by Mary Stanton
“Leah wouldn’t have been offered any cases while she was pregnant,” Ron said. “As for a process for referrals, there isn’t anyone else. There’s only one advocate at a time. We can’t just walk away from this one, Bree. What about Beazley’s murder?”
“What about Beazley?” Bree said sharply. “Beazley’s murder isn’t our concern, except as it affects Cissy. And if I can get Chambers to drop this case against White, Beazley’s surviving partners aren’t going get anywhere near my family again. We’re not going down that road. Not this time. We’re turning Schofield Martin’s case over to somebody else, and that’s that.”
There was a short pause, heavy with silence.
Ron reached over and patted her hand. “There are many strands of time, and manifold realities. Mr. Martin can afford to wait, I suppose. “
“As for Mr. Martin?” Petru said heavily. “You have told him you are declining?” His eyes were black, and sharp with intelligence.
“Not yet, no. I thought about it overnight. I’ll try and raise him again.” She pulled the pine box out of her tote, where she had placed it before coming into the office. “I could try right now.”
“Your reasons?” Petru said.
“Conflict of interest,” Bree said promptly. “My temporal family is involved with this case.” She didn’t add her most compelling reason; once she’d made the decision to refuse Schofield Martin’s case, the sense of unease, of being somewhere else, someone else, had gone away.
“Any conflict is peripheral, at best,” Ron muttered. “Besides, your aunt Cissy was chairwoman of the Savannah Garden Club thirty years ago and nowhere near Constantinople.”
Bree didn’t ask Ron why he could place Aunt Cissy’s whereabouts thirty years before; he was an angel, and that was that. “So if there are no objections . . .”
“It isn’t our objections you have to worry about.” Ron stuck his spoon in his coffee and stirred it one way, then another, with an annoying clatter.
“I’m sure I can make Goldstein understand.”
“Goldstein’s in charge of records. Goldstein’s got nothing to do with it. Think logically about this, Bree. The CBA’s the entity you have to be concerned with here.”
“The CBA?” Bree pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead. “Wait. Let me guess. The Celestial Bar . . .”
“Association,” Ron finished for her. “Yes. Maybe even the ethics committee.”
“Not good,” Petru rumbled. “We should perhaps discuss this further before you call Martin up and throw him to the mercies of the enemy.”
Bree flipped open her cell phone and looked at the time. “Can’t at the moment. I’m meeting Cissy and White at the Frazier to discuss negotiating a settlement.” She smiled at them, feeling suddenly as light as air. “I’ll be back around two. If you have those documents ready, Petru, we can all go over to the seventh floor and get this particular case in happier hands than mine.” She dropped a kiss on Petru’s head. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”
The weather outside was buoyant. The sunshine was like clean glass. The air was as crisp as lavender. Bree had parked her little Fiat just outside the wrought iron fence surrounding the Angelus office. She dug into her tote for her keys as she let herself out of the gate and thought she might take time to stop at Huey’s for lunch after she’d talked with Cissy. She was ravenous.
“Ms. Winston-Beaufort?”
Bree jerked upright. Caldecott stood in front of her car, barring the way.
He looked awful. Although, to be fair, up close Caldecott always looked awful. From a distance, he looked like an accountant, with a neat, compact figure flattered by his inevitable pin-striped suit. It wasn’t until you were face-to-face with him that he became unsettling. His eyes were yellow. The pupils were vertical, like a goat’s. His skin was pale, paler than usual, and his fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. A spot of blood was smeared across one knuckle.
Bree wasn’t sure how to address his partner’s death. Nobody with any sense would be sorry that Beazley was dead. But the manner of his death had been horrible, and she had to address that.
“I was sorry to see that Beazley passed on in such a way, Caldecott.”
He shivered, like a snake exposed to a chilly wind. “Yes. It was . . . unexpected.”
“Are there any leads?”
“Leads?” Caldecott pulled his lips back in a rictus-like smile. His teeth were gray and pointed.
“The police have it listed as a homicide. Surely they must have interviewed you by now.”
He shivered again, in that peculiar way, and ignored her question. “Zebulon’s sense of humor was bound to get him in trouble one of these days.”
