Read Online Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead by Morgan James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Morgan James
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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
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
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