Read Online Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead by Morgan James - Free Book Online

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