Angel Condemned (4 page)

Bree and EB looked at each other in dismay.

EB waited until the click of Cissy’s heels on the terrazzo floor outside faded into the distance. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know about this.”

“You’re not enchanted, enthralled, and enraptured by the elegantly dressed Mr. White?”

“Got up your nose, too?”

Bree exhaled with a huff. “Big time.”

“Your aunt Cissy’s got herself a fair amount of money, that right?”

“That’s right.”

EB shook her head again. “Mm-hm. Your auntie going to pay the bill for this lawsuit?”

“We’re not going to charge her, EB. I can’t charge my own aunt.”

“She going to sit still for that? And you said something about hiring another lawyer if you need help. That lawyer going to work for free, too?”

Bree tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It was silver-blonde and fell to her waist. Francesca said it was Bree’s one vanity. She kept it tucked up in a coronet of braids during the working day, but it had an annoying tendency to work loose if she rushed the ritual of putting it up in the morning, or if she was tired and aggravated, the way she was now. “No,” she admitted. “Supporting counsel won’t work for free.”

“Uh-huh.” EB rocked back and forth in her chair, so that it creaked. “Your daddy hear anything about Mr. White from those folks he called in New York? I mean, what kind of trouble is your auntie in, here?”

Royal Winston-Beaufort had made a few discreet inquiries when Cissy announced her marriage plans. “White’s very visible in the art world,” Bree said cautiously. “He seems to live on grants, stipends, and donations, which is how folks in the art world tend to live, I suppose. There’s no shame in that. But my father’s not settled about this, EB. Not by a long shot. Neither am I. Anyhow, Daddy didn’t get further than a couple of phone calls made when guess what?”

“Your aunt called your daddy up and asked him why he was poking around the affairs of her fiancé. Cryin’, too, I’ll bet.”

“You’re a smart woman, EB.”

“It’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

“It surely is.”

“So what’s your daddy going to do?”

“He apologized to Cissy for interfering. She demanded that we leave White alone. He apologized again. She told him to let it be. I don’t know if he agreed to or not. But I didn’t agree to let it be, and this case gives me the perfect excuse to find out a little more about Mr. Prosper White.”

“So what are we goin to do now?”

“At the moment, we’re going to try and make this case go away. It’s a loser, no matter how I look at it.”

“Good. Where do we start?” EB was dead set on becoming a paralegal after she got her GED through her night school courses, and she was adamant about understanding procedure.

“You mean if this weren’t a beloved relative with too much money and no sense when it comes to predatory men? We’d file a motion to dismiss and perhaps a counterclaim for damages pursuant to the frivolous nature of the charges. But as you’ve so shrewdly reminded me, we don’t have a clue about White’s antecedents. And it’s better to scope out the swamp before you wade in. I think I’ll go on down to Stubblefield’s office and see if Payton’s in. I need a sense of what this is really about.”

“Payton the Rat?” said EB. A grin spread over her face. “Last I saw of that boy was his backside when you kicked him out of the office a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yep. Payton McAllister the Third himself. He’s the attorney of record, according to this thing.” She tucked the summons into her jacket pocket and glanced at her watch. “It’s after two. He should be back from lunch.”

“And you missed lunch. Now, me, I can afford to.” EB patted one substantial hip. “You? I’m not so sure. Whyn’t you go out and get yourself something real high calorie so those size two pants don’t hang off of you like they do, before you whack Mr. McAllister over the head. I’m going wrap up those lease agreements for the Dwyer account and then get myself on home. I won’t be here when you get back.”

“You’ll be in tomorrow?” When she’d opened the Bay Street office, Bree had only been able to afford EB part-time. In the past few months—perhaps because of the notoriety surrounding Bree’s involvement in four high-profile murders—her temporal business had begun to pick up a bit. If she could afford the time to spend with her temporal clients, she might be able to start drawing a salary herself. She had a small stipend from a trust fund set up by her mother’s family, but it was just enough to keep her head above water.

“Yes, ma’am,” EB said in satisfaction. “Got myself two-thirds of a day’s work at least. I might be hitting you up for a raise pretty soon if business keeps coming in.”

