Defending Angels (25 page)

A quarter mile or so beyond the marina stood Skinner Tower. Red, white, and blue bunting flapped from the penthouse, torn loose by the gusting wind. A huge banner printed with NOW RENTING blew awkwardly against the fourth-story balconies. Bree wondered what the old building had looked like before Fairchild tore it down. Made of cobblestone, most likely, or perhaps red brick.

She parked in the “reserved for regatta master” spot, under the assumption that Force 2 winds and a heavy chop precluded the usual Sunday regatta, and wrapped herself in her raincoat against the chill of the air. She cranked the car windows down, to leave air for Sasha, and got out of the car. The halyards chimed wildly. She drew her hood over her hair and started her search for Slip 42, the
Sea Mew
’s berth.

She found it at the end of the pier farthest from the clubhouse, with Sam Hunter standing at the helm.

She stood for a moment, squinting up at him. He had a Windbreaker on, open to the weather, and a NYPD billed hat on his head. He regarded her for a long moment, then moved to the bulkhead and extended his hand. The boat pitched against her lines, and Bree waited for a downswing before she grabbed his hand and scrambled aboard. She fell against him as the ship yawed up, and then regained her feet, conscious of the hard muscling of his chest.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“What!”

He drew her toward the cabin and opened the door. Once inside, the noise of the wind dropped almost completely. The
Sea Mew
was a well-made boat.

“I asked if you were feeling any better. You don’t look well, if you don’t mind my being frank.”

Reflexively, Bree put her hand on her forehead. “I don’t?”

He touched her cheek gently. “Looks as if you haven’t had a great deal of sleep.”

She stepped back and his hand fell away. “Looks like we both had the same idea.” She shot a glance at him. “Unless this is official?”

“No, it’s not official.”

She moved about the small cabin, looking out through the rain-lashed windows at the deck. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—or what she was waiting for. Her aunt Cissy had an expression that summed up what she felt; she was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Sam stood behind her. His breath whispered by her ear. “Skinner senior sat in the prow with his back to the sea. Jennifer stood at the helm. Grainger said he was in here, getting a bottle of water from the refrigerator when he saw his father clutch his chest and go over the side.”

“And then he rushed outside, yelling at his wife to come about, et cetera, et cetera,” Bree said.

“You’ve read the police report. I’d sure like to know how you got hold of it before the investigation closed.”

She leaned back a little and looked up at him. “We lawyers have our ways.”

For a long moment, his coin-colored eyes looked into hers. “Yes,” he said, “well.” He stepped back, and the moment passed—if it had been a moment, and not her hopeful imagination. “See anything we might have overlooked?”

Bree shook her head and then said, “Wait a second. What’s that at the base of the deck?”

“The wall, you mean?”

She brushed past him and out into the wind. “Here!” she shouted. “These clips set into the deck! They don’t have any sailing purpose that I’ve ever seen.”

“For the fishing lines?”

She rolled her eyes, then knelt down and examined the clips more closely. They were brackets, actually, two inches high, about an inch deep, and bolted onto the deck at two-foot intervals. They led from the helm to the bench seat at the prow. Above the bench, two galvanized steel rings were bolted on either side of the ship’s wall just as it came to the vee. Bree had been in this class of yachts before. She put her hand on the cushioned seat.

Nothing.

She closed her eyes. Feeling like sixteen kinds of a fool, she tried to imagine Skinner’s face as she had seen it in the
Forbes
magazine article.

Not a peep. If Skinner’s ghost truly lingered at the spot where he died, he hadn’t died here. She opened her eyes and turned to Hunter. “I know how they did it.”

“How they did what?”

“Disposed of the body. You see these rings? They tied him to the bench. And at the right moment, probably when they were sure they had a witness, they jerked on the lines and sent the body overboard.” She shaded her eyes and looked over Sam’s shoulder to the concrete towers of the Skinner building. “And he didn’t die here.”

He snorted. Bree scowled and said, as icily as she could while still keeping her balance on the deck, “Did I say something funny?”

“Guesswork isn’t admissible.”

