Defending Angels Page 12

  Liz pursed her lips. “Maybe. And maybe there’s been a cover-up. Or just plain incompetence.”

  Bree shook her head. “The man’s too well known for a botched investigation. The media’s all over it. And if there’s been a cover-up, the big question is why? The ‘why’ is what I’m after.”

  “And you think tramping around in the past is going to turn up a lot of maggots?” She bared her teeth in an unlovely grin. “Well, hell. You could be right.” There was a soft rustling at the lanai doors, and her housekeeper came in with a tray. She was a motherly looking woman in comfortable shoes and a crisp housedress, with shrewd eyes. She handed Bree a cup of coffee and said, “You’re Miss Beaufort?”

  Bree smiled up at her. “I am.”

  “You know my auntie, I think. Miss Lavinia?” Her eyes, dark, unreadable, looked into Bree’s for a long moment.

  Bree wriggled a little under the scrutiny, then nodded, “Yes. I do.”

  “She thought maybe you could give me some he’p with a problem of mine. My stepson Rebus. Got himself killed, Rebus did.”

  “Of course,” Bree said cordially. She didn’t much like personal injury cases, but she couldn’t turn down a relative of Lavinia’s. She reached into her purse and handed her business card to the housekeeper. “Just call my office and either Mr. Lucheta or Mr. Parchese will set an appointment up for you.”

  “Anything else I can help you with?” Liz asked sarcastically. “A couple of new client referrals, maybe?” She looked over her shoulder at her housekeeper. “That’ll do, Elphine.”

  Elphine left the sunroom with the same graceful dignity. Bree watched her go thoughtfully, then asked Liz, “She’s been with you awhile? Mrs. Mather, I mean?”

  “Who, Elphine? No. As a matter of fact, I signed her on the day before Skinner died. My last housekeeper came down with some damn fool thing and quit. Or did she break a leg? I don’t remember what happened. They all come from an agency. Anyway, the agency sent Elphine when the other one crapped out on me.” She drummed her fingers on the chair arm. “I’ve got a meeting later this afternoon with some possible investors. Can we get on with this?”

  “You’d started to tell me about Mr. Skinner’s business enemies. Did you know him well early on?”

  “I didn’t start to tell you a damn thing. But there’s no secret to my career, at least. God knows the business magazines have been over it enough. He hired me twenty years ago. I was just out of Wharton, and wanted to make CFO with somebody, anybody, as fast as I could. He was just starting to expand the business overseas, then.” She fell silent, her gaze turned inward. “Skinner,” she said after a long moment, “was not a nice guy. He was a user. He was demanding. And vengeful. If you crossed him, only the devil could help you, because God sure wouldn’t. And he didn’t give a rat’s ass for his wife or kids or anybody else’s.”

  “You have a family of your own?” Bree asked.

  “Me?” She snorted. “What the hell would I do with a family? Business is all I need. It was all Skinner needed, too.” She shook her head admiringly. “I’ll tell you something, Miss Beaufort. He was one hell of a businessman. Everything he touched turned green. I left Wharton with a hundred thousand dollars in school loans and the clothes on my back. Within five years, I was worth two million. In twenty, I became really rich.” She lifted her hand and held it palm out. “I’ve got a place in Palm Beach, a flat in London ...” She trailed off. “What are you looking at me like that for?” she snapped. “Do you have any idea how much I’m worth? I’ve got ...” She stopped and bit her lip. Then, with a defiant air, “everything I’ve ever wanted out of life.”

  Bree looked down at her yellow pad, where she’d absentmindedly doodled a weeping face. She didn’t know if she felt sorry for Liz Overshaw or not. She for sure didn’t like her much. “It’s an impressive achievement, surely.” She took a deep breath. “In all that time, Mr. Skinner must have made a lot of enemies.”

  “You know,” Liz said with an air of surprise. “I don’t believe he did. Oh, there were a half dozen people over the years who might have wanted to see him dead. But not many more than that. He was a son of a bitch, but he was an honest son of a bitch. He never shafted anybody, or at least,” she amended, “anybody who didn’t deserve it.”

  Bree blinked a little.

