Defending Angels Page 13

  “Ha-ha,” Petru said with a glum air.

  “Ha-ha?” Bree said. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you know nothing of the sort about yourself until you know much more than you know right now. That is what ‘ha-ha’ means.”

  Bree felt herself getting very Southern, which as Payton the Rat knew to his cost, was a very bad sign. “As I live and breathe ...” she began ominously.

  Ron clapped his hands together. “People, people!” Then he added in a diplomatic tone, “I expect we’ll all know when it’s time, so let’s not let the fur and feathers fly. Now let’s get back to the point here, Bree. This room needs a bit of livening up. As a matter of fact, you and the room need a bit of livening up. The braids were a stroke of genius, did I tell you that? But there is much, much more to be accomplished.”

  Bree got a tight rein on her temper and held on. “If you don’t mind my pointing it out, one of the things to be accomplished here is the successful conclusion of this case.”

  “Too true,” Ron said unabashed. “I guess we can set aside the decorating thing for a while.”

  “I guess we can. Because that’s what we’re here for, right? Our clients. We’re advocates. Champions. Because one of the other things Beauforts do is win for our clients. In as courteous, just, mannerly, and smart a way as is humanly possible.”

  “Humanly,” Petru echoed. “Very good.” He set his stick on his knees and applauded.

  “So let’s take a look at where we are with the Overshaw case, shall we?”

  “You were saying that the only two people who could have murdered Mr. Skinner were his son and his daughter-in-law, but that there’s no way to prove it,” Ron said promptly. “Which looks like a big loss as far as Ms. Overshaw’s concerned.”

  “Do you believe her?” Petru asked abruptly.

  “Do I ...” Bree stopped herself in mid-sentence. “Do I?”

  “Because, if you do not believe her, you must return that check,” Petru said firmly, “and turn her case over to someone who does believe.” For a moment, he looked as stern as Professor Cianquino had, when Bree expressed those same doubts about Liz Overshaw’s sanity. He cleared his throat apologetically. “I do not think we need to make a judgment on whether or not this is murder. I do think we owe Ms. Overshaw the professional courtesy to believe in her cause.”

  Bree stared at him for a moment, then said slowly, “Because if we believe in her cause, we’ll be able to act in her best interests. You’re absolutely right, Petru. And I’ve been very wrong. I’ve let the fact that I don’t like the woman get in the way of looking at this case with her eyes.” She let the silence in the room elapse. “Okay,” she said finally, “here’s what we’re going to do. Ron? I want you to find Mr. Skinner’s personal secretary and interview her.”

  Ron frowned. “You mean that incredibly tacky blonde who lives on the top floor of the Skinner building?”

  “No, no, no. That’s Chastity Mc-whosis.”

  “McFarland,” Petru said punctiliously.

  “Yes. I mean his actual secretary who kept his daily schedule. Liz Overshaw should be able to tell you where to find her—that’d be a blessing and a half. I’d like to set up an hour by hour ... no! A minute by minute calendar of his last two days on this earth.”

  She looked down at the mass of data Ron and Petru had collected. “Next thing we do is go through all this stuff with a fine-tooth comb. We look for discrepancies, for unexplained facts, items, actions. Petru, if you can make up a chart, or a time line, or something that can give us a snapshot of Skinner’s life, it’d be terrific.”

  “And what are you up to, then?” Ron asked.

  “Interviewing the suspects, one by one. I’ll start with Grainger.”

  “Do you think they’ll let you waltz in and interrogate him, just like that?” Ron said in admiration. “Oh, Bree. That is nervy.”

  “Jennifer was a few years ahead of me at Miss Cho-ate’s in New York. And I know her little brother. If I fudge the reasons a little bit, I think I can get in to see her. I’ll schedule that for tomorrow afternoon, if I can. And first thing in the morning, I’m going to track down Carlton Montifiore at one of his construction sites.”

  “Excellent,” Ron said, “but set both those meetings up for the afternoon. If you do, we’ll have time to do a little shopping in the morning.”

  Bree slapped her hands flat on her desk. “Ron! What’s all this hoo-rah about the way I’m dressing?”

