Angel Condemned (12 page)

Bree walked in and found Cissy in the black-and-white tiled foyer, bundled against the chilly morning in a soft mink coat.

Her aunt looked tired. She broke into speech as soon as she caught sight of Bree.

“I don’t know what happened. It was such a gorgeous morning, and now look at it—and Prosper’s got his press conference scheduled in less than an hour. They’re even talking snow. And it’s cold.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “So I got out my fur. I’d be glad if you didn’t mention it to Antonia. You know how she tried to get me to join PETA, which I totally agree with except for mink. You ever run into a mink, Bree? A nastier creature doesn’t live on God’s earth.” She snuggled her chin into the collar, and then peeked up at Bree. “You aren’t mad at me, are you?”

“Of course not.” Bree kissed her on the cheek. “How are you, Aunt Cissy?”

“All right, I guess. Didn’t sleep too well. Your mamma’s coming down to stay with me. She tell you that?”

“She did.”

“Ought to come in sometime this afternoon. It’s a long drive from Plessey. Said she wanted to give me a hand with the wedding arrangements.”

“She’s good at that sort of thing.”

“Well, she is,” Cissy said, as if Bree had posed an argument. “I told Prosper that. He thinks she’s coming here to rag on him, but that isn’t like Francesca at all.”

“Is Mr. White . . . Prosper . . . here right now? Does he know that I’m here to discuss the best way to dispose of the lawsuit?”

“He’s very busy,” Cissy said evasively. “The TV people are coming to interview him about the decline of print media and the importance of preserving our print heritage for posterity. We’re thinkin’ maybe the History channel will pick it up. And Alicia’s arranged for some investors to come in and make a bid on the
Americana
exhibit this morning. We’re hoping to make that announcement to the TV people, too.” Cissy gnawed at her lip. “Except that this business with that awful man Chambers might ruin everything. We stand to lose a ton of money if White isn’t paid off. Except I’m not supposed to mention that, am I.” She shook herself, like a little cat. “Anyway. Have you seen the exhibit yet, Bree? I surely wish you could have made it to the grand opening. It’s wonderful, just wonderful. Here.” She put her hand on Bree’s back and propelled her through the foyer and onto the main floor. She waved at the girl behind the ticket kiosk, who’d half risen at their approach. “Drop your tote bag off, there. They don’t allow bags in the museum. Then you come and look.”

Bree got a ticket for her bag and followed Cissy onto the main floor.

Although the mansion dated from the early nineteenth century, the museum itself had been created a hundred years later. The entire interior had been gutted and rebuilt. The ceiling soared up all three stories. The skylights allowed natural light in every corner of the building. The center atrium was tiled in black-and-white marble. Stairs on either end of the room led to the second and third mezzanines. Mahogany railings were built into the open sides overlooking the atrium. The south side of the ground floor was given over to the
Magazine Americana
exhibit. At eleven o’clock on a Tuesday, a surprising number of people were there, most of them clustered in front of the glass-fronted display cases that held the magazine covers. A single security guard in the ubiquitous khaki stood chatting with the girl behind the ticket kiosk.

Cissy drew Bree partway across the floor, stopped cold, and muttered, “What’s
she
doing here? She’s supposed to be at the airport, picking up the buyers.” With a determined set of her chin, she started forward again.

Bree didn’t have to ask who “she” was. Prosper White was huddled in intense conversation with a striking girl. She was tall and slender. Her dark hair was drawn back in a tight bun. She was dressed in a black pencil skirt, with a tight-fitting scoop-necked T-shirt. Elaborate gold earrings dangled from her ears. She had the sinewy elegance of a ballerina and a discontented lower lip.

“Prosper?” Cissy said as they approached—so timidly that Bree’s heart broke a little. “Here’s Bree to talk to you about that awful man.”

The ballerina clone stepped between White and Bree’s aunt. “You must be Mr. White’s eleven o’clock appointment?” she said coolly to Bree. “If you’ll just wait a moment, I’ll escort you to Mr. White’s office.” She didn’t address Cissy directly, but looked past her shoulder. “You’ll probably want to go with Miss Winston-Beaufort, Mrs. Carmichael.”

“It’s
Ms.
Carmichael,” Cissy said, with an air of having mentioned it before.