  “Yeah,” Liz shifted in her chair. “I know what his reputation is. I didn’t say he was nice. He wasn’t. But he wasn’t a crook. And he didn’t tolerate crooks.”

  “You said maybe half a dozen sincere enemies over the years. Let’s start with the most recent ones. And the ones who were around Savannah when he passed on.”

  “On the theory that the ones in the far past would have knocked him off by now?” Liz shook her head. “You don’t need to look there. I told you where you need to look. Skinner was murdered by one of those four. Fairchild, Montifiore ...”

  “Stubblefield and Miss McFarland,” Bree finished for her. She took a deep breath. “Okay, then. What about motive?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Is there an ongoing connection among the four of them?

  “Of course.” Liz frowned with exasperation. “I thought everybody in Savannah knew about it.”

  “I’ve only been in town a week or so.” Bree had practiced law in her father’s firm for five years. She’d been exceptionally good at handling difficult clients. She called on those skills now. “So if you could fill me in, I’d appreciate it. Let me guess. I know they were working on a project together?”

  “That’s right. Island Dream. It’s a fifteen-story condominium about three miles from here. Beachfront. Fairchild and Skinner bought up the twenty acres surrounding an old fort on the channel quite a while ago. Skinner was thinking about restoring the fort—well, turning it into a family home, anyway. But Lyn died, his wife, and his son wasn’t interested, so Fairchild bought him out. Tore the fort down and built Island Dream. Skinner was livid.”

  The Savannah Historical Society was fiercely protective of historic buildings. Bree was surprised that the county had allowed the demolition of the building and said so.

  “There was a bit of a stink about it. But Fairchild’s able to twist a lot of arms in town. Or maybe it’s because his family’s been around for ages and he knows where the bodies are buried. Anyhow, he got around the Historical Society. Skinner was bound and determined he wasn’t going to get around him.

  “So, Skinner had his knickers in a twist because Fairchild told him he was going to rebuild the fort into six town homes, and the project turned into a hundred and fifteen multimillion-dollar condos. He didn’t have a legal leg to stand on, but he sued Fairchild and Montifiore, the builders, just the same.”

  “I didn’t realize Mr. Skinner was fond of old buildings,” Bree said.

  Liz snorted. “Not him. He was frantic over the lost profit.” She smiled reminiscently. “That was Ben all over, though. He was worth close to a billion dollars when he was killed and he got hot under the collar over ten million or so.”

  “So Montifiore and Fairchild were defendants in the lawsuit,” Bree said. “What about John Stubblefield?”

  “He’d drawn up the original contract turning the fort over to Fairchild. His firm represents Skinner, or did, until Skinner sued him for incompetent representation. That firm skates on the thin edge of the wedge anyhow. Skinner swore to put Stubblefield, Marwick out of business for good.”

  “Some significant motives here,” Bree observed. “Would you say any of these lawsuits had a legitimate cause of action?”

  “Is that a mealymouthed way of asking if these were spite cases? These were spite cases, no question. Part of it was Skinner thought Fairchild had pulled one over on him and part of it was the fact that Fairchild had the pull to get the fort pulled down and Skinner didn’t. So he didn’t need a legitimate reason, as you call it. Not Skinner. He never was one to lie down and let anybody walk over him, much less a bunch of tight-assed, brainless parasites running through their grandd
addies’ fortunes.” She smiled—a rather mean smile. Bree’s family knew the Fairchilds, and she had to admit there was some truth to Liz’s malicious assessment.

  “Grainger and Jennifer,” she said. “I know they aren’t on your list of suspects ...”

  “Skinner’s list. Not mine.”

  “Yes,” Bree said noncommittally. “Did he get along with his son?”

  “Could have been worse. Skinner expected a lot of the kid. I think he was pretty proud of him when he graduated from medical school. Certainly had no objection to footing the bills to get him set up in his practice in Savannah. Now, he didn’t lavish tons of money on the boy. Grainger has a trust fund, a modest one, considering Skinner’s own net worth. And he won’t get a dime more now that Skinner’s dead. That was all settled years ago. So I wouldn’t say there was any problem on Skinner’s side.”

  “That implies Grainger had a problem with his dad.”

