“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.
Eighteen
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 open
ed 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?”
“Sorry,” Bree said without a blink. “I came as soon as my schedule permitted.” She stepped inside. The huge living room, with the panoramic view of the Atlantic, was an amazing mix of Condo Modern and McFarland Kitsch. The ochre Tuscan tile floors were no surprise, nor were the elegant stainless steel light fixtures, the coffered ceilings, and the crown moldings. The lava lamps, fuzzy pink pillows, and brightly dyed sheepskin rugs added a raffish charm. One wall held an étagère with the complete set of ceramic characters from Gone with the Wind. Bree picked up the Rhett Butler and put it down again.
“That has to be my all-time favorite movie,” Chastity said. “Isn’t that little Melanie sweet? And I just love the Scarlett.” She picked up the Scarlett O’Hara character and set it next to Rhett Butler. “I should have lived in those days instead of these modern times, you know?”
“They didn’t treat women very well,” Bree observed, “or African Americans, or Yankees, or anybody who wasn’t white, male, and over twenty-one. I think you would have hated it.”
“You do?”
“I do.” Bree didn’t wait for an invitation, but settled herself on the overstuffed sofa. It was white leather, and surprisingly comfortable.
“That was where Bennie used to sit.” Chastity perched on the arm of a matching leather chair. She wore tight Guess jeans and a cropped T-shirt that barely contained those astonishing breasts. Bree wondered if having a bosom that large was as uncomfortable as it looked.
“They’re real,” Chastity said without the slightest embarrassment. “Everybody wonders, so I just up and say so.”
“I didn’t mean to stare,” Bree said apologetically. But she did wonder about the lie. She was no expert, but Chastity’s bosom was definitely fake. Was she generally untruthful? She hesitated, trying to decide on the best approach. Did Chastity believe, like Liz, that Benjamin Skinner was haunting her? Or had she overheard an actual threat?
“I know you believe that Mr. Skinner was murdered,” Bree said. “Ms. Overshaw believes it, too. I was hoping that you might give me some reasons why you feel this way?”
“He always said they’d get him in the end, you know.” Chastity curled up in the chair and brooded over a fingernail. “And sure enough, they did.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“You know, all those people who were out to get him, and that.” Chastity looked at her hopefully. “A lot of people hated his guts.”
“Did you?”
“Me? No, I didn’t hate his guts. He gave me a chance.”
“A chance?”
“Sure. I’m finishing up my GED.”
“You are?” Bree said.
“Look here.” She crossed over to the armoire that held the wide-screen TV and scrabbled among the pile of paper there. “See? Homework. Bennie said you don’t get anywhere without an education. If I passed my high school exam, he was going to help me go on for a two-year degree.”
“Was there something in particular you wanted to study?”
“I thought maybe I’d work with animals, and that. At a vet’s maybe. But then, I checked out how much they get paid.” She frowned. “Didn’t sound so hot. And of course now, it doesn’t matter, because the sons of bitches got him, like he always said they would.”
“Did he have anyone specific in mind?”
“Well, it wouldn’t knock me ass over teacup if it turned out to be that Jennifer. Spiteful bitch. You know, she’s the one trying to get me kicked out of here.” Chastity’s face flushed pink. “I embarrass her, that’s what I do. Stuck-up snob. If you could pin it on her, it wouldn’t make me lose any sleep.”
“Do you have a deed to the condo here?” Bree asked gently.
“Well, no. That’s kind of a problem, see.” She uncurled her legs and leaned forward confidingly. “It belongs to the partners. Bennie was trying to get out of this deal, and supposedly was in the middle of signing his share over to the other guys.”
This didn’t make a lot of sense to Bree. “And this unit was part of his share?”
“I guess.” Chastity threw her arms wide. “Basically, he didn’t want a thing to do with this place. So the stuff that he owned, he was trying to get rid of.”
“Are you saying that he had a partnership agreement with Doug Fairchild and he wanted to get out of it?”
“Yeah,” Chastity nodded. “But he hadn’t done it yet, and so Miss Priss Face and that geek husband of hers have to pay, like, all my utilities and the management fee. That stuff.”
