Angel Condemned Page 2

  “This summons is such a small matter; I doubt it will take up much of your time,” Prosper White said. “I can certainly send it along to my counsel in New York.” He smiled with a glimpse of artificially whitened teeth. “But it’s such a trivial matter I hate to bother them. And Cissy insisted. When Cissy gets her mind made up, I just follow along. If you’d rather I passed the case along to someone else, I’m happy to do so.”

  Bree, arms folded, one hip cocked against EB’s desk, paused a moment before answering him. She looked at her aunt, instead.

  Like all the Carmichael girls, Cissy was small, with good bones, and an upright, graceful way of moving. But where Bree’s mother, Francesca, was rounded, Cissy was spare, with the wiry body of a woman who spent too much time at the gym. Francesca’s own red-gold hair (refreshed every six weeks at a quiet beauty salon near the Winston-Beauforts’ North Carolina home) was one of the reasons Bree’s father had fallen in love with her. Cissy’s was bright, sun-streaked blonde, the sort of color that demanded her aunt’s frequent trips to plastic surgeons to maintain a youthful image. Or so she claimed. Both sisters had clear blue eyes and soft, musical voices.

  Cissy’s first husband had run off with his executive assistant some fifteen years ago. Bree’s memory of Cissy’s ex-husband was spotty. Ash—what was his last name? Smallwood, that was it—had been a heavy-set guy with reddened cheeks, a fondness for bourbon sours, and political views to the right of Attila the Hun. The family hadn’t liked him much. Cissy hadn’t, either, and nobody was too surprised when he lit off for California after he’d made a very generous settlement on her aunt. Since then, Cissy had happily dated every eligible bachelor in Georgia over the age of thirty-five. She hadn’t bothered much about a second husband.

  Until now.

  Prosper White was Ash’s antithesis: tall, skinny, and with buzz-cut prematurely white hair. Bree had never seen him wear anything but slim black suits; crisp, open-collared white shirts; and those sleek Italian shoes. He drank martinis (sparingly) and seemed to have no political views at all. He looked just like what he claimed to be: a museum curator from New York City. He certainly acted the part.

  He was as different from Ash Smallwood as chalk from cheese, although the Winston-Beauforts didn’t like him any better. Bree felt very sorry for her aunt. She might even be persuaded to feel sorry for Prosper White, and she hoped he wasn’t as arrogant and uncivil as he seemed. But she really didn’t want to handle his lawsuit. She was short-tempered these days. Keeping civil would be an effort.

  Bree gave her aunt an affectionate smile and turned to White. “The thing is, criminal law isn’t really my strong suit. You might do better referring the case to your people up north. Or I’d be happy to refer you to somebody here.”

  “Not your strong suit?” Cissy said. “That’s a hoot! You got that Chandler child off! You solved four murder cases bam-bam-bam! And you’ve only had Uncle Franklin’s practice open for a few months!”

  White scowled. “This is a criminal case? You’re telling me there’s a jail sentence attached to a possible conviction? This flap is over my acquisition of a magazine cover, for God’s sake. And he wants damages!”

  “Did I say criminal?” Bree said, hastily. “I’m very sorry. I misspoke.” Her biased opinion of White’s character was another reason to steer clear of his case. Her job was to be an advocate, not a judge. “I’m a specialist in tax law. I should have said that I’m not an expert in torts. Most lawyers in Georgia are more experienced in tort law than I am. Is this a criminal case? No, of course not.”

  “Nonsense. Uncle Franklin believed you could handle anything, from torts to tarts,” Cissy said confidently. “That’s why he left you his practice.”

  “Absolutely,” EB said loyally.

  “Uncle Franklin was an optimist,” Bree said, “but thank, you Aunt Cissy.”

  Nobody in the room knew just how much of an optimist. She’d taken over Franklin’s civil practice, as he’d requested in his will. It was why she’d come to Savannah last October in the first place. What she hadn’t known then, she knew now. Franklin’s other practice, the criminal one, was carried out from the office on 66 Angelus Street, where Bree handled appeals cases for souls who had been condemned to Hell.

