Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (26 page)

Chucking his half drunk coffee into the paper-filled trash can by his desk, Mac took a piece of gum from his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and folded it into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he said to us, “tell me all about this circus stuff. Sounds like a corny forties movie I saw Saturday night on the Turner Classics movie channel.”

Maybe I was wrong about Sheriff Mac taking us seriously.

23

That was Tuesday. On Wednesday, Susan and I went to the Perry County Hospital to check on Fletcher. We were told he was still in ICU—no visitors allowed, other than immediate family. It was a relief to see a neatly dressed blond-haired woman about my age coming out of his room. I took a chance, walked over, and asked if she was Fletcher’s daughter, Rosalie Snyder. She was pleasant, smiled, said she was, and told us Fletcher was in guarded condition but improving. I remembered what Sheriff Mac had said about Fletcher and Rosalie being estranged since Mrs. Enloe died. It was comforting to witness living proof that often, when times get tough for families, petty grievances fade.

Rosalie’s Fletcher Enloe, bluer-than-blue, eyes twinkled when she remarked she could tell her dad was improving when he ranted at one of the nurse’s aides earlier for attempting to feed him. Taking out the colorful language, Rosalie said Fletcher felt he was
capable of feeding himself, or else he’d starve to death rather than be spoon-fed. Sounded like Fletcher to me.

Rosalie thanked us for coming and I told her I’d come by again, after my counseling appointments at the family violence shelter, to see if she needed anything. We left the hospital relieved that Fletcher’s chances for recovery were better than we’d thought. I wondered if anyone had dared tell him about The Red Bird’s sad condition. Doubtful, I decided. Otherwise, we probably would have heard his cursing long before we reached his third floor room.

Daniel drove in Thursday, hauling a rented trailer stacked with esoteric items like warming ovens, indoor roasting spits, and icemaker machines. I met him and Susan at Granny’s to look over his auction finds and to share the excitement of all the new big-boy toys.

Susan brought out a plan for her proposed restaurant layout. She’d drawn every detail of the kitchen area on graph paper, down to the sink faucets—tall, swan-necked, stainless monsters—capable of telescoping out to rinse even the largest cooking pot. I was impressed. Her excitement almost made me reconsider and throw in with them as a partner—chef Susan and her able assistant, Promise—almost. No, I needed to lean down my expenses, be rid of the mortgage on Granny’s Store, and think about how I’d live once I really and truly retired. Still, it was fun to watch the two of them check the drawings on the graph paper against the space available for every table and chair, then argue about entrees on the menu.

After a couple of hours comparing Susan’s layout with the actual floor space available in the current
general store, we realized an additional room needed to be built on the kitchen side for supplies and freezer space. For Granny’s store operation, we kept overages in inventory upstairs— in the loft remaining from the store’s tobacco barn past life—which was reached by an open stairway built almost in the center of the store. That storage plan wouldn’t work for the restaurant. It was too far removed from the kitchen and too visible from the dining area. We climbed the worn wood-plank stairs and looked down over the railing. What could we do with this leftover space?

“What about a gift shop?” Daniel offered. “You know, like Cracker Barrel.”

“No, Daddy. That would be tacky. It only works for them because they cater to tourists who love all that cutesy stuff. Those folks won’t be our customers. We’ll get mostly local folks cause we’re way out here on the river.”

“Yeah, you are probably right,” Daniel agreed. “We could take out the stairs, close up the loft.”

And ruin the original tobacco barn design? I couldn’t tolerate that. “No way, we can’t do that. We have to keep the integrity, the history, of the place.”

Father and daughter stared at me with amusement. “Well, Babe, didn’t know you were so all fired attached to this
gaping money pit
, as I have heard you call it on so many occasions.”

I turned around and surveyed the roughly fifteen by forty foot space of the loft. “Well, I am. At least to the physical building…it’s the business that makes me so frustrated. And you know the business is a money pit, that’s for sure. Maybe I’ll lease the space
back from you. Think of something interesting to do with it. Maybe I’ll have a little antique shop up here. It would be fun to buy a few things and sell a few things. Nothing grand. Not a big investment. Maybe hunt for local North Carolina pieces, or at least Southern pieces…”

Daniel came over and put an arm around my shoulder. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been thinking about this antiques thing for awhile?”

