Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (5 page)

“Yes, I see what you mean. They do look to be friends on a picnic. The baby is your mother?” I ventured.

“Yeah,” Paul said wistfully, “hard to believe she was ever a cute, sweet little thing like that.” He sighed and turned to the lunch table. “Speaking of food. Let’s eat.”

We ate the delicious chicken while Paul chatted about his job as theater director, how talented Atlanta actors and actresses were, and what repairs and renovations he had made to the old house to make it more, “human,” as he put it. I asked him if the house had been rented all these years. He said no, that his grandfather would come over to Atlanta from Columbia occasionally and spend a few days taking care of repairs and basic maintenance on the house. Much was in need of repair when he moved in, he told me and then chuckled about the original gold shag carpet in the bedrooms. I thought it odd Tournay Sr. could not, or would not let go of the house in over forty years, sell it and put sad memories to rest; though Paul chatted easily about his grandfather’s house, no sad memories for him here. He also told me the house was designed by his grandmother and built by the Tournays on the site of a mid-eighteen hundreds gristmill that ground corn into meal and wheat into flour for families in the Howell Mill area of Atlanta. He wasn’t sure how long the mill operated, and said an eroded parapet that once held the mechanism to turn the giant stone wheel was still visible, extending out into the creek from the bedroom side of the house. I asked if the lot was carved from the two side yards of the traditional homes to each side. He said no; he had researched the property and it was really the opposite. The land and mill had found its way into the Bennett family during the thirties. Bennett gave Stella and her new husband the mill site to build a house and then sold off the side lots after Stella died. All the while Paul talked about the house, I was struck at how attached he was to the place and how differently each of us sees the same object. He obviously loved the lean sparse architecture and the somber setting. Why, I could not imagine.

After we ate our lunch, I helped Paul clear the table and he brought us coffee, along with something small, creamy inside, and wonderfully chocolate. A truffle, he explained. “Heaven,” I replied. “I really like what you’ve done with this room, Paul. Antiques mixed with the more modern style is very clever.”

He stirred his coffee intently, first not replying, then finally said. “To tell you the truth, it’s Mitchell who is clever with style, and he’s the savvy one with buying and selling antiques. You should see him at Scott’s and Lakewood antiques markets every month. He is like a man on a mission, looking for bargains he can buy low and sell high. He’s quite the trader when it comes to antiques, even has his own mini-shop in one of the converted grocery store malls. Me? I buy what I like regardless of the price, or style.”

“I haven’t been down to the Scott’s market in years. Near the airport, right? I’ll have to go again. I love old pieces. Though I don’t have a clue if I get bargains or over pay.”

Paul shrugged. “Well, it’s only money. If you love it and plan to keep it, what does it matter?”

“Perhaps you are right,” I agreed, though considering my shortfall of cash since I moved to Perry County, a blasé attitude about money was not really in my current lexicon. We drank our coffee silently, me waiting for him to reveal more about himself that might help Garland’s case, him waiting for me to show my hand as to why I insinuated myself into his home and life. I’ve had more practice waiting for clients to grasp a tenuous thread unraveled from experience and connect it to meaning in their life, so I won the standoff.

Paul, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, finally broke the ice. “Enough dancing around the unpleasant with happy small talk. The suspense is too much. Go ahead and tell me. What does my darling mother want? And why in the world does Garland Wang send a nice lady like you to do his hatchet work?”

That was an excellent question; I was beginning to wonder why myself. I segued into my best strategy, honesty. “Thank you for lunch, Paul. It was wonderful.” I anchored my coffee cup back in its saucer and matched my crossed arms with his. “What your mother says she wants is to control the Tournay trust, to replace you as the administrator.”

Paul did not look shocked, or even angry. “You mean she wants control, with a capitol C. Get her hands on all the money, when she pleases, and cut me out all together.” He brushed a few breadcrumbs on the table into a tiny pile, and then carefully moved them to his saucer. “No surprise, knowing Becca. How much is the trust worth anyway?”

