Angel Condemned (7 page)

“I don’t know about that. I’m not in a real amiable frame of mind.” He sat down in his desk chair and squinted at her. “Did you take a look at the Cross?”

“I did.”

“Doesn’t seem like much to wreck a career over, does it?”

She hesitated. “How did you come to be mistaken about it?”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “Or at least I wasn’t about the original.”

“This isn’t the original artifact?”

“Hell, no. This is a fake.” He grabbed the box from his desk and threw it at her. Without thinking, Bree caught it. “Take it!”

“But you had the original?”

He glared at her, suddenly venomous. “I’m not saying another word to you, Miss Winston-Beaufort. You want the original? So do I. I want my job back. I want my life back. That isn’t going to happen. So I want your client to roast in Hell. You want to know where the original is? You ask your goddamn client.” He leaned across the desk, his face close to hers. His breath smelled of bread. “I know things about that bastard that your rich aunt isn’t going to like to hear. You want to keep her out of a scandal? You tell her to pay up. Or else.” He was so close that his breath was hot against her cheek. So close she could see the tears in his eyes. “I don’t know how in hell I got into this mess. But somebody, somebody
owes
me something.”

“You have to tell Aunt Cissy that Prosper stole the real antique,” Antonia said. “I mean, my God. The guy’s a crook!”

“Shh!” Bree said.

Bree’s little sister took after the Carmichael side of the family. She was small—an asset for a stage actress, since so many leading men were short—and had thick, dark red-gold hair that set off her blue eyes and camellia-like complexion to stunning effect. She’d insisted on acting lessons the day she turned thirteen, and the years of training gave her voice a resonance that could be heard in every corner of the restaurant. At seven on a Monday night in February, B. Mitchell’s wasn’t all that full, but several couples were openly listening. Antonia was a hard person to ignore when she was silent, much less when she was in full cry.

“Shh, yourself,” Antonia said. “If you don’t tell her, I will.”

“Well, you can’t,” Bree said firmly. “All of this is unsubstantiated. The two men hate each other, that’s clear. But I don’t know a thing about Chambers, and neither do you. He could be delusional. He could be lying through his teeth. He could be setting White up.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Bree sat back and looked at the menu. She didn’t really need to look at the menu. She had the same thing every time she came here, and she’d have it again. Fish tacos.

“Bree?”

“Keep your voice down, Antonia. And no. I don’t think so.”

“So?”

“I think he’s a pitiful little guy who’s scared out of his mind.”

“Scared? Of what?”

Bree shook her head in self-disgust. “Of me, probably. I leaned on him a little. He’s in over his head, that’s for sure. But he’s stubborn. He really believes he’s been cheated. But it’s a guess, Antonia. Guesses aren’t facts. Guesses don’t settle lawsuits.”

“You’ve always had an excellent baloney detector, Sis. Best in the family, except for Daddy. I say we tell Cissy that White’s a thief. Then she’ll ditch him, and we can all stop worrying about it, and this Chambers character can ride off into the sunset without Cissy’s money.”

“It doesn’t seem to be that simple.”

It wasn’t—and she hadn’t figured out why. Not yet. She and Sasha had gone straight home from Reclaimables. It was too soon to take on another case. Handling the Cross had left her feeling odd, as if she’d been displaced from the here and now and set down in another universe. She didn’t like it.

She had needed time to herself before meeting Cissy and Antonia at dinner. She’d locked the fake cross in her dresser drawer to give herself time to think about when—or if—she would pick it up again to allow the manifestation of a new client.

Chambers himself was probably just what he seemed to be: definitely out for a pathetic kind of vengeance; definitely a Bay Street case; definitely someone she hadn’t needed to threaten the way she did.

The new client who had died clutching a fake Cross of Justinian? That was a different matter entirely. She was inclined to settle the White lawsuit by negotiating a settlement—using White’s money, and not her aunt’s. She wasn’t at all inclined to take on another Angelus Street case—not so soon after the last one, despite Sasha’s insistence.

She’d fallen into a deep, coma-like sleep on the couch in the living room of the town house on Factor’s Walk before she’d gotten any further in her decision making. She’d wakened only when Antonia banged into the house from a shopping trip at six. Jerked from that deep, almost unnatural sleep, for a scary minute, she hadn’t recognized her own sister.

