Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (4 page)

“Paul Alaine Tournay, the second, his grandfather being the first, or senior, however you want to put it.” Garland began, and pointed to the photograph, “Only son of Becca. Thirty-four years old.”

“So, Becca was about what age when he was born?”

“Eighteen. A student at the University of South Carolina, where her father was a professor, when her son was born. No marriage. Sperm donor unknown, at least to me. She refuses to talk about it; so, we can assume giving birth was not Becca’s first choice. Obviously, the baby was named for his grandfather. Paulie, as his mother calls him, was raised by Becca and Sr. Tournay, and graduated from the University of South Carolina with a degree in history and theater. Began acting and singing as a teenager and was well received at USC with the Shakespearean players. Plays classical piano. Toured for a while with a group called the Upstock Players doing the usual, The Fantastics, Music Man, that kind of stuff. Somehow got tagged for a short stint as Ronald in a disgusting soap titled,
Forever
. Soap only lasted one season. Must have been pretty bad. Three years ago Paulie moved back to Atlanta into the old Tournay house off West Wesley Road and Howell Mill. Lived there about a year, presumably with grandpa’s permission, before Tournay, Sr. died. Now the trust allows him to stay in the house.”

“What does he do for a living now?”

“He still acts locally and actually has a paying job as director of the Sixteenth Street Theater; not big bucks, but since he lives rent free in grandpa’s house and the trust pays all the household bills, except food. I guess he does okay. Grandpa even gave him a vintage Jag, so I guess no car payments. Though, upkeep on a Jaguar must be more than some car payments. Oh, and his mom says he buys and sells antiques and vintage stuff like that.”

I nodded my head to show I’d taken in Garland’s recitation about Paulie Tournay. “So, what is the deal with the trust? How much money, and how does it work?”

“About five million. How does it work? Ah, that is interesting.” Garland took a deep sip of tea. “It’s one of those beautiful set-ups to keep the IRS from getting all the inheritance. When Reagan was President, his administration got this and a couple of other trust formulas through Congress to save rich folks some inheritance taxes. This type of trust was available for five years and then expired. Tournay was lucky, or smart, enough to get in on it before it expired. Basically, Becca and Paulie, as he is so lovingly called by his mommy, get interest only on the trust for the first ten years and then Paulie gets the principal in one lump sum to control. At that point he can liquidate most of the assets by an ingenious convoluted tax formula if he chooses, at no penalty. Sweet deal! The only holdout will be Becca continues to get a monthly allowance from the trust, in the amount of the last year’s interest, until her death.”

“That means Paulie doesn’t even get control of the trust for another eight years. Why is Becca so hot to do something now?”

“No mystery there, not really. Even though the administrator can’t cash in the trust until then, there are things that can be done into the third and following years to free up parts of the cash and still not trigger an IRS rape of the funds. And most importantly, one of the many rules for this type of trust is that any objection by the heirs must be filed within twenty-four months of the activation of the trust. The activation, of course, would technically have been Tournay Sr.’s death. That, my dear, brings us to the urgency of the matter. We only have sixteen days left to file our objection.”

“
Sixteen days
. Garland. Bring me in on the last roll of the wave, will ya.”

Tapping out a short rat-tat-tat on the table with the erasure end of his pencil, Garland frowned. “We’re both on the tail end of the wave. Ms. Becca just breezed into my office two days ago. Didn’t I tell you I needed a little magic?”

I nodded in sympathy. “Okay, so what do you have on Paulie that makes him an unfit administrator? Any drugs, alcohol, past criminal record?”

“Nada. That’s why I need you, Dr. McNeal, psychologist extraordinaire. The good news is that we don’t have to prove him a total nut case, just not fit to manage the sizable Tournay fortune. He can be mentally unstable, a criminal, or just plain stupid. Take your pick. It doesn’t matter which. Just get me something I can take to a judge.”

“By the way, how did the Sr. Tournay make the money?”

Garland waved his right hand and studied the ceiling. “Hell, I don’t know. The how doesn’t matter to our case. He taught art in Atlanta at the Art Institute and then at USC for years after they left Atlanta. He did write one book,
Carolingian Art, Diverging Genius
. Whatever Carolingian art is.”

“Catchy title. I think Carolingian has to do with the reign of Charlemagne.”

Garland’s cinnamon brown eyes narrowed. “How do you know that, and I don’t?”

“It’s okay Garland. Don’t be hurt. When you were busy with predator skills at law school, I was yawning through art appreciation class. It doesn’t sound like Sr.’s book would have made the bestseller list. Where else could the money have come from?”