  Celestial jurisprudence turned out to be a lot less process-laden than the human/temporal one, but the beings she had to deal with—from the Opposition’s prosecutors to the Divine Justices themselves—were an intimidating crew even to Bree, who was no pushover. In the last four months, Bree had handled four such clients with the help of her Angelus Street staff, five angels appointed by the Celestial Courts.

  The last case had taken a lot out of her, and she was tired to death. She wasn’t sleeping well. She’d lost another dress size. A car had tried to run her over, and she’d broken her leg. Despite her doubts about Prosper White, he did deserve the best advocate she could find for him, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t up to it. Not without a couple of weeks off somewhere sunny.

  “Let me see if I can get Marv Welch to give you a hand, Aunt Cissy. He’s the best civil litigator I know. And he’s not suit-happy, either. If this can be settled with a few phone calls, he’s the man to do it.”

  “Fine,” Cissy snapped. She pressed her lips tightly together. She cleared her throat. Then she said, “You want to shove this off on some stranger? No problem. No problem at all.” She adjusted the cuffs on her blue-striped cotton shirt, tugged her short beige skirt over her knees, and slung the strap of her tote over her shoulder. Her legs were as tanned as White’s face. She got to her feet and said stiffly, “Sorry to bust in on y’all like this.”

  EB cut her eyes at Bree with a disapproving frown and said soothingly, “Now just hang on a minute, Ms. Carmichael. You sit right back down. Of course Bree wants to help her auntie.”

  EB had a large, rambunctious family. She held decided views on family loyalty. A middle-aged African-American woman who’d left school in the eighth grade to have the first of her five children, EB had come to work for Bree very recently, just after her last child graduated technical school. She wasn’t, she told Bree at her job interview, having any more part-time jobs waitressing, housecleaning, and cooking. She’d signed up for an online secretarial course, and she was going to make something of herself or die trying. She’d taken to Bree’s temporal practice in a New York minute. It’d taken her less time than that to make Bree part of her extended family. EB lowered her chin and peered at Bree over her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Isn’t that right, Bree?”

  Bree gave it up. EB would never let her hear the end of it if she sent Cissy somewhere else. Come to think of it, Cissy wouldn’t, either. “Certainly. If you’re sure you want me, Cissy.”

  Her aunt sat down with a sigh of relief. “Of course I do. Thing is, I’d purely hate to have strangers poking around in our personal business.”

  Bree hoped her distaste for both Prosper White and his lousy case didn’t show. “I may need to get an expert in tort law to give me a hand. You okay with that?”

  “You sure you can’t keep this just between us?”

  Bree began to be very curious about what skeletons White might have in his closet. How complicated could a lawsuit over a magazine cover get? “Sure,” she promised. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you, darlin’. I know you will.”

  “I’ll let you know if I get in over my head and have to call someone else in to help out.” Bree leaned back against the desk. She met Prosper White’s chilly eyes with an interrogative lift of her eyebrows. “You said a former acquaintance is claiming damages for a work of art you took from him? May I see the Summons and Complaint again?”

  He pulled the long buff envelope from inside his suit jacket and handed it back to her.

  “As I was sayin’,” Cissy said. “This what’s-his-name and his wife . . .”

  “Allard and Jillian Chambers,” Bree read aloud from the summons.

  “Allard Chambers,” Cissy repeated sco
rnfully. “He’s a—what did you call him, Prosper?”

  “A failed academic. Also a fraud.” White flicked his fingers dismissively. “I believe the dreadful Jillian is, as well.”

  Bree looked up. “The address here says they’re the owners of Chambers Antiques and Reclaimables. First, the plaintiffs are alleging fraudulent representation on the part of said defendants, Prosper Peter White and his agent, Alicia Kennedy. Who is Alicia Kennedy?”

  “Alicia Kennedy is my assistant curator at the Frazier. She’s not my agent. My agent’s out of New York.”

  “‘Agent’ in this context means someone paid to act on your behalf.” Bree referred to the summons again. “This basically says that Alicia Kennedy stole the magazine for you. That the ‘1952 edition of Photoplay magazine, issue number 3, edition 5, with cover featuring rock-and-roll star Elvis Presley, currently on display in the Frazier Museum exhibit A Century of Magazine Americana was, in fact, removed from the premises of plaintiff’s site of business at 35 Whitaker Street, Savannah, Georgia, by fraudulent means, pursuant to Georgia State statute’ . . . Blah, blah blah. I’ll spare you the citation.” She read on. “Second, it’s a demand for rescission.”

