Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (25 page)

I can’t cook rice without sticking it to the bottom of the pan, and Algebra totally eludes me; however, I am blessed with an excellent sense of where I am on this earth. You can drop me just about anywhere and I can sense north and south like I have a compass tattooed on the back of my eyelids. That’s why, even in the dark, surrounded by an unfamiliar woods, I could feel what direction to follow.

What I couldn’t know was that my attacker must have heard me closing in behind and doubled back to my left. She struck me again, this time I think she meant to cripple me from the rear at the knees. Because I am shorter, closer to the ground than she judged, the blow caught me squarely across my butt; two inches higher and my back might have been broken. It felt like a thousand wasp stings and reverberated all the way up my spine.

When she poised to hit me again, I saw her out of the corner of my eye and recognized the weapon: the single piece of iron rebar from Paul’s basement. I lunged up towards her, flailing my fists at her chest and hitting at anything I could reach. My prissy attempt at self-defense must have taken her off guard because she dropped the iron bar and ran, leaving me panting with pain in a heap on the ground, and clutching a handful of hair.

I held my prize out to the meager moonlight and realized what I had in my hand was a wig, an artful creation of long black cornrows laced with multi-colored beads. Only the pain kept me from laughing. Angel the elegant, in a wig. I couldn’t wait to tell Susan.

I was tentatively standing and shaking out the tail of my soggy linen skirt where it clung to my equally soggy and muddy legs when a light shone in my eyes. A familiar voice spoke from the other side of the light. “Alpha to Beta. I got her. Over. Gotcha. Good job boys. Over and out.” Of course RB Barnes would be Alpha on his two-way radio, and everybody else’s moniker would be farther down the alphabet line. I did my best to get upright and look professional. If one can look professional in muddy clothes, wet shoes, and possibly broken ribs. My knees felt like jelly and every time I took a breath it felt like a knife ripping into my side. I was in serious danger of crying, and would have if my rescuer had been anyone other than my ex-husband.

“Gawd-a-mighty, Promise. I should have known,” he scolded. “What the hell are you doing out here? Not snipe hunting are you? You look like a mud rat.” I have no idea what a mud rat is, but I’m sure it is not the least bit attractive. He scanned the light over the rest of my body, then hooked it to his belt clip and extended his left hand to help me. His handgun remained in his right hand.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked, pulling away from him.

“For cripes sake, Promise,” he snapped, “Stop trying to have the last word and just let me help you. I didn’t realize you were hurt.” He spoke into his radio again. “Beta, this is Alpha. We are going to need an EMT at start point. Copy? “The reply was “yes sir” and he signed off.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“Cause I’m smart, Dr. McNeal. I was watching Tournay’s house because I talked to Garland Wang earlier. We both figured you were up to something.”

“How astute of you,” I replied. “What’s start point?”

“Start point is Tournay’s house. There are two other units parked on the side street beyond the woods. They picked up your perp, just where the cowboy at Tournay’s house told us she’d be.”

“Cowboy?” Barnes was apparently talking about Daniel. “Just shut up Barnes. You wouldn’t know a cowboy from a carhop.”

“Promise, that’s the second time today you’ve told me to shut up. That’s more times than all the years we were married. What’s stiffened your back bone all the sudden?”

Before I could think of a smart answer, two flashlight orbs came towards us from deeper into the woods. Barnes went back to business. “Were you hit with a weapon, or just knocked around on the ground?”

I stumbled over and leaned against an oak for support. “Weapon. I think a piece of iron rebar between two and three feet long. She may have dropped it near where I fell.”

“Les, that you?” Barnes called out to one of the lights.

“Yes, Sir. Me and Boyle,” came the answer.

“Look around the immediate perimeter here for an iron rod big enough to lay somebody out with. May be our weapon.”

“Already got it, sir.” Les or Boyle, whoever he was, approached Barnes and held out the iron bar, partially wrapped in his handkerchief. I assumed that was to preserve fingerprints.

Barnes shined his light on the bar then looked to me. “That look like the one?”

I was holding onto the tree for dear life by this time and praying the nausea waving up into my throat didn’t mean I was going to throw up. All I could manage was a barely audible, “yes.” Then I remembered the wig I’d dropped somewhere between trying to stand under my own strength and Barnes’ arrival on the scene. “Randall,” I said weakly, “wave your light back and forth. I grabbed her wig when she hit me the last time.”