“Why don’t I pick up the tuition for your night school courses?”

EB shook her head. “We can’t afford that right now,’specially if you won’t get a nickel from your auntie and most ’specially if you keep that Angelus Street office open.” EB’s curiosity about the Angelus office was intense, but so far Bree had managed to keep her curiosity in check without offending her. EB had never been there. It was not a place temporals other than Bree could find. “Besides, I got a grant to go to school. You’d do better to spend that money getting yourself some lunch.”

“I’ll pick up something after I go downstairs and talk to Payton,” Bree promised. “Maybe I’ll have a nice cold martini, too. I always need a stiff drink after a talk with Payton. I’ve got my cell on, if you need me.”

She slung her tote and her black wool winter coat over one arm, and let herself out.

Marbury, Stubblefield was only two floors down, but she decided to take the elevator. Something about the gracious old Bay Street building demanded a certain amount of decorum. She preferred to arrive at the lavish offices below without announcing herself by clattering downstairs.

She spent the short ride thinking about Prosper White and what, if anything, he might have to hide. His casual erudition was pretentious, and there wasn’t a law against that. His airy dismissal of Alicia Kennedy’s possible complicity in defrauding Allard and Jillian Chambers bordered on the unethical, but it certainly wasn’t a hanging offense. On the other hand, his rudeness to Cissy was unforgivable. If the guy was really going to be a member of the family, Bree foresaw a lifetime of biting her lip. She made a face at the mahogany wainscoting that lined the elevator car. Francesca would never interfere. Neither would Royal. They’d all just have to live with it.

The elevators doors hissed opened directly in front of the Marbury offices, and Bree stepped out.

John Stubblefield was sole head of one of the largest law firms in Savannah. If there had been an actual Marbury, other than the nineteenth-century advocate who had lent his name to the landmark legal case Marbury v. Madison, he was long dead or otherwise out of the picture. Stubblefield was notorious for late-night infomercials touting the services of the firm to victims of bad air, bad hip replacements, polluted wells, and fatty hamburgers from fast-food joints. Bree wasn’t against class-action suits in principle—the successful litigation against the tobacco companies was a classic example of American jurisprudence in the right kind of action—but Stubblefield’s notion of justice began and ended with what benefited him and his obscenely engorged bank accounts.

She pulled open the heavy glass door to the firm and stepped inside.

Stubblefield had remodeled the entire fourth floor at great expense. The thick wall-to-wall carpeting was crystal pink. The huge reception desk gleamed with brass fixtures inlaid in polished teak. The couches set out for clients were white leather. Silk flower arrangements overflowed every available surface.

The receptionist behind the desk looked up with a welcoming smile as the faint chime announcing a visitor bounced gently in the hushed air. Her smile died almost immediately. “Hullo, Miss Winston-Beaufort.”

“How are you, Tiffany?” Bree was pretty sure Tiffany had been homecoming queen at her high school. She knew for a fact Tiffany had been Miss Peach Blossom the year after that. Beauty-queen credentials seemed to be a résumé requirement for Marbury, Stubblefield receptionists. That—and a demand to dye their hair to match the carpeting.

“Okay, I guess,” she said warily. Bree’s infrequent visits to the firm usually ended in disruptions of one sort or another. Tiffany twiddled the pen in her hand and then sucked cautiously at the tip. “You here to see anyone in particular? Mr. Stubblefield isn’t in.”

“Is Payton in?”

Tiffany’s cherry-glossed lips twitched. “You aren’t armed or anything, are you?”

“Just with my righteous sense of justice.”

Tiffany nodded. “Okeydokey. I’ll get him. I’d better not say who it is, though. He’ll hide all day if he knows it’s you.” She lifted the phone receiver to her ear and hit the intercom button. “Mr. McAllister? Your two-thirty’s here. I know, sir, it’s a little early.” She hung the phone up softly. “He’ll be right out.”

Bree sank down on one of the soft couches. “Does he actually have a two-thirty?”

“Nope. But he never remembers appointments anyhow. He says that’s my job. You’ll cover for me, right?”

“Goes without saying.”

“Haven’t seen you on TV lately,” Tiffany said a bit wistfully.

