Defending Angels Page 16

  “There was enough money to stay afloat, even if Skinner insisted on pulling his cash out?”

  Carlo shrugged. “No problems there. Always plenty of cash around. Besides, my guess was that it was all going to blow over in a month or two.”

  “Guess?” Bree let her dubiety show.

  “Well, ‘hope’ is a better word, I suppose.” He followed as Bree walked through the magnificent old front doors and onto the pavement outside. She faced him. “Where were you the morning Mr. Skinner passed on?”

  “Here.” Carlo turned and looked up at the cobblestone wall towering above them both. “Right here. There’s a good twenty people that were here along with me.”

  Fourteen

  How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is

  To have a thankless child!

  —King Lear, Shakespeare

  “Of course we’re truly sorry he’s gone,” Jennifer Skinner said. “He really was a bit of an old pet.”

  “I suppose his mother said that about King Kong,” Grainger Skinner said under his breath. He added another two inches of Tanqueray to his gin and tonic and smiled at Bree. “Can I freshen that for you?”

  Bree looked down at her own gin and tonic. She’d forgotten how much she liked gin and tonics, especially when the afternoon was warm and the sun was bright. “No, thank you.” She shifted restlessly on the stone garden seat. It was damp, hard, and uncomfortable. Jennifer’s garden was spectacular, though. Many of the mansions in the Historic District had enclosed gardens at the back or side, and the Skinners had one of the loveliest. The entire quarter acre was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence (paneled with a design, Bree was relieved to see, of perfectly normal acanthus and ivy leaves) and paved with brick cobblestones. A large live oak shaded the northern half of the garden, drooping protectively over five-foot-wide hostas, huge freesia bushes, and waist-high plantings of Canterbury bells. The southern half of the garden held azaleas and rhododendrons. Bree wished she had seen the garden in the spring, when these flowering bushes were at their best. Roses and hydrangeas were planted in between; the last of their summer blooms were faded now, an echo of former glory. A new, and to Bree, rather garish outdoor kitchen had been added on to the rear of the house. A stainless steel outdoor grill held pride of place in the center of the brick U that formed the kitchen itself. A counter-high refrigerator and a big double sink made of Italian tile flanked the grill. Grainger and Jennifer sat at the large outdoor dining table; Bree had retreated to the stone bench at the edge of the little fountain, where a replica of Niobe dripped tears into the stone pool.

  “Grainger, darling,” Jennifer said plaintively. “He hasn’t even been buried yet.”

  “The funeral’s tomorrow?” Bree asked.

  “Yes. We thought we’d wait until everyone who wanted to attend could get here ...”

  “All three of them,” Grainger interrupted. “And they’re just coming to make sure he’s safely underground.”

  Bree choked a little.

  “Too much gin for you?” Grainger asked sympathetically. “I tend to make drinks a little stiffer when I’m not on call at the hospital.”

  “It’s just fine, thank you,” Bree said.

  “We wouldn’t want Bree to think we’re glad Dad’s gone,” Jennifer said. “Maybe you are making those drinks a little too strong, darlin’.”

  “I am glad the old bastard’s gone,” Grainger said. Then, with a rather vicious twist to his voice, “darlin’.”

  Jennifer rolled her eyes at Bree in a “these men!” gesture.

  Jennifer hadn’t been a beauty when she and Bree were at school together, but she had a slim and elegant presence then and an even more high-fashion look now. Her dark hair was drawn back in a sleek bob. For these Saturday afternoon cocktails (“Drinks in the garden, Bree. About four o’clock? Don’t worry about dressing up.”), she wore cream loose linen trousers, an extremely flattering matching linen shirt unbuttoned to show a tank top in sepia brown, and a robin’s egg blue scarf around her waist. Bree didn’t know where the turquoise and silver jewelry at her ears and throat came from, but the total effect was spectacular.

  Bree wore her best pair of jeans. At least her white shirt was silk.

  “From all accounts, he must have been a difficult man to be around in business,” Bree said. “But you must have been on pretty good terms. You said y’all went out sailing at least once a week, barring the weather?”