“His sense of humor?” She waited, and when Caldecott didn’t answer that, either, she stepped around him and unlocked the Fiat’s door. “Yes, well. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to meet my client in the matter of Chambers versus White. You’ll be available later in the day if my client is open to discussion?”
“My client would much prefer that his case be heard in open court. His desire for vindication is strong.”
“Then he shouldn’t have called Ms. Carmichael and offered to settle out of court.” Caldecott’s eyes flared. “He didn’t tell you?” Bree’s conscience stirred. Beazley and Caldecott must have been friends. Of a sort. If nothing else, the death would affect the law firm’s day-to-day operations. “I imagine you’ll be pretty well occupied with, umm, arrangements in the next few days. A later time to discuss Mr. White, perhaps?”
“We’re available at any time to carry on our client’s business. I just wanted to alert you—Mr. Barlow will be taking over the professor’s case. And there is one other—small—matter.” His eyes darted to Bree’s tote. “I’m afraid Professor Chambers was somewhat precipitate in turning over the artifact to you.”
“The Cross of Justinian? It’s a fake.”
“Just that. And of no value to you. If you would return it, please.”
Bree tightened her grip on the tote. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver-white. Gabriel? She hadn’t seen Gabriel for a month or more. Caldecott, too, must have felt his presence. He winced, and stepped away from the car.
“I don’t see what the artifact has to do with the matter at hand,” she said pleasantly. “But I’ll speak to Professor Chambers about returning the Cross to him.”
“You’d do better,” Caldecott hissed, “to return it directly to me.”
The silver-white light flared, making the sunshine small. Caldecott held his hand against his eyes and tittered uneasily. “Of course, if you require the professor’s permission, we’d be delighted to proffer a letter . . . We’ll stay in touch, shall we . . . Until later, Ms. Winston-Beaufort . . . Good-bye . . .”
He faded away, leaving nothing but a faint smell of sulfur in the air.
Bree waited a long moment, hoping to see Gabriel.
A breeze rattled the dry branches of the iron oak over the Pendergast grave. The bright blue of the sky dimmed with gray. But Gabriel’s light had faded, and the angel himself didn’t appear.
Disappointed, Bree waited until her heartbeat returned to normal and then checked her cell phone: nearly eleven o’clock. She was going to be late.
She drove the few miles to the Frazier Museum. The day darkened with clouds from the west. She turned over the best way to approach a settlement with White and firmly refused to think about Caldecott and, worse, his dead partner’s ravaged body.
The Frazier Museum was located on the west side of St. Bonaventure Cemetery. It had been created out of a French Provincial mansion abandoned to taxes. A large circular drive led up to the building itself; the drive led to a parking lot in the back. Bree left the Fiat next to Cissy’s Audi and walked around to the front door.
The three-story building was an elegant rectangle built of gray stone. The center of the roof was composed of a series of skylights bound in bronze and surrounded by green tile. Bree lik
ed the symmetry of the facade. Each story had six large paned windows, three on each side of the center. The frames were picked out in white. The azaleas on each side of the front portico were trimmed to knee height. The double-wide front door was made of mahogany, waxed to a high gloss.
Bree walked in and found Cissy in the black-and-white tiled foyer, bundled against the chilly morning in a soft mink coat.
Her aunt looked tired. She broke into speech as soon as she caught sight of Bree.
“I don’t know what happened. It was such a gorgeous morning, and now look at it—and Prosper’s got his press conference scheduled in less than an hour. They’re even talking snow. And it’s cold.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “So I got out my fur. I’d be glad if you didn’t mention it to Antonia. You know how she tried to get me to join PETA, which I totally agree with except for mink. You ever run into a mink, Bree? A nastier creature doesn’t live on God’s earth.” She snuggled her chin into the collar, and then peeked up at Bree. “You aren’t mad at me, are you?”
“Of course not.” Bree kissed her on the cheek. “How are you, Aunt Cissy?”
“All right, I guess. Didn’t sleep too well. Your mamma’s coming down to stay with me. She tell you that?”
“She did.”
“Ought to come in sometime this afternoon. It’s a long drive from Plessey. Said she wanted to give me a hand with the wedding arrangements.”