“Did you say wig?” Barnes asked me. The other officer snickered. “What the hell is so funny, Les?”

Less reached down into a dark space between his left foot and the Oak tree and picked up the damp wig. “Nothing, Boss. Nothing.” Producing a large plastic baggie from his jacket pocket, he slipped Angel’s wig inside. On Barnes’ signal, we headed back through the woods for Tournay’s house: me limping along in squishy wet shoes and Les continuing to snicker with his own private joke

Daniel and Paul were waiting in the yard as we crossed the creek. Daniel reached for me as I stumbled off the parapet. “Promise, what happened? You’re shivering. Are you hurt?” He reached out and drew me to him, closing an arm around my shoulder.

I let him, glad for the support and warmth. He was right. By that time I was cold and shaking. “I’ll be okay. I’m pretty sure nothing is broken. I’m just too old to wrestle a six foot tall woman half my age.”

Les snickered again. “Les, you got way too much happy juice going on out here tonight,” reprimanded Barnes. “Now what’s so funny?”

“Well, Boss. It’s like this,” Les began, pleased with himself, “we had a female officer with us, just like you said to, and when she patted the perp down, she says she ain’t a she. The officer says she’s pretty sure Ms. Angel Turner is a guy.”

My mouth dropped about a foot and I looked at Paul. Both hands went on his hips and he turned away from us with a dramatic jerk. “Well, if that is supposed to make me feel better, it certainly does not!” We watched his back retreat towards the house.

Barnes looked at me. “What the hell is he talking about?”

I shook my head. “Long story, Randall, long story.”

After the EMT took my vital signs, examined the red welts which I knew would soon darken to black and blue, and asked a few pertinent questions about how bad I hurt and whether my breathing was constricted by the blows across my ribs, I elected not to ride with them to the emergency room and signed the proper release forms to waive any damages should I croak later on due to my injuries. It seemed fair enough. There was no way I wanted to spend the rest of the night parked in the crowded halls of Grady Hospital waiting for an overworked doctor to tell the what I already knew: I’d be sore and bruised for a while, but I would live.

After that I had to try and sit still long enough to give my statement to one of Barnes’ cohorts. It seemed he asked me the same questions over and over. I couldn’t tell if he thought I was lying, or if he had an attention deficit disorder. Finally, he closed his notebook and I had an opportunity to ask questions: like where was the Madonna alter piece Daniel and I had bugged with his tracking thingamabob, and had Angel’s identity been verified. To the first question, I was told the Madonna panels were indeed seized from Turner as she emerged from the woods; however, no tracking receiver was found on the panels. Evidently, the receiver, a thin metal disc about the size of a watch battery, fell off soon after Angel left the basement. That’s probably why the blips stopped and our cute little dot ceased to move up the grid. So much for the testimonials printed in bold type on the
Great Gonzo Mondo Glue
package.

As to Angel Turner, the officer said they found her van parked on the grass shoulder of the street beyond the woods. Inside the glove box was a South Carolina driver’s license with the name Raymond Angelo Turner on it. Though the picture looked somewhat like Angel, she denied it was hers and said she had no idea why the license was in her van. When the officer ran the plates through the DMV, the van was registered to a Solomon B. Turner. Angel had no other driver’s license and refused to answer any further questions until an attorney was present.

I sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a blanket from Paul’s guest room as he went about making sympathetic noises and brewing fresh coffee for everyone. Daniel disappeared for a short time then returned with a couple of folded towels. After he sandwiched ice cubes from Paul’s freezer between the towel layers, he knelt beside me and offered up one, “Take this and press it against your ribs. It’ll help with the bruising. I’ll hold the other on your arm. I guess you would prefer to ignore your busted butt for the moment.” My raised left eyebrow indicated he was right about my butt. Knowing the cold compress was going to shock when it touched my wounds, I took a deep breath and eased back into the chair to brace for the pain.

Paul handed me a cup of coffee and lowered himself at my side. He spoke quietly. “Listen, I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight. I can be selfish, and I know I’m dense, so it took me until about five minutes ago to figure out why you were so intent on trapping that Angel person. If we caught her tonight, maybe they could prove she, or he, whatever, killed Mitchell and I’ll be off the hook. Right?”

