“Good luck on that,” Madison said with a sudden grin. “I just finished reading The Three Musketeers for my French lit class . . .”
Bree blinked.
“Stay with me here. Well, we’re kind of like the Three Musketeers. You remember Porthos? Big, sweet, and dumb? Well, I love Hartley like a sister, but she’s our Porthos.”
Bree rubbed her forehead. Kids. Although there was something endearing about the showing off. “Be that as it may. I’m going to talk to Lindsey’s brother and sister. And I’m curious about why Shirley Chavez decided to drop the charges, too. It’ll do Lindsey some good if she’s willing to stand up in court and forgive her the way she did at the arraignment. Maybe I can get Mrs. Chavez to agree to that. So we’re not dead in the water yet.” She got up. “Thank your mom for the coffee. Or do you think I should find her to say good-bye myself?”
“Wouldn’t she like that, you being a Winston-Beaufort and all? Nah. She’s slogging away at her little home gym. If we interrupt her once she’s into her routine, she’ll freak. I’ll walk you out.”
She led the way out the back door. Bree caught up with her and said, “There is one more thing, Madison. This guy you mentioned. The one that supplies her with the uppers.”
Madison made a face. “We hang out with some guys, yeah. But the guys in high school are, like, well, so high school. I prefer older guys myself, and my parents won’t let me date older guys, so I don’t really date at all.”
That was the other thing about teenaged girls that Bree’d forgotten: as sensible and grounded as Madison was, it always came back to Me. Bree gave the conversation a gentle shove in a more productive direction. “We’re talking about Lindsey, though. She doesn’t date, either? This guy you mentioned . . . what’s his name?”
Madison, who seemed to be a fastidious soul, wrinkled her nose. “She broke up with him a few months ago. Or rather, she said he did. His name’s Chad Martinelli.”
Bree went on alert. “Martinelli. He’s from around here?”
“Yeah. Chad’s, like, a total loser.”
“He’s in high school with you?”
“Not anymore. He was a year ahead. He was supposed to go on to college, but not good old Chad. Total stoner.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Got a job out at Mar lowe’s, for God’s sake. I mean, I ask you. And his dad’s some big-wheel lawyer in town.”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember the name of the firm his father works for?”
“Sure. It’s that creepy old geek that runs the late night commercials on TV.”
“John Stubblefield?” Bree couldn’t suppress a grin.
“I think so.”
Suddenly, the Martinelli name kicked in. “And his dad is Peter Martinelli?”
Who was in the Miner’s Club the night Probert Chandler died.
“So Chad’s what—eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Something like that,” Madison said vaguely.
An adult, legally, then.
Madison sighed as she followed Bree out of the garage. “Now there’s a guy I wouldn’t trust an inch. I mean, talk about drugs. Whoa!” She stopped short. “Are those your dogs?”
Miles and Belli stared silently from the backseat of Bree’s car.
“Sort of. They’re kind of on loan.”
“Awesome.” Madison backed away.
“Those two are, that’s for sure. But you see that good old boy in the front? That’s Sasha. Everybody likes him. Would you like to meet him?”
“Me? No. No, thanks.” Madison retreated to the inside of the garage. Her face was pale. “I’m not a real dog fan, if you know what I mean. I got bitten when I was a kid. Never really got over it.” She waved at Bree from the coolness of the interior. “Nice to meet you.” She turned and slipped inside the house.
Bree got into the front seat and turned to look at her two protectors. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you. I do. But if you’re going to scare the living daylights out of everybody, I can see that we’re going to have a problem.”
Belli rumbled at her, like a mountain speaking.
Bree shook her head, and put the car into gear. She’d grab some lunch, and then she’d stop by the Marlowe’s where Shirley worked for the father whose kid knocked her daughter flat on the pavement at the Oglethorpe Mall. And she wanted to speak to Chad Martinelli. She absolutely wanted to speak to Chad Martinelli. Before Peter Martinelli knew about it and stepped in to bring the full weight of Stubblefield, Marwick onto her shoulders.
