by JL Bryan
“Where do we go?” Stacey whispered.
We walked down the quiet corridor and quickly found the heavy double doors leading to 1201. There were other doors farther along, but none of them were labeled with numbers; it looked like at least three more office suites.
The doors in front of us were shut tight, with no windows—not exactly inviting.
“After you,” Stacey whispered, opening the door for me and standing aside.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, not feeling grateful at all.
Fortunately, the reception lounge beyond wasn't so forbidding—more marble, antique armchairs that looked expensive and uncomfortable, bookshelves with leather-bound volumes, all illuminated by softly glowing glass lamps on end tables. It looked more like a study than a waiting room.
Rain poured in sheets against the tall windows along one wall, admitting meager gray light from outside.
“Welcome,” said the young woman behind the massive reception desk, which was another heavy antique. It looked like had been carved out of a solid slab of walnut for an aristocrat in the late nineteenth century. Its legs and trim were thick and black, maybe mahogany.
The receptionist was no antique; she looked fresh out of college, her white blouse starch-stiff, her black coat from a more expensive rack than mine. She had dark skin, close-cropped dark hair, and a genuine-looking smile.
“Hey, an actual person!” Stacey said behind me. I cut her a look, reminded her to attempt some professionalism.
“We're from Eckhart Investigations in Savannah,” I said. “My name is—”
“You're very late,” the receptionist interrupted.
“Yeah, sorry, there was traffic—”
“Save it for her. It doesn't matter to me. I get paid to sit here all the same, no matter what happens.” She lifted the phone and punched a button. “Mrs.—yes, ma'am, they're finally here.” She cringed a little, then said: “Sorry, I forgot.” Then she hung up and stood, throwing a very strained smile our way. “I'll be right back. Feel free to have a seat if you like.”
“I'm a little confused,” I said. “I thought we were meeting with a Mr. Frank Tartan—”
“Oh, yeah, that's the lawyer's name. I think. He keeps an office here. Right? Sorry, I literally just started here this week. I'll be right back.” She ducked out of sight through another heavy old wooden door at the back of the room, closing it firmly behind her.
“Check this out,” Stacey pointed to a big framed sepia-toned picture on one wall, which had been blown up to poster size. It was a snapshot of the steel skeleton of the building when it had been under construction more than a century earlier. At seventeen stories high it dwarfed the low brick and wooden buildings of the city around it. Workers on very unreliable-looking wooden planks and ropes were welding the beams at the top. Horse-drawn wagons hauled steel beams and rivets down a mud street toward the construction site.
“It's kind of nutso,” Stacey whispered. “When they built this tower, there were no cars or trucks. No air conditioning. No computers. No...airplanes. No Netflix. Can you imagine?”
“It's pretty old,” I agreed.
“So there actually could be lots of—”
“Don't say it.” I cut her off before she could say ghosts. I was pretty sure we were alone, but maybe there were people who could overhear us.
“Okay, I'm not saying it...but I'm just saying...it...”
“Shh.” I looked at the next photograph, identified as ERNEST PENNEFORT - ENTREPRENEUR, BUILDER, PHILANTHROPIST. 1859-1921.
The man in the photograph had a heavy mustache and piercing blue eyes that gazed off at an angle, as if pretending to ignore the photographer. He was thin and handsome, like an old-time movie star. I guessed it had been taken when he was somewhere between thirty or forty years old. He wore a three-piece suit and a top hat.
“Wow, Old Man Pennefort was a real looker.” Stacey drew in a gasp as she pointed to another old framed picture. “And he had his own department store. What a catch.”
In the picture, crowds thronged outside a three-story brick building with PENNEFORT'S spelled out in huge letters outlined by scores of light bulbs. A display window showed a man's suit and a puffy lace dress displayed on mannequins, reminiscent of a wedding cake topper. The crowd was so big, it blocked the street, where a few wagon-wheeled automobiles now shared space with the horses.
“Looks busy,” I said.