“Yes, something like that,” I replied, and patted his shoulder.

“I’d hug you but I know you’re hurting. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s over now.”

RB Barnes plowed into the room, rubbing his hands together and smiling—the happy cop. It is amazing how his energy will suck up all the oxygen in a space. “Oh good, fresh coffee, thanks,” he nearly sang, as he poured himself a cup.

Daniel stood and helped himself to coffee. He and Barnes were now side by side. I couldn’t help comparing the two. Barnes: wide fair face, those cocky hazel eyes I’d once found irresistible, close cropped blond hair, body defined nowadays by Bow flex and probably a personal trainer. Mr. Hyper-Macho. And Daniel: well Daniel was Daniel, taller, more relaxed than Barnes, comfortable in his skin, solid from working outdoors, eyes as dark as a Scottish loch. I remembered how comforting his arms felt when he hugged me earlier in the yard, and drew the blanket closer. Barnes stepped back and leaned against the kitchen counter, well out of Daniel’s personal space. “So, Mr. Allen, with that Stetson hat and western boots and all, are you a real cowboy?”

Daniel gave him a disgusted look. “Well, I do raise cows, Lieutenant Barnes. If that makes me a cowboy, then I reckon I am. That bother you?”

Barnes grinned from ear to ear and replied, “Hell no, I got no problem with cows. I eat steak just about every Saturday night.”

Daniel stirred his coffee and sat down across from me, without replying to Barnes. Atta-boy, I wanted to say to Daniel, ignore the bully. To Barnes I wanted to say…well, I don’t know what I wanted to say, just something to punish him for talking down to Daniel. As usual, I couldn’t think of anything clever. When his posse came in to report they were finished dusting the newly discovered basement room for fingerprints and were ready to leave, Barnes said goodnight and swaggered away.

As soon as the front door closed, Paul piped up, “What an asshole!”

“Ah. You noticed,” I answered and managed a small smile. Daniel was silent and kept his hands pressed firmly around the cold towel on my arm.

“The known is finite, the unknown infinite.”
…T.H. Huxley, 1887

17.

I don’t know how I managed to drive home to North Carolina that night. A couple of cups of coffee and Daniel’s truck headlights in my rearview mirror certainly helped. We finally drove down my driveway at about three in the morning. Susan was stretched out on the sofa, snoring softly, with Mamma Cat asleep beside her, and when we walked into the living room she bolted upright and swore she was awake and waiting up for us. I was so glad to see her, and so glad to be home we hugged as though it had been a month since we last saw each other. Daniel must have called her earlier because she didn’t ask any questions, and herded me into the bathroom where she drew me a hot bath. I haven’t felt so pampered since I was a little girl. When I emerged from soaking my aching body, dressed in clean soft sweats, Daniel had left.

I think she read the disappointment clouding across my face. “Daddy said to tell you he’d come back tomorrow to check on you, or I guess he means today, since it’s almost morning. He had to go see to the cows and get ready for his mail run. Don’t worry. I’m gonna be here in case you need anything. You just go get some sleep.”

I managed a thank you, and turned back to the bedroom where I crawled gingerly under my down comforter, trying not to rub any of my bruises against the surface. The last thing I remember before sinking into deep sleep was thinking I really should get up and take off my clothes.

Garland called about two in the afternoon while I was trying to shake the grogginess with a toasted cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. “Hey, Sugar,” he said happily. I might as well give up correcting him on calling me Sugar. The man is incorrigible. “You among the living?”

“I will be,” I offered, with more determination than I really felt. “How are you?”

“How am I?” Immediately, I regretted asking. The long-suffering tone of his voice told me I was in for a lengthy explanation. “If you really want to know, I have a royal pain in my neck from an hour on the phone with my mother. Finally, she tells why she’s been mad at my dad for months. You know my dad was seventy-four on his last birthday, and my mother is convinced he is having an affair. I swear she really believes it. So, ask me how she knows he must be having an affair, go ahead, ask.”

“Okay, Garland. I’m asking. How does she know?”

“Because, she whispers to me on the phone, Dad hasn’t had sex with her for the past three months. Three months, she says. What would she expect from a man of seventy-four? And he still does all his Rotary stuff and works a ten-hour day.”