Twelve
You’re breakin’ my heart.
You’re shakin’ my confidence daily.
—“Cecilia,” Paul Simon
She drove to the Marlowe’s out near the Oglethorpe Mall, and decided to ask for Chad Martinelli before she asked for Shirley Chavez.
Chad was a skinny, sullen kid with a postnasal drip and a long shock of black hair that hung over his eyes. He was also, to Bree’s mild astonishment, in charge of inventory. The very polite Marlowe’s greeter who met her as she walked in got a shade less polite when she asked to see Chad.
“In the office. He works with the computers.”
The administrative offices were behind the returns and exchanges area, immediately to the left of the front entrance. Bree walked down the wide, linoleum-covered hall and tapped at the metal door. There wasn’t any answer for a minute, then the door opened to a largish room packed with metal desks, a long rank of computers, and neatly arrayed filing cabinets.
“So what d’ya want?”
Bree glanced at the kid’s name tag, which indeed identified him as Charles “Chad” Martinelli. “You,” she said bluntly. “I want to talk to you.”
Chad looked over his shoulder. There were two other people in the room, both middle-aged women. He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. “So you’re talking to me,” he said. “Who are you and what do you want?” He ran his eyes insolently up and down her figure. “You look like a lawyer. You from my dad’s firm?”
Bree’s response was immediate and involuntary. “No way.”
A brief smile lifted the sneer, and for a minute, Bree caught sight of a shy good-looking kid behind the sullen façade.
“But I am a lawyer. Mrs. Chandler hired me to handle Lindsey’s case.”
The smile grew into a genuine grin. “You mean the cookie heist?” He punched the air with one hand. “Way to go, Lin!”
“Yeah. Well, it’s the way to go if you want to spend a fair amount of time making license plates.”
This appealed to Chad’s sense of humor. “Heh,” he said. “Heh-heh.” He bit his lip a little nervously. “She can buy her way out of it, right? People like the Chandlers can always buy their way out of it.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll be frank. It doesn’t look good. Not good at all.”
Chad rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. “No shit.”
“No shit.” Bree cocked her head to one side. There wasn’t any way that this kid was going to admit anything about drugs. But the look on his face when she’d mentioned Lindsey’s possible prison term gave her an idea about how to get into Chad’s head. “So. Are you and Lindsey seeing each other?”
Chad leaned against the wall and moved his shoulders up and down, scratching himself. “Maybe.”
“Madison Bellamy said you two broke up a couple of months ago.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And what I want to know is, did Lindsey break off with you, or did you break off with her?”
“Why don’t you ask Lin?”
“I will,” Bree said with deceptive cordiality. “But I’m asking you now, aren’t I?”
“Her folks did it,” he said abruptly. He screwed his eyes shut in a brief, spasmodic gesture.
“You mean her father? Probert?”
“Whatever.”
“That must have been a while ago.” She watched his eyes. “Because he’s dead, isn’t he?”
“You bet he is.”
Bree didn’t
like the look on his face at all. “Chad?” she said sharply. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Chandler?”
“What’s it to you?” That strange tic again; Chad’s eyes closed and opened again.
Bree resisted the impulse to grab the kid by his Mar lowe’s ID tag and pull it tight around his neck. “I’m trying to help her avoid jail time. I’m trying to come up with something, anything, that can help me understand her better.”
“You know what would help Lin? To get away from that freakin’ family. To get away from those freakin’ friends. You accomplish that, you might get somewhere.” He shoved himself away from the wall and came toward her, his hands clenched tight. “You want to know when I last talked to that old fart? About forty freakin’ minutes before he spun out on that road and splattered his brains all over the place. I told him what he could do with his freakin’ ‘parental responsibilities.’ ”
Bree refused to back up. The kid was taller than she was, so she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “You told him this face-to-face?”
Chad let his breath out in an agonized sigh. “He ran into my dad.” Bree felt a chill run over her at the venom in his voice when he referred to his father. “And jumped all over him about it. Then my dad freaked out at me, and Chandler called me, and the whole freakin’ thing with Lin just blew up.”
