Angel Condemned (13 page)

“That was my impression,” Bree said. “I didn’t actually see him fall. Just felt the effect of it. Like dominos, if you know what I mean.”

“You were three or four people away from him?” Hunter said. “He fell against them; they fell against you.”

“Right. Anyhow, there couldn’t have been more than a few seconds between the gasp and the fall.”

“Dropped like a stone. Knife went straight into the heart, probably.” The EMT zipped the body bag closed, and Bree wondered if she’d seen the last of Prosper White. She hoped so. “But don’t quote me on that. Ask the medical examiner when the autopsy’s done. Okay if we take him away now, Lieutenant?”

Hunter nodded. The techs pushed the gurney down the front steps of the museum with an almost unnoticeable clatter. They lifted it effortlessly into the waiting ambulance.

Yellow crime-scene tape blocked off the circular driveway at both ends. The crowd that gathered behind it was larger than the mob of demonstrators had been. The Channel 5 anchor had been joined by two other media vans. The police response had been rapid; the media response, too.

Prosper White had been dead for less than forty-five minutes.

“I’d better see how Cissy’s doing,” Bree said. “Will it be a long time before I can get her home?”

Hunter rubbed the back of his neck. “Everybody at the scene’s got to be searched, even though we got the knife. There are twenty-two people in there.”

“Seemed like more at the time.”

“May have been. It’d be helpful if you could write down brief descriptions of the people surrounding the victim. My guess is more than a few in the crowd slipped away before we got here. The security cameras should help some. And Channel Five was there, although we’ll have the usual hassle over getting access to their tapes. Anyhow—we’ll be a couple of hours, maybe. She holding up okay?”

Bree shook her head. “I don’t know.” She smiled. “You should have seen her, Hunter. She’s got a backbone, Cissy does. White was scared green at the thought of facing the crowd. She told him to man up, and out he came.”

Hunter glanced at the ambulance bumping gently along the driveway. “Yes,” he said dryly. “He did.”

“For God’s sake, Hunter. She didn’t have any idea that this was going to happen!”

“White might have, though. See what you can find out, will you? Did Chambers threaten him directly? Did the two men have any kind of face-to-face altercation? If they did, when was it?”

“Bree Winston-Beaufort, police snitch.” She put her hand on his and squeezed it, lightly. “I doubt she knows anything, but she’ll know how important this is.”

The atmosphere inside the Frazier had changed. There was a hushed expectancy about museums that always pleased Bree in the past. That sense of pleasure ahead was gone. Somebody had brought out a number of folding chairs.

The witnesses to Prosper White’s murder sat in clusters. They were discouraged-looking people. There was almost no conversation, expect for the flat official tones of the uniformed men and women taking statements and searching through purses, tote bags, and backpacks.

Bree scanned the group. Allard and Jillian Chambers weren’t there; they’d been taken down to police headquarters almost immediately. She didn’t see the members of Charles Martin’s group, either; perhaps they had been processed and let go first. It was mostly the poor homeless and a scattering of unlucky museum-goers.

A uniformed officer stood outside Prosper White’s office door. He straightened up as she approached and touched the rim of his hat. He seemed very young to Bree, and blushed easily. “Ma’am.”

“I’m Brianna Winston-Beaufort, Ms. Carmichael’s attorney.”

“I know. Lieutenant said you can go right in, ma’am.”

Bree tapped at the door, heard a muted “Yes!” and prepared to enter. The officer touched her shoulder shyly.

“How’s the dog doing, ma’am?”

“Dog?” Bree cocked her head. “Of course! It’s Officer Banks. You helped me rescue Sasha from that trap all those months ago. He’s doing fine, thank you.”

“And at the drowning a couple of months ago, ma’am. I was there, too.”

“Yes,” Bree said.

“You seem to run into murder a lot, ma’am.”

“Yes,” Bree said. “I’m working on reducing that statistic.”