Both of them scrambled to be on time for dinner with Aunt Cissy at B. Mitchell’s. Since the restaurant was almost kitty-corner from their town house, they ended up being too early. They’d been sipping white wine for half an hour before Bree brought up her concerns about Prosper White. Antonia had exploded with indignation.

Her sister kicked her under the table to get her attention. “So? Are you going to tell her, or shall I?”

Bree looked at her cell phone to get the time. “Neither one of us is going to do a thing until I get a better handle on the facts. Anyhow, Cissy’s late. Maybe she won’t show up.”

Antonia rolled her eyes. “She’ll show up. When is she ever on time?”

“Like you can talk.”

“I am extremely punctual,” Antonia said firmly, which was true only when she had a theater commitment.

Bree grinned. This familiar squabbling was reassuring. For a moment, she felt totally herself again. “You’re punctual with ‘except-fors.’ Except-for the dentist, except-for when you’ve agreed to meet me, except-for dinner.”

Antonia kicked her under the table again. “Hush up. There she is.” She waved one arm over her head and shouted, “Coo-ee, Aunt Cissy,” to the marked displeasure of the power couple the next table over.

“Not a word about White and Chambers,” Bree warned. “I mean it.”

Cissy sat down in a swirl of Prada perfume. “How are y’all? Antonia, you’re looking gorgeous, as usual. Bree, you’re looking more peaked by the day.”

She had changed for dinner into a tailored navy jacket, a green-apple silk turtleneck, and artfully worn jeans. “You need to put on ten pounds, and I never in this life thought I would say that to any woman.” She leaned across the table and gathered their hands into hers. “And aren’t I just the luckiest female this side of paradise? Don’t you just love my Prosper?” She released them and sat back with a sigh. “This dinner’s on me, darlins. I am just so happy!” The waitress hovered, and Cissy said, “A nice little Cosmopolitan for me. And one each for my girls. Now! You met with that awful Allard person, Bree.”

Startled, Bree looked at Antonia, who shrugged, “not me.” “Why would you say that, Aunt Cissy?”

“’Cause the little guttersnipe called me right after you left that trashy shop.”

“He did?”

“He did. What do you suppose he wanted?”

Bree had a hunch. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all. Wealthy divorcée Celia Carmichael made the “People about Town” column in the
Savannah Chronicle
on a regular basis. Her upcoming wedding to White had been news only last week. Chambers wanted money, and by now he undoubtedly had a pretty good idea of what her aunt could afford.

The waitress set the Cosmopolitans in front of them. Bree pushed hers aside. Cissy took a big sip, set the glass down, and said, “A private settlement, that’s what.”

“Oh my God,” Antonia said. “The man wants money. I knew it. I just knew it. This is plain lousy, Bree!”

“Would you like to order a starter?” the waitress said, clearly wanting to linger. “No rush about it. I can see y’all need to talk.”

“Artichoke cheese dip and fish tacos all around,” Cissy said. “Unless you girls want something else? No? That’ll be fine, then. You can bring it all at the same time, too. Thank you.”

Bree waited until the waitress was out of earshot. B. Mitchell’s was a big, low-ceilinged room with a bar across the long wall at the back and round tables set well apart from one another. As long as Antonia kept her voice down, it was one of Savannah’s better spots for private conversation. “Did he mention a figure?”

“Fifty thousand dollars. Said I’d spend that much in legal fees defending poor Prosper, and I might just as well give it to him now unless I wanted my future husband’s name drawn through the mud.” Cissy bit her lower lip. Then she tossed back the rest of her Cosmopolitan.

“What did you say to him?”

“I hung up on the little bastard, of course.”

Bree rubbed her face with both hands. “Okay,” she said finally. “What do you want to do?”

“I thought I’d ask you,” Cissy said, rather pitifully. “Chambers could get on the stand and tell all kinds of lies about Prosper, couldn’t he?”

“Or all kinds of truths,” Antonia muttered.

“What’s that? What’s that?”

Bree gave Antonia a shut-up glare.

“Nothing,” Antonia said.