  “You are not showing yourself to the best advantage.” He narrowed his eyes in what he probably believed was a tough-guy way. “I just want to ask you one thing: Do you have anything other than black and white in your closet? Just one leetle teeny bit of color?”

  “Jeans,” Bree said promptly, “and a blue and white Duke University tee.”

  Ron flung his hands up in a “see what I mean” gesture. “Silly me. Just the thing to wear to court, of course.

  Sweetie, you’re about to take on some of the most powerful families in Savannah with this Overshaw case. Now there’s two ways to dress to impress. One way is to wear tennis shoes, T-shirts, and tattered jeans to the White House. You can get away with that if you’re say, Steve Jobs. The other is to dress like you’re the president of a small South American republic. With confidence. With authority. You need a presence.”

  Bree looked down at herself. She’d been busy all her adult life; busy in law school, busy at the family firm, even busier now that she was setting up her own practice. And every time she picked up a copy of Vogue or Oprah in the dentist’s office, she was thoroughly cowed by the kinds of decisions a person had to make to look totally cool. Looking elegant and sophisticated was a full-time job. She’d decided the fewer choices the better. Her closet had five expensive Armani pantsuits in gray, black, and steel, and two dozen Eileen Fisher silk tees in various shades of white. This made it very easy to get dressed for work. And boring.

  She looked at Ron and asked sweetly, “Which South American republic would you suggest?”

  “You’re pissed off at me,” he said instantly. “Oh, God. I was just trying to help.”

  “I am not pissed off at you. I appreciate it. The sentiment, that is, if not the way you expressed it. I’ll put it on the It’s-Saturday-With-Nothing-to-Do list.”

  “It’d better be this Saturday,” Ron said promptly. “You can’t make your debut at the Mansion dressed like a mortician.”

  “I don’t look anything like a mortician!”

  “And your mother agrees with me.”

  Bree stopped in mid-yell. “You’ve talked to my mother?” She clutched her head. “And my mother thinks I dress like a mortician?”

  “Of course I’ve talked to your mother. You don’t think this open house of yours is going to arrange itself, do you?” He resettled himself on the corner of her desk. “What a peach your mamma is, Bree. And she agrees with me. About getting you tarted up. First thing is to find a sensational dress for the party. Do you have any idea who’s going to be there?”

  “No,” Bree said. “I don’t. And how did you get hold of my mother? And how do you know who’s coming to the party?”

  “I found your sister wandering around outside and I asked for your mother’s phone number. The rest was easy.”

  “How did you know she was my sister? We don’t look a thing alike. Never mind,” Bree interrupted herself. “What did Antonia think of the office? Did she come in?”

  “No,” Ron said.

  “I believe not,” Petru said.

  “Well, she’ll have to wait until the day of the party, then. Maybe I can talk her into staying here to be host. I don’t know how many of the guests will want to see the place, but I expect there’ll be a few.”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Ron said.

  “I will be ke-vite happy to stay here myself, in case of visitors,” Petru said. He exchanged a look with Ron, and then shrugged. “You never know, do you? Some of the new clients wil
l be able to find it, of course.”

  “If they’re on the list,” Ron said, “which I really doubt, Petru. I should think you of all people would know better.”

  “Who is on the list?” Bree asked with mild interest. “Did my mother send it along?” She smiled slightly. “Anyone from Stubblefield, Marwick, for example? It’d be even better if Douglas Fairchild showed up.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to really study it yet,” Ron said briskly, “but there have been quite a few acceptances already.” He leaned past Bree and flipped the pages of the desk calendar. “It’s Thursday already. We’ll just have this weekend.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’m not going to be able to pay your wages, much less buy a new dress, if we don’t get back to work.” Bree looked at her watch, conscience-stricken. “It’s way after five. I’ve got to let you guys get home. We’ll start again on this stuff tomorrow.”

  Petru placed his cane on the floor and hoisted himself off the chair. “I will take the files home with me tonight and read them thoroughly.”