Inside, she found Cissy slumped dejectedly on the gray couch. Alicia Kennedy sat at the Chinese table. Behind Prosper’s desk was the man who’d been identified as Charles “Bullet” Martin. He’d tossed his cashmere coat onto the desktop and reclined in the desk chair, his booted feet up on the desktop. He was sleek, well fed, with a shock of iron-gray hair. He had the kind of male looks that made it hard to peg his age. He could have been anywhere between midforties and midsixties. Bree nodded to him and took a quick glance at Alicia. Her dark hair straggled around her face. Her eyes looked bruised. She’d been chewing at her lip. She sat as if she’d been shot.

Everybody had red splashed on their clothes. Blood smeared the lapels of Martin’s expensive coat. A huge stain marked the center of Alicia’s black T-shirt. Cissy’s mink was spattered with dried splashes of red. Tomatoes? Blood? It was hard to tell.

“Bree.” Cissy had a handkerchief in one hand. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and scooted over so that Bree could sit down beside her. “This is the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to me. Poor Prosper.”

Bree put her arm around her. “I’m sorry, Aunt Cissy.”

“I called Francesca.”

Bree nodded.

“She’s on her way. Course she was on her way already, but for a different reason. She was comin’ to help with my wedding. Now she’s comin’ to help with the funeral.”

“He wouldn’t have married you,” Alicia said, suddenly. “And if he had married you, it’s just because you’re stinking rich. You’re old. Old and stupid!”

Cissy shrank into herself. Bree got to her feet and walked over to Alicia. She didn’t say anything. But she called on the same anger that drove her when she was best at her job. The anger was a pure, focused weapon. She knew that her face was white and cold. That her eyes were narrow points of ice. That a terrifying stillness possessed her body. She had, as always, the sense that she was both Bree-as-weapon and Bree-as-observer, standing outside herself, looking on.

Alicia paled and dropped her eyes.

There was a tap at the door, and Officer Banks opened it. “Ms. Kennedy? The lieutenant would like to take your statement now.”

Alicia got up and edged past Bree to the door. She stopped halfway, turned, and with a sudden, vicious movement of her head, spat on the floor.

“Nice girl,” Charles Martin said after the door slammed shut behind her. He grinned sarcastically.

“She’s upset.” Cissy smoothed her handkerchief, folded it, and tucked it into the pocket of her coat. “She was in love with him, you know. Prosper was going to fire her as soon as the
Americana
exhibit moved on to MoMA. He didn’t trust her. Not one bit. Said the best way to get rid of her would be to ship her off with the show to New York.” She gave a shaky sigh. “Jealousy—that’s all it is.”

Martin swung his feet off the desk and sat up. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met, young lady. Charles Martin. Call me Bullet.”

“Brianna Winston-Beaufort.”

“Your aunt here says you’re the best damn lawyer in the state of Georgia.”

Bree smiled. “She’s biased, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” Bullet narrowed his eyes. “Says you’re quite a hand at catching murderers.”

“I’m a lawyer, Mr. Martin. I specialize in tax law.”

“Nonsense,” Cissy said sturdily. “She’s solved four murder cases right in a row, Bullet. Most of them made the national news, too.”

“Got a handle on this one?” Martin asked.

“Nope. Something like this is best left to the police.”

“Should be a piece of cake for an experienced investigator like yourself.” Something unpleasant moved behind his eyes. “Had quite the talent for attracting enemies, did our Prosper White. You’d have yourself a fistful of suspects, you decide to look.”

“Including you?”

“Bree!” Cissy said. “Bullet came here to make a bid on the
Americana
exhibit for his museum in Houston, Texas.”

“That I did.” Martin slapped the desk with his hand and got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’m going to go on out and check on the progress of Savannah’s finest. Then I think I might punch a call in to my own lawyers back in Houston. Just in case.” He cocked his forefinger at Bree. “Wouldn’t want you to mistake me for the murdering son of a gun who dispatched Prosper White, would we?” His hand on the office door, he sketched a bow to Cissy. “Ma’am.”

“Mr. Martin?” Bree said. She’d paused at the name when Cissy had mentioned it; now she remembered why.

He paused and turned around.

“Did you—that is, do you have any relatives named Schofield?”

“Schofield? Yes, ma’am. I surely did. My younger brother. Died more than thirty years ago in a tragic accident. Tragic. Now how did you hear about Schofield?”

Bree didn’t answer for a minute. “I ran across him in some research I was doing for the museum. He was an archeologist?”

