Defending Angels (21 page)

“Chastity,” Bree said.

Jennifer snorted derisively. “That little whore. Can you believe it? She’s refusing to move out of the penthouse at Island Dream. Claims Dad left it to her. A million and a half dollars’ worth of property.” Jennifer rolled her eyes. “We’re going to have to get the sheriff’s office down there to evict her. Stupid little bitch.”

“I hear you got hold of the autopsy report and the police investigation? Sure like to know how you accomplished that,” Grainger added.

For that matter, so would she, although she certainly wasn’t about to say that to Grainger. “The quickest way to satisfy my client’s concerns about your father’s death is to offer her as complete an account as possible of the circumstances surrounding it.” The patio was growing colder. She began to wish she’d brought some kind of hoodie. Jennifer and Grainger, both pickled in the warmth of the alcohol, didn’t seem to notice. “Can I ask you a couple of questions about that Tuesday?”

Husband and wife exchanged a look. “Depends,” Grainger said shortly. “What do you want to know?”

“When did you decide to go sailing?”

“A lot depends on the weather,” Jennifer said condescendingly. “You can’t plan for sure all that far ahead. Especially in October. And a lot depended on Daddy’s schedule, too. I guess we got the phone call about ...” she hesitated.

“About nine Tuesday morning,” Grainger said. “I’m four days on, three days off at the hospital. Tuesday’s an off day. It was fair and calm, so Jenny and I”—at this point, he reached across the table and covered Jennifer’s hand with his own. She looked at it in surprise—“Jenny and I decided to take the boat out for a little spin. Just the two of us.”

The sunlight darkened and a slight breeze began to rise, rattling the hostas in the north corner of the garden. Bree looked around with a frown.

“Mr. Skinner called you?”

“Yes,” Grainger said.

“No,” Jennifer said.

The air grew colder. Bree shivered and hugged herself, then rubbed her hands together.

“It was Doug Fairchild, as a matter of fact,” Grainger said smoothly. “He and Dad were in a meeting about the conversion of the Trident building into office space. They finished up early. Doug called to tell us Dad was headed on down to the marina. He wanted us to wait up. So we did.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Skinner call you himself?”

Grainger shrugged. “Who knows? He was in a hurry to get to the marina before we cast off, I suppose.”

“I’m freezing out here,” Jennifer said petulantly. “I’m so cold I can’t stand it. I’ve got to go inside.”

“Just hang on a minute,” Grainger said. “You’re about through with this, aren’t you, Bree?”

“What time did Mr. Skinner get to the marina?”

“Oh,” Grainger shrugged. “Just before we cast off. I remember he jumped on board from dockside, as we’d already drawn up the walk.”

“Grainger!” Jennifer said. She stared over Bree’s shoulder at the azaleas, a vulpine smile on her lips. “I’ve got to get inside. I’ll leave Bree to it.”

“Go on in, then,” Grainger said impatiently. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

Bree turned around and looked into the depths of the garden. Something low on the ground disturbed the dank leaves; a cat perhaps, except Bree got the sense it was bigger than a cat. Jennifer jumped up. Her wineglass fell to the ground and shattered. If this was typical of the Skinners’ afternoon cocktail hour, Bree thought, they must go through a lot of glasses. Jennifer half-ran to the patio doors, paused, looked back at Bree with a triumphant smile, and disappeared inside the house.

“It is a little chilly out here,” Grainger frowned. “What the hell’s up with this weather?”

Bree got up and moved to the chair Jennifer had just vacated. This gave her a full view of the north end of the garden. The leaves were still, but she was certain something lay there, peering out at them.

Was it blue-eyed, whatever horror lay there?

“You were about to tell me what time Mr. Skinner got to the
Sea Mew
.”

Grainger brushed his hand over his face. “About ten, I think. Must have been.”

No wind stirred. The brush was silent.

“And you raised sail and set off.”

“Yeah.”

Bree ran her mind over the transcript of the police interrogation. Lieutenant Hunter’s interview began as the
Sea Mew
set sail. If Grainger was lying about the events leading up to his father’s arrival at the boat—and Bree was sure he was—he’d lie about the rest of it. And those lies were already recorded. She didn’t need to hear them again.