  Jennifer gave her a sharp look. “I didn’t say that,” she said coolly. “Who told you that? But yes, we did our best to make time for him. Poor pet, it was almost the only relaxation he had. He just didn’t take any personal time for himself, you know what I mean. Personal time,” she repeated, rather vaguely. She poured herself another glass of white wine from the bottle on the table. It was now about five o’clock in the afternoon. In the last forty-five minutes, Jennifer had been through a large whiskey julep and two glasses of wine. This made the third. Bree got dizzy just thinking about drinking that amount of liquor in so short a time.

  Grainger Skinner caught her observing his wife and lifted his eyebrow with a knowing sort of smirk. Bree felt her cheeks turn pink.

  “I understand you’re opening a practice here in Savannah?” he asked genially. He didn’t look much like his father; Benjamin Skinner had been a short, wiry man with a big nose and, in later years, a bald head. Grainger Skinner was tall, with a thick head of light brown hair and a slight paunch. “Finding our city to your liking?”

  “It’s very beautiful,” Bree said. “The family spent a few summers here when I was little. When my uncle Franklin died and left me his practice, I was glad to think I’d spend time here again.”

  Grainger snapped his fingers. “That’s right! You’re kin to the judge. I’d forgotten all about that.”

  “You’ve forgotten all about the fact that Bree was the one who called you the day Daddy died, too,” Jennifer said suddenly. She smiled, spitefully, and sipped at her wine.

  Grainger blinked at her through the haze of gin. “That was you? Ambulance-chasing?”

  “A mistake,” Bree said hastily. “I do beg your pardon for that. It was a thoughtless joke on... somebody’s part.”

  “But it’s not a mistake that you’re representing that crazy Liz,” Jennifer said coldly. “She’s telling anybody who’ll listen that Daddy was murdered.”

  “He wasn’t your Daddy,” Grainger said. “I wish you’d stop calling him that.”

  “And, of course, since we were the last ones to see him alive—since we were there when the poor man fell overboard and into the ocean—since you think Grainger benefits from the will, it’s us you’re accusing of murder, isn’t it?!” Jennifer lowered her head, got to her feet, and walked toward Bree. Her face was flushed. Her voice rose to a squall. “What I want to know is, where you get off spreading this kind of shit around town.”

  It’d been too easy. The phone call to Jennifer, the glad cries of renewed friendship, the instant offer of a pleasant afternoon in the garden. Bree could have kicked herself. She was a sap. She’d walked right into a trap to make her give up the investigation.

  For the first time since the whole peculiar business began, Bree began to believe Benjamin Skinner really had been murdered.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said in a matter-of-fact way. “So maybe you could help clear a few things up.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Jennifer said. She sat back down at the table, almost missing the seat. She adjusted herself with a flounce. “Why the hell should we help you?”

  “If you’re guilty, you’re absolutely right. You should ask me to leave right now.” Bree set her glass on the stone bench with an air of finality. “On the other hand, if you’re innocent, why not help me? Savannah’s a small town. I’m not the only one with questions about Mr. Skinner’s death.” This, Bree reflected, was probably true. “You don’t want to end up with tour busses going up and down in front of your house, like they do at Mercer House
.”

  This reference to the Billy Hanson case, Savannah’s most notorious modern murder, sent Jennifer rigid with rage. Grainger Skinner, on the other hand, threw his head back and began to laugh. It was genuine, spontaneous laughter.

  “Shut up!” Jennifer threw her wineglass at him. It shattered on the brick paving.

  “Ah, darlin’.” Grainger sighed. He looked at the shards of glass. He bent down and picked them up carefully, one by one. When he had a handful, he flung the pieces into the fountain pool and began all over again. “Thing is, Ms. Beaufort, there’s a witness.”

  “A witness? To Mr. Skinner falling off the Sea Mew?”

  He straightened up, his face flushed. “Dougie Fairchild was out in his boat and saw the whole thing.”

  “There!” Jennifer shrieked. “You see?”

  “Mr. Fairchild saw the whole thing?” Bree looked thoughtfully at them. Jennifer had the triumphant look of the vindicated. Grainger merely looked shifty. “That wasn’t reported at all, was it?”

