daniel, his face pressing against the upper half glass of the kitchen door, and his fist banging against the wood frame. “Promise, open the door.” I unbolted the door; he pushed through into the kitchen. “Are you all right?”
I heard a timbre of fear in his voice. Was I all right? Of course I was all right. Then, through my decaffeinated fog, I remembered last night’s incident and frowned. How could Daniel know about my prowler? “I’m Fine. It was just a noise in the yard. Probably deer. I didn’t see anybody. How did you know?”
Daniel looked confused for a second and then asked me, “What noise? What did you hear?”
“Well, nothing, really. Something woke me; but all I heard was Mamma Cat growling. She must have heard something. I didn’t see anyone. But I don’t understand. How did you know?”
As I waited for Daniel to explain, I was now aware of two things. Daniel was holding a small brown package, addressed to me, and I was still dressed in my pajamas. I looked down, making sure all buttons were at least done. He didn’t seem to register my pajamas and offered the package. “It’s your delivery from Amazon. Looks like a book.” I nodded, took the book, and put it on the counter. Paul Tournay’s published work on Carolingian Art, no doubt. “I guess you haven’t seen it,” Daniel continued, and reached for my hand, pulling me to the open kitchen door.
“Daniel,” I protested, “I’m not dressed.”
“Don’t argue, woman, you need to see this thing right now.”
Like it or not, I followed him out onto the porch and to the front of the house. The reason for Daniel’s edgy behavior was on my front door. “What the hell!” was all I could say. On the center panel of my beautiful oak door, skewered by the largest knife I’d ever seen close up was a fat, pale yellow snake, so long the tail brushed the floor of the porch like a perverted question mark. A five-pointed star drawn in smeared red framed the creature. I took a step back, grasping a porch post for support. Bile rose in my throat and I was sure I was going to throw up. Deep breaths, I told myself, deep breaths. Then anger kicked in and I turned back to face the creature. Someone had invaded my property and violated my home. “Why would …” Before I could finish my question, Susan’s Jeep sped down the drive and screeched to a stop just short of the front porch. Daniel and I both cringed as she noisily ground the gears into park.
“What’s happened, Daddy?” She shouted, and bolted from the car up on the porch. “I came as soon as I got your message.” When she saw the snake pinned to my door, she screamed, “Holly shit,” and jumped back off the porch waving her arms wildly towards the door, as though to ward off whatever evil was hanging there. “Sweet God-a-mighty. I hate snakes. What is that ugly bugger doing on your front door?”
I opened my hands out in a gesture of having no idea how or why the snake came to meet its demise on my front door. At that moment the snake’s body twitched. “Oh my God, it’s still alive,” I wailed, and joined Susan in the yard.
Daniel stood his ground on the porch. “Calm down, both of you. The thing is dead; believe me. Look at all the blood on the floor. There’s no way it survived that wound. Dead bodies sometimes exhibit that kind of nerve jerking. It’s involuntary. I’ve even seen it happen with people. Trust me. Dead is dead.”
I was skeptical. “What do you mean, Daniel? When have you ever seen twitching dead people?”
Susan spoke up. “Daddy is a trained and certified EMT, Miz P. He knows what he’s talking about. He rides with the volunteer fire department. Around here that’s the closest thing we have to an emergency response team.”
The snake was still, making no more voluntary, or involuntary, movements. “Well, that’s good news,” I said, with a nervous laugh, “cause the way my heart is pounding right now I might be close to a heart attack.”
Daniel’s face darkened as he stared at me. I was immediately sorry I’d been so flip. This was not a frivolous man who would understand humor in the face of terror. “Just kidding,” I added quickly. “I’m okay. I really am. No heart attacks, just angry that someone would sneak up to my house in the middle of the night and do this. Come on; I don’t want to look at that thing any longer. Let’s go back to the kitchen, have a cup of coffee and talk about what to do next.” I headed for the kitchen, giving the snake wide berth as I passed the front door. Susan and Daniel followed.
From behind me Susan quipped, “Hey, Miz P., I like your Pooh Bear pj’s. I didn’t know you could get those in grownup sizes. Can you get the bottoms with fuzzy feet attached?” I didn’t have to see her face to know that she was smiling.
“Hush up, Daughter. This is no time for nonsense,” retorted Daniel.
Once inside I kept walking, heading for the bedroom. “I’m throwing on some clothes. You guys pour coffee, okay? Cream’s in the fridge.” I waved at Susan over my shoulder, just to let her know her nervous teasing remark about the pajamas was fine with me. Less than a minute later I was pulling a tee shirt over my head when I heard the cell phone ringing from the kitchen. “Now what?” I said aloud, and ran to catch the call before it rolled over to voice mail.
As I hit the connect button, Garland blurted out a string of sentences. “Promise, what is going on? I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. Your home phone is out of order. I told you moving way out there was a big mistake. You will not believe what happened. About seven o’clock last night, some idiot shot at Becca Tournay, ran her off the road. She’s in Northside Hospital cut all to hell with windshield glass and who knows what all. Promise, are you there? Did you hear what I just said?”