“Whatever. You wait there. Mr. White and I are finalizing the arrangements for the buyer’s group.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the airport?” Cissy put one hand on the girl’s shoulder, pushed her firmly aside, and nestled close to White. “I hope those poor people aren’t standing around thinkin’ they’ve been abandoned because Alicia forgot to pick them up.”

“Of course I didn’t abandon them.” The girl’s tone was sharp. She turned to Bree and said, “I’m Alicia Kennedy, Miss Winston-Beaufort.” She extended her hand. Bree shook it briefly. “If you and your aunt would please follow me, I’ll get you both settled in Mr. White’s office.”

“What about the buyers, Alicia?” Cissy demanded.

Alicia looked at Prosper and raised her eyebrows. White scowled. “The buyers have been taken care of, Cissy. We sent a stretch limo. I’d rather you not concern yourself. Sit in the office and wait for me.” A chime came from the breast pocket of his suit coat, and he slapped at it irritably. “Damn cell phone hasn’t shut up the whole morning. Go on, girls—shoo. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Alicia led the way to a door set behind the ticket kiosk, opened it, and stepped aside.

Prosper’s office was simple, elegant, and hugely expensive. The window looked out over the circular drive. His large desk—of an exotic wood that Bree couldn’t identify—was completely clear of anything but a landline and a dramatic marble sculpture of a lily. A stunning painting of two sisters—Bree thought it might be a Quilliam—hung on the east wall. The walls themselves were covered in gray damask. A round table, heavily carved with representations of the Chinese goddess Kwan Yin, sat in the northeast corner. A love seat in gray glove leather faced the desk. Cissy sat in it and patted the cushion beside her. Instead, Bree took one of the straight chairs at the Chinese table.

“Coffee?” Alicia said indifferently.

“Not for me, thank you.”

Cissy shook her head.

Alicia’s gaze slid over them both. “I’ll get back to the floor, then. Mr. White may need me.”

“I’ve a few questions before you go, Miss Kennedy. You’ve been named as codefendant in the suit brought by Allard and Jillian Chambers. Have you retained counsel?”

Alicia blinked. Her eyes were brown, rimmed with black liner. The lashes were heavy with mascara. “I thought you were taking care of things.”

“I’ve agreed to represent your employer. Do you want me to represent you as well? I doubt that would be in your best interests.”

She glanced at Cissy uneasily. “All I did was buy the copy of
Photoplay
. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Mr. Chambers feels otherwise. So may the courts.”

“It’s not my problem, is it?”

“It’s very much your problem. I’m here to suggest that we attempt to negotiate a settlement with him. He’s already made a demand. Fifty thousand dollars.”

“So? Maybe you should pay him.”

“How much can you contribute to the demand, Ms. Kennedy?”

“How much can . . . What?”

Cissy bit her lip and coughed.

“You’re codefendant, Miss Kennedy. Equally liable for damages, under the law.”

Alicia stepped back against the office door. “Me? You want me to give you money? You can’t be serious! I . . .” She stumbled forward as the door flew violently open, and White stormed in.

His reflexes were good; Bree had to give him that. He steadied Alicia before she was halfway to the floor, and then shoved her onto the love seat beside Cissy. He glared at Bree. “That bastard’s here! I just called the police. I want him out of my museum before he wrecks the press conference.”

Cissy leaped up, more to avoid proximity to Alicia than anything else, Bree judged. “Who are you talking about, Prosper? Who’s here?”

“Chambers—who do you think!” He went behind his desk and looked out the window. “Look at him. Damn it! He’s called the media. Damn it!” He turned to face them, his face white with rage. “And Bullet Martin’s just coming up the drive. Of all the frigging luck.” His eyes narrowed and he pointed at Alicia. “You,” he said spitefully. “This is all your fault.”

Alicia burst into tears. White slammed both fists onto the desktop, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

Bree got up and went to the window.

The circular driveway was alive with cars and people. Chambers was center stage, no doubt about that, mostly because of the sign he carried. It was so big Bree could read it from her vantage point twenty yards away.