  “Not initially, no.” Grainger tossed a few cubes of ice into his gin and tonic and replenished the gin. “Why would he? The only person who’s had a question about Dad’s death was Liz, and the police brushed her off. That is,” he added malevolently, “until your people started poking around.”

  “And that bimbo girlfriend of his, of course,” Jennifer added.

  “Chastity,” Bree said.

  Jennifer snorted derisively. “That little whore. Can you believe it? She’s refusing to move out of the penthouse at Island Dream. Claims Dad left it to her. A million and a half dollars’ worth of property.” Jennifer rolled her eyes. “We’re going to have to get the sheriff’s office down there to evict her. Stupid little bitch.”

  “I hear you got hold of the autopsy report and the police investigation? Sure like to know how you accomplished that,” Grainger added.

  For that matter, so would she, although she certainly wasn’t about to say that to Grainger. “The quickest way to satisfy my client’s concerns about your father’s death is to offer her as complete an account as possible of the circumstances surrounding it.” The patio was growing colder. She began to wish she’d brought some kind of hoodie. Jennifer and Grainger, both pickled in the warmth of the alcohol, didn’t seem to notice. “Can I ask you a couple of questions about that Tuesday?”

  Husband and wife exchanged a look. “Depends,” Grainger said shortly. “What do you want to know?”

  “When did you decide to go sailing?”

  “A lot depends on the weather,” Jennifer said condescendingly. “You can’t plan for sure all that far ahead. Especially in October. And a lot depended on Daddy’s schedule, too. I guess we got the phone call about ...” she hesitated.

  “About nine Tuesday morning,” Grainger said. “I’m four days on, three days off at the hospital. Tuesday’s an off day. It was fair and calm, so Jenny and I”—at this point, he reached across the table and covered Jennifer’s hand with his own. She looked at it in surprise—“Jenny and I decided to take the boat out for a little spin. Just the two of us.”

  The sunlight darkened and a slight breeze began to rise, rattling the hostas in the north corner of the garden. Bree looked around with a frown.

  “Mr. Skinner called you?”

  “Yes,” Grainger said.

  “No,” Jennifer said.

  The air grew colder. Bree shivered and hugged herself, then rubbed her hands together.

  “It was Doug Fairchild, as a matter of fact,” Grainger said smoothly. “He and Dad were in a meeting about the conversion of the Trident building into office space. They finished up early. Doug called to tell us Dad was headed on down to the marina. He wanted us to wait up. So we did.”

  “Why didn’t Mr. Skinner call you himself?”

  Grainger shrugged. “Who knows? He was in a hurry to get to the marina before we cast off, I suppose.”

  “I’m freezing out here,” Jennifer said petulantly. “I’m so cold I can’t stand it. I’ve got to go inside.”

  “Just hang on a minute,” Grainger said. “You’re about through with this, aren’t you, Bree?”

  “What time did Mr. Skinner get to the marina?”

  “Oh,” Grainger shrugged. “Just before we cast off. I remember he jumped on board from dockside, as we’d already drawn up the walk.”

  “Grainger!” Jennifer said. She stared over Bree’s shoulder at the azaleas, a vulpine smile on her lips. “I’ve got to get inside. I’ll leave Bree to it.”

  “Go on in, then,” Grainger said impatiently. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

  Bree turned around and looked into the depths of the garden. Something low on the ground disturbed the dank leaves; a cat perhaps, except Bree got the sense it was bigger than a cat. Jennifer jumped up. Her wineglass fell to the ground and shattered. If this was typical of the Skinners’ afternoon cocktail hour, Bree thought, they must go through a lot of glasses. Jennifer half-ran to the patio doors, paused, looked back at Bree with a triumphant smile, and disappeared inside the house.

  “It is a little chilly out here,” Grainger frowned. “What the hell’s up with this weather?”

  Bree got up and moved to the chair Jennifer had just vacated. This gave her a full view of the north end of the garden. The leaves were still, but she was certain something lay there, peering out at them.

  Was it blue-eyed, whatever horror lay there?