“Yeah, it must be a flash sale or something,” Stacey said. “Or maybe the latest iPhone had just launched.”
“That's probably it,” I said.
The old door across the room creaked open, and the young receptionist leaned out, a thick stack of file folders now tucked under her arm. “Miss Jordan, he'll see you now.”
“He? The lawyer?” I asked. “Because you were saying 'her.'”
“You'll be speaking with Mr. Frank Tartan, attorney for Mrs. Amberly Pennefort.”
“Oh...she's the lady you mentioned?” I asked.
“Right this way, please. He's waiting.”
She led us through a dim warren of dark, wood-paneled hallways and into a conference room at the back, dominated by a long antique table big enough to seat twenty. A small man sat alone at the head of the table and stood to greet us. He was a head shorter than me, his gray hair stiffly styled with an arrow-straight part on the left side, his dark suit and tie made of muted colors. His pale eyes took us in, lingering longer on Stacey than on me, as men's eyes tend to do.
“This is Mr. Tartan,” the receptionist said, while he rose and shook our hands. His grip was unnecessarily tight.
“So pleased to meet you!” Stacey said, making it sound peppy and genuine.
“We'll see.” The diminutive attorney gestured at the table, then took his own advice and returned to his chair.
Stacey and I sat along one side of the table, which had an intricately sculpted trim. The conference room, like the reception room, was lit by small lamps along the walls. A wrought-iron chandelier hung above us, but all its bulbs were extinguished. I saw some exposed wiring near the top of it, too, and wondered if the old chandelier presented a fire hazard.
“Here they are.” The lawyer slid over two manila folders, one for each of us. Ballpoint pens with the words THE PENNEFORT BUILDING on the side were clipped to them. “The sooner you sign, the sooner we can get through this nonsense.”
“I'm sorry? What nonsense?” I opened the folder and skimmed the paperwork. “This is a non-disclosure agreement.”
“Yes, it's what we call a...” He paused, perhaps realizing I'd just identified it, through the magic of reading the bold words centered at the top. He chuckled, without a hint of actual humor or warmth. “Well, that's right. It means you girls promise not to go gossiping to anyone—anyone at all—about anything you see or hear in this building, especially from the family members. I know it's tempting for girls to gossip. My wife, she can hardly keep her lips together once someone puts a juicy burr in her ear. When she and the ladies have tea, it's always a whole henhouse worth of cluckin' going on.” He gave me a patronizing smile.
I couldn't believe how close I was to punching the guy.
“We've had plenty of NDA's with clients and prospective clients,” I said, managing to keep my voice calm and even—really a massive testament to my professionalism, or at least my desire to get paid. “That's no problem.”
“So, is like someone famous involved here?” Stacey asked, with an exaggerated awed tone in her voice. We'd just recently concluded a case with a movie-star client who'd bought a house on Tybee Island. “Who is it?”
“The Pennefort family, of course.” The small lawyer's brow furrowed. “Have you never heard of them? They're quite prominent.”
“I guess they would be, huh?” Stacey said. “With the skyscraper and the department store and all.”
“The department store closed a few decades back, sadly,” Tartan said. “But it was no longer the focus of the family's interests. If you were from A
tlanta, you'd surely know of them. Pennefort Park is just down the block, featuring an impressive arboretum with a number of rare trees.”
“It sounds nice,” I said, while looking through the agreement. “So we'll be working for the Pennefort family here? Can you tell us anything about the nature of the disturbance?”
“The nature of the...?” He looked confused for a moment, then his face reverted to its standard soft smirk. “Oh, yes. The disturbance. We can't discuss details until you sign.”
We signed, and he whisked the paperwork away, shaking his head as if the whole affair was some kind of private joke to him.
“I looked you up,” he said, relaxing a little and sipping the coffee in front of him. The small bone china cup clinked against its matching saucer. “Based on my research, you seem to satisfy the sort of people who hire you, at least.”
“I'm sorry? What sort of people?”
