Defending Angels Page 17
Ron clucked his tongue. “Any word on the job yet?”
Bree marveled a little at how well Ron and Antonia had hit it off. Her sister would have shaved Bree bald if she’d said half the things to her that Ron got away with. He was, Antonia had said with a grin, the big brother she never had and never wanted.
“Nope. I called today. The tech job’s down to me and this guy with a degree in stage design from some drama school in the Midwest, if you can believe it.” She shook her head in disgust.
“Gee,” Ron said. His eyebrows rose. “Why in the world would they pick somebody with a college degree over you, with your vast experience? I ask you.”
“Shut up,” Antonia said unperturbed. “The director loves me. And why would he choose some geek with a degree who can’t act over a person who can learn the job perfectly well and can act?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because he wants to get the job done?”
“Hey, you guys,” Bree said. “What do you think?” She smoothed the red dress over her hips and twirled around.
Antonia shrieked, “Yes!”
“Do I know what I’m doing or what?” Ronald said complacently.
Bree looked down at herself. The material was a light, silky velvet with the sheen of sunlight on water. The gown was tea length. At mid-calf, the skirt flared out in soft ripples. The neckline draped at the throat.
“Fabulous,” Antonia said. “Just fabulous.”
Bree stood on tiptoe to see herself in the mirror that hung over the mantel. She did look fabulous, if a little imperious.
“Just the thing to face down the power of the Skinner clan.” Ronald smiled at her; it was a joyous, confiding smile, and Bree smiled right back.
“Thanks,” she said. “You’re right.”
“De nada, as we say south of Montgomery. Way south, of course. And I’m always right about clothes.”
“Doorbell,” Antonia said as the chimes ran through the house. “I’ll get it. And whoever it is,” she threw over her shoulder, “make it short. I’m starving to death.”
She was back in a few moments, a powerfully built, saturnine-looking man in her wake.
He was a cop. He had to be. Bree could see the outline of his shoulder holster under his cheap sports coat, and he had that guarded, self-aware look that characterizes most veterans of the force. Bree was conscious of an intense flare of attraction. His eyes were hazel. His brief glance at her was detached, but thorough. Bree could almost see the information as he stored it up: White female, late twenties, five feet nine, white blonde, 125 pounds, green eyes, no distinguishing marks.
“This,” Antonia said unnecessarily, “is the police.” She waved a business card and handed it over to Bree. “Lieutenant Hunter, Chatham County detective first class, or something like that. Lieutenant, this is my sister, Queen Bree.” She shot an impudent glance at him. “So I suppose this’ll take as long as it takes? Just to let you know, we haven’t eaten yet.”
Bree, suddenly very conscious of the dress, and the clothes and shopping bags strewn around the floor, felt at a considerable disadvantage. She scowled at Antonia, and then nodded at the detective coolly. “I’m Brianna Beaufort. I’m glad to see you here, Lieutenant. I had intended to come and talk to you Monday morning. I’m flattered that you’ve anticipated me. And on a weekend, too.”
“More of a courtesy visit,” Hunter said shortly. His voice matched his face; rough, experienced, and rather cynical. “It shouldn’t keep you from your dinner.”
Ron grabbed Antonia’s elbow. “Tell you what, ducky. Let’s you and me go down to the shrimp place and bring something back for Miss Bree.”
“But ...” Antonia said.
“No buts. Back in a tick, Bree.”
Sasha followed them to the front door, and then scrambled stiff-legged back to the living room, where he flopped on the floor with a grunt. Bree had come to depend on his reactions to people. He seemed indifferent to the detective.
“May I sit down for a moment?” He indicated the cluttered couch with a sweep of his hand.
“Of course.” Bree stacked the clothes onto the coffee table with as little fluster as possible. She sat in the chintz chair at a right angle to the couch; Hunter followed suit at the opposite end of the couch. Her father had taught her early on that silence was sometimes the best offense in unfamiliar situations; she sat with her hands in her lap and waited for him to speak.
“Your client, Ms. Overshaw, has been rattling a good few cages around town.”
He said “Ms.” without the self-conscious twist most middle-aged white males gave to it. Although, looking at him more closely, he was probably in his midthirties. It was his expression that made him seem older. “Yes,” Bree said composedly, “she has.”
“You haven’t been in Savannah very long, Ms. Beaufort.”
“No.” Then, with some surprise because it seemed like a lifetime by now, “A little over a week.”
He smiled, which lightened his face. She was right. He wasn’t too much older than she was. “And you practiced in North Carolina for several years with your father’s firm. Corporate tax law? Is that right? Winston-Beaufort, Montgomery.”
“Your information’s good, Lieutenant.”
“So you’re new to the criminal investigation business.”
Now, that was condescending. Bree’s temper stirred. She gave it a mental whack and said, “Yep. That’s right.”
“But you are familiar with the requirements of your profession ...”
So he was capable of sneering, too; she knew that most cops didn’t care for lawyers, but still ...
“... which are quite clear, Ms. Beaufort; any information you turn up in the course of an investigation of a crime should be turned over to us.”