Cissy bit her lip, then turned in her chair and waved to the bartender. “I swear they make these drinks with as little vodka as possible. Another round here, please? Besides,” she added in a braver tone, “it’d just about wreck my plans for the honeymoon. What if we had to come back to testify or whatever? I’m thinkin’ fifty thousand’s little enough to pay for peace of mind.”

“I’m thinking that’s crazy,” Antonia said. “And why should you pay anything, anyway? It’s White’s problem. Let him settle it.”

Bree had the same question. She searched for a tactful approach. “Does he have available funds?”

“Of course he doesn’t!” Cissy snapped. “He’s an artist! I thought that was understood, Bree. As for you, Antonia . . . Of all people, I thought you’d have some sympathy. I mean, with your life in the theater and all.” She blinked away tears and then, when that didn’t help, put the backs of her hands underneath her eyes to hold them back.

Antonia opened her mouth, and then backed off at Cissy’s despairing look. “Of course, Auntie. Of course I understand. But if you just knew more about . . .”

It was Bree’s turn to kick her sister under the table. Antonia glared at her. Bree jerked her head toward the door, and when Antonia stayed stubbornly in her chair, Bree drew her foot back to whack her again.

“Okay, okay, Bree. I get the message.” She bounced up and wrapped Cissy in a fierce hug. “It’s a pure shame, that’s what it is. Y’all have to excuse me. I just remembered I promised to pick up some stuff for . . . somebody. Anyhow. Pack up my food, so I can eat it later, okay? I’ll just be off now.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, then backed out of Bree’s reach. “By the by, Bree’s got something to tell you. Don’t you, Bree? You get it on out of her, Aunt. Don’t forget my tacos, Bree. There’s not a darn thing in that fridge at home. “

Everybody watched as Antonia walked across the room and out the front door. But then, everyone always did.

Cissy stared over Bree’s shoulder, her lower lip firmly between her teeth. After a long moment, she picked up her napkin, dabbed under her eyes, and sighed.

The waitress set the artichoke dip in the middle of the table, then the platters of fish tacos in front of Bree and Cissy. She looked at Antonia’s empty chair. “Shall I wrap this third one up?”

“Might as well,” Cissy said. “Take it away and keep it warm for her, if you would. We’ll get it at the end of the meal. If there’s ever going to
be
an end to this meal.”

Bree waved the waitress away with an apologetic gesture. Cissy slammed her fist onto the table but not very hard. “I take it you’re the one who’s been elected to talk to me about Prosper?”

“Would that be okay with you?”

“Fine. Good. I’m ready. So you go ahead and tell me what y’all have wanted to say for the past month. You hate Prosper. Don’t you. All of you. My whole loving family. You think he’s after my money, and you think I’m too damn old and too damn foolish for any man to love me.”

“That is just not true,” Bree said firmly.

Cissy was in no mood to listen. “You know what? Y’all might be right. I don’t care. I love him, Bree. And since the good Lord blessed both me and your mamma with more money than either one of us will need in a lifetime, and if I want to spend it on this man, who gives a rat’s behind?” She stabbed the taco viciously with a fork. “Francesca’s on the phone to me every minute, talking about a prenup. Your father squinches his eyes up like he’s tracking down a fox after it’s raided the henhouse. Even Antonia looks crosswise at me every time I talk about him. And you! You won’t even call him by his Christian name!” She blinked away more tears.

Bree took her aunt’s cold hands in her own. “We’re looking out for you as best we can, that’s all. We don’t hate him, exactly. We just have some questions about how good he’ll be to you. You don’t need a man to make you happy, do—”

“You hush
up
!” Cissy shouted. She jerked her hands away. “Where’s Francesca when I need her? You’re no damn good at comforting, Bree. Not lately, anyway. Not since you moved to Savannah and got
hard
.” She stood up, knocking the chair over in her haste to leave. “Do I need a man to make me happy? I purely do not. And if I do, what’s it to you? And what do you know about it, anyway? Look at you, the way you’re living. Like some cloistered nun. There’s not one womanly thing about you. Do I need a man? Of course I do. What about love? What about companionship? What about
sex
?”

The power couple one table over got up in a pointed manner and moved to a table against the wall.

“So you can’t to go back to B. Mitchell’s again, that’s for sure,” Antonia said with a cheeky grin twenty minutes later.