  “You were about to tell me what time Mr. Skinner got to the Sea Mew.”

  Grainger brushed his hand over his face. “About ten, I think. Must have been.”

  No wind stirred. The brush was silent.

  “And you raised sail and set off.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bree ran her mind over the transcript of the police interrogation. Lieutenant Hunter’s interview began as the Sea Mew set sail. If Grainger was lying about the events leading up to his father’s arrival at the boat—and Bree was sure he was—he’d lie about the rest of it. And those lies were already recorded. She didn’t need to hear them again.

  She turned and looked at Grainger Skinner. “Did you kill your father?”

  “No,” he said. “No, I did not.”

  Bree knew, with a sudden, cold certainty, that Jennifer left them alone in the garden for a reason. Them Pendergasts! Lavinia’s voice whispered. Evil in them Pendergasts!

  The scent of decayed corpses mingled with the dying roses. Grainger sat back in his chair, his eyes closed, lost in a stupor of gin. Bree got up casually and set her glass on the table. “I’ll just see myself out.”

  Grainger didn’t move.

  A dark, fetid cloud of oily smoke took slow shape in the brush behind him. Bree forced herself to walk calmly to the wrought-iron gate. She fumbled with the latch, slipped outside to the welcome heat of the sidewalk, and leaned against the fence, trembling. Nervously, she cast a look backward, over her shoulder. Grainger opened his eyes and grinned at her.

  Whatever had lain in the garden behind him was gone.

  Fifteen

  When th’ Arch-felon saw,

  Due entrance he disdain’d and, in contempt,

  At one single bound high overleap’d all bound

  Of hill or highest wall ...

  —Paradise Lost, John Milton

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Bree said to Ronald. “I think Mr. Skinner was dead before he got to the boat.” She was halfway in and halfway out of a little black dress Ronald had brought to her town house on approval. “And that creepy Jennifer had something to do with it.”

  “His lungs were filled with seawater,” Ronald said. He twitched the bodice into place, and stepped back to look at her. “He drowned. And it’s no use thinking that they bribed the coroner or anything, because the body’s still around, and after he’s buried tomorrow, they can dig him up again if they have to. So that,” he said, as he spun her around and zipped her up, “is that. Why would they drown him in one place and move him to another?”

>   “Nah,” Antonia said. “It’s skimpy in the wrong places. The dress,” she said in response to Bree’s lifted eyebrow, “not your theory of the crime. If there was a crime.”

  “There was a crime all right,” Bree said grimly. “And Jennifer’s connected with it somehow. I’m convinced of it.”

  “You’re right,” Ronald said to Antonia. “She doesn’t look chic. She looks cheap.” He unzipped the dress. Bree stepped out of it, and stood there in bra and panties. He tossed it on top of the heap of others on the couch and dived back into the shopping bags that littered the floor. Sasha poked his nose into the tissue paper, and Ron shooed him gently away.

  “Well, at least Miss Overshaw has been moved from the loony tune to sober citizen,” Antonia said. “Why did you decide she’s right after all?”

  Bree didn’t know why, but she was certain. It had everything to do with the presence in the garden, and Jennifer’s malicious pleasure in the cold. But she couldn’t tell Antonia that. What she could say, to Antonia or anyone else, is that for a whole bunch of more practical reasons—Jennifer’s obvious unease, the couple’s inconsistencies, their schizophrenic reaction to Benjamin Skinner himself, not to mention the eerie sensation she’d had of being stalked—she was convinced somebody had indeed, as Striker put it, “taken Benjamin Skinner out of this life before his time.”

  Ron pulled a red outfit from the bag labeled GoFish and shook it out. It was a brilliant cardinal red. She’d seen the color somewhere recently. “What do you think?”

  Bree looked at it doubtfully. “It’s awfully bright, isn’t it?”

  “I think the color would suit you like anything,” Antonia said. “Try it on this minute. I wish,” she added enviously, “that Ron would shop for me.”

  “I would if you had any money to spend, ducky,” Ron said. “You can’t even qualify for unemployment.”

  Antonia giggled. “Too true.”