“Then we should look for some hard evidence, don’t you think?”

“
Now
I get it.”

“Get what?”

“You’re more Southern when your temper’s up.”

Bree smiled sweetly. “Do tell, Lieutenant. What about searching for some evidence?”

He ran his hand over his face. A spatter of rain swept across the deck. He looked up at the sky, which was gloomier than ever. “Let’s get out of the rain and talk.”

“Like where?” She gestured at their surroundings. “The nearest place is the country club. And I’m not a member.”

“My car.”

“
My
car. I want to check on my dog.”

Sasha watched their approach with his nose pressed against the driver’s door, his tail thumping wildly. Bree edged him carefully into the passenger’s seat. Hunter got into the back.

“I don’t know how he managed to scoot over the top and up into here,” she said. “You wouldn’t think he had a broken leg at all.”

“You never heard anything about who did that to him?”

“You know about that?” Bree said in surprise.

“I did a little checking on everyone concerned with the Skinner case. Your complaint’s on record.”

She smoothed Sasha’s ears, and then turned so that she could face him, her back pressed uncomfortably into the steering wheel. “Did you check on Skinner’s girlfriend?”

“The nurse at Chatham General? She was out of town at a medical conference all last week.”

Bree blinked at him. “That poor blonde’s a nurse?”

“What poor blonde—oh!” He laughed at that. Although it wasn’t really a laugh, Bree thought. More of an amused rumble. Sam Hunter didn’t look like a man who laughed very often. “You mean Skinner senior’s girlfriend. Chastity McFarland. We put some routine questions to her, yes.”

“
Grainger
Skinner has a girlfriend?” Startled, Bree sat back and bumped against the steering wheel. “Holy crow. Hm. That goes some way toward explaining Jennifer’s cranky attitude, I suppose. How long has that been going on?”

“I have no idea. Why should I care? I don’t see its relevance to Skinner’s death.”

“Maybe he wanted to divorce Jennifer and marry this girlfriend and his daddy didn’t approve?”

“It’s possible,” Hunter said, “but not very probable. If that’s so, why is Jennifer backing his story up?”

Bree made a face. “Good point.”

“And it’s a pretty slim motive for murder, if you ask me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Savannah society’s a lot different from where you come from up north. Sometimes these things matter a lot.” She gestured at his NYPD hat. “You were a New York City cop before you came down here?”

“Yes,” he said shortly.

He couldn’t have been clearer that this was a no-go zone if he’d put up a sign. Bree stared at him, wondering what kind of story lay behind the stony eyes and weary mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked testily.

“No! Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

“Fine.” He put his hand on the door handle. “If that’s about it, I’ll be getting back to my Sunday.”

“Hang on a minute. What about those clamps?”

He drew his brows together in a frown. “Miss Beaufort ...”

“And I thought we’d gotten things on a first name basis.”

“Bree, then. You’ve got quite an imagination. What makes you think Skinner didn’t fall off the boat and drown? I don’t have to remind you that the autopsy report—”

“I’ve been on boats like the
Sea Mew
before. Those clamps running alongside the deck and the rings over the seat weren’t put there for any sailing purpose I know of. I’ve never seen such a thing. The least you can do is ask Grainger what in the heck they’re for. And if I were you, I’d get some of your forensic guys to go over the boat with a fine-tooth comb.”

Hunter took his hat off, ran his hand over his hair, and jammed the hat back on again.

“Doug Fairchild said that he and Skinner were partners in Island Dream?” Bree nodded in the direction of the building. “Those towers right there. But he sued John Stubblefield because he screwed up the contracts. And he sued Doug Fairchild to get out of the deal. Why? Something doesn’t add up. I’m going over to check it out, if I can. And I’m going to have a talk with Chastity McFarland and maybe ask her some nonroutine questions.”

“Suit yourself.” This time he got all the way out of the car. He bent down and said through the open door, “If you come up with anything relevant, remember what I told you. If it’s a police matter, I want to know about it.”