“No, thank goodness. Things have been quiet.”

“It’s February. Things always slow down in the winter. It’ll pick up right enough.”

“I like quiet,” Bree said. “And naps. I could go for a nap right now.”

“You’re lookin’ a little wrung out,” Tiffany agreed. “You ought to try going for a facial. Perks me up every time.”

The thick wood door to the back offices swept open, and Payton strode into the room with an anticipatory grin. The sleeves of his pink Brooks Brothers shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He wore red suspenders, a silver tie, and beautifully cut gray trousers. He was also gorgeous. As a young, wet-behind-the-ears novice lawyer, Bree had fallen madly in love with his looks and his brains and just as madly out again when she discovered how slick he was. Not one of her smarter decisions in life, the affair with Payton.

Payton’s shiny white teeth ground shut as she rose to meet him and he realized who it was. He shot a furious glare at Tiffany.

“Sorry,” Bree said. “I told Tiffany I was early for my two-thirty and she bought it—hook, line, and sinker.”

“You want to see me about a case, Bree, make an appointment.”

“You can bill your time to your client without an appointment.” Bree grabbed his elbow and steered him to the back door. “Let’s talk in your office. Won’t take more than a minute.”

“It’ll take less than that.” He stopped dead and removed her hand from his shirtsleeve. “You’re here about the Prosper White case, right?”

“Right. And talk about frivolous . . .”

“Who said anything about frivolous?”

Aware of Tiffany behind her, Bree amped it up a little and flung her hands in the air dramatically. “Payton, the cause of action
reeks
of frivolous. Baseless, causeless, and dumb. The case has zero merit. None. Nada. I’m filing a motion to dismiss, followed by a claim for frivolous damages based on the utter idiocy of arguing a mere violation of the UCC in court, followed by—”

“Just shut up a minute, will you?” He took a deep breath. Bree dropped the pyrotechnics, in a state of mild surprise. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Payton was scared. “We’ve declined representation.”

“Oh.” Not looking surprised at anything was an essential defense mechanism in court, and frequently necessary elsewhere. Bree was pretty good at keeping a poker face. But she took a moment to digest this, and then she said, “Why?”

“Why? What do you mean ‘why’? I don’t have to tell you why.”

Bree poked her forefinger in his chest. Payton backed up. “No, you don’t. But you do have to tell me who has the case now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Payton, Payton, Payton.” She tapped her finger against his chest for emphasis. “I don’t have to tell you how seriously the system takes ditching a client.” Prosper White’s disdainful voice echoed in her head—
Chambers doesn’t have two nickels to rub together
—so she added, “Especially a needy, impoverished client. You’d be up before the Bar Ethics Committee in ten seconds flat. Once the case is in motion, you’re legally bound to make a referral if you drop a client.”

Payton leaned back against the grass-cloth-covered wall. “All right, all right. Will you get your damn finger off of my chest? Look. I really don’t know where the case went, for sure. John handled the referral for me.”

“John Stubblefield?”

“Yes. To some new firm. It all came down this morning. Just too late to call off the process server.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Doubt it. The firm’s been around a month or so. I met with them, and I . . .” Payton rubbed his hand across his lip. “Didn’t think too much of them, to tell you the truth. I even recommended against it. John insisted. I honestly don’t know why. But I don’t have to give a rat’s ass about it because it’s not my case anymore. So get off my back, will you? Tiffany’s got their business card, if you really want it. But I’m out of it, okay? So just beat it.” He was sweating slightly, and flushed.

“I’ve got the name right here, if you want it, Miss Winston-Beaufort.” Tiffany waved the small card in the air.

Bree went back to the reception desk and took it from her. It smelled slightly of rotten eggs. She read the names embossed on the flame-colored background with a slight sense of shock.

“You heard of them?” Payton said.

“Maybe.” She took a deep breath.

She knew them, all right. And when had they moved to her own office building?

Beazley & Caldecott were celestial counsel for the Opposition. She’d run up against them four times in her cases in the Celestial Courts. They were half demons from the darkest regions of the Celestial Sphere, and there was no way in hell Bree was going to involve her aunt with the two of them.