Avenging Angels

by Mary Stanton

  “Can I take Sasha with me?”

  Sasha butted his head against Bree’s knees and the message came through clearly.

  “How do you think Sweet Pea’s going to feel about that?”

  Antonia’s woebegone face brightened. “I forgot about her. Sasha’d turn his nose up at all those pink ribbons Cissy uses, wouldn’t you, Sash?”

  “A poodle,” Bree said to Hunter. “A very spoiled poodle.”

  “Okay,” Antonia said. She blew her nose one more time into Hunter’s handkerchief, then returned the waddedup ball to him. “I’m off, then. And I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “So am I,” Hunter said. His voice was grim.

  Bree waited until Antonia had packed her overnight case and disappeared out the back door. The noises from the front told her Eddie’s body was being wheeled out to the ambulance. A voice drifted back to them: “It’s all over, folks. Time to go home.”

  “I’m surprised the media’s not here yet,” Bree said.

  “Only a matter of time.” Hunter drew a chair away from the kitchen table, sat down, and rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Shall I make some coffee?”

  “Good idea.”

  Bree liked good coffee, and she liked the whole process of making it. She ground the beans, boiled the water, and put both into the French press. She set cups out for both of them and then sat across the table from Hunter.

  “You know this is related to the case.”

  Hunter nodded. “He thought he’d found something in the autopsy tapes.”

  “Really.” Bree brought the coffee cup to her lips and then took it away again. She’d never be able to sleep if she had caffeine this late at night. It didn’t seem to bother Hunter. “Did he tell you what?”

  Hunter shook his head. “Just left me a message. Wanted me to join you at B. Matthew’s tonight.” He’d been staring into his hands. He lifted his head now and looked directly at her. His gray eyes were cold. “Then he left me another message. Said you wanted to change the meeting time.”

  “Nope,” Bree said. “I didn’t change a thing about the arrangements for tonight. And before you have to ask—I was with at least forty people from about six o’clock until eight thirty. Continuously.”

  Tully O’Rourke wasn’t there. Jameson wasn’t there. Fig and Danica weren’t there.

  Bree looked at Sasha and wondered if her suspect list had just gotten shorter.

  “Did anyone hear a shot?” Bree blinked. “Wait a minute. There wasn’t any blood on the tile on the front hall. He was dumped here?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Do we have an approximate time of death?”

  “Not yet.” He hesitated. “There were some obvious indicators. The body was fairly warm, and the clotting not too far advanced.” His face darkened. “He was killed a couple of hours before we found him.”

  “Any sense of when someone dropped the poor soul in my front hall?”

  “There’s lot of traffic on Bay, especially during rush hour.”

  “And who did find him?”

  “Your next-door neighbor. The antiques guy. He was locking up for the night about seven thirty and noticed your front door was slightly ajar.”

  “And he . . . ?”

  Hunter spread both his hands wide. “We’re getting a statement.” He patted his pocket and took out his cell phone and spoke into it—“Right”—then got to his feet.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “You know the drill, Bree. Eddie was on suspension, but he was still one of us. We’ll put everything we have into nailing whoever did this.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Whatever you have to do.” Then, as he was halfway out the back door: “The autopsy tapes. Do you have them?”

  “Nope.”

  “But there are copies, surely?”

  “Stay out of this, Bree.”

  “In New York, there must be copies. He wouldn’t have been walking around with the originals.”

  “You heard what I said.”

  “I heard what you said.”

  “And that was?”

  “Butt out, butt out, butt out.” Bree sighed. “I’m so sorry, Hunter. You two must have gone back a long way.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. After it’s over.”

  “Maybe after another basketball game,” she said. “You’ll need a rain check on this one.”

  He nodded, sharply, and left.

  The house was very quiet. Bree looked down at Sasha, who looked back at her and wagged his tail. “He didn’t actually die here,” she whispered. “But I suppose we can try.” She put the coffee cups in the sink, smoothed her hair back, and went through the living room to the front door. There was crime scene tape in place, which wouldn’t be removed until forensics had done a second sweep. The place where Eddie’s body had lain was marked off with fluorescent tape. Bree waited. A siren sounded, a long way off. The grandfather clock in the corner of the living room ticked on. Sasha sighed, scratched at his side, and sighed again.

