Avenging Angels

by Mary Stanton

  Bree set her briefcase on the desk. Sasha sniffed at the carpeting, the desk legs, and Mrs. Billingsley. Then he pressed next to the secretary and allowed her to pet his ears.

  “You think this is fancy enough for a law office?” Mrs. Billingsley asked dubiously.

  “I think it’s a miracle Ron got all this stuff on our budget.” Bree sat down and contemplated her new offices with a feeling of satisfaction. “I’ve got some pictures stored away in a back closet in the town house. I can bring those in.”

  “I could spruce up things some with cushions and all.” Bree sat down in her pine chair. It was very uncomfortable. She nodded toward the captain’s chair. “Try that one, Mrs. Billingsley.”

  She sat down cautiously and then settled back with a faint smile. “Now, this is not too bad.”

  “So here’s what we do. Some clients get the good chair. Other clients get the bad chair.”

  “And how we going to decide that?”

  “On how rude and obnoxious they are.”

  The smile was a little broader. “I can think of a few folks to put in the bad chair right now.”

  “Me, too.” Bree abandoned the pine chair and perched on the edge of the desk. “Ron called you and told you to make a list of office supplies?”

  “Yes’m.” She shook her head. “That boy’s got a voice on him. He black?”

  “No,” Bree said. “He’s not black.”

  “Now, that’s a shame. We could use a voice like that at the church choir. But he’s going to stick out if he’s not black.”

  “I wondered if you were a singer,” Bree said. “You’ve got a lovely voice yourself.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded gravely. “All for the good name of Jesus.”

  “Yes.” Bree cleared her throat. “Now, Mrs. Billingsley, you know that I came to Savannah to take over my great-uncle Franklin’s law practice.”

  “The gentleman that passed.”

  “Yes. He died. About four months ago.”

  “In this very office, I hear.”

  “That’s true. There was some sort of freak accident with a fire.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Beaufort.”

  “I wish I’d known him better. At any rate, he had a small number of regular clients—wills, estates, general family law. I sent them all a letter after his death, telling them that I would be happy to carry on where Franklin left off.”

  “Regular clients?” Mrs. Billingsley asked. “Are there other kinds of clients?”

  “Well. Yes. The Angelus Street clients. You won’t have to worry about those. They are mainly . . .” Bree paused, searching for an inspired word. “Out of state.”

  “This office is just for the Georgia clients, then.” Mrs. Billingsley opened the steno pad and began to take notes.

  “That’s exactly right,” Bree said. “Exactly. Anyhow, I’d like you to take the names and addresses and give each of these poor guys a courtesy call. Just let them know the office has been reopened, and that we’re here if they need us.”

  “And a follow-up letter, too? In case they forget.”

  “Yes. A follow-up letter is an excellent idea.” Bree pulled the Franklin Winston-Beaufort LLC bequest from her briefcase, where it’d sat unopened since her arrival in Savannah. “The original client files are in a vault at First Savannah Bank. I’ll have them sent along directly. There’ll be clients who’ve gone on to other firms, and we should forward any relevant information to them.”

  “Existing clients,” Mrs. Billingsley murmured. “Now for the new clients.”

  “The new clients,” Bree repeated. “The new temporal . . . I mean, the new Bay Street client is Tully O’Rourke.”

  “The lady with the husband that shot himself? I read about that in the papers. That our case?”

  “That’s our case.” Bree’s excitement at Dr. Lowry’s postulate returned with a bang. “And it’s a doozy, Mrs. Billingsley. Just wait until you hear what happened this morning.”

  “My, my, my.” Mrs. Billingsley took an appreciative sip of her tea and swallowed the last of her oatmeal cookie. Bree’s summary of the case had taken longer than she’d anticipated, and Mrs. Billingsley had insisted that Bree share her lunch. They split a tuna fish sandwich, a small bag of Cheetos, and a bag of celery sticks. They’d moved the captain’s chair out to sit beside Mrs. Billingsley’s leather office chair, so they could both be comfortable.

  Fortunately, there’d been two home-baked oatmeal cookies.