Bree didn’t know if she was relieved or annoyed that he didn’t offer to come with her. She watched him walk to his car—an anonymous Chevy of the kind ubiquitous to law enforcement everywhere—and decided she was relieved. “The man,” she said aloud to Sasha, “has what you might call a disturbing presence. And I’ve been disturbed enough lately, don’t you think?”

She put the car in gear, and headed toward Island Dream.

Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long.

—
The Merchant of Venice
, Shakespeare

Georgia hurricane codes required all new beachfront construction to be built at least fifteen feet off the ground, and a quarter mile from the water. This would protect the buildings from storm surges up to twenty-five feet high. Island Dream followed the code, but Bree bet the front drive was exactly a quarter mile to the inch.

The pastel pink building seemed to embrace the water. It was wing-shaped, and only wide enough to allow one condominium per floor. She drove around the back of the building once before she parked. Two white vans with MONTIFIORE CONSTRUCTION signs on the side sat parked at the rear of the garages. There weren’t any workers in sight. The condos had balconies front and rear. The end unit balconies stretched around the side of the building, so that an owner could walk out the French doors in the back and walk all the way around to the living room. The landscaping was new, and not overly generous. Squares of sod made up the lawn, and a few plantings of magnolias and small live oaks grew around the building at random. The swimming pool at the back was lavish, though, with cabanas, an outdoor tiki hut, and an elaborate outdoor kitchen. She wasn’t surprised at this. Builders usually put the common areas in first, to nudge buyers into faster decisions.

She drove back around to the front. A bright green Lincoln Continental was the only car occupying the guest spaces. Bree parked next to it, apologized to Sasha for leaving him once again, and headed toward the front door.

It opened as she ran up the walk and a male voice called heartily, “Come in, come in! It’s wet out there.”

A salesman. She should have guessed. Bree entered the lobby and shook the rain from her hair.

“Calvin Tiptree at your service, ma’am. I’m as happy as can be to welcome you to Island Dream. And you are?”

Calvin extended his right hand. He was youngish, maybe early thirties, with an expensive haircut and an even more expensive smile. Those teeth must have set him back a considerable sum. She smiled. “I’m just here to visit a friend, Mr. Tiptree. Miss McFarland? In the penthouse?”

His overly white smile got a little rigid. “You aren’t a reporter or anything, are you? She didn’t say anything about any more interviews today. And you don’t look like any friend of hers I’ve ever met.”

Bree thought about the hostility under Calvin’s cheery manner. Big empty condos were usually sold by people who encouraged visitors, lots of them.

“Actually, I’m an attorney,” she said. “I’ve come on behalf of the family.”

Calvin rolled his eyes. “Oh, God. Of course. She’s on the top floor, but then you already know that. No luck in getting her out of there? Come on. I’ll show you the elevators.”

Bree followed him across the terrazzo tile floor to the sleek bronze elevators on the far wall. These expensive new buildings were starting to look all the same; she bet the kitchens were stuffed with granite countertops, stainless steel Viking stovetops, and Wolf ovens, and that the bathrooms were tiled in travertine marble.

“Here we go.” Calvin pressed the “up” button. “Any luck in getting her to move?” he asked in a confidential tone. “I mean, if you ask me, it’s going to take a SWAT team to get her out of there.”

“We’re working on it,” Bree said. The doors swooshed open and she stepped inside, pressed “P” for penthouse, and smiled good-bye to Calvin. The elevator clanked and swayed on its way to the top and stopped with a jerk.

Bree stepped out into a hallway that smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. The entry to the penthouse suite was directly across from the elevators. The double doors were Brazilian hardwood. Two ceramic planters stood on either side. The sago palms were dry and shriveled. Bree wasn’t much of a gardener, but she knew it was pretty hard to kill a sago palm. Before she could press the door chime, Chastity opened the door a crack and peered out. “I heard the elevator,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Bree Beaufort. Liz Overshaw hired me to find out who murdered Mr. Skinner.”

Chastity flung the door wide. “I was
wondering
when you’d get around to me!” Her voice was high-pitched and girlish. Bree didn’t peg her accent as Georgian; more Texas, or maybe Arkansas. “What took you so long?”