  Everybody looked blank. Bree clarified, “Chambers is suing for the return of the magazine.” She folded the summons into neat thirds. “Are you in possession of the magazine, Mr. White?”

  “Of course I am. It’s an integral part of the Frazier exhibit.”

  “Did the magazine come from Mr. Chambers’s shop?”

  White tapped his fingers impatiently on his knee. “The charges are ridiculous.”

  Bree waited for an answer.

  “Yes, the magazine came from Allard’s shop, and no, I didn’t steal it or obtain it by fraudulent means. As I said, it’s a critical part of the show at the Frazier. I sent my assistant down to buy the cover from him. Legally. We have a receipt.”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  A funny look passed over White’s features. Sly—that was it. After a moment he said, “Twenty dollars.”

  “This brouhaha is over a twenty-dollar item? Surely you can find another magazine from the era to replace it.”

  “This isn’t about a twenty-dollar item,” White said. “It’s about much, much more. It’s Chambers’s pitiful attempt at revenge. He’s a nothing, a nobody, and a fool. I refuse to play games with the man or his dreadful wife.”

  Bree sighed. Arrogance could cost this guy a lot of money in legal fees. “Your assistant is the agent named as codefendant in the suit? Alicia Kennedy?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “A slippery little miss, that Miss Kennedy,” Sissy muttered.

  Bree glanced at her aunt and mentally filed the comment away for future reference. She turned her attention back to White. “There’s something a little unusual about this. Mr. Chambers is represented by Marbury, Stubblefield. It’s one of the largest firms in Savannah.”

  White cocked his head. “Meaning?”

  Bree had a lot to say about Marbury, Stubblefield, but lawyers didn’t throw dirt on each other in front of the laity. Unless they were all in court, with a judge to referee. “Meaning that John Stubblefield generally won’t take on a case that doesn’t represent a lot of potential fees. He’s got such a high overhead that he can’t afford to.” She gestured at the floor. “One of the satellite offices is beneath us. They have the entire fourth floor. And if what you’ve told me so far is true, this is a violation of the Uniform Commercial Code.”

  “This doesn’t have a thing to do with the military,” Cissy said with an air of reassurance.

  “The UCC is a set of federal regulations regarding business transactions,” Bree said. “You’re right. It doesn’t have a thing to do with the military. It also doesn’t carry much in the way of penalties for something like this—and it wouldn’t seem to carry much weight with the likes of John Stubblefield. But it could cost a fair amount in legal fees if both parties are . . .” She searched for a phrase less inflammatory than “pig-headed.” “Convinced of their positions.”

  “Chambers doesn’t have two nickels to rub together,” White said with malicious satisfaction. He smiled at Cissy. “If money is what it takes, I’m sure we can out-lawyer him.”

  Bree let the implied slur on her and her profession pass. “So what’s this case really about?”

  “It’s bullpuckey that’s what it is,” Cissy said indignantly. “This Chambers is jealous, jealous, jealous. He always has been, and he chose this minute to make a stink because everybody in Savannah’s beatin’ down the doors to see what Prosper created. The Magazine Americana exhibit is the most successful thing the Frazier’s ever done! And it’s all due to Prosper! Before Prosper came on the scene to rescue the Frazier, it was the dowdiest museum in the whole damn South. A lot of molderin’ old Confederate uniforms and a bunch of rooster feathers from Robert E. Lee’s second-best hat! And now look at it! There was a line for tickets all the way down to St. Bonaventure’s on opening day, and business hasn’t slacked off since!” Cissy’s face was pink with indignation.

  “My, my,” EB said. “Let me get you a glass of water, Ms. Carmichael.”

  Bree shifted against the hard edge of EB’s desk. Her back hurt. The place where she’d broken her leg some weeks ago ached a little. Maybe Cissy was right. It might be time to get a few comfortable chairs in here or at least enough so that more than three people could sit down at the same time. “You said Mr. Chambers and Mr. White have known each other for a while, Aunt Cissy?”