  Mrs. Billingsley frowned at the notes she’d made as Bree listed the events of the past four days. “This is quite a confusing case, Miss Beaufort.”

  “You bet it is. So, the big question is: what next?” Bree was talking more to herself than to her new secretary. “The weird thing about this murder is how long it took. The murderer paralyzed Russell with a shot to the spinal column and rigged up the shotgun to fire when the group of suspects came back into the room. And then Russell didn’t actually die until he was on his way to the ER some twenty minutes later. Who was the last person to see Russell O’Rourke alive and whole? I’m going to have to work back from that.”

  Mrs. Billingsley dabbed at a bit of cookie. “Maybe the Eddie Chin case would get you there faster.”

  Bree looked at her. “You think so?”

  “I do indeed think so. You’ve got yourself quite a list of suspects with this Russell. Do you think the same person killed Eddie Chin?”

  “I’d be very surprised if it wasn’t. The m.o. . . .”

  “What’s that mean? That m.o.? I hear that all the time on those TV police shows.”

  “Modus operandi. It’s Latin for . . .” Bree stopped. Mrs. Billingsley, pen raised over her steno pad, looked at her expectantly. “I’m not exactly sure what the Latin is for. Operating method maybe.” She looked inquiringly at Sasha, who gave her a doggy grin and started panting. Come to think of it, Sasha had never told her anything she didn’t know already. “Well, whatever it means exactly, it refers to the murderer’s signature method of committing a crime. Criminals tend to commit crimes the same way over and over again.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know that. Maybe they figure if it worked once, it’ll work again.”

  “Now that makes a kind of sense.” Mrs. Billingsley made a note. “Although I still think to do the same m.o. over again is the mark of a fool. Makes it easier to catch ’em. So the murder of Eddie Chin had the same modus operandi as the murder of Mr. O’Rourke?”

  “The bullet straight to the head. And the body was moved. And, of course, Eddie told Hunter he’d finally come up with evidence to prove Russell’s death was murder and not suicide. It’s not totally convincing, I admit.” Bree made a face. “Maybe Eddie’s murderer is totally unconnected to O’Rourke’s. He was a homicide policeman for a long time. He had to have made a lot of enemies.”

  Mrs. Billingsley snorted. “Coincidence? Two killers out there? Both in Savannah with a gun and they shoot the victim in the back of the head? Not likely. No, ma’am. We start with solving the murder of Eddie Chin, we come up with the killer of this Russell O’Rourke.”

  “I do believe you’re right.”

  “You got an idea on how to start?”

  “We need to trace Eddie’s movements for the past twenty-four hours. We need his phone records, his laptop, and to interview anyone who saw him between Monday noon when I met him for lunch and the time of the shooting yesterday afternoon.”

  Mrs. Billingsley’s pen flew across the page of her steno pad.

  “And we need to stay out of the way of the police.”

  An odiously familiar voice jerked Bree upright and two figures appeared at her office door. “Now listen to that, Mr. Jameson. Savannah’s most active Southern belle at work. From what I hear, you’re spending more time with the police than a nice girl really should, Bree.” Payton McAllister smirked at her from the doorway. “Getting to know Lieutenant Hunter a little better than most citizens, Miss Beaufort?”<
br />
  Mrs. Billingsley looked at Bree.

  “If we do offer Mr. McAllister a chair, we should bring in the one from my desk. But he’s not staying.” Bree turned and glared at Payton. “Are you.” It wasn’t a question.

  She craned her neck to look behind him. A heavyset, dark-haired man lurked in the hallway. She’d seen that face in the case file. Ron was right. Cullen Jameson had a belligerent lower lip.

  “Well, Payton,” Bree said, “I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but it’s not. This is Payton McAllister, Mrs. Billingsley. You notice he’s limping a trifle? He had an accident with a floor recently. I’d introduce you by saying that he’s one of Savannah’s gentlemen lawyers . . .”

  “But he’s no gentleman.” Mrs. Billingsley was right on cue. She also was quite formidable when she stood up, folded her arms, and stuck out her chin. “And this man is?”

  Payton stepped aside to let his client come into the office. “This is Cullen Jameson.”