Taking a steaming cup of coffee from Susan’s offering hand, I tried to digest what I was hearing. “Yes, Garland, I’m here. I didn’t realize my home phone was out. Calm down. Remember your high blood pressure, take a deep breath and give me the details.” I watched Daniel go back out the kitchen door and return, making a gesture with two fingers of scissors cutting. Remembering the telephone box was beside the utility room window, I nodded my understanding. The prowler had cut my phone lines.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve got to calm down. Details. Okay, details,” he repeated. “Here’s what I know. I got a call from Paulie Tournay. The hospital contacted him about Becca. I’m surprised she even had his phone number in her wallet. He told me he’s talked to his mother, briefly, and from what he can gather, she was headed back to Columbia on I 20 last evening when a vehicle pulled along beside her; then the driver swerved towards her and shot at her through the open window.”
“Did they hit her? Did she see the shooter?”
“No they. Just one person. And no, she wasn’t shot, just the car. She must still be pretty upset; she told Paulie the shooter looked like Richard Nixon. Can you believe that?”
I thought for a moment and it dawned on me I could believe that. “Garland, maybe the person who shot at Becca was wearing one of those Richard Nixon Halloween masks. You remember; they were the rage a few years ago. Weren’t they called Tricky-Dickey masks?”
“Well, that’s possible. I hadn’t thought of that. Anyway, she lost control, sideswiped a Mayfield Milk truck, then the guardrail—that’s when the windshield shattered—and ended up in the ditch. Paulie says her little pink Miata is totaled. Cripes, sports cars should be banned from the interstates. We should all drive Hummers. It’s a miracle she and the milk truck driver aren’t laid out in the morgue right now. Paulie said the police were at the hospital, and are saying it was probably a random drive-by shooting. Some crazy crack-head who hates sports cars, or blond white women,
or seven o’clock traffic. Who knows?”
“Random drive by shooting?” I repeated. “Is that what the police are saying?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what they are saying. Why? You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well, I might be,” I told him, “if I didn’t have a strong feeling there is more to this Tournay business than you are sharing with me, my old friend. And, if someone had not cut my phone lines last night. And, if there weren’t a rather large dead snake skewered to my front door!”
“Snake? Promise, what the hell are you talking about? What does a snake have to do with Becca Tournay?”
“I don’t know, Garland. But, I’m going to find out.”
Once I explained, Garland seemed genuinely concerned about my prowler, just not concerned enough to be forthcoming with any additional information on the Tournay case. I knew he wasn’t lying to me; he just wasn’t telling all. That’s the way Garland is. I’m usually on a “need to know basis.” Likewise, since I was technically not working for him during my trip to Gainesville, I neglected to tell him about my conversation with Howell Bennett regarding Stella Tournay. We hung up with the understanding he would call me back later, after he had seen Becca.
The three of us at the “snake scene” decided Daniel would collect Susan’s friend, Melissa, and take her to Granny’s to mind the store for the remainder of the day. After that, he needed to finish delivering the mail on his regular route. Susan and I would wait for Sheriff Mac so I could file a report on the mysterious prowler.
As Daniel climbed into his pickup and waved a solemn goodbye, Susan couldn’t resist a small pique. “Wow Miz P., Daddy sure is being sweet to you—agreeing to go get Melissa and all. I happen to know she rubs him as raw as a three day pony ride.”
“Susan, don’t even go there. Your daddy is just being a gentleman.”
She rolled her eyes. “Umm. Maybe. Maybe not.”
I made a fresh pot of coffee and we sat in the kitchen, me opening the book on Carolingian art and Susan drumming black painted fingernails on the wood table while trying to be patient. I scanned through the thin volume of page after page of color photographs showing chalices brilliantly decorated with gold, jewelry fashioned of metal and precious stones, hammered bronze boxes heavily enameled with colored glass to give the effect of encrusted jewels. A few of the religious pictures were familiar scenes of Jesus enthroned, Mary and Jesus together, or multiple scenes on wood panels depicting New Testament stories of the crucifixion. Less familiar were the carved ivory book covers and fantastically detailed illuminated manuscripts of the Bible. I’d seen similar photographs of a few of the pieces in magazines over the years, though I hadn’t realized at the time the work was produced during the reign of Charlemagne. I was amazed at the art that had survived for over a thousand years.
“Listen to this, Susan,” I said, excited by a paragraph below one of the intricate mosaics of Jesus entering Jerusalem astride a donkey. “Tournay says the Carolingian period, lasting roughly from AD 780 to 900, created entirely new innovations in depicting the human figure. He says this work set the stage for the rise of Romanesque art, and eventually Gothic art in the Western world. Charlemagne’s artisans were unsurpassed in gold, bronze and enamel work. Good grief, art from the Carolingian period must be worth a fortune. I wonder where Tournay photographed all this stuff.”
Susan rolled her eyes and frowned. “Miz P. why are we sitting here looking at an art book, when someone is out there trying to scare you half to death?”
“Oh, Susan,” I answered with a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry; I need to fill you in on what I found out yesterday, don’t I?”