Garland shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. Like I said. It doesn’t matter. Maybe good investing back when you could make a killing in the stock market. I don’t know, and don’t care. Becca’s story is some of it came from Tournay’s family in France. He was French. Did I mention that? I have copies of Tournay’s accounts that merged into the trust showing intermittent deposits since the early fifties. He seems to have kept one investment account separate from what he earned teaching. Some of it goes out over the years, but he seems to have been a thrifty Frenchman and much of it stays in for growth. Anyway, we aren’t concerned with where the money came from, only that the charming Becca gets to keep it. Why are you so interested?”

“Umm. Well, you know me; inquiring minds want to know. Don’t worry, I hear you. I am being paid to investigate Paulie and not Paul Sr.’s money. So, other than the possibility Paulie sent his mom a somewhat bizarre voodoo doll, what makes Becca so sure he is insane?”

“Ah, another interesting twist. She says after he moved into the Tournay house, Paulie called his grandfather several times babbling he had seen the ghost of his grandmother on the house grounds. Becca says old Papa was horrendously upset by young Paul’s stories and she is sure the calls sent Papa to an early demise. To say she is very angry with Paulie would a gross understatement. I gather Becca and good old Papa were very close.”

“Closer than she is with her son, it would seem. What about the grandmother? When did she die?”

Garland fidgeted in his seat and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, that seems to be a long story Becca also refuses to talk about. The short version I got from one newspaper clipping and an obit Paige dug up on line is that Becca’s mom, Stella Chandless Bennett Tournay, an Atlanta debutante with money of her own from the Chandless and Bennett side of the family, either hanged herself, or was murdered while she and Paul Sr. lived at the house in Atlanta. Becca was only five, so understandably she wouldn’t really know anything first hand about her mother’s death, and you can bet your last dollar Papa wasn’t forthcoming with any information, since the newspaper clipping stated he was apparently the main suspect, if there was foul play. I take it the Atlanta police couldn’t make a case for murder against him and the whole case just withered away. Soon after that, Tournay moved himself and little Becca over to Columbia, where he took a teaching position at the University of South Carolina. Stella’s family tried to get custody of Becca. I gather they were unsuccessful. I think she has not seen any of her mother’s people since then, though she did inherit some money from her mother by way of the Chandless side of the family. I checked that out to make sure she could pay me. I surmise that money is what jumpstarted her business ventures. I’m not sure.”

My mind tumbled at each of Garland’s words about Stella Tournay, and the face in my dream came back with fierce clarity. “Garland, stop for a second. Did you say Stella Tournay died by hanging? Was she by chance found hanging out over a creek?”

“Yeah, she was actually,” Garland said with surprise, “the newspaper article said she was found about half way out a sturdy oak limb extending over Howell creek. Strange way to commit suicide, don’t you think? The paper hinted she might have been killed elsewhere and then taken down to the creek. Creepy, don’t you think? Boy, I’m glad I don’t do criminal work. I hate this weird shit. Wait a second, how’d you know she was hanging over the creek?”

I kept my eyes focused down at my pad, finishing the somewhat crudely drawn ballet shippers I’d been sketching while Garland talked. “Oh, I don’t know. I must have read the story at some point in time.”

Garland glanced at my pad. “Promise, why are you drawing ballet shoes? Did I tell you Stella Tournay was a dancer and that Becca owns several dance studios? She owns that franchise,
Danse
. However you pronounce it in French. Have you heard of them?”

“No, I haven’t,” I replied honestly.

“Well, apparently my client does very well on her own. Doesn’t really need Papa’s money. In fact, I don’t think this trust thing is about the money. I honestly think she hates her son’s guts. Just doesn’t want him to have any part of her Papa. You’re the expert. Tell me, Promise, is that possible? Can a mother just plain hate her son’s guts?”

I allowed myself to exhale a deep sigh I had been holding for what seemed to be a long, long time. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Garland. Although sadly, it is possible for a mother, or a father, to have only feelings of anger and resentment for their own child. Sometimes the bond of love just doesn’t develop. It’s not a random happenstance though, and parents can’t catch it like the flu. From what I understand, we are talking about pretty emotionally damaged mothers and fathers here.”

“Crap. I hate this case already. Let’s do what we have to do and get it over with.”

Remembering Becca’s cold hand, and sensing her equally cold heart, I was wishing I’d stayed in North Carolina. “Does Paulie know his mom is trying to cut him out?”

