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

still it is a legitimate degree and I was determined this woman would not discount my achievement.
    “Yes, McNeal. Whatever. I’ve been over this already. I don’t choose to reconstruct my troubles once again.” As she finished her statement she turned slightly away from me and slid a shoebox resting on the table a few inches toward Garland. It was only a few inches, but the gesture was not wasted.
    Garland looked at me pleadingly, hoping for what, I couldn’t tell. I returned a reassuring smile and accepted Becca’s clue. “So, let’s take a look at your shoebox, Ms. Tournay, and perhaps you could begin with how it connects with your father’s trust, and your son.” Becca Tournay gave me a look filled with hate and determination as she pushed the box across the table to me. The outside was ordinary enough; the end printing identified a pair of size eight black shoes made by Jangles—a manufacturer’s brand I did not know. The inside, however, was another story. As I eased the top off it was impossible not to gasp. Garland’s eyes darted back and forth between Becca Tournay and the box, though he said nothing. I surmised he’d seen the contents: a platinum haired, hard plastic doll reclining on a bed of white tissue paper. She was dressed in a pale pink suit, not unlike Ms. Tournay’s, and her one remaining startling blue glass eye stared up at me. I say one remaining eye because the other, as well as the left side of her face in which the eye once lived, was crushed into about forty pieces. Her left leg was broken as well, and twisted up behind her at an unnatural angle. Without touching the doll I closed the box top.
    “I can understand how this would upset you, Ms. Tournay.”
    “ Upset,” she shot back, “an understatement. It came Federal Express this morning to the hotel. Obviously a threat, and obviously from my insane son.”
    “Was there a note?”
    “It is plainly there, Ms. McNeal. Didn’t you see the card beside the awful creature?” She pointed her index finger without touching the box.
    Trying to be nonchalant, I opened the box again and extracted a small plain white gift card from the side packing tissue. On the reverse side, someone had cut letters from magazine print to form two words, ‘Your Choice.’ Ms. Tournay, who would know where you are staying?”
    “My son, of course! I have already told you he must have sent the awful doll.”
    “Did you happen to notice the origination of the package?”
    “Charleston. Why does that matter? He could easily drive to Charleston and send the package.”
    “The suit, it looks very much like the one you are wearing. Do you often wear this suit?”
    “I own eleven pink suits, Ms. McNeal, all custom made for me. I travel often with my business and find it easier to accessorize similar outfits. Accessories are so important to one’s first impression. And by the way, that purple scarf thing you are wearing is not at all attractive with your hair color. And it looks an afterthought with your drab beige dress. It is all very unsettling.”
    I felt my face flush. Taupe, the dress is taupe , I wanted to blurt out. And I bought it from Chico’s for crying out loud. It cost far too much to be labeled drab. Fortunately, I kept my mouth shut, sat back in my chair and studied Becca’s face. Why was this woman being so obviously rude? And what button was she pushing that made me want to return her bad behavior with equally bad behavior? Suck it up, Promise, my “committee” warned, she’s a paying client. I resisted feigning denseness by asking her if it was my cheerful purple scarf, or the broken doll, she found unsettling. No point in poking a stick at an ill-tempered opossum. I loved that crinkled linen scarf; the graduated pale purple to eggplant pattern made me happy. Maybe it didn’t go with my hair, but you know what? By tomorrow, I could dye my hair to go with the scarf; Becca would still be a miserable, angry person. Resolving to put on my