  “Grainger. Yes. Good old Grainger.” Liz squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. “You know that Skinner pretty much came from nothing. Dirt-poor Georgia farmer, yada, yada. And Grainger married up.”

  “Jennifer Pendergast that was,” Bree said. “Sure. Her family’s been in Georgia since Oglethorpe banned all the lawyers.”

  “I suppose you knew her.” Liz smiled that wintry smile. “You debs stick together, huh? Well, Miss Jennifer didn’t quite approve of dear old dad’s country ways. Especially when she discovered Grainger had inherited all he was going to get, and there wasn’t any more where that came from.”

  “So she may have had a grudge.”

  “May have. Ha! I’ll tell you one thing, that young lady was doing her damndest to get Skinner to change his mind about the Skinner Foundation.”

  “I’ve heard of the Skinner Foundation,” Bree said. “It subsidizes all those PBS programs.”

  “That’s the one. And a lot more besides that. Anyhow, that’s what benefits from Skinner’s death. Miss Jennifer wanted to change all that.”

  “Did she?”

  Liz shrugged. “Maybe. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I just might.”

  Liz rose, yawned, and stretched her arms over her head. “That’s it. God, I’m beat.” She sat down abruptly and ran one hand over her face. “So is your curiosity satisfied? You’re going to get on with finding out who murdered Skinner? Cianquino assured me that you’d get results. Are you going to get results? I’m not real impressed with what you and your firm have accomplished so far.”

  Bree tucked her yellow pad back into her briefcase. There was, after all, a limit to how much a lawyer had to indulge a client. She kept her tone as polite as she knew how. “May I ask you something? About this idea Mr. Skinner was murdered?”

  Liz scowled.

  “Mr. Skinner was on board the Sea Mew when he had his heart attack and fell into the ocean. The only two people on board were his son and his daughter-in-law. I know what ... um, Mr. Skinner told you. But what about you? Do you think they killed him and lied to the police? Do you think the two of them are innocent, and that he died of a slow-acting poison somebody slipped into his drink at the country club?” Bree allowed herself a hint of exasperation. “Was somebody else on board invisible to his son and his wife? Not aliens, I hope.”

  “He didn’t drown in the sea,” Liz said, after a long minute.

  “He didn’t?” Bree said.

  “He didn’t drown in the sea.” Liz shivered, although the heat of the sun was winning the battle with the air-conditioning and the sunroom was warming to an uncomfortable temperature. Her eyes widened until the whites surrounding the pupils were visible. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and for the third time, like an incantation:

  “Skinner didn’t die in the sea.”

  Eleven

  How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable , must be the truth?

  —The Sign of the Four, Arthur Conan Doyle

  “He drowned in the sea alright,” Ron said cheerfully. He placed the autopsy report faceup on Bree’s desk and settled himself cozily on the corner, the edge of his buttocks smack on top of her file folders. “Seawater in the lungs, or what was left of them, anyway.”

  “What was left of them?” Bree said.

  Ron waved a large manila envelope in the air. “I got the autopsy pictures, too. It’s amazing how fast Chatham County can move when the dear departed is hugely importante. ”

  Bree looked at him. It was amazing, as a matter of fact. She decided she didn’t want to inquire too closely about Ron’s methods. She extended her hand for the envelope. Ron held it just out of reach. “Trust me. You don’t want to see them.”

  “I’m not squeamish,” Bree said impatiently.

  “Well, I am, dearie, and when I got a load of these, I almost tossed my cookies. Somehow, the poor old guy got tangled up with the boat motor after he fell into the water and splooey. Big mess.”

  “Splooey?” Bree echoed. She was creeped out. She eyed the manila envelope. Large spiders made her feel creeped out, too. And she could force herself to deal with them. She grabbed the envelope and slid the photos onto her desk. Very ugly. Very. And in full color, too. “Ugh. But they were still able to claim he drowned? There was enough of the body left to ... um ... check on?”

  “Oh, yeah. No question about the cause of death at all. Take all that stuff home. It’ll make very nice bedtime reading.” He smacked a second report on top of the photos, for which Bree was thankful. “Police interviews with the son and his wife.”