“My guess is he does. When I phoned him and asked if he would talk to you, he agreed without any hesitation. I think I heard him laugh. Then he said, ‘Come on over, it’s always interesting to see what mean stew my mother is cooking up.’ Clever, huh?”

I know I must have rolled my eyes at the bad pun. “Yes. Very clever. Did you make an appointment for me?”

“I did. One o’clock today. His house. Down in Buckhead.”

I checked my watch: twelve-ten. I would have to hurry to be anywhere by one o’clock in the snarled Atlanta traffic. “Garland, don’t you ever call me again and say an assignment is a piece of cake. If you do, you are dead meat.”

Garland favored me with one of his charming boyish smiles and handed me Paulie Tournay’s address.

“Love never dies a natural death…” Anais Nin

4.

The Tournay house was located on Bennett Trace, deep in Buckhead, one of Atlanta’s most prestigious in town neighborhoods. The street was unfamiliar to me, even though I had previously lived near that area of Atlanta for twenty-five years. After following Garland’s hand drawn map from Peachtree Road, Atlanta’s signature north-south byway, and winding west along West Wesley Road, then traveling Howell Mill Road through a section of much desired, and thus expensive addresses, I finally found the green and white city street sign for Bennett Trace. As I navigated the sharp right turn, I noted Bennett Trace was little more than a long narrow cul-de-sac sandwiched between a pair of two-story colonial homes. The street appeared to have been sliced from each residence’s side yard, and ended at Paul Tournay’s house, which was crouched low as though hiding behind its two regal red brick neighbors.

Passing beneath a heavy shading of old oak trees, I stopped the car for a moment to digest the flat roofline and gray stone façade of the nineteen-fifties contemporary design. The house was a case of Frank Lloyd Wright camped out in the backyard of
Gone With The Wind’s Tara
, as out of sync with its neighbors as Saint Peter playing a pennywhistle. For lovers of this style of architecture the house probably exuded artistic genius. To me, it was only cold right angles hunkered down in the leaf-strewn ground. There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen, and what remained of the overly mature azaleas grew spiky tall and sparse against the stone facade. Trust me, this was not a house of apple pie fragrances and Christmas cheer. It was easy to imagine Paul Tournay’s grandson seeing ghosts sneaking about its somber yards. I said a prayer of thanks for my warm little cabin on Fells Creek, with its cherry wood floors and friendly wrap around porch, and parked my Subaru beside a late model white Ford Explorer in the drive. An older dark blue Jag, no doubt Paulie Tournay’s gift from his grandfather, was parked nearer to the front of the house. Grabbing my purse and cradling the infamous shoebox containing the “Becca doll,” I told myself I might as well get it over with, and headed for the house.

Tucked under a shadowy overhang, a dark grained oak slab, carved in Romanesque style with acanthus leaves framing a life sized helmeted medieval knight, sword at his side, made up the front door. I wondered if the knight meant the designer had a sense of humor, once you got past the stark exterior. When I rang the bell a gray cat tiptoed up to me from a hiding place in the azaleas to rhythmically wind her body back and forth at my feet. Just as I stooped to pet her skinny back, the door opened and Paulie Tournay reached for my jacket sleeve and pulled me into the house.

“Come inside, quick. She runs in whenever she gets the chance. Pesky animal.” He shut the door behind us and released me. “Sorry. You must be Dr. McNeal?”

I extended my hand and he received it with a warm open smile. “Mr. Tournay. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Please, Paul. Not Paulie, as my mother continues to call me, just Paul,” he offered. His photographs did not do him justice. His muscular upper arms and chest defining his short sleeved, white Polo tee shirt told me why he was cast as the hunk in a daytime soap. And in the handsome face, large languid brown eyes that you really, really wanted to believe arrested my attention. His voice was at once theatrical and intimate when he spoke. “And you are welcome. Whatever dramatics Mummy dearest is up to, I’ve learned it’s best to get it over with so the rest of us can get back to some sort of normal life. Come in, come in.” He exchanged my hand for an elbow to guide me and his citrus cologne settled comfortable on me as we moved through the foyer. “So, tell me what this is all about. Grandfather’s trust, I imagine, since lawyers, the world’s largest species of predators are involved.”

Before I could answer, booted footsteps clomp, clomp, clomping, down the wood stairs into the foyer, accompanied a youngish, slightly built, sandy haired man carrying an over stuffed duffle bag. He shot Paul a look angry enough to scatter bats, and slammed a key into his palm. “You
will
be sorry,” he threatened, and threw open the front door, allowing the skinny gray cat to shoot into the house and disappear somewhere out of sight.