“I see,” Bree said. She coughed a little to hide her grin. No, Jennifer wouldn’t like keeping her father-in-law’s girlfriend in luxury one little bit. Aside from the social humiliation, the management fees alone had to be astronomical. And they were prorated by ownership. If Chastity was the only occupant of the building, and the legal ownership was in dispute, the younger Skinners would be facing a hefty charge every month. “You don’t know why, um ... Bennie wanted to get rid of his share?” She looked out the windows at the incredible view of the ocean. Places like this were gold under the mattress, no matter what state the real estate market was in.
Chastity shrugged, unconsciously echoing Bree’s thoughts. “Me, I think it’s fabulous. You know how much this place would go for on the open market? Couple of million, easy.”
“Did Mr. Skinner—Bennie—receive any direct threats to his life?”
“You mean, like, ‘I’ll kill you, bastard!’ sort of stuff?” She smiled like a gleeful kid. “Just from me, once in a while.” She nibbled her lower lip and added, “We didn’t go out much. And when we did, it wasn’t with any of the people he knew.”
“I see,” Bree said. It was a sad life this girl had chosen for herself. “And to the best of your recollection, he didn’t give you any specifics.”
“Just that they were going to get him one of these days.” She twiddled her hair evasively.
Bree leaned forward a little. “Chastity, what you’re telling me doesn’t sound like a murder plot. It sounds like a fairly aggressive businessman complaining about his universe.”
“Just sort of general bellyaching, you mean.”
“Exactly.”
She sighed heavily. “So, listen. It’s like this. His death’s ruled an accident, then the case is closed, and the will is, you know, probated.”
“Yes.”
“And then I’m outta here.” She looked at the opulence surrounding her with a wistful air.
“Probably,” Bree said kindly.
Suddenly, she got up and clasped her hands tightly together. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure?”
“It’s this friend of mine.” She stopped, and chewed on her lower lip.
Bree made her voice calm. “If you have something to tell me that might be incriminating, give me a dollar.”
“Huh?”
Bree held her hand out. “If you give me a dollar, anything you tell me—short of a confession that you murdered Mr. Skinner yourself—is privileged information.”
“You mean you don’t have to tell the cops.”
“Did you kill Mr. Skinner?”
“No!”
“Then I won’t have to tell the cops. Do you have a dollar?”
“I got more than that.” She went to the fireplace mantel and took a wad of bills from the cloisonné jar that stood there. She handed them to Bree, who extracted a dollar bill and returned the rest to her. “Good. You’re now officially my client. You didn’t kill Mr. Skinner. But you know who did?”
“Maybe.” Then she burst out, “How much time does a person have to do if they lie to the
police?”
“That depends a whole lot on the consequences of the lie. And why you lied in the first place. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Chastity flung herself on the couch. “I’ll tell you something not very nice.”
“Okay,” Bree said equably.
“They said I could have this place free and clear, see?”
“The condo.”
“Right.”
“If I told this lie. Now, they’re saying they’ll send me to jail for lying if I don’t move outta here.” She flushed beet red. “It’s kind of justice, if you know what I mean. I lied to maybe get Bennie’s killer off, and I end up getting shafted. Not,” she added bitterly, “that I don’t deserve it.” She took a deep breath, calmed down, and said briskly, “He was here that morning.”
Bree sat up. “With you?”
“Yep. Just before he went to the marina. He was going sailing with his son and that bit ...” she saw Bree’s minatory look and amended lamely, “that wife of his. He was going to tell them about us getting married.”
Bree wanted to jump up and dance around the living room, but she said, “Okay.”
“We’d already told Mamma. We called her and Denny about nine o’clock ...”
“From here? That morning?”
She nodded. Bree bit back a shout. Independent verification to boot!
“And she was happy as a tick in a pen of puppies. The last I saw of Bennie, he was headed down to the parking garage to get his car and drive to the marina.” She pushed her hair back. “I should have said something earlier. But I didn’t really think it was murder. Not then. I thought it was like that Fairchild said, that he had a heart attack and that it wouldn’t make any difference what I said. And they promised me the condo.”
“Who promised you the condo?”
“That asshole Fairchild. I mean, at first Bennie did, but then he wanted to take the condo back.” She frowned a little. “He’s never been an Indian giver before.”
Bree took a few moments to sort this out. “Ben ... I mean, Mr. Skinner, changed his mind about wanting you to have the condo?”
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