  “It’s not ‘Mister’ Chambers; it’s ‘Professor.’ Or ‘Doctor.’ Whatever. And I wish to goodness you’d quit callin’ Prosper ‘Mr. White.’ He’s going to be your new uncle, Bree, so at least you can start callin’ him by his Christian name.” Cissy fanned herself vigorously with one hand. “My goodness it’s hot in here.”

  “Let me get you some of that water,” EB said. “Or even better, some nice cold ’Co-Cola.”

  “No, thank you, EB. I’m just all of a doo-dah over this, and that’s a fact.” She took a deep breath and grinned a little sheepishly at Bree. “You can tell I’m upset, can’t you? I’m going all over Southern.”

  “It’s an unsettlin’ situation,” EB said. “What with Elvis on the cover of that magazine and all.”

  “Isn’t that a fact.”

  The two women looked wisely at one another. Bree pinched her nose so she wouldn’t laugh, then reached over and took a yellow pad from the stack on EB’s desk. She uncapped her pen. “Let’s try and get a handle on some facts. If you could give me some background, Mr. White? Does Professor Chambers have a grudge against you?”

  “It’s because Prosper’s a genius with artifacts,” Cissy said, with a meaning-laden look at her niece. “It’s all on account of the Cross.”

  “Hardly genius, Celia,” White murmured with an expression so self-satisfied Bree wanted to smack him, “but yes, Chambers has got a grudge. You may know that I have something of a reputation in the detection of fraudulent Roman antiquities. Chambers is—or rather was—an archeologist specializing in that period at one of our larger universities. He was on a dig near Constantinople—that’s Istanbul to you—and claimed to have discovered the Cross of Justinian. Or rather, a cross of Justinian. A pectoral piece—”

  “It’s a necklace,” Cissy cut in.

  “Not a necklace, Celia,” Prosper said contemptuously. “I do wish you wouldn’t show yourself quite the fool. It’s a piece designed to be displayed on the chest.”

  “And Constantinople is really Istanbul, to me,” Bree said with an air of deceptive cordiality. “Thank you so much.” She caught EB’s look of alarm and managed to hang on to her temper. Her heart ached for Cissy. “Do go on.”

  “A pectoral piece seventeen centimeters by five centimeters, of hand-hammered silver over cedar. It’s inlaid with jasper, coral, and lapis lazuli.” White tugged at his ear. “Quite beautiful, in its way. Also quite fraudulent.” He yawned and ran his hand o
ver his short white hair. “Chambers tried to pass it off as a genuine antiquity. I knew it was a fake the moment I saw it.” His jaw set. His face was flushed. “Why he thought he could pull the wool over my eyes I’ll never know. Doctorates make some people arrogant.”

  Bree wondered at the venom in his voice.

  “Of course, I let the insurance company and the university know right away. In the ensuing fracas, Chambers lost his cushy academic job. And she had to resign.” He smiled in satisfaction.

  “When did this happen?” Bree asked.

  “Probably six months ago, just before I accepted the position here at the Frazier. Anyhow, I lost track of him”—he shrugged—“and it looks like he ended up here, running a junk shop.”

  “But the junk shop has some items of value, surely,” Bree said. She refused to call a man who used the word “fracas” in normal conversation by his first name. Maybe she could get by without calling him anything at all. “It was where you found this copy of Photoplay for your current exhibit, isn’t it?”

  “Well, that’s just it. I did find it, in a pile of unsorted scrap in the back of the shop. I knew Chambers would refuse to sell it to me. So I sent Alicia over to pick it up. She paid for it. In cash. She obtained a receipt. All perfectly legal.”

  “Did Professor Chambers put any verbal or written restrictions on the sale of the magazine when he sold it to Alicia?”

  White shrugged dismissively. “There may have been something written on the receipt. That it shouldn’t go to Prosper White or the Frazier. Something along those lines. But hardly enforceable. Once Alicia sold it to me . . .”

  “Didn’t you say she was acting as your agent?”

  “I said,” he mimicked her, “that I sent her over to pick it up. It’s Chambers who claims she’s my agent.”

  “A good point, but it’s moot.” Cissy looked bewildered, so Bree added, “Not germane to the principle issue, which is the sale of the magazine to you, Mr. White. So you have a sales document with a condition of sale specifically forbidding the use of the magazine in the exhibit. It might save you a lot of grief if you just gave him the magazine back.”