As the door slammed, Paul grimaced, and then spoke softly. “Dr. McNeal, may I introduce Mitchell Sanders. Mitchell, Dr. McNeal.” His dark eyes narrowed towards the closed door as he slipped the key into his pants pocket. Neither of us spoke. After what seemed like an eternity, a car cranked over and the sound of gravel scattering broke the silence.

“Lover’s quarrel?”

Paul forced a thin smile, and shrugged. “How could you tell?”

I smiled, sympathetically I hoped. “Is it just me, or does he look like a younger, shorter version of Troy Donahue?”

“Well, I guess. Surfside Six, A Summer Place. Sandra Dee, for God’s sake! He says that’s why he can’t get a break, not until every old fart in the audience who remembers Donahue dies out. I told him to dye his hair, but I think the handsome Mitchell Sanders would rather complain.”

I nodded in understanding, even though I was certain I was part of that old fart audience who needed to pass on over to give the guy the acting opportunity he felt he so richly deserved.

Paul sighed. “Oh well, c’est la vie. When in distress we French eat. You may have Mitchell’s share of the curry chicken salad and fresh bread with apple butter. Absolutely fabulous. You’ll see.”

Not waiting for me to accept his offer, Paul ushered me into the living room. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll serve us in here on the table by the windows. Afterwards, you can tell me all about your employer, Attorney Garland Wang, and my mother’s latest nefarious plot.” With that, Paul walked out of the room, presumably to the kitchen and curry chicken. I remained standing, holding Becca’s shoebox and my purse. Paul certainly didn’t seem to be upset by a stranger showing up at his door. Interesting. He was even willing to feed the enemy.

I took the liberty of leaving my purse and shoebox on the lime green mid-century sectional sofa floating center of the large living room, and did what I always like to do when left alone in other people’s rooms: I prepared to snoop. Though, in looking around, the snooping was going to be short lived as, other than the sofa, the room was sparsely furnished. It didn’t take very much time to run my hand across the mahogany empire desk with gold-plated lion heads encrusting both front corners, or feel the crispness of the yellow taffeta on its accompanying armchair. The top of the desk was bare so not much snooping there; that left the drop leaf mahogany table with carved reeded legs by the windows, our lunch location, and its pair of lyre back chairs upholstered in gold bumblebees alight a maroon background. A muted red, green and gold Oriental rug, set at an angle to the desk, was soft from wear and smelled of aged wool dyes. Umm. Someone had very good taste. I wondered if that someone was Paul or Mitchell Sanders. Hadn’t Garland told me Paul bought and sold antiques?

I drifted to the wall shared by the foyer to examine a grouping of black and white framed photographs, and mulled over what I’d learned so far about Paulie Tournay. I had to admit I liked him, and it was hard to visualize him terrorizing his mother with a voodoo doll. But then, I reminded myself; I had seen enough sociopaths to know how charming they can be, if charm suits their agenda. Also, there was the matter of Paul saying he had seen Stella Tournay’s ghost, if indeed he did say that. I didn’t doubt Becca would lie, if a lie would get her what she wanted. My internal dialogue was interrupted by one of the photographs—a serious-faced dark haired man, looking much like Paulie, in a evening dress suit and tie, his left arm casually draped around the neck of a solemn black man cradling a horn to his chest. Was it a cornet or trumpet? I confused the two. To the right of the Paulie look-a-like, Paul Sr. no doubt, stood a thin woman, several inches taller than him, wearing a feminine version of a masculine dress suit of the fifties, hers with sharp long lapels and pinched waist. Her hair was casually drawn behind her ears and fell in a thick spread on her shoulders. For the photograph, she leaned comfortably in towards both men and smiled suggestively, playing to the camera. I recognized the woman. The face in the picture and the face of my dream were the same.
Stella Tournay. Why have you brought me here, Stella? What do you want from me?

Paul came sweeping into the living room carrying an aromatic tray of chicken laced with curry and a basket of freshly baked bread. “I see you found the family gallery,” he said. My mouth watered; the coffee and Danish I wolfed down early this morning driving from North Carolina had long since been replaced by gnawing hunger. Paul spread lunch out on the table and continued to talk; then, as I turned to watch him, back lighted with brilliant sunlight from the tall windows behind, I lost the sound of his voice as an image shadowed his shape. I think the term for the condition is “pentimento.” It happens when the presence of an earlier, painted-over image emerges on a canvas. What I saw through Paul, in my mind, if not with my eyes, was a woman crumpled on the floor, and a man with his back to me removing her ballet shippers. My heart fluttered wildly and I struggled for a deep breath. The image faded. I knew in my soul then that Stella Tournay was killed in this room. Paul’s voice came back. He was talking about the photographs.

