Twelve
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.
Hamlet, Shakespeare
 
 
The wind whipped up as Bree closed the office door behind her and stepped into Angelus Street. There was weather blowing in from somewhere—October was the peak of hurricane season, and they’d lucked out this year, at least so far. There had been one tropical storm in mid-September, and then all was quiet.
Bree looked up. The sun was westering, and the horizon was shot through with orange and red. A spray of white, feathery clouds hugged the southeast corner of the sky.
“What do you think, Sasha? Are we in for a mighty rain?”
The dog looked up at her anxiously and whined. He didn’t need to be carried to the car any longer—he was hopping along remarkably well on his cast—so it must be something else.
“You can’t be hungry,” she said. “Lavinia’s stuffed you full of chicken and rice.”
Sasha snarled at the graves in the cemetery, his eyes closed to mere yellow slits. Then he threw back his head and howled. Bree’s skin prickled at the sound.
Come by here.
Bree whirled. The voice, if voice it was, came from under the live oak.
Ahhh, Bree. Come by here.
She squinted into the dying light. A tall, dark pillar of shadow moved among the strands of Spanish moss. The form spun, shifted, turned, like smoke from a smoldering fire.
It moved against the wind, as smoke never could. The darkness was a sullen riot of bruised purple, fetid green, and oily black. Bree knew whose grave lay beneath the tree. Josiah Pendergast. She took a step forward and nearly stumbled over Sasha. He pressed against her knees, lips drawn over his eyeteeth in a silent snarl.
Two fiery eyes appeared in the upper part of the column—as suddenly as if something wakened. The dreadful, smutty colors compressed. Then a thin cylinder of the stuff raised itself from the columnar mass and beckoned to her.
Bree. Come by here.
Bree pushed Sasha aside. She took another step forward, and another.
And she saw herself at the top of a mountain. A glory of clouds rolled beneath her feet. And she knew, knew with every fiber of her spirit, that what she wanted most in the world was just beyond her reach. If she leaned farther, farther, she would leave the peak and leap into space, to be caught up in the rush of the cormorant’s wings. Into absolute, utter belief. No questions. Ever again.
The wind rose and whipped the treetops with a sudden roar. With a rumbling crack, the door to the little frame house crashed open, and Ron stepped into the dying light. The wind eddied around him in a vast rush of sound and for a brief, world-tilting moment, Bree thought the wind came from his outstretched palms. “You still here, Bree?”
The wind rushed, calmed, and died away. The column under the oak trembled, shivered, and drifted into nothing.
Bree took a huge gulp of air. Ron bounced down the steps to the fence and unlocked his bicycle. “I’d offer you a ride,” he said, “but I couldn’t take Sasha, too. Oh, drat.”
Bree steadied herself, one hand on Sasha’s neck. “Nobody says ‘drat’ anymore, Ronald.” Her voice was steady. Her palms were wet, and her heart beat uncomfortably in her chest, but at least her voice was calm. “What’s the matter?”
“Flat tire.” He detached the bicycle pump from its storage spot on the frame, set it up, and pumped briskly. “Are you going to be late to your meeting?”
Bree stared at her watch in dismay. “Yikes. Almost. I’m driving and Molly McPherson’s at the City Market, isn’t it?”
“Just off of Montgomery at Broughton.”
“Then I can just make it, as long as I can find a place to park.” She bundled Sasha into the back, and settled herself in the driver’s seat. Ron flagged her urgently. She rolled down her window and he leaned in. His breath was fragrant with a spice she couldn’t identify. “Hey,” he said. “They really can’t do much to the living, you know. But you absolutely do not want to ‘come by here.’ If it happens again, you stay right where you are. Trust me. You don’t want to jump off that mountain. Got that?” He slapped the window frame and stepped back. “You give Payton the Rat what for!”
She watched him bicycle off, long legs pumping up and down, his fair hair tumbled around his ears. She took a long, shaky breath, and started the car.
 
She found a parking spot on Congress, which bordered the south side of the marketplace. The whole of City Market was dog-friendly, and Molly McPherson’s had an outdoor seating area a short distance from the fountain in the middle of the square. Bree was glad to take Sasha with her. The dog had a uniquely comforting presence. “And,” she said, as he hobble-skipped at her side on the lead, “I wouldn’t mind at all if you happened to pee on Payton’s shoes.”
Sasha grinned up at her, his pink tongue lolling.
“He’ll be the one with the day-old beard and the look of Total Cool. And Sasha,” she gave the lead a short, firm tug. “I didn’t mean it about Payton’s shoes.”