“She’s good at that sort of thing.”
“Well, she is,” Cissy said, as if Bree had posed an argument. “I told Prosper that. He thinks she’s coming here to rag on him, but that isn’t like Francesca at all.”
“Is Mr. White . . . Prosper . . . here right now? Does he know that I’m here to discuss the best way to dispose of the lawsuit?”
“He’s very busy,” Cissy said evasively. “The TV people are coming to interview him about the decline of print media and the importance of preserving our print heritage for posterity. We’re thinkin’ maybe the History channel will pick it up. And Alicia’s arranged for some investors to come in and make a bid on the Americana exhibit this morning. We’re hoping to make that announcement to the TV people, too.” Cissy gnawed at her lip. “Except that this business with that awful man Chambers might ruin everything. We stand to lose a ton of money if White isn’t paid off. Except I’m not supposed to mention that, am I.” She shook herself, like a little cat. “Anyway. Have you seen the exhibit yet, Bree? I surely wish you could have made it to the grand opening. It’s wonderful, just wonderful. Here.” She put her hand on Bree’s back and propelled her through the foyer and onto the main floor. She waved at the girl behind the ticket kiosk, who’d half risen at their approach. “Drop your tote bag off, there. They don’t allow bags in the museum. Then you come and look.”
Bree got a ticket for her bag and followed Cissy onto the main floor.
Although the mansion dated from the early nineteenth century, the museum itself had been created a hundred years later. The entire interior had been gutted and rebuilt. The ceiling soared up all three stories. The skylights allowed natural light in every corner of the building. The center atrium was tiled in black-and-white marble. Stairs on either end of the room led to the second and third mezzanines. Mahogany railings were built into the open sides overlooking the atrium. The south side of the ground floor was given over to the Magazine Americana exhibit. At eleven o’clock on a Tuesday, a surprising number of people were there, most of them clustered in front of the glass-fronted display cases that held the magazine covers. A single security guard in the ubiquitous khaki stood chatting with the girl behind the ticket kiosk.
Cissy drew Bree partway across the floor, stopped cold, and muttered, “What’s she doing here? She’s supposed to be at the airport, picking up the buyers.” With a determined set of her chin, she started forward again.
Bree didn’t have to ask who “she” was. Prosper White was huddled in intense conversation with a striking girl. She was tall and slender. Her dark hair was drawn back in a tight bun. She was dressed in a black pencil skirt, with a tight-fitting scoop-necked T-shirt. Elaborate gold earrings dangled from her ears. She had the sinewy elegance of a ballerina and a discontented lower lip.
“Prosper?” Cissy said as they approached—so timidly that Bree’s heart broke a little. “Here’s Bree to talk to you about that awful man.”
The ballerina clone stepped between White and Bree’s aunt. “You must be Mr. White’s eleven o’clock appointment?” she said coolly to Bree. “If you’ll just wait a moment, I’ll escort you to Mr. White’s office.” She didn’t address Cissy directly, but looked past her shoulder. “You’ll probably want to go with Miss Winston-Beaufort, Mrs. Carmichael.”
“It’s Ms. Carmichael,” Cissy said, with an air of having mentioned it before.
“Whatever. You wait there. Mr. White and I are finalizing the arrangements for the buyer’s group.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the airport?” Cissy put one hand on the girl’s shoulder, pushed her firmly aside, and nestled close to White. “I hope those poor people aren’t standing around thinkin’ they’ve been abandoned because Alicia forgot to pick them up.”
“Of course I didn’t abandon them.” The girl’s tone was sharp. She turned to Bree and said, “I’m Alicia Kennedy, Miss Winston-Beaufort.” She extended her hand. Bree shook it briefly. “If you and your aunt would please follow me, I’ll get you both settled in Mr. White’s office.”
“What about the buyers, Alicia?” Cissy demanded.
Alicia looked at Prosper and raised her eyebrows. White scowled. “The buyers have been taken care of, Cissy. We sent a stretch limo. I’d rather you not concern yourself. Sit in the office and wait for me.” A chime came from the breast pocket of his suit coat, and he slapped at it irritably. “Damn cell phone hasn’t shut up the whole morning. Go on, girls—shoo. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Alicia led the way to a door set behind the ticket kiosk, opened it, and stepped aside.