“That’s my Grandfather, my Grandmother, and, I think, a friend of theirs, Boo Turner,” he was saying. “Turner was a musician, as you can see by the cornet he’s holding, and he was black. Pretty progressive for my grandparent’s generation, wouldn’t you say? Course, entertainers and artists crossed the color line all the time, even in the fifties. Though I doubt having a black musician friend was all that usual in Atlanta back then. I found those photos in a ratty old brown envelope in Grandfather’s desk drawer back in the Columbia house. I think I was about twelve. He must have known I’d taken them. Months went by, he never mentioned the theft to me, and so I just kept them. I didn’t have the nerve to ask him about them though. I wish I had asked, must have been an interesting story. When he died, I guess I felt those photographs were what remained of my family, so I framed them, and there they hang. Look at my grandmother, Stella Bennett Tournay. She was stunning, wasn’t she?”

I nodded yes and continued to study the photos. Most were of Tournay and Stella at various social gatherings. One featured a laughing Stella reclining in a beach chaise, sunglasses atop her head, one arm reaching towards the camera, as if to pluck up something suspended between her and the lens. One showed a younger Stella in can-can outfit beside a man costumed in tights and whiteface. “Yes, stunning,” I agreed. “Is this one your grandmother with your grandfather in costume?”

Paul moved beside me and hesitated for a moment. “Yes, I believe so. It looks like a young Papa, though I certainly never saw him dressed in tights and whiteface. Papa rarely talked about the past, but he did mention once or twice he met Grandmother in France when they were both performers in a Paris nightclub. That may explain the can-can outfit. It looks like he did pantomime, doesn’t it? Or maybe it was a circus act. I don’t know. It was during the war, I think. Second World War.”

Reaching back into my scant knowledge of World War II, I replied, “Lucky they got out before the Nazis occupied France.”

“Umm,” Paul seemed distracted for a moment, then picked up his sentence, “Well actually, according to Mother Dearest, they were both trapped in Paris during the German occupation. When the war ended, because they were married, Grandfather was able to come back to the States with Grandmother. She was a Bennett you know, her mother a Chandless. All that old Atlanta money wanted their daughter back in the good old USA studying dancing, which was what she was supposed to be doing in Europe, not frolicking nearly naked all over Paris. At least that is the story I imagine. I really don’t know. I only know she may have killed herself, or was killed by an unknown person, from an ancient Atlanta Journal newspaper article I also found in Papa’s desk. I don’t know how much my mother knows about Stella’s death. She was only five at the time and the article said she was at her grandparent’s house when it happened. I don’t think my mother even remembers much about Stella. The only thing she really seems to hold on to is the anger of being left motherless. It’s sad really. Of course, I don’t even know if that is really why Mother is
so
angry. It isn’t as though she talks to me about anything. Listen to me I’m rattling on like a lonely old woman. Enough of that depressing subject.”

I nodded, though my curiosity was piqued about the other figure, the musician, appearing with the Tournays, and I moved back to the photos. “How did you find out the man on the right was named Boo Turner?”

Paul moved closer and pointed to a folded card on a table in the foreground of one photo. “Look right there. With a magnifier you can make out the printing, ‘Havana Joe’s, Happy New Year 1956’. Joe’s has been an Atlanta club forever. I’m an actor with an agent who loves me, so I made a call and it didn’t take her long to trace who played there New Year’s Eve 1956. I think my grandparents were probably friends with Turner because of this beach photograph, and because I remember when I was little, Papa brought me over here from Columbia several times, and I believe we met Mr. Turner. They visited, always spoke French to each other, I played around the empty house and yards, down by the creek. Turner was older, of course, by then, still, I’m pretty sure it was him.”

Paul gestured to another photo at the top right of the grouping. In it Stella and Paul sat casually at a picnic table with Boo Turner. Palmetto fronds anchored the left background of the photograph, drawing attention to white, frothy water stretching endlessly behind them. Plates and glasses cluttered a tablecloth, its tails flapped out by the strong ocean breeze. Several beer bottles clustered at Stella’s elbow; Turner’s mouth was open in a laugh– a scene from any happy picnic. A baby in a frilly bonnet snuggled against Paul Tournay’s chest.