  Jameson was the sort of man confusion made angry. He looked from Bree to her secretary and back again, a scowl distorting his heavy features. “You’re the lawyer I’m supposed to see about these contracts from Tully?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No one,” said Mrs. Billingsley with considerable authority, “sees Miss Beaufort without an appointment.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Payton said. “As if there’s a line of clients outside.”

  “Sir,” Mrs. Billingsley said, with even more authority, “you will not take the Lord’s name in vain in this office.”

  Jameson gave him a disgusted glare. Not over Mrs. Billingsley’s views on blasphemy, Bree was sure, but because Payton was in the middle of a scene.

  “Ah, no, of course not,” Payton said. “Sorry.”

  “Mrs. Billingsley,” Bree said with a formal air, “do you think you could clear my two o’clock appointment? Mr. Jameson isn’t in town for long, and I would like to get this chance to discuss the Savannah Players with him.”

  Her new secretary glowered at Payton. “The mayor’s always been willing to adjust his schedule for you before, Miss Beaufort. I will see what I can do.”

  The mayor. This impressed Cullen Jameson. It made Payton cross. Bree bit her lip. She coughed. She waved her hand in the air, muttered a strangled “Be right back,” and escaped behind the rattan screen. She covered her laughter with more coughing, collected her briefcase and suit jacket, and reemerged with a businesslike frown.

  “We can go downstairs to the Stubblefield offices,” Payton said. “Oh! If the mayor calls, Mrs. Billings, please give him my number.” He extracted his business card from his suit jacket.

  “It’s Billingsley,” she said firmly. “And I will pass along the number, if required.”

  Stubblefield, Marwick had a lavish set of main offices in a modern office building near Abercorn, which was at the edge of Historic Savannah. The satellite office near the Savannah River was smaller but still occupied most of the second floor. The conservation rules laid down by the Historical Society had been flouted with aplomb, if not painful good taste. A set of huge hardwood double doors opened up into a large reception area. The wall-to-wall carpeting was thick, expensive, and a hard-to-maintain blush pink. A rosewood semicircular desk sat in the middle of the area. Rosewood paneling on the wall behind the desk carried the firm’s name in foot-high brass letters. Fresh flower arrangements sat in the corners, on a coffee table in front of the pale leather couch, and in the center of the desk.

  An expensively styled blonde sat behind the desk. She rose as they came through the front door and greeted them with a smile.

  “Welcome to Stubblefield, Marwick. May I help you?”

  “It’s me, Kaylee,” Payton said impatiently. “Put your glasses on, for Chri—for Pete’s sake.”

  “Mr. McAllister!” Kaylee’s smile got a little glossier. “And Mr. Jameson. And you are . . . ?” She waited. Payton looked everywhere but at Bree. Jameson clearly had forgotten her name. Bree stepped forward. “Brianna Winston-Beaufort.”

  “You’re Bree Beaufort?” Kaylee took a pair of black-rimmed spectacles out of a desk drawer and fitted them over her perfect nose. “Gosh. I saw your place on Fox News this morning. Wasn’t there a body in your living room or something?”

  “The last client to get her bill,” Payton said. “We’ll be in the small conference room,” he added impatiently. “Cullen? Would you like coffee? Maybe something a little stronger?”

  “Scotch’d do me.”

  “I’d like a coffee,” Bree said. “Since you asked.”

  Bree followed Kaylee and the two men down a short carpeted hallway and into a conference room that was a design clone of the reception area, except there was a rosewood table in the middle of it. Twelve chairs surrounded the table, and a phone, docking station, and cup holder sat at each place. The back wall held a huge TV screen. The only odd note in the room was the double-hung sash windows, looking out over Bay Street, exactly like the window in Franklin’s office four floors above them. Bree waited until Jameson and Payton sat down and then seated herself two chairs away. Kaylee bustled for a moment at a built-in kitchen along the wall opposite the TV screen and brought over a tray with a decanter of Scotch, two glasses, and a cup of coffee. Then she bustled off, backing out of the room as she closed the doors.