“By ‘us’ do you mean the Chatham County Police Department? Or the folks who get together for whiskey juleps after work?” This reference to the powers behind the throne was a calculated one; if the Skinners had sent him and meant to intimidate her, they had another think coming.
Anger flashed across his face so quickly she wasn’t sure she’d seen it. But had she enraged him because the establishment sent him? Or because he thought she was the establishment? Winston-Beaufort, Montgomery had been around since well before the War Between the States; if he’d gone as far as looking up her work history, he would have known that, too.
“Why don’t you just flat out tell me what you want, Lieutenant? We can save ourselves a lot of time.”
He rubbed his hand across his mouth with a weary gesture. Bree felt a stab of compunction. No city paid its policemen and women enough. It was hard work, among hard people, and she had more sympathy than she cared to admit for the force.
“Let me get you a cup of coffee before we get down to it. And do you have a first name other than Lieutenant?”
There was that faint smile. “Sam. And a cup of coffee would be welcome.”
“Will you come on into the kitchen, then? I won’t have to worry about slopping coffee all over those clothes Ronald brought home for me.”
His eyes ran over her body, coolly appraising. “You’re looking for something to shine down the opposition at your open house? That ought to do it.”
Bree looked down at the red dress, embarrassed. She glanced at him; there was a faint smile in his eyes. She smiled back, and for a long moment, the air held promise.
Bree turned on her heel and went to the sink. She ground coffee beans, put them into the automated coffee-maker, and filled the tank with water. By the time she’d accomplished these small, familiar tasks, her embarrassment receded. She sat down at the kitchen table across from him, composed and guarded.
“I got a call today from someone in the mayor’s office. You seem to be conducting your own investigation into Benjamin Skinner’s death, Miss Beaufort.”
“Please call me Bree,” she said with just the right amount of friendly distance. “Are you warning me off talking to Grainger and Jennifer Skinner again?”
“It doesn’t matter to you who I harass, as you so tactfully put it?” Bree said. She was nettled. “Are you that sure of your job? Much less any future promotions in the hands of your superiors in the force? I’ve only been practicing law for a few years, Lieutenant, but I already know how things work. Guys who refuse to play ball at crucial times don’t get back in the game.”
He shrugged. “Why is this a concern of yours?” “Because I’m representing the interests of my client,” she snapped. “If the police investigation is compromised in any way ...” The look on his face, dangerously angry, made her stop in mid-sentence. “I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I didn’t mean to imply anything crooked.”
“Sounded as if you were headed that way.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her, as if weighing her worth to him as an ally. “You saw Grainger and Jennifer Skinner this afternoon.”
“I did,” she said, although he hadn’t made it a question. “And Carlton Montifiore this morning.”
“I’d like you to repeat the gist of the conversation.”
She did, and quite well, too, even if she did think so herself. Her summary was accurate, focused, and accomplished with just enough skepticism to let Hunter know she didn’t believe a word of the Skinners’ story. She left out the part about the cold and the watcher in the garden.
“They claim there was a witness to the accident?”
Bree set a cup of coffee in front of him, put the sugar and creamer at hand, and sat down at the table. “Douglas Fairchild, yes. They didn’t offer any explanation as to why he hasn’t come forward until now. My guess is, they heard Liz had retained me to look into the murder and they cooked this up among themselves to verify their story.” She traced invisible circles on the tabletop with an impatient fingertip. “Can I ask you something, Lieutenant? Do you think Benjamin Skinner was murdered?”
“Chief Hartman is closing the case. Accidental death.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
He looked at her impassively.
“Oh, come on,” Bree said. “Why else are you here? Unless it’s to shove me around so that I’ll drop my client and the investigation along with it.” His eyes, she noticed, became flat amber brown when he was angry. “I’ll be absolutely straight with you. I’m convinced Benjamin Skinner was murdered. Not only that, I’m almost sure he was dead before he ever got on that boat. I mean, before somebody put him on the boat.”
Hunter eyed her narrowly. “That’s quite a set of assumptions. Anything to back it up? Other than intuition?”
“Nothing that would make any sense to you,” Bree admitted. “And I know it flies in the face of the facts. You’re sure no one got at the coroner?”
“Bribed Doc Bishop, you mean?” He was obviously taken aback. “Do you know how many witnesses there are at an autopsy? I was there myself.”
“You were? Did you walk away from it with any unanswered questions? Was there anything at all about the condition of the body that didn’t add up?”
He looked at her for a long moment, as if deciding how much to let her into his confidence. Then he said, slowly, “His daughter-in-law backed the boat over the body. Pretty convenient to have the corpse chewed up like that. It makes it possible to hide a number of problems, especially since they had time to haul the body into the boat, make sure any signs of assault had been chewed up by the props, and dump it over the side before the Coast Guard got there.”
Bree made a face.
“Do you sail, Miss Beaufort? You do. Then you know how difficult it is to maneuver a boat like the Sea Mew. I’d be surprised if either one of them was sailor enough to do that on purpose.”