Bree would have recognized John Stubblefield even if Payton hadn’t been sitting next to him in a state of worshipful attention. For one thing, he made the news regularly, in stories featuring record jury awards in personal injury cases. For another, he was the star of the obnoxious infomercials on late night television, soliciting plaintiffs for class action lawsuits against large, rich corporations. He didn’t bother suing any company with a net worth of less than a billion, no matter how sorry a state a victim might be in. When he was dead and buried, most of Savannah agreed his tombstone would read “Show me the money.”
Stubblefield looked as slick as his ads. His white hair was carefully cut, gelled, and sprayed. His cheeks were smooth-shaven. He wore a sapphire-studded Rolex on his left arm and a thick gold bracelet with his initials on his right. He sat at ease at one of the round aluminum tables near the fountain. One leg was crossed over the other, revealing black silk socks that didn’t show an inch of skin.
Payton got up as Bree neared the table. Stubblefield stayed put.
“Hey,” Payton said, rather nervously. “Glad you could make it.” He pulled out a chair. Bree sat down. Sasha folded himself onto the pavement at her side, his head up, his ears forward, and his eyes on Payton’s face. “Bree, I’d like you to meet John Stubblefield.” His voice was so reverent, Bree had to quell an impish desire to cross herself.
“Miss Beaufort.” His voice was resonant. Bree knew enough about voice training from Antonia to realize that Stubblefield had studied with a voice coach. “I understand that you’ve been retained by a former associate of Bennie Skinner’s.”
“That I have,” Bree said equably. She raised her hand to attract a waiter’s attention.
“Of course, you’d like some refreshment.” Stubblefield’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I beg your pardon. What would you like to drink?”
“An iced latte would suit me just fine.”
He snapped his fingers. “Payton? See to the lady’s needs.” He smirked, “He’s been quite successful at that in the past, wouldn’t you say, Miss Beaufort?”
Payton jumped up, his teeth flashing in an ingratiating grin. Sheer rage washed over her like a hot red blanket. Bree stuck her foot out just in time to catch him at the ankle. He fell forward and recovered himself with a tremendous jerk.
“I do apologize,” Bree said, with precisely Stubblefield’s inflection. “You’ll make that a skinny latte, won’t you, Payton? And a lemon peel.” She turned her attention back to Payton’s boss. With luck, she’d get a chance to trip him, too. “Yes, I’m representing Ms. Overshaw. And in the interests of fairness, John, I should tell you that she has grave questions about your role in Benjamin Skinner’s murder.”
As she’d hoped, this direct attack took the lawyer by surprise. He was far too old a hand to lose his temper, but he did drop the phony geniality. “What kind of evidence does your client have that it is murder?” His eyes narrowed. “And why the hell should she suspect me?”
“Mr. Skinner had a lot of questions about the way you practice law, John. Uncomfortable questions. I’d like to know just how close to the bone he came with you and your firm.”
Stubblefield leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs along the pavement. He took a sip of his drink—a julep, from what Bree could tell—and said reflectively, “That’s always been the trouble with a bitch in business.”
“I beg your pardon?” At the ice in her voice, Sasha sat up abruptly and growled.
“Women.” He sighed with a mock sorrow that put Bree’s teeth on edge. “Women don’t have the least idea how the game is played, Ms. Beaufort. Liz Overshaw has mistaken some friendly jousting for an all-out war.” He put his hand over hers. “Call it a guy thing. The bitch’s old, ugly, and if you’ll excuse the expression, a royal pain in the butt.”
Bree didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment. The wind picked up and stirred the paper trash in the square.
“Is she, now?” Bree said politely. “If you don’t remove your hand this second, John, I’ll ask my dog to bite you in that self-same butt.” She rose to her feet and leaned forward, so that her eyes were inches from his. “And if you use that word in front of me again, it’s not your ass, but your manhood you’re going to have to worry about. Trust me on that one.”
She was so mad she could feel the hair on her scalp rise. The wind slammed against the square, spraying the water from the fountain across the flagstones. And then ... She felt herself connect to the wind. If she flung her hands to the sky, she could draw down the clouds and pitch lightning. She rose to her feet, hands outstretched, her body taut with rage. She drew breath...
“Bree!” Payton’s panicked voice cut through her fog of rage.
Some fifty feet behind John Stubblefield was Gabe Striker. His eyes shone like silver coins in the twilight. She stared at Striker. He shook his head, slowly.
“Bree!” Payton’s urgency increased to a painful pitch.
There was a stillness in Striker. A calm. It brushed her face, curled around the nape of her neck, gave her breath back. She stiffened and the dangerous moment was over.
Striker turned and melted into the shadows.
She turned to the men. Payton stood with a large glass of iced coffee in his hand and a petrified expression on his face. “Y’all have a problem?” she asked pleasantly.