I smiled. He was right. I had a picture in my head from right out of Antiques Magazine. Cherry tall case clock, curly maple high boy, lovely turned gate legged table, quilts, and quilts, and quilts…

We closed the store at six and treated ourselves to dinner in town at our favorite restaurant, a little hole in the wall bistro with a mouthwatering aroma of fresh baked bread, olive oil, and pesto. We told ourselves this was a fact finding trip, comparing their food to what Susan and Daniel would serve at the new restaurant. That story helped ease the guilt of drinking a bottle of their excellent California wine with our mussels and fresh garlic. I had tiramisu for dessert and felt no guilt whatsoever.

It was a delightful evening, all the sweeter because Daniel stayed the night with me. Such a joy, at my age, to be able to slow down lovemaking. No frenetic hurry up, nowhere else to be except in that one moment of now, where every touch is a gift. Through a sweet hum of peace, I remember telling Daniel I loved him. What I said was true. He responded that he loved me. I believed him. He’d kept his word. No talk of marriage or what would happen tomorrow, only the now.
I smiled and snuggled closer to his warm, naked body. “Sing me a song, Mr. Fiddle Man,” I pleaded.

“A song? You just said it, pretty girl. I’m a fiddle man, not a singer.”

“Come on. You have a wonderful, sexy voice. Susan gets her voice from you, and you know it.”

In the silence that followed, space expanded between us. Daniel sighed and pulled himself up to lean against the headboard. I did the same, not knowing what I’d done to separate us, and waited for him to tell me.

“Fact is, Susan got her voice from her mama. Not from me. Her mama had that same throaty, honey tone. Could have sung professional, I believe. Course, I reckon I was prejudice. Sad thing is, Susan can’t remember hearing her mama sing.”

Oh no. What bad timing. Calling up the ghost of Daniel’s wife was the last thing I wanted to do. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea what I said would upset you.”

He put his arms around me. “Hey, you didn’t say anything wrong. I’m grateful that wound is long healed. I’ll always remember her and our life together with love. That’s the way it should be. But I’ve made a new life for myself, and for Susan; had to, otherwise I couldn’t do right by my daughter. Now she’s grown and has her own life. It’s just that when you said that about her voice, I wished Susan could remember her mama singing to her.”

“Oh Daniel, I wish she could too. Maybe, one day she will remember. That can happen. Long forgotten memories sometimes fly to the surface of the mind, escape like birds from a cage.”

He held me tighter. “That’s downright poetic,
memories fly like birds from a cage
. I could write a pretty good song from that line.”

I could see his smile in the half-light of the bedroom. “You’re teasing me.”

“Nah. Would I do a thing like that?” Before I could answer, he slid out of bed and pulled on his jeans. “I’m hungry. Let’s make some popcorn.”

So popcorn it was, at one in the morning. No wonder, at sometime around six, when I awoke to find Daniel gone to tend his cows, I snuggled down in the covers for another thirty minutes of sleep.

24

By seven-fifteen I was standing at the kitchen window, half way through my first cup of coffee and talking to Alfie about my day. Daylight was slow in coming, the morning sun a mittened orb, low in the east. Scoops of gray, patchy fog hugged the ground. Through the mist, out beyond my pasture, I could see, just barely, lights on over at Fletcher’s house. I watched as one light flicked on and then off, then another went on, stayed on for a few seconds, and then went off again. Could Rosalie be staying at her dad’s house? No. She’d told me yesterday at the hospital that she’d booked a room at the Hampton. When I saw the long beam of a high-powered flashlight breaking through the fog, traveling from Fletcher’s house to his barn, I had the sinking feeling something was wrong. I dialed Daniel’s cell number. It went over to voice mail. He must be out with the cows.

The light bounced around near Fletcher’s barn then disappeared. Was whoever carrying the flashlight going into the barn? What were they looking
for? I dialed 911 and explained what I was seeing. The operator was less than impressed by my concerns. She told me that because I couldn’t say there was a crime in progress, the best she could do was refer my message to dispatch. She explained when they had an available unit they would send a deputy out to Fletcher’s for a wellness check. Wellness check? What did that mean? Of course things weren’t
well
. There was some stranger plundering around in Fletcher’s house. It was bad enough for him to be lying in the hospital, let alone some burglar sizing up his belongings for the pawnshop. Everything he owned could be stolen by the time a deputy arrived.

During a righteous moment, or a foolish moment, depending on how you looked at it, I decided I had to do something. This was the man who’d saved my life. I couldn’t watch blithely from my kitchen window while someone robbed him blind.