  “I’m impressed,” Bree said. “How did you get those out of the police department?”

  “This stuff will be a matter of public record after the case is officially closed, so why not?” He wriggled his eyebrows. “Of course, it was a lot easier with the help of the famous Parchese charm.”

  Bree picked up the police report. It’d been signed by a Lieutenant Hunter. The transcribed interviews with Skinner’s son, Grainger, and Grainger’s wife, Jennifer, were clipped to the back.

  “I can give you a summary, if you want,” Ron said chattily. “Even if you don’t want. It’ll save you the reading time. Skinner was in the bow of the boat, where he usually sat. They were becalmed and they were headed back to the dock under power. Now, according to doctor boy ...”

  Bree raised an eyebrow. “Doctor boy?”

  “The son, Grainger. He’s a doctor. Anyhow, according to Grainger, Dad’s sipping a diet drink, clutches his chest, and topples into the sea. Doc yells at his wife to bring the boat about and runs to get the grappling hook. He’s fishing for Dad while Mrs. Doc ...”

  “Jennifer,” Bree said, as she leafed through the report.

  “Our Jennifer,” Ron agreed happily, “runs over the poor soul with the motor, accidentally, of course. So she gets hysterical, Grainger manages to drag the body on board—that’s these hook marks in the back in this photo here.” He flipped through the photos until he came to the relevant one. Bree wanted to close her eyes, but didn’t. “Anyhow, Grainger SOS’s the Coast Guard, which shows up in about two seconds flat. Everybody’s screaming and crying and carrying on except, of course, our victim, who is unable to, and there you are.”

  “Wow.” Bree took a deep breath and then a long sip of coffee.

  By the time she’d gotten back to the office, it was late afternoon. Petru was out at the library. Lavinia was somewhere about upstairs, with Sasha. She hoped the dog didn’t like the taste of lemur. Ron had bounced to his feet in gleeful welcome when she’d come through the front door and into the reception room. He had fresh coffee waiting, too. The place was already beginning to feel like home.

  Bree paged through the photos again, and rubbed the back of her neck. “I just can’t see it,” she said finally. “Let’s assume that our client’s right. Skinner was murdered. The obvious, in fact, the only suspects are Skinner’s son, Grainger, and his wife. How do we even begin to prove it? They alibi each other.”
/>
  The front door opened, then shut. A familiar shuffle-thump sounded in the living room. Ron hopped off the desk, stuck his head out, and caroled, “Yoo-hoo! We’re in here!”

  Bree rose to her feet automatically as he came in. Petru was older, lame, and it seemed not only rude but arrogant to sit while he was standing. The one leather chair was obviously too deep and slippery for him. Ron dragged a straight-back chair into her office, set it by her desk for Petru, then surveyed the small space with his hands on his hips. “If you don’t mind my saying so, your taste in used furniture is pitiful. Just pitiful.”

  Bree looked up. She was reading the transcription of Jennifer Skinner’s interview with Lieutenant Hunter. A small, tattered, worn Oriental carpet sat on the floor. The brown leather reading chair was so worn in places that the hide of the leather showed through. The floor lamp’s glass green shade was scratched with a weird set of parallel lines, as if somebody had drawn their fingernails along it. “My uncle did make a point of telling me NOT to use his office furniture in his will,” she admitted. “But I’m on a budget. I can either pay your salary, Ronald dear, or go shopping at Roche-Bobois. So I had them brought over. You pick.”

  “That was not a matter of good taste, perhaps,” Petru said apologetically. “But more of a wish that you might avoid the legacy.”

  “What legacy?” Bree asked sharply.

  Ron went “tsk” and shook his head.

  “His law practice, you mean?”

  Petru looked at her over the rim of his spectacles. “The legacy of the cormorant.”

  “If,” Bree said, with more patience than she thought she had, “I ask you for details, what are you going to say to me?” She held her hand up in a peremptory gesture. “Nope. Wait. I’ve got it. There’s some people that run, some people that hide, and some people that jump right in when the times get tough. Is that it?”

  “That is it,” Petru said.

  “Well, you can just bring that old legacy right along,” Bree said tartly, “because I can tell you right here, right now, Beauforts don’t run from anybody.”