  “There’s no need to do that,” Bree said. The first day on the job, and she was already working them to death. “I’m not paying either of you enough to work full time, much less time and a half. I can’t ask you to put in extra hours. I’ll take this stuff home with me and read it through myself.” She stopped halfway through putting the documents into a neat stack. “Just one more thing, Petru. Did you find anything out about Skinner that I should know right away?”

  “He found out about them Pendergasts.” Lavinia stood at the open door. Sasha nudged his way past her knees and hobbled over to Bree.

  Bree looked at Petru inquiringly. He nodded, “This is true. Mrs. Skinner, Mrs. Grainger Skinner, that is, is a Pendergast.”

  “I knew that already.” Bree looked at her staff. They looked backed expectantly. She sat down with a resigned sigh. “Okay. This is it. Jennifer Skinner’s great-great-great-what, grandfather? Anyhow, Josiah Pendergast seems to be buried in our murderer’s cemetery. So? I don’t want to be rude, guys, but what does this have to do with the price of bananas in Brazil?”

  “Bad blood in those Pendergasts,” Lavinia said stubbornly. “You want to watch out for them.”

  “There does seem to be some cause for concern,” Petru said. “The Pendergasts have ke-vite an evil history.”

  “Does this evil history have any live Pendergasts interacting with Benjamin Skinner? Other than Jennifer herself?” Bree demanded. “Any lawsuits? Any motives for murder?”

  “Not live Pendergasts, no,” Petru admitted. “But we cannot discount the possibility of the influence of Josiah himself. This Jennifer is a direct descendant.”

  Bree made a face. She was almost afraid to hear the answer from her lunatic employees. “You don’t honestly think Josiah crawled out of the grave and pushed Mr. Skinner into the sea?”

  “No, no. Naturally not!” Lavinia said reprovingly. “The dead don’t take the living down with them. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Or that he possessed my old school pal Jennifer and got her to kill her father-in-law?”

  “A malign influence,” Petru said, “is more than possible, however. When the dead whisper, there are those that listen.”

  “I’m getting a headache,” Bree said. “No kidding. Let’s put that kind of stuff in a miscellaneous file, okay? We’ll drag it out when we need to,” which will be as soon as the moon turns into a lump of Camembert, she added to herself. “Otherwise, I’d prefer it if we could concentrate on the living, and leave the dead peacefully alone.”

  “Some of the dead,” Ron said, “aren’t in the least little bit peaceful. You want to remember that.”

  “I came down here for another reason,” Lavinia said. “Y’all are talking so much I almost put it out of mind. You got a phone call while you were out with that Liz, Bree.” She dug into her apron pocket and emerged with a pink While You Were Out slip. “From this Payton?”

  Bree made a face.

  “On behalf of his boss,” she said, “Mr. John Stubblefield. He wants you to meet ’em both at Molly McPherson’s ’long about six.”

  Bree smiled. “Excellent. Call them back to confirm, will you, Ron? Stubblefield is at the top of Liz Overshaw’s suspect list. This ought to get things off to a very good start.”

  Twelve

  The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead

  Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

  —Hamlet, Shakespeare

  The wind whipped up as Bree closed the office door behind her and stepped into Angelus Street. There was weather blowing in from somewhere—October was the peak of hurricane season, and they’d lucked out this year, at least so far. There had been one tropical storm in mid-September, and then all was quiet.

  Bree looked up. The sun was westering, and the horizon was shot through with orange and red. A spray of white, feathery clouds hugged the southeast corner of the sky.

  “What do you think, Sasha? Are we in for a mighty rain?”

  The dog looked up at her anxiously and whined. He didn’t need to be carried to the car any longer—he was hopping along remarkably well on his cast—so it must be something else.

  “You can’t be hungry,” she said. “Lavinia’s stuffed you full of chicken and rice.”

  Sasha snarled at the graves in the cemetery, his eyes closed to mere yellow slits. Then he threw back his head and howled. Bree’s skin prickled at the sound.

  Come by here.

  Bree whirled. The voice, if voice it was, came from under the live oak.

  Ahhh, Bree. Come by here.

