Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead by Morgan James Page B

pistol out of his jacket pocket and waved it in my face. I’m sure not going to put up with that crap, especially not from Pinky Goss, of all people. That’s why I have a sawed off baseball bat under the counter. I knocked the pistol out of his hand. Well,” she hesitated and reconsidered, “actually, I wracked him across the knuckles and he dropped the gun. I don’t think I broke any bones.”
    “A baseball bat? Good grief, I heard him holler. Has he left the parking lot? You need to call the Sheriff, in case Goss comes back.”
    Even though I couldn’t appreciate the humor in the situation, Susan’s explosion of deep-throated infectious laughter made me want to laugh along with her. “Pinky won’t come back. The fool sashayed over to the cooler on his way out the door and snagged a six-pack of Budweiser. I can see him from the front window, he’s pedaling down the road with the beer in the basket of his bike.”
    “Susan, are you telling me this Goss person came to Granny’s to buy pot, armed with a water pistol, and then made his getaway on a bicycle?”
    “Yeah, he’s riding off down the road on an old junker American Flyer. That’s cause he keeps losing his drivers’ license to drunk driving charges. It’s really kind of sad, when you think about it. His Mamma worked like a mule all those years at the mill to raise those boys, and look at what she got for her misery. Not one of the three is worth a ripped umbrella in the rain. Lord, you just never know about kids, do you Miz P?”
    True enough, but I was still concerned Goss may come back. “Susan, shouldn’t you call the sheriff about Goss’s threat to kill you, and about him stealing the beer?” Susan didn’t answer. “Are you still there?”
    “Yes Ma’am I’m here. I was just thinking. Maybe we should let him alone so he’ll run his mouth to all his worthless friends. If he’s not in jail, the word might get around faster that the Goddard twins’ side business is over. Two or three of those no-account guys have come in lately, hanging around looking suspicious, acting like they are about to ask for the extra special cornflakes.”
    “Umm,” I considered Susan’s logic. “I think you are right. Just promise me that if any of them come around again and even hints of trouble, call the sheriff. I don’t want you getting hurt trying to fight off a bunch of dopers with a ball bat.”
    “Don’t worry, Miz P., I may be country, but I’m smart enough to know my limits.”
    “Good girl. Now back to what I called about. Write this down. I need you to Google someone for me. The name is Boo Turner; he’s a musician, or was. If he were still alive he would be an old man by now, maybe in his eighties. Boo Turner. You got it?”
    “I got it. You want me to call you at home later tonight with the information?”
    It was six-fifteen, and all I saw was bumper-to-bumper Atlanta traffic in my rear view mirror. “No. I think I’ll stop and spend the night at my son’s house in Dahlonega. That’s only about thirty miles north of here. I’m too tired to drive back tonight. I’ll call you later this evening. Lock up and go home. You’ve had enough of Granny’s for the day. And Susan, thank you for everything you do.”

“Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t going away.” …Elvis Presley
    6.
     
    Night moored peacefully in the North Georgia valleys by the time I drove from Atlanta to Dahlonega; but higher mountain slopes, visible in the near distance, held fast the purple and pink of disappearing day, like a lover unwilling to release a kiss. Early settlers, ravenous for newly discovered gold, called these hills, sown tight with pine, dogwood, and oak, the promised land when their greed expelled the Cherokee off the landscape during the 1830’s. Today, the gold was in the land itself. Cows grazed tentatively beside multimillion dollar golf courses, and upscale retirement communities marched up the hills