by Morgan James
Susan came back on the phone. “I got it, Miz P. It looks like there is a SBT Holdings, Inc. and a SB&T Inc., but no SBT, LLC.”
Not what I expected to hear. Then, bingo! I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Susan, I’m sorry. Forget what I said and go to the South Carolina Secretary of State’s site. The Turner’s live in South Carolina, not Georgia.”
“Right. I knew that. But you didn’t tell me I was looking for Turner again. Hold on a second while I bring it up.”
I apologized again, and waited. Further down in the box I found something helpful, a small bundle of bank statements held together by a decaying rubber band that snapped in my hand as I removed it. For some reason, Tournay determined these particular bank records were worth saving. Good sign, I told myself. Each monthly statement had at least one deposit circled in red, some more than one, and all ranged from 1958 to 1970. It would take time to total up all the deposits; but just adding quickly in my head, I figured the amount would be over two million dollars. Small handwritten notes climbed the margins of many of the statements. I held one page up to the light, trying to cipher the tiny words, and was reminded of the fine print on prescription drug notices. You know the ones: if you really read the precautions and side effects, you wouldn’t take any of the meds at all because none of it makes any sense to a lay person.”
Susan came back on the line squealing with excitement. “I found it, Miz P., and you are not going to believe it!”
Oh yeah, I thought, I probably would. I wished Susan could see my smile. “Tell me, O’Great Detective.”
“Well, LLC stands for a ‘limited liability corporation.’ I guess you probably knew that already. The big news is SBT is registered in South Carolina and the address is the same as the Turner’s. And get this. Angel Turner is the ‘managing member,’ whatever that means.”
My smile broadened. “What that means, Susan, is that Angel is the one who calls the shots, even though the corporation has her grandfather’s initials. When was the corporation established?”
“1999. What does that mean?”
I thought for a moment. “Umm. She was back from New York by that time, had already opened the antiques shop in Charleston. I think that date tells us the idea for SBT was probably hers. I’m betting she contacted Paul Tournay way before he died and got him on board with whatever her game was.”
“Why would anybody get ‘on board’, as you call it, to pay a fee to a company that doesn’t earn it?”
‘Why indeed, Susan?”
“Shoot,” I heard Susan hiss through the phone. “I bet you ten bucks that tall broad with the dolled up jewelry in her hair was blackmailing Paul Tournay, and the fee was how he paid her.”
A week ago I would have told Susan she was reading entirely too many mystery books. Today, her assessment had a loud ring of truth. And if it were true, did Becca Tournay know what was going on? I decided she had to know. After all, I was sure she’d seen the records. Maybe she wanted to control the trust, not because she thought Paulie was incompetent, but to keep the information the Turners were holding over her father a secret. Was the blackmail because the Turners knew Tournay had killed Stella? Well, maybe. There had to be more. Stella’s death was a long time ago, and her death did not generate all that money Tournay had deposited in his bank account.
“Hey, Miz P, you still there? What do you think about my blackmail theory?”
“Yes, Susan. I’m here. I was just thinking. You may be right about the blackmail, but I notice in the trust records Angel has continued to get the monthly fee since Paul Tournay died. If she was blackmailing him, I should think that would dry up when he died. We have to figure out how all this connects to the ugly snake on my door and Becca’s so called accident. Why would the blackmailers try to kill her?”
“That’s a good question. They would want to keep her alive to keep on paying and get rid of Paul. And how would Mitchell Sanders play into all of this mess? Do you still think he’s involved?”
“Yes, I do. Maybe he and Angel are in this together, but they disagree. She wants Becca to have the trust and he thinks he’s got a better shot at more of the money for himself if Paul gets the trust. Two con artists trying to con each other. Maybe it was only Mitchell who shot at Becca. Becca didn’t mention a second person in the car.” I wondered how a person as determined as Angel seemed to be might react if she thought she was being double-crossed. My guess was she would be pretty pissed off. “Susan, I have to go now. I’m going to call Paul and see if he has heard from Mitchell. Thanks a bunch for your help.”
“Wait, don’t hang up yet,” Susan said hurriedly. “Fletcher Enloe came by the store looking for you. He said to tell you he wants an answer about the nanny goat.”
I wanted to scream. That old man was the most aggravating human being I’ve ever known. He knew about my prowlers, surely he could figure out I had other things on my mind other than looking for a lady friend for Hubert. “What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t say anything except I’d relay the message. He’ll be back later today. What do you want me to tell him? Are you going to get a nanny goat and maybe some babies?”
“Just tell the old geezer I’ll see about a nanny goat when I finish this job for Garland Wang. I just can’t deal with him right now.”
“Oh goody!” Susan was obviously elated. “Baby goats are so cute. They smell just like puppies you know, so warm and cuddly.”
“Do they really?” I was suspect. Cuddly puppy things in the yard and kittens in the laundry room—what was I thinking? We hung up and I sat for a moment, my mind bouncing between the notes I’d found scribbled on the bank statements and the realization of what a person might do for a trust worth millions of dollars.
I dialed again. “Hello, Paul. It’s Promise. Sorry to bother you again. Is this a bad time?”