“Well, the gullible.” He winked at me, triggering a little revulsion-quake inside me. “You and I both know you're running a scam here. Don't—” He held up a hand as I began to speak. “—don't rush into a song and dance to defend yourself. I get it. I do. And she can afford to indulge these delusions. As long as you leave them happy, who's to complain? And I bet you're good at leaving them happy.” His sharp, hawkish eyes shifted to Stacey as he said this, and his sardonic smile widened a bit.
“If we could just discuss the case,” I said. “I assume we've come all this way and signed these agreements for a reason.”
“Oh, 'the case.' You've even got the professional-sounding patter. Impressive. I bet your mother was in the theater. Or maybe your daddy was a carnival man. But y'all listen to me right now, before this snowball gets rolling downhill.” He sat up straight in his chair, his little smirk gone, his face like cold iron now. “Don't get greedy. You do your tricks, you get paid a little, you leave quick. If you hang around too long, take too much from this family, I'll come down on you. Hard. Everybody has a weak point, and I have a talent for sniffing them out.” He winked at me.
“Maybe we should leave,” I said, starting to rise.
“No, no. You've come all this way. You may as well pitch your snake oil.” He pressed a button on a bulky phone that looked like it had been a state-of-the-art piece of office equipment sometime around 1989. “Tell her we're ready.”
“Yes, sir,” the receptionist replied over the static-filled speaker, which was a small separate cube plugged into the phone. They really needed some modern information technology around here.
A minute later, the receptionist led her in. The lawyer popped to his feet, like an Army recruit who'd just heard a drill sergeant approaching. Stacey and I took his lead and stood, too.
“Mrs. Pennefort has arrived,” the receptionist announced in a formal tone, as if the woman behind her was the Queen of England.
Amberly Pennefort was gorgeous—auburn hair, sea-green eyes, upturned nose, full lips. She looked to be in her middle or late thirties, quite plump now, but it wasn't hard to imagine drooling packs of boys following her around back in high school. Her hair was styled like she was going to a ball, and her dress was pure Renaissance Fair couture: low-cut, purple silk, trimmed in lace. She wore a long dark coat over it; not a cape, at least.
She wore a lot of jewelry, most of it gold and platinum and diamonds. Rings on every finger, bracelets, necklaces, a small diamond at her nose, more precious stones at her ears. It was a bit much. It was more than a bit much. It looked like she'd robbed a whole jewelry store, but had nowhere to put the loot except to hang it on herself.
“Mrs. Pennefort, you look fantastic as always,” the lawyer said, his tone obsequious now.
She said nothing to him, just looked at us while she made her way to the head of the table, where the lawyer had been sitting. He scampered back and pulled the chair out for her. She sat down and made a disgusted face.
“The seat's warm.” She looked at Tartan, and the diminutive lawyer cringed just a little. “Were you sitting here, Frank?”
“I was just, uh, I can sit over here instead—” He put a hand on the chair across from me.
“You can go away,” she said, and he backed off and nodded.
“Yes. Well, we have the agreements in hand, so if you need nothing else, Mrs. Pennefort—”
“I want one of my Green Body Shakes,” she said. “Go get it out of the fridge.”
“I will inform your receptionist,” he said, closing the door behind him.
Amberly looked us over. “Well?” she said, finally. “Can you do it or not?”
“I'm...sorry, ma'am,” I said. “I'm not sure what you're asking—”
“Oh, wow. Do I look like a 'ma'am'? I'm your age, right? Pretty much?” She looked horrified.
“Yeah, of course,” I said, shifting awkwardly in my hard, uncomfortable seat. “It's just...that's how we address clients.”
“Don't make me feel old,” she said.
“Right. You're not.”
“So he told you about the problems we're having?” Amberly asked, looking between us.
“He just had us sign an NDA,” I said. “That's it.”
“Yeah, I hate that dillrod. He was supposed to tell you more.”