Talking to Garland about his parents was not at the top of my list of things I wanted to do. All I wanted was to stay prone on the sofa, nurse my wounds, maybe have a bowl of ice cream and watch Andy Griffith re-runs. Wasn’t going to happen. My little helping gene kicked in and I said, “Umm,” in my best sympathetic voice.

“Umm? What does that mean?”

“Well, Garland, many men, and women, in their seventies are still sexually active. Your mother knows your dad better than anyone else. Perhaps your dad is having some health problems that prevent him from…”

Garland cut me off. “You know, Dr. McNeal, this is far more information about my parent’s personal life than I want. Yuck! I don’t even want to think about them having sex. Yes, I will find some discrete way to get my dad to have a physical checkup; no I will not do what my mother wants. And that’s final. I mean,
really
.”

My better judgment told me I didn’t need to know what his mother wanted him to do, my nosy side had to ask. “What does she want you to do?”

He moaned. “I shouldn’t have started this conversation with you, Promise. I really shouldn’t have. Forget I mentioned it.”

“It’s okay, Garland. You don’t have to tell me.” I waited. Drat. He really wasn’t going to tell me. “Does it have anything to do with grown-up toys?”

“Stop it, stop it! I told you I’m not doing it.”

Poor Garland. Poor Garland’s mother. Poor Garland’s father, for that matter, but at least the conversation provided some much-needed comic relief for my otherwise fragile mental state. Stifling a laugh, I put back on my sympathetic hat. “Well, why don’t you get your dad to the doctor first, and then we can talk about other possibilities.”

“There are no other possibilities. I’m not getting involved in this issue beyond a doctor’s visit. I’m changing the subject. I understand you had a bad night. Got the crap beat out of you by a six foot Amazon cross-dresser.”

“Well, that’s a little bit of a stretch, and I’m not sure what the deal is with Angel Turner, aka Raymond Angelo Turner. She was too busy whomping on me for us to have a meaningful conversation, so I don’t know if the issue is cross-dressing, or a sex change, or what. I survived to tell the tale, as they say. For that I am grateful. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Good girl. I knew you were tough. Guess what?”

I could feel him gloating through the phone. “I don’t know, Garland. What?”

“Paul Tournay came in this morning and signed management of the trust over to Becca, and Becca over-nighted me a Quit Claim Deed to Paul for his house. Now she has no claim to it, and everybody wins. Isn’t that great?”

Hearing about Becca and Paul made me sad—I’m not sure why—and deflated my moment of good humor. “Yes, that is great,” I managed to reply, “Congratulations Garland. I guess you can close the case now.”

“Absolutely. The best news is: Becca’s up front retainer was enough that I can expense out my fees and not have to talk to her ever again. Of course my office will send her a detailed accounting of the time and expenses, and I’ll have to record the Quit Claim Deed at the Fulton County courthouse; no problem, I can spring for the ten dollar fee.”

“I’m happy for you Garland.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“Well, I am. I just had a difficult night, remember. Today I feel like a semi-truck ran over me and then backed up to scratch off on my ribs.”

“Would it make you feel better to know I billed an extra thousand for you from Ms. Becca?”

That was news I could get happy about. “Actually Garland, that would make me feel a lot better. Let me make sure I understand what you are saying. Is the thousand dollars in addition to the invoice I’m going to send you for the two days at five hundred dollars a day?”

After a pregnant pause, Garland replied, “You strike a hard bargain; yes, that is over and above your invoice. I’ll get Paige to mail you a check this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Attorney Wang. You are an honorable man,” I chided him. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you. There’s no rush. Tomorrow will be fine.”

I hung up and rested my head back on the sofa pillows trying to work up some righteous indignation over Garland not asking the reason Angel Turner was sneaking around Tournay’s house—proving to me that he already knew about the pirated antiquities—but I was too happy about the bonus to get angry with him. Soon, I fell into fitful sleep until Susan came back at six with Daniel, and a large mushroom and green pepper pizza. The three of us sat around the coffee table in the living room drinking beers, eating pizza, and avoiding talking about the night before.

Susan finally broached the subject. “I still can’t believe Angel Turner was a big shot model in New York and she is really a
he
. How did she, or he, pull that off?”

I wiped a drop of melted cheese off my chin and took a sip of beer before I answered, “I have no idea. I’m just as surprised as you are that Angel could get away with it. Although, I saw her at the antiques mall and she sure looked tall, gorgeous, and female. Her grandfather did say she was angry because her modeling career was cut short. Maybe someone did find out and she was fired, or just not given any more work. I mean, we really don’t know if Angel is in the middle of a sex change, or what.”