“Maybe they didn’t drive the boat over the body. Maybe they just dropped him into the motor.” She shook her head violently. “Ugh. I wish that hadn’t occurred to me. I’m not going to be able to get that picture out of my head for a long time.”
He winced. “Quite an image.”
“But you agree with me? You think there’s something suspicious about this death.”
“I’m not entirely satisfied, no.”
“You don’t look like the kind of man to operate on intuition, Lieutenant. Quite the opposite, in fact. So what’s convinced you this is murder?”
He drained his cup, then rose and put it in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee. You’ll let me know if anything else comes up? You have my card?”
“Wait just a second.” Bree looked up at him, her voice steely. “The only reason to keep information from me is if it’s going to impede the murder investigation. You made it pretty clear that the department’s ready to—what was the expression y’all use? Close the book on this one. Officially, it’s accidental death. And if it’s officially an accidental death, anything to the contrary that you tell is unofficial, isn’t it? So? Spill it.”
He laughed.
“Sit down, please.” Bree patted the seat of the kitchen chair invitingly. “Let me get you another cup of coffee. If you wait just a little bit longer, they’ll be back with the shrimp.”
“Who’s ‘they’? If you’re meeting some of your friends ...”
“Antonia and Ron. My secretary.”
“Your sister works as your secretary?”
“No,” Bree said, exasperated, “the guy who was with her just now. The one who was helping me dress. Ron Parchese.”
“You and your sister were alone when I came in.” His gaze was dark and shuttered.
She stared at him. He looked back at her with an appraising, assessing air that chilled her. A cop look. “You know,” she said uncertainly, “I guess Ron was here earlier and left before you got here. Sorry. It’s been a long day. I didn’t mean to ...” She put as much energy as she could into her smile. “Hey. You’ve eaten at the Shrimp Factory, haven’t you? I shouldn’t wonder if it isn’t the best food in Georgia, practically. Antonia always brings more than a battalion can eat.”
He sat down. Reluctantly, but at least he sat down. This made her guess at a number of things. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. It was Saturday night. He was off duty. No wife or girlfriend, and maybe not many friends, either. He was a Yankee, probably from the Northeast; that flat, clipped accent was unmistakable. And he carried himself like a soldier.
The fact that he hadn’t seen her highly visible, even flamboyant secretary was something that she didn’t want to think about. Not right now.
“You aren’t from Georgia originally, is my guess,” she said as she poured the coffee, “and maybe not from anywhere in the South?”
“Not too hard to guess. I don’t have the accent,” he said.
“We don’t have an accent. You folks from up north do, though. But it’s not just that.” She smiled sunnily at him. “You take your coffee black. All true Southerners take it regular, which means cream and sugar.” She held the cream pitcher up in the air. “You sure?”
He shook his head, and then commented, “Yours seems to come and go.”
Bree raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
“Your Southern accent.”
If Antonia was here, she’d tell Sam Hunter to keep his guard up when Bree went Southern, but she wasn’t, thank goodness. Bree occupied herself with cream and sugar, and watched him out of the corner of her eye. “How long have you been down south?”
“A couple of years. I joined the Marines after undergraduate school and served two tours.”
“That’s long enough to soften those Yankee vowels,
if not get rid of them altogether.”
He tipped his chair back, long legs stretched out. He looked amused. More important, he looked relaxed. “Are you trying to flirt with me, Miss Beaufort?”
“I surely am, Sam. My intent, a fell intent, to be sure, is to charm all of the information out of you that I can about the Skinner case. Did you ever meet him? Up close and personal, I mean?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. He has a project over on Liberty.”
“The Pyramid Office Building,” Bree said promptly. “Nearly completed, isn’t it? My uncle’s office space is over there.”
“It almost wasn’t completed ... There was a real disagreement over whether or not to tear the building down or keep the façade and rebuild where necessary.”
“I heard about that.” A cold breeze curled through the kitchen. Bree got up and shut the windows over the sink halfway.
“Fairchild prevailed, over Skinner’s strong objections. And when they began excavating the basement to reset the footers, they dug up a body.”
“A body?”
“A white male, as it turned out, with a hole the size of Topeka in the skull. As I understand it, there was a period in Savannah’s history when people were buried in the most convenient spot—not necessarily a cemetery.”
“That’s true. It was mostly the pirates, I think.”
“Be that as it may, construction was halted until we determined specifics.”
“It was an old body?”
“A very old body. Mid-eighteenth century, as near as the anthropologists at UNC could figure out.” The lines around Sam’s mouth deepened into a grin. “There was some speculation that it was the body of an errant lawyer, who’d managed to sneak into the city despite Governor Oglethorpe’s ban.”
“Huh,” Bree said indignantly. “I suppose you all thought that was pretty funny.”
“Everybody but the lawyers,” Sam admitted. “It was Skinner’s joke, believe it or not.”
“From all I heard, he didn’t have much of a sense of humor.”
“Not as a rule, no. He was a thoroughly unpleasant guy, as a matter of fact. Didn’t seem to give a hang that the holdup might bankrupt his partners.”