“No, no. I’m just headed to the house. What’s up? I hope you aren’t going to stand me up. I’m starving.”
“No, no. I’m coming…with sandwiches. Listen, I’m here at Garland Wang’s office, going over some of your grandfather’s trust papers, and I’ve come across some hand written notes, maybe his handwriting. I wonder if you could help with the meanings?”
“I’ll try. What do the notes say?”
I cleared my throat. “Well, one notation looks like ‘email’ followed by a number.”
“You mean he was writing down someone’s email address?”
“Well, no, I don’t think that could be it, because the papers date from 1970 and before—long before we had email addresses. And the numbers beside the notes are all just two digits. Another word looks like panneau.” I spelled the word for him. “And another either foile or toile.” I spelled those also.
“The email word, does it have a little slash mark above the ‘e’?”
I held the paper back up to the light. “It could have. The writing is with a sort of dark green colored pencil, and very small.”
“Hang on just a second. Let me pull over. I’m having trouble hearing you. Okay, now, spell the email word for me.”
“Just like it sounds, e.m.a.i.l.” I spelled. “And maybe a slash over the e.”
Paul answered quickly. “Oh, okay, I got it. Papa was French, remember. For what it’s worth, unlike my mother, I speak some French. Sounds to me like he was making notations about some work of art. Toile is French for canvas, panneau is panel, and email, with a slash, means…” He hesitated, “I think it means polished glass, or something. No, that’s not it. Email means enamel. You know, like some of those pieces Papa wrote about in his boring textbook. Sounds like you found research notes for the book. Though, I can’t imagine why his notes would be in the trust papers.”
I knew then what I was looking at was definitely not research notes for Tournay’s textbook of Carolingian art; but his book did hold the key to the double-digit numbers following some of the words. I cringed. Poor Paul. He didn’t have a clue how Papa made his fortune. “Yes,” I lied, “y
ou are probably right. The notes may have been mixed in with a bunch of other papers. Just one more thing, before I hang up. Have you talked to Mitchell Sanders since your mother’s accident?”
Paul scoffed into the phone. “No chance. I’m through with him, over and done! Speaking of my mother, I just called her room at the hospital. A decidedly Spanish speaking male person answered the phone, so I called back and talked to the floor nurse. She says the night nurse told her this morning that Mother got a cell phone call last evening about eight when she was in Mother’s room taking her blood pressure. She said Mother was angry at whoever was on the phone, and about ten minutes after the call she marched by the nurse’s station and announced she was checking herself out of the hospital. Can she do that, Promise? Can she just walk out before being released by the doctors?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head with worry. “Have you tried her cell phone?”
“Well, sure. She doesn’t answer, Wait a second; I’ve got a call coming through. Maybe it’s her.”
I held the phone tightly against my ear, counting the seconds until Paul might connect again. Shortly the phone clicked and he raised his voice like a petulant child. “I can’t believe that woman! Forget what I said about caring about her. She is a first class witch, and always will be.”
“I take it that was Becca?”
“None other,” he answered, a little more calmly. “Do you know what she said to me when I told her I was worried sick and asked where she was? She said her whereabouts are none of my business, but she’s at the Ritz across from Lenox Mall and I should leave her alone, and get on with my sordid life. Then, she told me I was the biggest fool in the state of Georgia and she couldn’t imagine how she could have given birth to me in the first place, and she told me I better be at Wang’s office tomorrow to sign over the trust to her. Said I better be there at eleven o’clock. And oh yes, just before she hung up she said, and I quote, ‘you can keep that dismal stone crypt of a house. You two deserve each other.’ Can you believe her?”
Sounded like last night’s phone call still had Becca angry. The nurse had told Paul she didn’t know the identity of the caller, but my money was on either Angel Turner or Mitchell Sanders. After ending the conversation with Paul, I dug my copy of Tournay’s book out of my battered leather briefcase-purse. It took about thirty seconds to figure out Tournay’s code. The simplicity was so plain I had to wonder why Tournay would be so careless as to leave behind such obvious signposts. Each one of the numbers occurring beside a handwritten note for monthly deposits matched a plate number for an illustration in his book. Some words identified the item as to what it was; some notations were just dollar amounts and no identifying reference on the bank statement, however, I had a picture in the book to correspond with that particular number. And, all of the plate numbers listed on the bank statements were those Tournay described in the book as pictures taken by the author. He must have possessed the object at one time and then sold it for the amount indicated on the bank statement.
When I made a list of all the circled amounts, I also discovered some of the deposit entries were only identified as toile, canvas, or even Limoges, or one of the other French cities. I concluded there were other items sold by Tournay to make up the deposits, valuable items not pictured in his book. So, how did he acquire such treasures? And, where did he store the treasures before they were sold? All of it certainly wouldn’t fit in a safety deposit box. I had a couple of wild guesses as answers to both questions.
As I let myself back into Garland’s office and slid the third box into its original location, I knew the absence of that particular box in the conference room when I arrived was not an accident. Garland had to know, he just didn’t want to know. It’s like he always tells me, too much information about your client can sometimes cloud your ability to spin a convincing case. On my way to the elevator, I thanked Paige for her help and prayed that Garland would be too preoccupied with his divorce case to ask too many questions about my visit. He would not be a happy camper if he knew I’d found the missing box in his office, and I certainly didn’t want Paige fired over my curiosity.