She turned and looked at Grainger Skinner. “Did you kill your father?”

“No,” he said. “No, I did not.”

Bree knew, with a sudden, cold certainty, that Jennifer left them alone in the garden for a reason.
Them Pendergasts!
Lavinia’s voice whispered.
Evil in them Pendergasts!

The scent of decayed corpses mingled with the dying roses. Grainger sat back in his chair, his eyes closed, lost in a stupor of gin. Bree got up casually and set her glass on the table. “I’ll just see myself out.”

Grainger didn’t move.

A dark, fetid cloud of oily smoke took slow shape in the brush behind him. Bree forced herself to walk calmly to the wrought-iron gate. She fumbled with the latch, slipped outside to the welcome heat of the sidewalk, and leaned against the fence, trembling. Nervously, she cast a look backward, over her shoulder. Grainger opened his eyes and grinned at her.

Whatever had lain in the garden behind him was gone.

When th’ Arch-felon saw,
Due entrance he disdain’d and, in contempt,
At one single bound high overleap’d all bound
Of hill or highest wall ...

—Paradise Lost
, John Milton

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Bree said to Ronald. “I think Mr. Skinner was dead before he got to the boat.” She was halfway in and halfway out of a little black dress Ronald had brought to her town house on approval. “And that creepy Jennifer had something to do with it.”

“His lungs were filled with seawater,” Ronald said. He twitched the bodice into place, and stepped back to look at her. “He drowned. And it’s no use thinking that they bribed the coroner or anything, because the body’s still around, and after he’s buried tomorrow, they can dig him up again if they have to. So that,” he said, as he spun her around and zipped her up, “is that. Why would they drown him in one place and move him to another?”

“Nah,” Antonia said. “It’s skimpy in the wrong places. The dress,” she said in response to Bree’s lifted eyebrow, “not your theory of the crime. If there was a crime.”

“There was a crime all right,” Bree said grimly. “And Jennifer’s connected with it somehow. I’m convinced of it.”

“You’re right,” Ronald said to Antonia. “She doesn’t look chic. She looks cheap.” He unzipped the dress. Bree stepped out of it, and stood there in bra and panties. He tossed it on top of the heap of others on the couch and dived back into the shopping bags that littered the floor. Sasha poked his nose into the tissue paper, and Ron shooed him gently away.

“Well, at least Miss Overshaw has been moved from the loony tune to sober citizen,” Antonia said. “Why did you decide she’s right after all?”

Bree didn’t know why, but she was certain. It had everything to do with the presence in the garden, and Jennifer’s malicious pleasure in the cold. But she couldn’t tell Antonia that. What she could say, to Antonia or anyone else, is that for a whole bunch of more practical reasons—Jennifer’s obvious unease, the couple’s inconsistencies, their schizophrenic reaction to Benjamin Skinner himself, not to mention the eerie sensation she’d had of being stalked—she was convinced somebody had indeed, as Striker put it, “taken Benjamin Skinner out of this life before his time.”

Ron pulled a red outfit from the bag labeled GoFish and shook it out. It was a brilliant cardinal red. She’d seen the color somewhere recently. “What do you think?”

Bree looked at it doubtfully. “It’s awfully bright, isn’t it?”

“I think the color would suit you like anything,” Antonia said. “Try it on this minute. I wish,” she added enviously, “that Ron would shop for me.”

“I would if you had any money to spend, ducky,” Ron said. “You can’t even qualify for unemployment.”

Antonia giggled. “Too true.”

Ron clucked his tongue. “Any word on the job yet?”

Bree marveled a little at how well Ron and Antonia had hit it off. Her sister would have shaved Bree bald if she’d said half the things to her that Ron got away with. He was, Antonia had said with a grin, the big brother she never had and never wanted.

“Nope. I called today. The tech job’s down to me and this guy with a degree in stage design from some drama school in the Midwest, if you can believe it.” She shook her head in disgust.

“Gee,” Ron said. His eyebrows rose. “Why in the world would they pick somebody with a college degree over you, with your vast experience? I ask you.”

“Shut up,” Antonia said unperturbed. “The director loves me. And why would he choose some geek with a degree who can’t act over a person who can learn the job perfectly well and
can
act?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because he wants to get the job done?”