I answered him without missing a beat. “I am told about five million dollars.”

“You must be kidding!” His eyebrows raised in surprise. “Where would Grandfather get that kind of money? He was an art professor at the University of South Carolina, for goodness sakes. No wonder Mother wants all of it. You know, she never wanted to share anything about Papa with me. It wasn’t enough she wouldn’t tell me who my father was; she had to try and cut me off from Papa, too. Fortunately it didn’t work. Papa loved me and I loved him. He was moody, depressed at times, preoccupied with his art and teaching; yet, he gave me what he had to give, and I loved him.” Paul shook his head, sadly, and waved at the air dismissively. “Well, tell her I don’t care about the trust. Tell her she can have the money. Grandfather deeded this house to me before he died; that and his love was all I ever wanted.” Paul rose from the table. “Would you like more coffee, Dr. McNeal?”

I watched Paul as he spoke and felt his pain resonate from my stomach into my heart. Here was a man wounded by his mother’s callousness, and years of indifference. Did his heart harbor enough evil to send his mother a voodoo doll? True he was probably a good actor and could deliver a convincing story, but it just didn’t fit. No, I was sure he didn’t send the doll. So if Paul didn’t send it, who did? “No, thank you. No more coffee. I’m good,” I answered. This supposed trust case was spinning out in directions I hadn’t anticipated. What was really going on here? A question occurred to me. “Paul, does your mother know the house is already deeded to you?”

He left the table and came back with an envelope. Opening it, he handed me a warranty deed signed by his grandfather giving him the house. As soon as I held the paper I chided myself for getting involved with Paul’s side of the story. After all, I was being paid to find evidence he was mentally unstable or an outright nut case; asking about the house was not helping Garland’s case one iota. But then, Paul had already said he was willing to give up his share of the trust. If he was telling the truth, Garland had won by default anyway. I decided I cared about Paul and his interest in this ugly house. To hell with Becca.

“I don’t know, I assumed she knew, though…” his voice trailed off, “as I’ve said, we don’t really talk.”

I scanned the deed again. Something was missing. Then it came to me. “Paul, your deed has not been recorded at the Fulton County Courthouse.”

A panic waved over his face. “What do you mean? Why does that matter? Does it mean it’s not really mine? Can she take the house away from me?”

“Wait, wait, calm down. I’m not an attorney and don’t know a lot about real estate. I’ve just bought and sold several properties and know the deeds always get recorded with the clerk of court in the county where the property is located. When that happens, the clerk stamps the deed with the recording information. The stamp is missing on your deed. I think the public recording of the deed makes the transference official. Who else knows your grandfather deeded you the house?”

He sat back down and thought for a moment. “Nobody, I guess. Soon after I moved into the house, Papa just showed up early one Sunday morning and gave me the deed. I remember I made breakfast for us. He chatted on about how he might need to go through the house once more to make sure he’d gotten all his things out, and about the crumbling gristmill wall down by the creek. He seemed preoccupied, said he didn’t feel well and left before I even cleared away the dishes. I thanked him for the house, of course, and we didn’t speak of the deed again. It was about a month later that he had the stroke and passed away. I guess it is possible Papa didn’t tell my mother he gave me the house. He was a very private man. I didn’t even know there was a trust until he died and the attorney read us the will. I assumed my house was not part of the trust, though I don’t know what my mother thinks. The trust attorney sends me small monthly checks from the trust account for upkeep and taxes on the house. I would think my mother knows about that. Although, now that you ask, I’m not sure what Becca knows.” Then he said more to himself, than to me, “Does she hate me so much she would take my house? If she gets the trust, why would the house even matter to her? She has the Columbia house from his will. And her businesses. Not to mention, with five million dollars she can have any house she wants. She doesn’t need mine. This house is all the family I have.”

“Paul, listen to me. I didn’t say your mother is trying to take the house from you. Please don’t jump to conclusions.”