Bree took a minute to sort out the pronouns. “So your father called you—on your cell phone? Yes. And then Mr. Chandler called you. So then what did you do?”
“I was here, wasn’t I?” He jerked his thumb toward the office door. “I called Lin, and she freaked, and then I freaked, and I went home.”
“By way of Skidaway Road?” she asked softly.
His look was totally blank.
“Chad,” she said firmly, “there’s something else that can help Lindsey’s case enormously. She’s got more than a flying chance to get into rehab instead of jail, if we can prove she needs it. We need to talk about drugs.”
Chad scowled, suggested she perform an unnatural act, and then slammed himself back in the office.
Bree took a moment to collect herself. She’d put the Company on a search for Chad’s record. Ron was good. Petru was even better. Chad’s father—and Stubblefield’s firm—might have a lot of the wrong kind of influence in Chatham County, but they wouldn’t be able to hide it all. If Peter Martinelli’s son had been involved with drugs, her angels would find out. And if Chad had been supplying drugs to Lindsey, it could be the best way out for her. The juvenile system had more than a few ways to help drug abusers; there was a lot less support for a kid who was unapologetically mean and nasty.
She took a deep breath, went back to the cheery greeter, and asked to see the store manager. She found him in the small appliances aisle, checking inventory with a handheld gizmo that scanned the product codes.
“Shirley?” The Marlowe’s manager said after Bree identified herself and asked after the worker. “She’s not on today.” He frowned worriedly. “She in more trouble?” His name tag was clipped to the breast pocket of his bright green Marlowe’s shirt: MEL JENSEN. He was middle-aged and middle-sized, with soft brown hair that was losing out to acres of scalp. He held her business card between his thumb and forefinger.
“She’s not in any trouble at all, as far as I know.”
Bree had regretted her decision to tackle Shirley Chavez at work as soon as she’d walked into the main body of the store. It was massively busy, and unless she could draw Shirley to a quieter spot, conversation was going to be difficult. The place was crowded with cheap, brightly colored clothes, boxed microwaves, stacks of coolers, and boxes of toys from China. Customers of all kinds pushed overloaded carts along aisles littered with candy wrappers, crumpled tissue, and an empty pop bottle or two. Jensen, apologetically, refused to leave the floor so they could talk in private. The manager leaned over, picked up a discarded cotton glove, and looked around in a distracted way. A chemical smell hung in the air; from the solution used to size the clothes, Bree thought. She’d had a roommate in college who washed the jeans she picked up at Marlowe’s three times before she wore them. The pharmacy at the far end of the store dominated the space. Long lines of customers waited for service there; most of them seemed to be from among the retirees who’d flooded south Georgia in recent years.
“We’re open twenty-four/seven,” he said apologetically, in response to a question Bree hadn’t asked. “Hard to keep the place picked up.”
“It looks just fine,” Bree said reassuringly, although it didn’t. “And I just dropped by to have a word with Ms. Chavez. No problem at all. Is there somebody here who might know where I can find her this time of day? One of her friends?”
Nervously, he looked her up and down, as if confronting an unfriendly dog. Bree dressed in a professional way when she was working: a skirt, a suit jacket, and a plain silk tee. She carried her briefcase in one hand. “They didn’t tell me they were sending you down today, Miss—Beaufort, is it? I would have made sure she was here. She’s a good worker, by the way. Very steady.” Then he added hastily, “Loves her job. Loves it. She’ll make an excellent witness.”
For a second, this statement made no sense at all. “Oh! No, Mr. Jensen. I’m not from your company. I’m a lawyer. I represent the girl who’s been accused of stealing the Girl Scout money. See? It says so right on my card. Brianna Winston-Beaufort, Esquire.”