“I'm all ears,” I said, getting out my trusty pocket notepad. Stacey prefers taking notes on a tablet, but there's something about pencil and paper that really works for me. Maybe I shouldn't have harbored such snooty thoughts about the building's outdated phones and computers.
“Okay, well there's...oh, finally, my drink!” She held out a hand as the receptionist entered with a canned drink and opened it for her. The can's label showed a super-skinny female body outlined in green. Amberly slurped from the can while the receptionist left. “Have y'all ever tried one of these? My cousin sells them. They aren't in stores.”
“I haven't, sorry,” I said, while Stacey shook her head.
“They are real, real healthy and they help you lose weight,” she said. “They recharge your metabolism with plant chlorophyll. That's the green stuff in plants.”
I nodded and waited for her to go on. She wasn't exactly the aristocratic type I'd been expecting.
She slumped and sighed. “I don't know where to begin.”
“Where are you having problems?” I asked. “In your home?”
“Not in our home. Thurm—that's my husband, Thurmond Pennefort—Thurmond and I have always lived in his old family place over on West Paces Ferry, ever since we got married, pretty much. But now that's, well, undergoing renovations,” she said. “So we're staying here in one of the old family apartments. But...” She shook her head. “It's making me crazy. I keep seeing things, hearing things...”
“Where does this happen?” I asked.
“Here. Well, up on the sixteenth floor. That's where we're staying.” She shivered, as if suddenly cold. “I don't know exactly how to tell y'all about it.”
“Just start from the beginning,” I said. “From the first unusual thing you experienced, even if it doesn't seem like a big deal.”
She nodded, and we listened.
Chapter Three
“Ever since they put up this tower, some members of the Pennefort family have lived here,” she began. “The top two floors are private, just for the family. Then there are some floors of apartments below that, and then office levels...anyway. Like I said, we didn't live here. Then Thurm's uncle died, and things started moving kinda fast...” She rubbed her temples, looking like she had a headache.
I offered her an aspirin, but she turned it down and sipped her multi-level-marketing shake instead.
“When did your husband's uncle die?” I asked.
“Almost six months ago. Then came the probate mess. No need to get into that. We moved here about three months ago.”
“Just you and your husband?”
“And the kids. Dexter's twelve. Hyacinth is ten, and she pitched a fit over coming here...she never liked visiting the tower, even at the holidays when the big Christma
s tree's all lit up in the lobby. Anyway, we moved into one of the empty apartments on the sixteenth floor. It was a little musty.” She grimaced. “More than a little.”
“Is that where the deceased uncle lived?”
“Oh, no!” She looked stricken. “Gross. He was up on seventeen with Thurm's aunt, Millie. She's up there still. On life support. Has been for a couple years, hasn't said a word. Her living will keeps her in the building with us until she dies. All that machinery, the nurses...each breath she takes probably costs a thousand dollars.”
“So what happened after you moved in?” I asked. Amberly seemed eager to get derailed, maybe to avoid talking about whatever had spooked her into calling us.
“You know, I used to wonder why more of the extended family didn't live here. Sure, the apartments were old, but they're old in a ritzy way, not in an old and falling-down way. I understand better now. Look, I seen a spooky thing or two where I grew up, but it wasn't nothing like this.”
“Where did you grow up?” I asked. I thought the question might help put her at ease, but I was also genuinely curious, because I didn't get the sense that she'd come up in the same wealthy surroundings as her husband.
“Gainesville.” She smiled a little and looked away, toward the windows along one side of the room, where rain slapped against the glass.
“Ooh, by Lake Lanier?” Stacey asked. “I've been skiing there.”
“Not far from it. It was close enough that me and my cousin Taylee could sneak out there for a swim at night. You could see all the stars up there...and all the lights of the pleasure craft during the summer, too. They'd group together out in the lake and party, party, party. I'd tell Taylee, that's where I'll be when I grow up, out on them boats...” Her eyes snapped back toward me, and she stiffened up. “That's not what we're here to discuss. Let's get to the point, now.”