Prosper’s office was simple, elegant, and hugely expensive. The window looked out over the circular drive. His large desk—of an exotic wood that Bree couldn’t identify—was completely clear of anything but a landline and a dramatic marble sculpture of a lily. A stunning painting of two sisters—Bree thought it might be a Quilliam—hung on the east wall. The walls themselves were covered in gray damask. A round table, heavily carved with representations of the Chinese goddess Kwan Yin, sat in the northeast corner. A love seat in gray glove leather faced the desk. Cissy sat in it and patted the cushion beside her. Instead, Bree took one of the straight chairs at the Chinese table.
“Coffee?” Alicia said indifferently.
“Not for me, thank you.”
Cissy shook her head.
Alicia’s gaze slid over them both. “I’ll get back to the floor, then. Mr. White may need me.”
“I’ve a few questions before you go, Miss Kennedy. You’ve been named as codefendant in the suit brought by Allard and Jillian Chambers. Have you retained counsel?”
Alicia blinked. Her eyes were brown, rimmed with black liner. The lashes were heavy with mascara. “I thought you were taking care of things.”
“I’ve agreed to represent your employer. Do you want me to represent you as well? I doubt that would be in your best interests.”
She glanced at Cissy uneasily. “All I did was buy the copy of Photoplay. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Mr. Chambers feels otherwise. So may the courts.”
“It’s not my problem, is it?”
“It’s very much your problem. I’m here to suggest that we attempt to negotiate a settlement with him. He’s already made a demand. Fifty thousand dollars.”
“So? Maybe you should pay him.”
“How much can you contribute to the demand, Ms. Kennedy?”
“How much can . . . What?”
Cissy bit her lip and coughed.
“You’re codefendant, Miss Kennedy. Equally liable for damag
es, under the law.”
Alicia stepped back against the office door. “Me? You want me to give you money? You can’t be serious! I . . .” She stumbled forward as the door flew violently open, and White stormed in.
His reflexes were good; Bree had to give him that. He steadied Alicia before she was halfway to the floor, and then shoved her onto the love seat beside Cissy. He glared at Bree. “That bastard’s here! I just called the police. I want him out of my museum before he wrecks the press conference.”
Cissy leaped up, more to avoid proximity to Alicia than anything else, Bree judged. “Who are you talking about, Prosper? Who’s here?”
“Chambers—who do you think!” He went behind his desk and looked out the window. “Look at him. Damn it! He’s called the media. Damn it!” He turned to face them, his face white with rage. “And Bullet Martin’s just coming up the drive. Of all the frigging luck.” His eyes narrowed and he pointed at Alicia. “You,” he said spitefully. “This is all your fault.”
Alicia burst into tears. White slammed both fists onto the desktop, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Bree got up and went to the window.
The circular driveway was alive with cars and people. Chambers was center stage, no doubt about that, mostly because of the sign he carried. It was so big Bree could read it from her vantage point twenty yards away.
PROSPER WHITE ART THIEF
A skinny, fiercely glowering woman at his side carried a smaller banner. That was harder to make out, but it seemed to read PROSPER PROSPERS WHILE INNOCENTS STARVE. Jillian Chambers? It must be. The two of them talked at a glamorous blonde in a bright red suit. She held a microphone and looked bored. A cameraman with a Steadicam stood a short distance from them. Behind him was the Channel 5 news van. Behind that was an old yellow school bus with the legend CITY OF LIGHT MINISTRY in black letters on the side.
It took Bree a minute to figure out where all the people had come from. She recognized the security guard—who had an unfortunate resemblance to a garden toad—and the ticket taker. There were a few museum patrons who’d been looking at the Magazine Americana exhibit. Twenty or so other people, perhaps more, milled in the driveway. Most were dressed in shabby jeans, worn hoodies, unlaced tennis shoes, and tattered jackets—the homeless who frequented the streets of Savannah. Those poor people must have come in on the City of Light’s yellow bus. That, she recalled, was the charity shop next to Reclaimables. Chambers was certainly resourceful.