“Well, Duuh.… That would be nice! I’m kinda in the dark here.” I poured coffee for us and spent the next twenty or so minutes giving Susan a run down on what I knew that she didn’t, leaving out, of course, my dream of Stella Tournay hanging over the creek. When I got to Paul Tournay recounting his experience with the ghost figure, Susan asked me if I thought he really had seen the ghost of his grandmother. I had to consider that for a moment. I firmly believed Paul had seen something more than shadows. Was that something Stella Tournay? I wasn’t convinced of that, though I didn’t have a better answer at the moment. Except, Paul later reported seeing Mitchell with another woman. Could that woman have been sneaking away from the house after a rendezvous with Mitchell Sanders? No, that couldn’t be right. The ghost incidents were well before Mitchell moved into the house. Yet, Paul had said it was Mitchell who kept watch with him after he moved in to try and spot the ghost again. And according to Paul: Mitchell moves in, ghost goes away. How convenient. I wondered when Mitchell met his new love, and under what circumstances.
When my story was spent, I reminded Susan of the confidentiality of anything we would share and explained I could only share such information with her because she was technically working for me on the case. She pointed out that keeping everything a secret could get really sticky, now that Sheriff Mac would be expecting information about anyone who might want to prowl around my house, assuming I thought the Tournay case and the snake were related. She was right, of course, and in truth I wasn’t sure the two were related, though I would have made a small bet they were.
Susan was excited at the prospect of sorting out the Tournay puzzle with me, and full of questions. Being already suspicious of Garland Wang, one of her interesting questions was why Garland called me about Becca’s accident, since he had told me in our last conversation that my job was finished. If he really believed Becca was the victim of a random shooting, why call me? Susan’s question made me think. What was Garland’s hidden agenda? I was reminded of the Tarot card spread, The Knight of Swords, a possibly not entirely trustworthy person. And then there was the Wheel of Fortune card. Perhaps that card didn’t refer to me, personally, but to the whole Tournay case. I shook my head to clear some of the confusion. On the other hand, perhaps the cards said nothing useful. Perhaps I needed to stop trying to force pieces of information to fit and just go where my intuition took me. I could not shake the feeling that the whole business was about money, though not just who got the trust money. No, there was something else. Garland had been blasé about where the trust money originated, too blasé. He definitely didn’t want to share any information about where Tournay got the five million. I needed to follow the money, that’s what my intuition told me.
“I can see your mind churning, Miz P.” Susan said. “What are you thinking?”
I chewed the cuticle around my left thumb and tried to focus on what had happened so far, what my prowler didn’t want me to see, and what was worth the risk of shooting at Becca’s car. “I’m thinking I need to go to Garland’s office and look through the Tournay trust records.”
“Good idea.” Susan opened the manila folder containing her Internet information and a yellow pad. “Let’s make a list of things we need to find out.”
I looked across the table at her information. A diagram of little boxes listing salient points about Boo and Angel Turner filled an entire page. I was pleased and showed my satisfaction with a broad smile. “Good going, Susan. I’m a list and diagram maker too. It helps me focus on the facts and possibilities. I am impressed. Let’s see what you have?” I reached over and turned her pad towards me.
“Thanks Miz P. You know I could be your Billy Beale. We are a lot alike, I think. Except I don’t have an old war injury, of course.”
“Who is Billy Beale?”
“Oh, wow, Miz P. You got to get to know Billy. I read this great mystery writer, her last name is Winspear, and she has this character, Maisie Dobbs, who is a private investigator. She’s also a psychologist, by the way, just like you. She lives in London, after World War I. Maisie is very cool, very independent. Her able assistant is Billy Beale. He always researches and organizes the facts for Maisie in folders like these, or on little index cards, and between the two of them they solve the mysteries.”
I groaned. “Oh, Susan, this isn’t a mystery novel. It�
��s real life. And I am most certainly not a private investigator. I wear Pooh Bear pajamas, remember?”
Susan interrupted me, “You really are, sort of. Garland Wang’s cases always have you solving mysteries. What about the case he had you on where you connected all that stuff together and found out who was really behind the cigarette trucks being highjacked. I mean it’s true the Georgia state agents got all the credit, but you are the one who figured it out for them. And Mr. Wang sure was happy to get his client off the hook for the murder charge.”
“A fluke, Susan. Pure luck. I am a psychologist. I’m supposed to help clients struggle with the mysteries of the human mind, not solve crimes. I do some research for Garland because I need the money; that doesn’t make me a private investigator. It’s only research.”
“Well, I know that. But didn’t you tell me you wanted a rest from counseling, to be sort of retired? Maybe we could just take a few cases now and then. We could quietly put out the word that we are available for confidential inquiries, just like Maisie Dobbs. Nothing too way out. It could be a steady source of income to augment Granny’s Store. Just think about it.”
Regardless of the fact that any income would be a steady income compared to Granny’s monthly red ink, there was no way I wanted to become a private investigator. Still, Susan was so excited about the possibility; it was heartless to rain on her parade. “Well, we can think about it; but no commitments, not yet. Agreed? Right now we need to find out who is leaving dead snakes on my door, and why…” My sentence was broken off by the sound of Sheriff Mac’s car on the gravel drive.