  Nothing. No pale wraith rose from the black and white tiles to tell her a thing.

  Suddenly she was exhausted.

  She took a long shower, turned out the lights, and fell into bed, Sasha curled up next to her on the floor. “You know what, Sasha?” she said into the darkness. “We’ve got autopsy photos. Not the tape, but pictures. Petru collected a terrific file. And I know who can take a look at them for me, too.”

  Fifteen

  O! That a man might know the end of this day’s business, ere it come.

  —Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

  “Very interesting,” Dr. Lowry said, “very, very interesting.” She held a magnifying glass in her hand and bent over the photographs like an egret, slim neck extended, arms tucked into her sides like folded wings. “I don’t suppose the actual body’s available.”

  Bree knew her Company’s limitations. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Hm.” Dr. Lowry put the magnifying glass down and shuffled the photos into a neat stack. Then she perched on the round stool next to her examining table. “There should be a videotape of the autopsy itself. I’d like to see that before I commit myself.”

  “I don’t know if I can obtain a copy for you or not,” Bree said. The Company rules for collecting evidence were fairly clear to her by now. Any forensic evidence, files, interviews, or documents that would eventually be made available to the public were fair game for Petru and Ron. “But I’m not asking you to prepare testimony. We just need a shove in the right direction. So commit away.”

  “Well.” Dr. Lowry put her fingertips together and tapped her lips. “The twelve-gauge is a horrible weapon at . . . what was the distance again?” She flipped through the pages of the written autopsy report.

  “Three feet, seven inches,” Bree said, from memory.

  “Yes. As is screamingly obvious to all, the damage to the cerebellum, the corpus callosum, and the parietal lobes is considerable.”

  “These are all parts of the brain,” Bree said, who was struggling for accuracy.

  “Correct. But the blast missed the medulla oblongata, or most of it. And that’s what is so interesting.” Dr. Lowry settled back onto the stool with a pleased air.

  Bree made an encouraging face.

  “Oh! Of course. You see this channel here? Right above C1. The C1 is the first vertebra in the spinal column. The medulla is at the base of the brain, just above it. It controls the autonomic nervous system. Breathing, heart rhythm, et cetera, et cetera.”

  The only time Bree had ever heard anyone actually pronounce “et cetera” was in a hugely old version of the musical The King and I.

  “It looks like something was inserted between the medulla and C1.”

  “Something?”

  “A different bullet, is my guess. A .22, maybe, from the size of the channel.”

  “You mean Russell O’Rourke was shot twice?”

  “Maybe.
”

  Bree’s heart began to pound.

  “Quadriplegics suffer damage to the spinal column right about here,” Dr. Lowry said.

  “You mean that bullet . . .”

  “If it was a bullet. I’m going way out on a limb, here.”

  “That bullet would have paralyzed him.”

  “Oh, yes. Now, there’s no damage up here. See? Lot of nice unaffected brain tissue between the mess up above and this channel down here.”

  “Paralyzed him. But not killed him.”

  “Nope. It was the massive trauma to the rest of the brain that did that.”

  Two separate shots.

  Maybe hours apart.

  And a killer that liked to move the bodies around.

  “Good grief,” Bree said. Then, “Lord.”

  “You did say you weren’t preparing testimony. Because this is my best guess. Couldn’t swear to it.”

  “Dr. Lowry . . .”

  “Call me Megan.”

  “Megan. I may owe you the best dinner in town. I may owe you an entire European vacation.”

  “Well,” Megan said, who was clearly pleased, “anytime, Bree. Anytime. I like Switzerland, by the way. And now . . .” She gave a regretful sigh and looked at her watch. “I’ve got a live patient waiting outside for me.”

  Bree gathered her file together and slipped it back into her briefcase. She resisted the urge to give Megan Lowry a big kiss on the cheek. But when she was outside the clinic, she did a victory dance, to the bemusement of two art students doing charcoal sketches on the sidewalk. Sasha walked around in delighted circles, tail wagging furiously.