“What’s never known is safest in this life.”
… Dylan Thomas
12.
It was only a little after eleven when I left Garland’s office. My morning had been very productive. It took me twenty minutes to reach the toll booth on Georgia 400 Southbound to pay my fifty cents for the privilege of using the “express highway” into town, and another twenty to inch through midday shoppers in the Buckhead business district and reach Henri’s Bakery. Still, the traffic was a small inconvenience to experience the freshly baked bread fragrance, laced with a tart overlay of kosher dills served with each just-stacked Henri’s sandwich. I ordered one ham and one turkey, both with Provolone cheese, and mentally pressed my face against the glass pastry case, vowing I would not order anything creamy, chocolate, or dusted with confectionary sugar. Just as the clerk rang up our sandwiches, I added two cinnamon curls to the total. Losing the extra twenty pounds was postponed to yet another day.
My mouth watered for the couple of miles to Paul’s—just smelling the goodies stuffed into the white paper bag beside me on the seat. When I turned down Bennett Trace, I could see lunch was going to be delayed. The Tournay front yard was pulsating with flashing blue lights. Two white Atlanta police cruisers sat poised in the drive facing out towards the street, a third unmarked car was parked near the front door, its roof light pulsating off time with the street units. A white van, side striped in red and blue, was backed up to the front door with the rear door ajar. It looked like a small ambulance. Paul Tournay’s old Jag was parked off to the side under one of the massive oaks that defined his front yard. A uniformed officer waved me over as I attempted to pass him in the drive. There was no choice but to stop and get out of the car. “I’m Dr. Promise McNeal,” I said to the officer, willing my voice to sound more confident than I felt. “I have an appointment with Paul Tournay. What’s happened?”
The officer was trained to ask, not answer questions. “Could I see your ID Ma’am?”
Retrieving my purse from the Subaru, I groped for my wallet and handed over my North Carolina driver’s license, “What’s happened? Is Mr. Tournay all right?”
“Wait here, please.” He ignored my question and returned to his patrol car. I watched him converse with someone on the radio for what seemed like an eternity, and then he approached me again. “Ma’am, there’s been some trouble at this address. You’re going to have to see Mr. Tournay another time. Just back on out of the drive and go on home.”
I didn’t want to go home; I wanted some answers to my questions. “Officer,” I announced, raising my voice, just the slightest bit, “I need to see Paul Tournay. If you won’t tell me what’s happened, let me talk to someone who will.”
The officer had been fully awake during his criminal justice class 102 in intimidation. He raised his voice about two levels above mine and huffed himself up to his full height. I could tell by the building fire in his eyes, and the little veins bulging at the sides of his thick neck, that my pitiful attempt at being assertive was not going to work. “Ma’am, I’ll ask you again to leave the premises. If you fail to do so, you could be arrested for obstruction of justice.”
This was too much. What kind of justice could I possibly be obstructing? Sensing movement father up the drive in the front of the house, I looked in that direction to see another uniformed officer talking to a taller man in a cocoa-brown suit. The two walked in our direction, the suit in front and the uniformed officer talking as he trailed along beside him. As they neared, the expertly tailored suit was in sharp focus now, and wouldn’t you just know it—three weeks overdue for a haircut, no makeup, wearing a five-year-old gray linen dress that made me look like a housemaid at the Holiday Inn—and here comes my ex-husband sauntering up the driveway like a barnyard rooster. Trying to get the upper hand, I spoke first, though I knew from experience there was little c
hance of that happening. “Randall. Lieutenant Barnes. How are you?”
“Top notch, Promise,” he answered, sounding like the star of a US Marines commercial. As soon as the two uniforms realized we knew each other, they disappeared towards one of the patrol units for a smoke. As much as I hated to admit it, Randall did look ‘top notch.’ Everybody knows though that looks can always be deceiving. The man is really just another snake in paradise. There was a hint of gray to his blond buzz cut and if you looked carefully, you could see the earliest signs of sagging skin around the chin line; but he was still trim and moved like the jock he was. I guess the body comes from all that sailing around on Lake Lanier and chasing young women. The snake smiled. “Don’t call me Randall, Promise. You know I hate that.” Of course I knew he’d rather be called RB. Irritating him in that small way was little enough revenge. “What brings you down here, Dr. McNeal?”
I registered the snide delivery of the Dr. part. “What are you doing down here?” I returned. “I thought you’d gone with the Forsyth County Sheriff’s Department.”
He assumed his smug, self-serving thin little smile. Oh Lord, why did I ever think that face was sexy? “I did,” he quipped, “now I’m back with Atlanta city. What’s your business here? Come to shrink Mr. Paul Tournay?”
“No,” I replied quickly, wondering how much I was obliged to tell a city of Atlanta homicide detective. “I don’t shrink anybody. And, I don’t make house calls. I have an appointment to discuss some legal business with Mr. Tournay.”