  “Is this your first time in Savannah, Mr. Jameson?” Bree took a cautious sip of coffee and smiled at him over the rim of the cup.

  “Me? No, no. Tully and Russ used to have a big holiday party at the house in late December. Been here a couple of times before.” He paused, then, in an apparent attempt to be sociable, said, “Nice town.”

  “We like it,” Bree said. “You flew from New York yesterday morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a ten A.M. from Kennedy.”

  “Yeah.” He stared back at her. She’d read about the thousand-yard stare before; now she’d actually seen one.

  Bree hadn’t trained for criminal law, and it was only in her first couple of cases for Beaufort & Company that she was meeting villains on a more or less regular basis. But Cullen Jameson was a crook. She’d bet her JD on it. Whether he was a murderer was another thing altogether.

  “I was sorry to hear of your troubles with the SEC,” Bree said. Payton made a noise somewhere between a growl and a belch. “But glad to see that they didn’t carry over into your relationship with Tully.”

  “Tully and I go back a long way.”

  “You were a friend of Russell’s as well?”

  “Not so much, toward the end.” He shifted his bulk in the chair. “What ’s this all about, anyway?”

  “What do you know about Eddie Chin?”

  He drew his eyebrows together. Bree recognized the look. He was puzzled. The name didn’t ring a bell with him.

  Payton jumped to his feet. “Bree, what the hell’s going on here?”

  Sasha growled softly at her feet.

  Payton yelped. “Where’d that dog come from?!”

  Bree bent over and patted Sasha on the head. “You remember Sasha.”

  “We don’t allow animals in here. God damn it. Get him out!”

  “Eddie Chin!” Jameson snapped his fingers. “That Chink detective, right? He was one of the investigators into Russell’s suicide. Yeah. The guy still bugs me with phone calls once in a while. I tell him to fuck off. What about him? Somebody get wise and send him back to China?”

  “Something like that,” Bree said. “You haven’t seen him since you arrived?”

  He stared at her. “Why the hell should I?”

  She got up, fighting the impulse to dump the rest of her coffee over Jameson’s head. She wasn’t going to get any further than swear words with this guy. She’d have to set Ron or Petru on his movements. “I’m finished here, gentlemen. If you have any questions about the contract, send me an e-mail.”

  Sixteen

  Going to Hell is easy. It’s the coming back that’s hard.r />
  —Virgil, The Aeneid

  When Bree went back upstairs to 616, Mrs. Billingsley had gone for the day. A neatly lettered note informed her there’d been no calls and that the phones were forwarded to the Angelus Street office. Bree locked up and walked the six blocks back to find Petru, Ron, and Lavinia enjoying coffee in front of the fireplace. She slung her briefcase to the floor and sank into the only available armchair. Without any preamble, she said, “I learned something really interesting this morning. And I think it may lead us to the person who murdered Eddie Chin.”

  “It is a tragedy, this death of Lieutenant Chin,” Petru said gravely.

  “Yes.” Bree glanced at the copy of the Savannah Daily on his knee. “Was there a lot of media coverage?”

  “The death of a policeman in the middle of the tourist district?” Ron said. “You bet there was. Still is.”

  “And what you discovered?” Petru asked. “It is germane to this case of Russell O’Rourke?”

  “I sure hope so.” She summarized Megan Lowry’s guess about the origin of the small wound at the base of the victim’s neck.

  “And how does Lieutenant Chin’s murder figure into this?” Ron asked.

  “That’s just it. If we find out who killed Eddie, we’ll find Russell’s murderer.”

  “Very logical thinking, that,” Petru said with approval.

  “Mrs. Billingsley suggested it first.”

  “So she’s working out?” Ron asked.

  “I love her,” Bree said frankly. “You should have seen how she handled Payton the Rat.” She told them that story, too, and when she was finished, Lavinia chuckled into her teacup and said,”Well, I declare.”

  “Let’s focus.” Bree rapped her knuckles on the chest they used as a coffee table. “Eddie Chin. We need to track his every movement from Monday on. And we need to track our suspects, too. The Savannah police are on top of this, so we’ll have to be careful not to step on any toes. Unusually careful, I mean.”