Defending Angels (17 page)

“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 will 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.”

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.

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

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

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.”

Stubblefield looked as slick as his ads. His white hair was carefully cut, gelled, and sprayed. His cheeks were smooth-shaven. He wore a sapphire-studded Rolex on his left arm and a thick gold bracelet with his initials on his right. He sat at ease at one of the round aluminum tables near the fountain. One leg was crossed over the other, revealing black silk socks that didn’t show an inch of skin.

Payton got up as Bree neared the table. Stubblefield stayed put.

“Hey,” Payton said, rather nervously. “Glad you could make it.” He pulled out a chair. Bree sat down. Sasha folded himself onto the pavement at her side, his head up, his ears forward, and his eyes on Payton’s face. “Bree, I’d like you to meet John Stubblefield.” His voice was so reverent, Bree had to quell an impish desire to cross herself.

“Miss Beaufort.” His voice was resonant. Bree knew enough about voice training from Antonia to realize that Stubblefield had studied with a voice coach. “I understand that you’ve been retained by a former associate of Bennie Skinner’s.”

“That I have,” Bree said equably. She raised her hand to attract a waiter’s attention.

“Of course, you’d like some refreshment.” Stubblefield’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I beg your pardon. What would you like to drink?”

“An iced latte would suit me just fine.”

He snapped his fingers. “Payton? See to the lady’s needs.” He smirked, “He’s been quite successful at that in the past, wouldn’t you say, Miss Beaufort?”

Payton jumped up, his teeth flashing in an ingratiating grin. Sheer rage washed over her like a hot red blanket. Bree stuck her foot out just in time to catch him at the ankle. He fell forward and recovered himself with a tremendous jerk.

“I do apologize,” Bree said, with precisely Stubblefield’s inflection. “You’ll make that a skinny latte, won’t you, Payton? And a lemon peel.” She turned her attention back to Payton’s boss. With luck, she’d get a chance to trip him, too. “Yes, I’m representing Ms. Overshaw. And in the interests of fairness, John, I should tell you that she has grave questions about your role in Benjamin Skinner’s murder.”

As she’d hoped, this direct attack took the lawyer by surprise. He was far too old a hand to lose his temper, but he did drop the phony geniality. “What kind of evidence does your client have that it is murder?” His eyes narrowed. “And why the hell should she suspect me?”

“Mr. Skinner had a lot of questions about the way you practice law, John. Uncomfortable questions. I’d like to know just how close to the bone he came with you and your firm.”

Stubblefield leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs along the pavement. He took a sip of his drink—a julep, from what Bree could tell—and said reflectively, “That’s always been the trouble with a bitch in business.”

“I beg your pardon?” At the ice in her voice, Sasha sat up abruptly and growled.

“Women.” He sighed with a mock sorrow that put Bree’s teeth on edge. “Women don’t have the least idea how the game is played, Ms. Beaufort. Liz Overshaw has mistaken some friendly jousting for an all-out war.” He put his hand over hers. “Call it a guy thing. The bitch’s old, ugly, and if you’ll excuse the expression, a royal pain in the butt.”

Bree didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment. The wind picked up and stirred the paper trash in the square.