  She squinted into the dying light. A tall, dark pillar of shadow moved among the strands of Spanish moss. The form spun, shifted, turned, like smoke from a smoldering fire.

  It moved against the wind, as smoke never could. The darkness was a sullen riot of bruised purple, fetid green, and oily black. Bree knew whose grave lay beneath the tree. Josiah Pendergast. She took a step forward and nearly stumbled over Sasha. He pressed against her knees, lips drawn over his eyeteeth in a silent snarl.

  Two fiery eyes appeared in the upper part of the column—as suddenly as if something wakened. The dreadful, smutty colors compressed. Then a thin cylinder of the stuff raised itself from the columnar mass and beckoned to her.

  Bree. Come by here.

  Bree pushed Sasha aside. She took another step forward, and another.

  And she saw herself at the top of a mountain. A glory of clouds rolled beneath her feet. And she knew, knew with every fiber of her spirit, that what she wanted most in the world was just beyond her reach. If she leaned farther, farther, she would leave the peak and leap into space, to be caught up in the rush of the cormorant’s wings. Into absolute, utter belief. No questions. Ever again.

  The wind rose and whipped the treetops with a sudden roar. With a rumbling crack, the door to the little frame house crashed open, and Ron stepped into the dying light. The wind eddied around him in a vast rush of sound and for a brief, world-tilting moment, Bree thought the wind came from his outstretched palms. “You still here, Bree?”

  The wind rushed, calmed, and died away. The column under the oak trembled, shivered, and drifted into nothing.

  Bree took a huge gulp of air. Ron bounced down the steps to the fence and unlocked his bicycle. “I’d offer you a ride,” he said, “but I couldn’t take Sasha, too. Oh, drat.”

  Bree steadied herself, one hand on Sasha’s neck. “Nobody says ‘drat’ anymore, Ronald.” Her voice was steady. Her palms were wet, and her heart beat uncomfortably in her chest, but at least her voice was calm. “What’s the matter?”

  “Flat tire.” He detached the bicycle pump from its storage spot on the frame, set it up, and pumped briskly. “Are you going to be late to your meeting?”

  Bree stared at her watch in dismay. “Yikes. Almost. I’m driving and Molly McPherson’s at the City Market, isn’t it?”

  “Just off of Montgomery at Broughton.”


  “Then I can just make it, as long as I can find a place to park.” She bundled Sasha into the back, and settled herself in the driver’s seat. Ron flagged her urgently. She rolled down her window and he leaned in. His breath was fragrant with a spice she couldn’t identify. “Hey,” he said. “They really can’t do much to the living, you know. But you absolutely do not want to ‘come by here.’ If it happens again, you stay right where you are. Trust me. You don’t want to jump off that mountain. Got that?” He slapped the window frame and stepped back. “You give Payton the Rat what for!”

  She watched him bicycle off, long legs pumping up and down, his fair hair tumbled around his ears. She took a long, shaky breath, and started the car.

  She found a parking spot on Congress, which bordered the south side of the marketplace. The whole of City Market was dog-friendly, and Molly McPherson’s had an outdoor seating area a short distance from the fountain in the middle of the square. Bree was glad to take Sasha with her. The dog had a uniquely comforting presence. “And,” she said, as he hobble-skipped at her side on the lead, “I wouldn’t mind at all if you happened to pee on Payton’s shoes.”

  Sasha grinned up at her, his pink tongue lolling.

  “He’ll be the one with the day-old beard and the look of Total Cool. And Sasha,” she gave the lead a short, firm tug. “I didn’t mean it about Payton’s shoes.”

  Bree would have recognized John Stubblefield even if Payton hadn’t been sitting next to him in a state of worshipful attention. For one thing, he made the news regularly, in stories featuring record jury awards in personal injury cases. For another, he was the star of the obnoxious infomercials on late night television, soliciting plaintiffs for class action lawsuits against large, rich corporations. He didn’t bother suing any company with a net worth of less than a billion, no matter how sorry a state a victim might be in. When he was dead and buried, most of Savannah agreed his tombstone would read “Show me the money.”