“That’s what they tell me. Be seeing you again, Miss Winston-Beaufort, Miss Carmichael. I hope so.”

He shut the door softly behind him. It reopened almost immediately. Officer Banks had her tote in one hand and a Barney’s shopping bag in the other. “Lieutenant says you can have these back now.”

Cissy took the Barney’s bag and crushed it between her hands with sudden vehemence. Then, with an apologetic glance at her niece, she smoothed the bag on her knees and drew out a filmy black nightgown. “This would look wonderful on you, Bree. I’ve half a mind to give it to you.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. “I won’t be needin’ this now.”

Bree didn’t answer. She’d emptied her tote onto the desk.

The pine box with the Cross of Justinian was gone.

“What’s the matter, honey? You look so grim.”

Bree put her things back into the tote, one by one: legal pad, iPad, a set of Italian pens, lip gloss, brush, Mille Fleur cologne. She patted her jacket pocket. Her cell phone was there. So was her credit card and sixty dollars in cash. “This is important, Aunt Cissy. Did you and Prosper spend a lot of time together?”

“Every waking minute.”

“So you’ve been in his house? Where does he live, anyway?”

“Of course I’ve been in his house. I found him a lovely little town house just off Washington Square. It’s that new development that fronts Forsythe Park. He wasn’t all that fond of older architecture. He loved Euro-Tech and the moderns . . .”

Bree went to the couch, sat down, and took Cissy’s hand. “You know about this artifact?”

“The one that man says he stole? The Cross?”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“I don’t believe so, no. What does it look like?”

“It’s small. About this big.” Bree held her thumb and forefinger apart. “It looks like solid silver, but it’s quite light. The inlay is semiprecious stones—lapis lazuli, jasper, and coral.”

“Those aren’t semiprecious stones, honey. Those are just nice stones. Topaz, aquamarine—those are semiprecious stones. Diamonds, rubies, and emerald are the only gems you can legitimately call precious.”

If there was one thing Cissy knew a great deal about, it was gems and jewelry.

“It’s very ornate. Think. Did you ever see him with such a thing?”

Cissy shook her head. She bit her thumb. “Are you going to find out who murdered my Prosper?”

“It’s better left to the police.”

“That nice man you should be going out with. Lieutenant Hunter? Is he in charge of the case?”

“He is. And he’s an excellent investigator.”

Cissy sighed. “Good. It was that man Chambers. I just know it. I can’t stand the thought of him getting off scot-free.”

There was a sharp rap on the office door, and Hunter himself came in. He was accompanied by Sergeant McKenna and two uniforms. He carried a clear plastic bag that contained a boning knife. The inside of the bag was smeared with blood. He didn’t look at Bree.

“Mrs. Celia Smallwood? You’re known as Celia Carmichael?”

“You know very well who I am, Sam Hunter.”

“We’d like to ask you, ma’am, if you recognize this knife?” He held out the plastic bag.

Bree was so stunned, it took her longer than it should have to register what was happening.

Cissy craned her neck at the bag. “Is that it?” she whispered? “Is that the . . .” She turned so pale Bree was afraid she would faint.

“Just answer the question, ma’am.”

Bree jumped to her feet and knocked Hunter’s hand aside. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you
dare
.” She was so angry her head was swimming.

“What?” Cissy said. “What?”

Hunter looked at her. His eyes were opaque. She couldn’t read them. She couldn’t read them at all. “The knife comes from a set in her kitchen.”

“It does?” Cissy said doubtfully. “That’s one of mine?”

“Don’t say another word, Cissy!”

“It’s got a walnut handle. That looks like the set . . .”

“Cissy,
shut up
!” She turned on Hunter, furious. “You can’t do this . . .”

“Ms. Carmichael, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

“This is insane. For God’s sake, Hunter. Of all the stupid damn clichés! Of course she didn’t kill him. She’s been set up. You know why she’s been set up, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t know why she would have been set up. If you know, you need to tell me. Right now.”

She closed her eyes and clenched her fists so hard her fingernails drew blood from her palms. She couldn’t, wouldn’t lose her temper. Not now. Not here. What she needed was control. Ice in her mind. Ice in her heart.