Defending Angels (29 page)

And Skinner wasn’t happy. She had a sinking feeling he’d stopped haunting Liz only to start haunting her. There’d been a bit of red Georgia clay and a rose petal by her bedside this morning. The television news last night had excited coverage of the police as they impounded Skinner’s rose-covered coffin. And she had dreamed of drowning.

“You look tired.” Francesca peered worriedly at her. “You haven’t been getting enough sleep. The case is just wreckin’ your complexion, Bree.”

“Leave the child alone,” Royal said. “She looks fine. A little thin, maybe.”

Bree took a deep breath and prayed for patience. Her father—who let very little escape him—grinned engagingly at her. “I know, I know. We’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow afternoon. And we’ll take Antonia with us.”

“Where
is
that sister of yours?” her mother fussed. “You did let her know we were here, didn’t you?”

“I left word at the theater,” Bree said. “She was in a director’s meeting for this new show.”

“A stagehand,” her mother said despairingly. “I ask you. What kind of life is that going to be? Hand to mouth. Well.” She sighed from the bottom of her toes. “There it is. She seems happy, you think?”

“Very,” Bree said. “She was over the moon at getting this job.”

“It’s gainful employment, Francesca.” Royal crossed one knee over the other and took another sip of his drink. He’d given up his pipe years ago, but even without it, he was the picture of a contented man.

“True, true, true,” her mother mourned. “And God knows we couldn’t compare the two of you. Not, of course,” she added hastily, “that we wanted to. But if Antonia just had a little more gumption.” Then, with a tragic air, “I suppose it’s all from my side of the family.”

Bree looked at her dog. Sasha looked back at her with his deep, loving eyes. Family. What family? Whose? It had been on her mind since that eerie, amazing meeting at Professor Cianquino’s. The doubt had grown to an insistent, demanding question.

The only way to find out was to ask.

She kept her voice steady, casual, uninflected. “What do you suppose I inherited from my side of the family? As a matter of fact, who was my family?”

Nobody moved. The silence was sudden and profound. Her parents didn’t look at each other. After a long moment, Royal demanded, “What in the world are you talking about?” With an impatient twitch of his shoulders, he got up and walked toward the kitchen.

“Don’t you take another step, Royal Beaufort,” her mother said. “Come back here and sit down. Now!” She shifted her position on the sofa so that she faced Bree. “What is this about? Has somebody been talking here in Savannah?”

Bree found it hard to catch her breath. “About my being adopted?”

“You weren’t adopted,” her mother said angrily. “You are our very own daughter. I hate that word ‘adopted’. What does it mean, anyhow? It sounds like you were left on the church steps somewhere like a little orphan. And if you don’t think I’m your mother, and your daddy’s your daddy, you have another think coming,”

Bree, familiar with her mother’s loving—if confusing—illogic, said patiently, “Of course you’re my parents. My question is, are you my
parents
?”

“I did not bear you in the same way I carried Antonia, that’s true,” her mother said. “But you were a gift in the same way that all babies are gifts. You just came to us a different way.”

Bree waited.

“What your mother is trying to say ...” Her father stopped, patted his blazer pocket for his long-vanished pipe, and repeated, “What your mother is trying to say is that you are my father’s brother’s child.”

“Great-uncle Franklin?” Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. “But he never married, did he? I mean, not that I’d expected to be legitimate ...”

“Bree!” her mother said.

“... but it does seem strange he didn’t want to raise me himself.”

This time her parents did look at each other.

“Franklin did marry.” Francesca’s face was solemn. “Very late in life. A very beautiful girl, dear Bree. And very young. He met her in a church, of all places. But she died. And before she died she made him promise to give you up.”

“Give me up,” Bree repeated. The words had no meaning.

“I don’t know if it’s because he was so much older—he was seventy when you were born—although he lived to be ninety-eight, wouldn’t you just know it? Although if he’d known he was going to live so long, he wouldn’t have let us raise you, and then where would we be?” Her mother took a breath. “But she did. Make him promise. And your uncle Franklin never went back on his word.”

“And of course he was with you every minute he could be,” Royal said.