  Bree hopped into her car and drove to Angelus Street. She wanted to bounce ideas for the next steps in the investigation off Ron and Petru. But when she let herself in the front door, the downstairs office was empty. No one was in the kitchen, where Petru’s workstation sprawled messily next to the stove. No one was in the conference room, either.

  Bree ran lightly up the stairs, with Sasha ticking along behind her. Lavinia’s rooms occupied all of the second floor. Bree had only been in there once; she had a fuzzy recollection of her experience, of soft rain and large-eyed lemurs. She tapped softly on Lavinia’s door. There were mutterings, whisperings, and the soft sounds of breezes. But no answer to her knock.

  Out.

  Bree looked down at her dog. “All of them? All at the same time? Who’s answering the phones?” Rather crossly, Bree dialed her office number into her cell. She heard the phone downstairs shrilling away, and then her cell phone went dead and the ringer downstairs was cut off abruptly. “That bloody battery, Sasha.” It was way past time for a new cell phone.

  Bree stamped back downstairs. Ron was a neat and methodical worker, and his desktop was always precisely arranged. He’d set a note in the center of the blotter:

  Out to buy you a new cell phone!

  “Hm,” Bree said. “The thing is, Sasha, it is totally unprofessional to leave the phones unattended. Answering machines are for the birds. Ron and Petru want a performance review? I’ll give them a performance review.” Rather crossly, she shoved her cell phone back into her purse. The phone lit up. The erratic battery was working again. She speed-dialed the office number. Either Petru or Ron would collect the messages when they wandered in, and in her current mood, she wanted to be very specific. Do. Not. Leave. The. Office. Phones. Unattended.

  The phone on Ron’s desk rang, and Bree took a breath. Short and sweet, that was the ticket. How’s about: This is your boss. Never never never . . .

  “Beaufort & Company,” a vaguely familiar voice said. “May I help you?”

  “Mrs. Billingsley?” Bree said. “Is that you, Mrs. Billingsley?” She looked around the empty room, expecting to see the contralto-voiced new hire hiding behind the couch, maybe.

  “Miss Winston-Beaufort?”

  “Yes.” Bree stopped, then started again. “Where are you?”

  There was a pause, then Mrs. Billingsley said politely, “Here in the office, ma’am. Answering the phone.”

  “I’m here in the office,” Bree said. “I—oh. You’re in the Bay Street office.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “I’m in the Angelus Street office,” Bree said helpfully.

  “Yes’m? You want I should switch the phone back there?”

  “The phone rings here and you answer it there?”

  “Yes’m.” Was that a trace of impatience in Mrs. Billingsley’s voice? Probably. Bree would have brained herself by now, if she’d been Mrs. Billingsley.

  “You had the phone company set it up so both offices can ring either place.”

  “Seemed more efficient that way,” Mrs. Billingsley said mildly. “You want phone coverage all the time, I expect. Except maybe not today. The newspapers and the TV people, they’ve been calling like a flood. No comment, is what I say to all of them. And sometimes I say: She’s not available.”

  Bree had expected that. A corpse on the doorstep of a young lawyer practicing in a city as small as Savannah was bound to attract the newshounds. She was glad Antonia was safely out of the way, although it probably wouldn’t be too long before they tracked down Aunt Cissy. Everyone knew who was related to everyone else in Savannah.

  “Miss Winston-Beaufort? I’ve been handling things to your satisfaction so far?”

  “Yes,” Bree said. “Absolutely.”

  “Nobody knows you signed the lease on this place yet, so I don’t expect they’ll be hammering down the door here.” She paused. “Now, then. The furniture man is at the door with the other desk and divider. If you’ll wait on a minute, I’ll be right back.”

  “You go ahead,” Bree said. “I’ll be there directly.” Bree snapped her phone shut. “You know what I think, Sasha? I think we did a smart thing hiring Danica’s auntie.”

  Parking at that end of Bay could be a problem during the workweek, so Bree walked the six blocks to the new office, thinking hard about Megan Lowry’s theory of the second bullet.