A skinny, fiercely glowering woman at his side carried a smaller banner. That was harder to make out, but it seemed to read PROSPER PROSPERS WHILE INNOCENTS STARVE. Jillian Chambers? It must be. The two of them talked at a glamorous blonde in a bright red suit. She held a microphone and looked bored. A cameraman with a Steadicam stood a short distance from them. Behind him was the Channel 5 news van. Behind that was an old yellow school bus with the legend CITY OF LIGHT MINISTRY in black letters on the side.

It took Bree a minute to figure out where all the people had come from. She recognized the security guard—who had an unfortunate resemblance to a garden toad—and the ticket taker. There were a few museum patrons who’d been looking at the
Magazine Americana
exhibit. Twenty or so other people, perhaps more, milled in the driveway. Most were dressed in shabby jeans, worn hoodies, unlaced tennis shoes, and tattered jackets—the homeless who frequented the streets of Savannah. Those poor people must have come in on the City of Light’s yellow bus. That, she recalled, was the charity shop next to Reclaimables. Chambers was certainly resourceful.

A handful of people were very expensively dressed. Bree noticed a stretch limo parked discreetly off to one side. Had they come from there?

“The buyers are the ones dressed to the nines,” Cissy said from behind her shoulder. “That man in the cashmere coat? With the lizard-skin cowboy boots? Charles Martin.”

“Martin,” Bree said, without expression. “Oh yes?”

“Prosper calls him Bullet. He owns the Houston Oilers. You know, one of the basketball teams from Texas?”

“So what the hell do I do now?” White demanded.

Bree turned around. White leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his shoulders hunched.

Bree wished she’d brought Sasha with her. Sasha would have seen what she was seeing now:
guilty guilty guilty
.

But guilty of what?

“Wait for the police,” Cissy said promptly.

“I can’t leave Bullet Martin out there with that . . . mob. The man’s worth thirty million dollars.”

“Then go get him,” Bree said mildly.

He pointed at Bree. “You! You’re my lawyer. You go out and get him. I’m not going to dignify that . . . that . . . demonstration with any kind of statement.” He drew himself up. “Or my presence.”

“For heaven’s sake, Prosper,” Cissy said tartly. “You can’t hide out in here, and you can’t hide behind my niece. Why, you outweigh her by sixty pounds, and for goodness’ sake, you’re a man.” She held out one gloved hand. “Come on, darlin’. You’ve got a press conference to give, and you’re going to give it. I’ll go with you. We’ll show that little rat what’s what.”

Bree bit her lip so hard she almost yelped. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to yell, “Yay, Aunt Cissy.” She couldn’t do either, so she said, “I’ll go out with you. I’d advise against making any kind of statement about Chambers. Keep cool. Don’t respond to any provocation. We’ll get Mr. Martin and bring him in here and maybe the TV people, too. The demonstrators can’t get into the museum without a ticket, so don’t sell them any, okay? Alicia, maybe you can take care of closing the premises for lunch, or something.”

A few of the demonstrators had started a chant: “Thief! Thief! Thief!” White made a noise between a growl and a sob.

“I’m staying with Prosper,” Alicia said.

Bree shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll head out first, and you follow, okay?”

The main floor, which had been alive with people, was silent now. Everyone had gone out onto the drive to listen to the noise. Bree crossed to the front entrance, very aware of the click of her heels on the marble floor, and the press of the three people behind her.

She pushed open the front doors. The toad-like security guard stepped out of the way. The four of them stepped out onto the front steps. There was a momentary pause, and then a woman shrieked, “Thief!” A tomato sailed through the air and landed on White’s Italian shoe. Another tomato sailed past Bree’s ear. Somebody else shouted, “Get him!” and the crowd surged toward them, led by the blonde anchor, her microphone held aloft in her hand. She didn’t look bored any longer.

Somebody moved Bree politely out of the way. White was surrounded—by Chambers, teeth bared in an unfriendly grin, by Charles Martin in his cashmere coat, and by a dozen others. Cissy clutched his arm, her face pale but unafraid. Alicia cowered behind his back.

“Thief!” Chambers roared.

The crowd pushed and shoved. Bree stumbled and then regained her balance.

White, furious, shouted, “Don’t talk to me! Don’t touch me! This is out . . .” He gasped, a huge, astonished, outraged intake of air.

He fell, sagging against the press of people.

Then Cissy screamed.

“Knife wound, most likely,” the EMT said. “You can see the entry wound here, just under the sternum. Guy fell right away you said?”