“So that’s it,” her mother said airily. “Case closed, end of story, no more to say except that”—she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Bree—“you
are
half a Beaufort. And if you’re not half a Carmichael, by blood ...”

“Yes, Mamma,” Bree said. She and Antonia had grown up with stories about the Carmichaels. Her mother’s side of the family was notorious.

“
...
you’re a Carmichael through ties of my dearest love.” She kissed Bree affectionately.

“Do you know much about my mo—my uncle’s wife?” Bree asked. “Are there pictures of her? Do you know where she came from?”

“He promised, promised, promised her to leave all that alone,” her mother said frantically, “and we agreed. If we hadn’t agreed, he wouldn’t have let us take you. And we wanted a baby so much, darlin’. Most important, we wanted you. You were such a wise little thing.”

Francesca was on the verge of tears. Bree thought she might be on the verge of tears herself.

“So, we’ll try to answer any questions you have, but
...
” Francesca bit her lip, dashed the heels of her hands against her eyes, and said, “I’ll just go to the bathroom and wash my face. I’ll be right back.”

Royal watched Francesca leave the room. He looked as if he’d give anything to go with her. He’d never been comfortable in the face of emotion. “Let’s pretend this is a case,” Bree said suddenly.

Royal tightened his hand around his drink, but he said, “Excellent idea. I’ll try to be a little more objective.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “It’s difficult, though.”

“For me, too.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said stubbornly. “We’re your parents. We’ve been you’re parents since you were two days old.”

“Nothing could change that,” Bree said. “Ever.”

The air was heavy with unasked questions.

“Are you regretting we didn’t tell you this before?” Royal asked.

This obliqueness was so characteristic of her father’s style that Bree had to laugh. “Not regretting exactly, no. But I’m very curious, Daddy.”

He covered her hand with his own. “It was a curious situation. Franklin had his reasons, very compelling ones, apparently. And his stipulations—that you not be told unless you asked—weren’t legally binding, of course. But he asked for my word, and I gave it.” His face softened. “We both loved you from the moment Leah put you into your mother’s arms. We would have promised almost anything to keep you.”

“That was her name? Leah?”

“Yes.”

Neither one of them broke the silence that followed. Her father kept his thoughts to himself. Bree wondered about that young girl, that image of herself, determined to keep her daughter set apart. The question was, set apart from what?

“Why the secrecy?” Bree demanded suddenly. “Why couldn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” her father admitted. “It was the price we paid for making you our own. And to be truthful, until Franklin died and I probated his will, we’d almost forgotten about it. It was nearly thirty years ago. We were happy. We’re still happy. There didn’t seem to be any need to go ferreting around in the past.”

“Until Unc—until Franklin’s will?” Bree prompted. “Leaving his practice to me?”

Sasha dropped his head on his paws with a huge sigh and closed his eyes. Bree frowned at him, then leaned down and stroked his nose. He rolled his eyes up at her, licked her cheek, and yawned. “Yes,” Bree said. She straightened up and looked at her father. He would always be her father, no matter what the past had been. “About Uncle Franklin’s will?”

“I was his executor, as you know. His original will divided his estate among the Beth-el Synagogue, our local mosque, and St. Peter’s Church. He left nothing to you. The week before he died he added the codicil that listed his outstanding cases and left his practice here in Savannah to you.”

“Do you know what changed his mind? About putting me in his will?”

“I have no idea, Bree. But when I went to get his signature I did ask.”

“What did he say?”

Her father shrugged. “He said, ‘You can’t fight City Hall.’”

Sasha rolled his eyes up at her. Bree started to laugh. It was infectious, and Royal began to laugh, too. “It means something to you?”

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid it does.” Bree searched her pocket for a tissue, couldn’t find one, and accepted her father’s handkerchief. “Oh, well. I do wish I’d known him better before he died. I need some answers to a couple of questions. More than a couple.” She closed her eyes briefly, against a rush of sadness. “Most of all, why he didn’t want a daughter.”

Royal looked at her with such love that Bree leaned over and hugged him. “Of course, it turned out to be the best piece of luck a girl could have.”

Her father nodded. He wasn’t able to say anything.