“Hey, you guys,” Bree said. “What do you think?” She smoothed the red dress over her hips and twirled around.

Antonia shrieked, “Yes!”

“Do I know what I’m doing or what?” Ronald said complacently.

Bree looked down at herself. The material was a light, silky velvet with the sheen of sunlight on water. The gown was tea length. At mid-calf, the skirt flared out in soft ripples. The neckline draped at the throat.

“Fabulous,” Antonia said. “Just fabulous.”

Bree stood on tiptoe to see herself in the mirror that hung over the mantel. She did look fabulous, if a little imperious.

“Just the thing to face down the power of the Skinner clan.” Ronald smiled at her; it was a joyous, confiding smile, and Bree smiled right back.

“Thanks,” she said. “You’re right.”

“
De nada
, as we say south of Montgomery. Way south, of course. And I’m
always
right about clothes.”

“Doorbell,” Antonia said as the chimes ran through the house. “I’ll get it. And whoever it is,” she threw over her shoulder, “make it short. I’m starving to death.”

She was back in a few moments, a powerfully built, saturnine-looking man in her wake.

He was a cop. He had to be. Bree could see the outline of his shoulder holster under his cheap sports coat, and he had that guarded, self-aware look that characterizes most veterans of the force. Bree was conscious of an intense flare of attraction. His eyes were hazel. His brief glance at her was detached, but thorough. Bree could almost see the information as he stored it up:
White female, late twenties, five feet nine, white blonde, 125 pounds, green eyes, no distinguishing marks.

“This,” Antonia said unnecessarily, “is the police.” She waved a business card and handed it over to Bree. “Lieutenant Hunter, Chatham County detective first class, or something like that. Lieutenant, this is my sister, Queen Bree.” She shot an impudent glance at him. “So I suppose this’ll take as long as it takes? Just to let you know, we haven’t eaten yet.”

Bree, suddenly very conscious of the dress, and the clothes and shopping bags strewn around the floor, felt at a considerable disadvantage. She scowled at Antonia, and then nodded at the detective coolly. “I’m Brianna Beaufort. I’m glad to see you here, Lieutenant. I had intended to come and talk to you Monday morning. I’m flattered that you’ve anticipated me. And on a weekend, too.”

“More of a courtesy visit,” Hunter said shortly. His voice matched his face; rough, experienced, and rather cynical. “It shouldn’t keep you from your dinner.”

Ron grabbed Antonia’s elbow. “Tell you what, ducky. Let’s you and me go down to the shrimp place and bring something back for Miss Bree.”

“But ...” Antonia said.

“No buts. Back in a tick, Bree.”

Sasha followed them to the front door, and then scrambled stiff-legged back to the living room, where he flopped on the floor with a grunt. Bree had come to depend on his reactions to people. He seemed indifferent to the detective.

“May I sit down for a moment?” He indicated the cluttered couch with a sweep of his hand.

“Of course.” Bree stacked the clothes onto the coffee table with as little fluster as possible. She sat in the chintz chair at a right angle to the couch; Hunter followed suit at the opposite end of the couch. Her father had taught her early on that silence was sometimes the best offense in unfamiliar situations; she sat with her hands in her lap and waited for him to speak.

“Your client, Ms. Overshaw, has been rattling a good few cages around town.”

He said “Ms.” without the self-conscious twist most middle-aged white males gave to it. Although, looking at him more closely, he was probably in his midthirties. It was his expression that made him seem older. “Yes,” Bree said composedly, “she has.”

“You haven’t been in Savannah very long, Ms. Beaufort.”

“No.” Then, with some surprise because it seemed like a lifetime by now, “A little over a week.”

He smiled, which lightened his face. She was right. He wasn’t too much older than she was. “And you practiced in North Carolina for several years with your father’s firm. Corporate tax law? Is that right? Winston-Beaufort, Montgomery.”

“Your information’s good, Lieutenant.”

“So you’re new to the criminal investigation business.”

Now,
that
was condescending. Bree’s temper stirred. She gave it a mental whack and said, “Yep. That’s right.”

“But you are familiar with the requirements of your profession ...”

So he
was
capable of sneering, too; she knew that most cops didn’t care for lawyers, but still ...