“Have you ever counseled someone during a sex change?” Susan inquired.

“No. That is a whole specialized field in itself. I’ve attended my share of sexual identity seminars, but I’m not even close to knowledgeable enough to discuss what Angel might be going through. Though, from the little I do know, my heart goes out to anyone struggling with sexual identity.” I sneaked a sideways look at Daniel to see if he was uncomfortable with our girl-sex talk. Typical guy—tuned out expression on his face–tightly focused on coordinating his beer swallows with manly bites of pizza.

Susan’s neck stiffened and she leaned across the table towards me. “Hello! Are you telling me you feel sorry for Angel? She tried to murder you with an iron rebar.”

Murder me? Did Angel really try to murder me? I wasn’t sure. If she had wanted to kill me, she could have stood her ground and beat me to death with the rebar. Still, her attack could have been fatal. A chill shuttered across my shoulders and I felt tears of fear burn my eyes. I pretended to wipe more pizza cheese and cleared away the tears with a napkin. Did I have compassion for Angel? Maybe later. Right then the physical pain was too fresh for me to see the hurt person behind the attack. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m only saying sexual identity issues are complicated. Very complicated. What happened last night was about a person, Angel, attacking another person—me. The sexual identity of either of us makes no difference. I am definitely not giving her a pass on her bad actions. By Becca’s accounts Angel is a blackmailer; by Angel’s actions she is a thief, and by my bruises she is a violent person. Possibly a murderer.”

Susan reached for another slice of pizza. “So you still think Angel killed Mitchell Sanders, Miz P?”

Chewing a crunchy corner of crust, I thought for a moment. “I believe they fought about Mitchell going off alone and trying to bilk more money from Becca. And I think Angel was probably angry if she knew Mitchell had been dumb enough to terrorize Becca by shooting at her car. After all, since most of the art was sold, part of her meal ticket was Becca’s blackmail money. Where would she be if Becca died in an accident? And then there is the business of both of them coming up here and nailing the snake to my door. Mitchell must have lied to Angel about my part in the trust issue to get her help, when he was really still trying to assure Paul kept the trust management. That must have ticked her off big time, if she found out the truth. So yes, I keep coming to the conclusion Angel felt Mitchell was a loose canon, out of her control, and killed him. There is one thing that bugs me about what happened. I have a clear sense of them fighting in the basement; then it’s like something else is happening, something I can’t quite bring into focus.” I paused, letting the sensation of being in the basement with Angel and Mitchell wash over me. “Yes, that’s it. Something else happened in the basement, and then Sanders fell. When he fell, I believe Angel finished him off with the same weapon she took to me.”

Susan’s eyes widened. “Miz P. you look like MaMa Allen when she sees one of her visions. Is that what you are seeing?”

“Good Lord, no, Susan. I just have intuition about people, sometimes.”

Susan sat upright and belched. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t mean to do that. I was about to say a vision is a vision, no matter what you call it. I think we need to introduce you to MaMa Allen. See what she says.”

Daniel interjected, “That ought to do it.”

“Do what?” I asked, defensively.

Now it was Daniel’s turn to wipe his greasy chin with a napkin. “Lord, Lady. You got to learn the language up here. I just meant MaMa Allen would settle the issue. She can tell a vision from a daydream.”

This conversation was beginning to strike too close to home. I didn’t care to have MaMa Allen, or anyone else, poking around in my head, thank you very much. From there it would be a very small jump to talking about my dreams, and I was not ready to go there. “Well,” I offered, just to close the subject, “maybe when I’m not so busy, we’ll go meet your MaMa Allen.”

Daniel’s eyes never left my face. “Couldn’t be you’re afraid of meeting Granny?” he dug at me. Before I could answer, he gathered his tall frame from his sitting position and bent to kiss Susan on the cheek. “I got to go, Babe. I’m bone tired and got an early day tomorrow. Don’t keep Miz P up late. She needs to rest.” Susan smiled at her Dad, and he nodded to me and turned to leave.

Just as he reached the front door, I called to him, “Daniel.”

He turned. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Thank you. Thank you for everything.” I hoped I sounded sincere, because I was.