“Anyway,” Bree continued cheerfully, “it’s nothing to bother you, Daddy. His client list, for example. I haven’t had a chance to do more than send them all a letter that I’m taking over his practice.” A brief, horribly unwelcome thought about the nature of his clients sprang to her mind. She shoved it away with a shudder. Time enough to look at that when the Skinner case was finally over. “I’d like some background on them.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“So if he left any other papers, anything at all, I’d like to see them, if I may.”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. You know there was a fire in his office the day before he died.”

“Yes,” Bree said. “I knew that.”

“Everything he had went up in the fire.”

“Not even a picture ...” Bree trailed off uneasily.

“Of Leah? No, not that I recall.” Royal thought a moment. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen one. Not while she was alive. Not after she died. Odd, that.”

Sasha sat up as if galvanized and began to bark.

“What the devil?” her father said.

Bree looked at Sasha’s ears, which flopped eagerly forward. And his bark was a welcoming one. “It’s probably Antonia.”

The front door slammed. Francesca shrieked, “Antonia ! You’re home!” Antonia shrieked back. Bree unfolded herself from the sofa. “I’ve got to get back to the office. I set my paralegal onto the financing for Island Dream. I’m hoping he’ll have dug something up by now.”

Her father cast a rueful look in the direction of the kitchen. Antonia was talking a mile a minute at the top of her voice. Francesca’s voice kept rising as she tried to get a word in edgewise. “I don’t suppose ...”

Bree dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. We’ll all go together to the Mansion, shall we?” She paused, and bit her lip. “And I need just a little time alone. To think.”

“Bree? You headed out, darlin’?” Francesca called out. She bustled out of the kitchen, an envelope clutched in one hand. Antonia slouched after her. “Wait just a minute. Tonia!” she added, with sudden exasperation, “I want you to go right on into the bedroom and pull out that nice dress I brought for you. We all want to look good for Bree’s party. Go on! Go!”

Antonia rolled her eyes dramatically at her sister, kissed her mother, and ambled off to the bedroom.

“There!” Francesca said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Your sister doesn’t have to know everything quite yet.” She smoothed the envelope between her fingers. “I wanted to show you this. Leah wasn’t one for taking pictures, but I did catch her once, when we were all here for a picnic. I’ve never even told your father. I’ve kept it in the back of that old junk drawer, along with this.”

She held a pendant on a chain. She took Bree’s hand in hers, and coiled the necklace into her palm. It was cold and heavy. Bree stared at it. The chain was short, perhaps eighteen inches, and made of fine gold links. The pendant was small, perhaps an inch long and half an inch wide.

It was a talisman. Two wings surrounding the scales of Justice.

“Ah, honey,” Francesca said. She smoothed Bree’s hair. “And then there’s this.”

Bree took the envelope and opened it. The photograph was faded to orange and brown. Leah Beaufort sat on the top of the stone wall just outside the town house. Bree would have known her anywhere.

She was the pale-eyed, dark-haired woman from the nightmare, the
Rise of the Cormorant
.

She wasn’t angry. Nor was she filled with grief. Something lay ahead of her.

It was time to find out what.

Tous pour un,
Un pour tous.

—
The Three Musketeers
, Alexandre Dumas

The sky was sullen with clouds, but the rain had stopped. She grabbed her raincoat, left Sasha with her family, and walked to the office, turning her parents’ revelation over and over in her mind. She needed to see Professor Cianquino. It was all very well and good to tell her that she would only know her own reality when she had experienced it. She was experiencing it now, and she didn’t have a clue as to what she was or why she was here.

She jogged across West Bay, turned onto Houston, and wasn’t surprised to find Gabriel Striker at her elbow. “You,” she said.

“That it is,” he agreed.

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. She hadn’t really looked at him before. His skin was smooth and tanned, as though he spent a lot of time under a beneficent sun. Here, on Houston, in the middle of this old but very real city, his eyes were a clear, untroubled gray. He moved like a dancer, or maybe a boxer, although what she knew about boxing she could put in a very small bucket. He was balanced, that was it, despite the heavy muscles of his chest and arms. Balance was the key to his peculiar grace, as if he could move instantly in any direction with the slightest provocation.