Mel Jensen didn’t seem to be a man who actively disliked anybody. He had a soft, anxious face and the manner of a puppy who wanted to please. But he looked at her with some distaste. “That wasn’t a good thing,” he said. “Not at all. Shirley’s a good worker, and that kid of hers is a good kid. And it’s just like that Lindsey to take advantage . . .” He stopped and bit his lip.
“Lindsey comes into this store? Does she come here very often?”
“I’d prefer not to comment.”
“Absolutely,” Bree said. “But you know what? I could have guessed that. You know that Mrs. Chavez stood right up in court and said she didn’t want to press charges against my client. The Chandlers are a pretty powerful family, Mr. Jensen.”
Jensen’s jaw set stubbornly.
“As for Shirley, we’re very grateful to her. Only a really nice person would have withdrawn the charges, don’t you think?” Or somebody who’s gotten a hefty bribe. But she didn’t say that aloud.
“But she’s still a witness in a criminal case,” Jensen said, unexpectedly shrewd. “Maybe you shouldn’t be talking to her.”
“She’s taken Sophie right out of the case altogether, Mr. Jensen. She’s refused to let her testify at the trial. The DA’s office has her deposition and Sophie’s, the tape from the security camera, and the testimony of the girls who were with my client. That’s what they’re going to trial with.”
A very large woman in sweatpants, flip-flops, and a baggy sweatshirt stopped in front of them with a pointed “Excuse me.”
Jensen flashed a smile. “Can I help you?”
The woman had a small toaster tucked under her arm. She thrust it at them. “These were supposed to be on sale. This is the last one. And it’s the one without the box that’s been sitting on the shelf having everybody and his brother poking at it. I want a fresh one.”
Jensen unclipped his scanner from his belt, read the bar code, and told the ruffled customer a new one was on its way from the warehouse. “Two days,” he said, “maybe less. Come on by and pick it up anytime after Thursday.” A second, equally determined customer caught sight of his scanner and marched determinedly toward them.
“I’m sorry,” Bree apologized. “I shouldn’t be taking up your time like this.” Jensen stepped out of the mainstream of traffic and directed the second customer to a clerk a little further down the aisle. Bree stepped aside with him.
“Well,” he said with a somewhat strained smile, “if that’s all I can help you with . . .”
“Chad Martinelli,” Bree said promptly. “He may be connected with another case I’m
working on.”
“Chad?” Jensen looked bemused. “Well, smart as a whip, of course. What about him?”
“Any problems with him, as an employee?” Bree longed to ask about drugs, but didn’t dare.
“Not really. He’s not the most reliable worker we’ve got, but like I said, he’s a smart kid. And of course, he and Miss Chandler . . .” He shifted on his feet. “I think maybe we’ve talked enough now. I can’t see that Martinelli has anything to do with this. And I sure can’t see why you need to harass Shirley.”
Bree placed her hand on his arm. “Honestly. We’re not out to hurt anybody, Mr. Jensen. I’d just like to talk with her. Please. The family’s in a position to do her some good, you know. If things work out the way they should.”
He fiddled nervously with his tie—a small, tired guy who was just trying to do his job. Bree didn’t think she had the heart to put any more pressure on him than she had already.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt. She has a second job, you know.”
“Then perhaps I should call on her at home.”
“No, no. That’s not such a good idea. Her husband’s all worked up over this thing. It’s an insult to his kid, this whole thing. He’d like to sue the pants off this Lindsey character, and I can’t say as I blame him.”
“Oh, dear.” Bree dithered, fighting the temptation to call on the Chavez home and suggest just that. And take her lumps from the Review Board when she was brought up on charges of unethical behavior. Phooey. “Then perhaps I should drop by and see her at her other job.” She smiled. “Is that employer as kind as you?”
He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Nice folks out there. Nice folks.”
Bree waited.
“She’s a stable hand at the Seaton Stud.” His eyes widened at the look on Bree’s face, and he checked himself. “Anything wrong about that? She loves the job, even though she has to work her tail off. It seems like a pretty good place to work.”
“No,” Bree said. There seemed to be a frog in her throat. She cleared it. “There’s nothing wrong.”
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