I could hear anger seeping into his voice. “No? Well if she thinks the house is still part of the trust, and she wants all of the trust, then she thinks she gets the house as part of the deal!” He slapped both hands, palms down, on the table. “In that case, forget what I said. I’m not giving up the trust until I know my house is
my
house. She can have the money
only
if I keep my house. You can take that message back to Garland Wang!”

I decided it was time to deal with the doll and retrieved the shoebox from the sofa. “I’ll tell Mr. Wang what you said. Of course you know, Paul, you can go downtown and record your deed today. Just go do it. Then talk to an attorney yourself to see what all this means. You owe that to yourself and your grandfather. Okay?” Paul seemed calmer, having made a stand against her mother, and nodded his assent. “Could I change the subject, just for a moment? Please look at this. It has something to do with you and the trust; I’m just not sure what. I put the box down on the table in front of him and removed the top. His sharp intake of breath seemed genuine.

“Good Lord, what is that?”

I began slowly, “Someone sent this doll to your mother this morning at her hotel.” I gave him a moment to let the information sink in. “Have you ever seen it before? Does it look familiar?”

He peered into the box without touching it. “Familiar? No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the doll, if that is what you mean. But,” he hesitated, “look at the blond hair and the pink suit. Mother always wears suits like that. It looks like her. Did she smash the head?”

“She says not. She says the head was smashed when it was delivered to her. According to your mother, the doll is meant to frighten her. Maybe as a threat. Who would do such a thing?”

Paul sat back, as far away from the box as possible. “Who knows? My mother is known to be a ruthless businesswoman. She would smash a lot of live heads if she could get away with it. There are probably hundreds of people left devastated, and financially ruined, in her wake. Believe me. If Becca wants something, she gets it.”

I had no trouble believing him on that observation. Becca had impressed me as the kind of woman who embraced the idea that winning is all that matters, no matter the cost. “Do you see the white card at the side of the box?” I pointed to the card, not wanting to touch it. “Yes, there. It says, ‘Your Choice.’ The threat seems to be that if she doesn’t make the right choice she will end up like the doll. She believes the person who sent the doll wants her to stop trying to get control of the trust.”

Paul studied me as though he was trying to make sense of my statement, and then said sadly, “Oh, my God. You mean she thinks I sent the doll. Is that why Garland Wang sent you over here?”

I liked this man and he deserved the truth. “My job is to facilitate your mother getting the trust. I don’t understand how this awful doll is connected to the trust; though I have a strong sense it is most certainly connected. That being said, I don’t believe you sent the doll.”

“My mother does?”

I nodded yes.

“Well, I didn’t,” he replied firmly. “She is not my favorite person and I have to say I would not choose her for a friend, or a mother for that matter, but not this.” He pushed the box away and towards me, “No, not this, this is sick. I may be a little twisted, and who wouldn’t be with Becca for a mother, but I don’t send
murdered
dolls to people.”

“I believe you, Paul. I really do. Help me think this through. Is there anyone else associated with the trust that would want her to stop making waves? Anyone else who would benefit if you kept control of the trust?”

He narrowed his eyes in concentration and thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t have any children, and with my lifestyle, I’m not apt to have. Who else could benefit? I can’t imagine. As I told you, I didn’t know about the trust until Grandfather died and I still know very little about it. Mitchell must have asked me a thousand times about it, how much it was worth and all that. I told him I didn’t know, and I really didn’t until you told me.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “Mitchell?”

“Yes, Mitchell. He of the Troy Donahue good looks. I met him when we did
The Fantastics
at the theater. He was wonderful, good voice, the audience loved him, and he did dye his hair for that, by the way. He moved in with me shortly after the show finished. I thought the relationship was going to be THE one, well it wasn’t. Almost from the start it was one thing after another, a little lie here and a big lie there. As you saw, we fight a lot. He’s left before, several times, and we’ve made up—not this time. I’m not taking him back this time. This time the lie is just too big to forgive.”