“Ah. No. Of course not. I’ve got your coffee.” He hesitated, and then set it gently on the table in front of her. He shot a nervous look in Stubblefield’s direction then said airily, “Everything okay here?”
Stubblefield frowned, glanced at the empty square over his shoulder, and turned to face Bree. He shook his head a little, as if to rid himself of flies. Then he looked at Payton, surprise and annoyance in his face.
“Can I get you another drink, sir?” Payton asked eagerly.
“No. No. What you can do is get your ass back to the office. I want that Wal-Mart subpoena out before eight tomorrow morning.”
“But ...”
“Run along, Payton,” Bree said.
“Yeah. Go on. Beat it.” Stubblefield’s tone was absent-minded. “The week’s not over yet. You’ve got time to get in a few more billable hours.”
Payton slunk off with such a wounded air, Bree was almost sorry for him. Almost. It was going to be a long time before she forgave either one of them the crack about meeting her needs or for Stubblefield’s remark about Liz.
“Now,” Bree said, “we were about to discuss the nature of the dispute between you and Mr. Skinner.”
“Tempest in a teapot. He was pis—that is, upset over Fairchild’s deal with the county.”
“The Island Dream condo project?”
“Ah, yes.” Stubblefield took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “If Fairchild tried to screw him on that one, which was by no means clear, I have to say he succeeded. Douglas made no representation in the contract or anywhere else about what he intended to do with the property. Or if he did, it wasn’t in any form that was verifiable. I told Skinner that Douglas really had meant to convert the fort, discovered that it wasn’t feasible from an engineering standpoint, and adjusted his plans accordingly. It was just one of those things. For some reason, Skinner got a real bee in his bonnet about it.”
“And he sued you for incompetence, failure to perform, and malfeasance.”
“He did. Initially, Fairchild thought it’d be cheaper and keep down the negative PR if he and Bennie negotiated some. Fairchild offered him the penthouse, for his personal use, and the opportunity to buy it at a reduced price when the building was sold out.” Stubblefield smiled a little. “Bennie grabbed onto that at first. He liked to sue people, Bennie did. One of the things that made him such a good client for us. But he was in the middle of a complex dispute with Carlton Montifiore over a performance bond and he didn’t want to get too far embroiled in court cases. So he accepted use of the condo. Put that little chippy of his in there, as a matter of fact. But you probably already know that.” He frowned. “Then all of a sudden, he got his knickers in a twist about the penthouse. Wanted out of the whole thing and Fairchild’s hide to boot. So he plastered downtown Savannah with summonses, including a couple directed at me. There was no basis for the suit at all.” Stubblefield said this in a matter-of-fact way that was quite convincing. “I’ll be happy to send the contract in question over to your office. Are you an expert on contract law?”
“Corporate tax law. My father’s the best there is on contracts.”
“Well, give it to your father, then. He’ll tell you Skinner didn’t have a leg to stand on. It wasn’t worrying me.”
“Your position is, you didn’t have a motive to kill Skinner?”
“Motive? My motive was to keep him sending me as much business as he sent me last year. Skinner’s a huge client of ours.”
“Or was. He may have retained another law firm to handle his business.”
“He could have, but he didn’t. We’re probating the will and administering the trust. Still attorneys of record.”
“Maybe the only way to retain Skinner Worldwide, Inc. as a client was to knock Skinner off?” Bree knew this was a futile stab before she finished the sentence. Stubblefield merely grinned at her. She tried a different angle. “What about your own interest in Island Dream?”
His sharp little eyes flickered to the left and back. “What about it? It’s a hell of a good deal. And I didn’t invest a dime until well after Fairchild closed the deal with Skinner.” The words “and you can’t prove otherwise” hung in the air. Stubblefield had recovered almost all of his self-confidence. He grinned. “You’re looking at one person who preferred Benjamin Skinner alive, well, and sending us his checks.” He drew a wad of cash from his pocket, slapped it down on the counter, and rose to his feet. He stared down at her for a long moment. Bree stared back. He nodded to himself, gave her a cocky salute, and turned to go.
Bree watched him swagger off. “I’m not writing him off as a suspect just yet, Sash.” She looked down at the dog. “If only because he is so loathsome!” She shuddered. “Ugh! You know, I almost . . .” She bit her lip. Almost what? She’d been angry, that was for sure. As angry as she’d been at Payton the day before yesterday. If it hadn’t been for Striker and that weird sense of calm he’d given her, what would have happened? It’d flowed out of him like light.
Sasha sat up and pawed eagerly at her knee. “You’re right. It’s time we went home.” She gathered her briefcase and stood up. She searched the crowd with her eyes, but Gabriel Striker was gone.