  The same security guard who’d retrieved her from Franklin’s office two nights before was at the kiosk in the foyer. Bree waved at him in an absentminded way, punched the elevator button, stepped into the car when the doors swished open, and ran nose first into Payton the Rat.

  “Ugh,” she said coldly.

  “And isn’t this a surprise,” Payton smirked. “I heard you were taking over the judge’s old offices.”

  Bree stepped to the back of the car, ignoring him.

  “Couple of guys brought in some used desks a little while ago,” Payton said. “Headed for your place, were they?”

  Bree punched the sixth-floor button in a pointed manner.

  “Think there’ll be enough room for all your clients up there?”

  The doors began to close. Payton stuck his foot out to keep them open.

  “Aren’t you getting out?” Bree demanded. “Because if you aren’t, I am.”

  “In a minute.” Payton shot the cuff on his immaculate pinstriped shirt and looked at his watch. “I’m meeting a new client for lunch. He can wait. I’d much rather talk to you.” For some reason—known only to the God of Irony—Payton got better looking each time she ran into him. He’d dropped the two-day-old-stubble look and the earring stud. He’d let his hair grow a little longer, and it curled around his ears in a repulsively adorable way.

  “Like the new haircut,” Bree said sweetly. “I’ll bet it drives the sixteen-year-olds wild.”

  He smoothed his hair with both hands. “Yeah, well, screw you, too. Actually, running into you will save me some time. You know that our firm represents the interests of Cullen Jameson here in Savannah.”

  Bree addressed the air over Payton’s head. “Why am I not surprised?” Then she looked at him. “Now, how did Mr. Jameson get the name of your firm? Oh! Of course. He called the 1-800 number you guys post on those infomercials. He’s got an asbestos claim, maybe? Or he fell down in the Wal-Mart parking lot?”

  Payton was a junior member in
Savannah’s most litigious law firm, Stubblefield, Marwick. John Stubblefield’s smarmy smile was plastered all over the late night infomercials soliciting class action claims from the dying and the disabled.

  “Yeah, well. We’d like to take a look at the contract between him and Mrs. O’Rourke, in the matter of the Shakespeare Players.”

  Bree addressed the ceiling again. “Fine.”

  “We need to take a meeting.”

  “Fine.”

  “Like, we need to take a meeting now. I have some serious questions about the indemnification portions of this alleged good deal.”

  Bree looked at him thoughtfully. She had the best lead of the entire case, and this bozo was wasting her time. And the know-it-all smirk drove her absolutely nuts. Her temper woke, stretched, and flexed. “Why don’t you take a hike, instead.” She put one hand against Payton’s chest and shoved hard. He shouted, flew into the air, and thumped backwards into the foyer.

  “Sacked. Just like the Miami Dolphins,” Bree said to Sasha.

  As the doors pulled closed, slowly, Payton glared at her from his position on the terrazzo floor. “You’ll be hearing from me!”

  “Can’t wait!”

  She did another little victory dance in the elevator, got off on the sixth floor, and walked down to 616 feeling almost smug.

  “You look pleased with life this morning, Miss Beaufort.”

  “I am truly pleased with life this morning, Mrs. Billingsley.” She looked around the small space with approval. “And this looks great.”

  Mrs. Billingsley wore the same carefully tended navy suit she’d worn for her interview. Her crisply ironed blouse was pink. She sat behind a massive old oak desk in the front half of the room, in an old but comfortable-looking leather chair. A pot of sweet potato vine and a framed photograph sat at one edge of the desk, in front of an old computer. An outdated telephone sat on the other side of the desk.

  The back half of the room was separated off by a six-foot-high rattan folding screen.

  “I told the delivery gentlemen to put your desk back here, Miss Beaufort.” Mrs. Billingsley took a brand-new steno pad from the desk drawer, rose, and walked around the screen. The desk was made of battered mahogany and smelled slightly musty. It was smaller than the oak, and it was set facing the window. An old piecrust tea table was tucked into the far corner, next to a captain’s chair made out of pine. The desk chair was a plain pine dining room chair with a gingham cushion.