Angel's Advocate (19 page)

A very large woman in sweatpants, flip-flops, and a baggy sweatshirt stopped in front of them with a pointed “Excuse me.”

Jensen flashed a smile. “Can I help you?”

The woman had a small toaster tucked under her arm. She thrust it at them. “These were supposed to be on sale. This is the last one. And it’s the one without the box that’s been sitting on the shelf having everybody and his brother poking at it. I want a fresh one.”

Jensen unclipped his scanner from his belt, read the bar code, and told the ruffled customer a new one was on its way from the warehouse. “Two days,” he said, “maybe less. Come on by and pick it up anytime after Thursday.” A second, equally determined customer caught sight of his scanner and marched determinedly toward them.

“I’m sorry,” Bree apologized. “I shouldn’t be taking up your time like this.” Jensen stepped out of the mainstream of traffic and directed the second customer to a clerk a little further down the aisle. Bree stepped aside with him.

“Well,” he said with a somewhat strained smile, “if that’s all I can help you with . . .”

“Chad Martinelli,” Bree said promptly. “He may be connected with another case I’m working on.”

“Chad?” Jensen looked bemused. “Well, smart as a whip, of course. What about him?”

“Any problems with him, as an employee?” Bree longed to ask about drugs, but didn’t dare.

“Not really. He’s not the most reliable worker we’ve got, but like I said, he’s a smart kid. And of course, he and Miss Chandler . . .” He shifted on his feet. “I think maybe we’ve talked enough now. I can’t see that Martinelli has anything to do with this. And I sure can’t see why you need to harass Shirley.”

Bree placed her hand on his arm. “Honestly. We’re not out to hurt anybody, Mr. Jensen. I’d just like to talk with her. Please. The family’s in a position to do her some good, you know. If things work out the way they should.”

He fiddled nervously with his tie—a small, tired guy who was just trying to do his job. Bree didn’t think she had the heart to put any more pressure on him than she had already.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt. She has a second job, you know.”

“Then perhaps I should call on her at home.”

“No, no. That’s not such a good idea. Her husband’s all worked up over this thing. It’s an insult to his kid, this whole thing. He’d like to sue the pants off this Lindsey character, and I can’t say as I blame him.”

“Oh, dear.” Bree dithered, fighting the temptation to call on the Chavez home and suggest just that. And take her lumps from the Review Board when she was brought up on charges of unethical behavior. Phooey. “Then perhaps I should drop by and see her at her other job.” She smiled. “Is that employer as kind as you?”

He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Nice folks out there. Nice folks.”

Bree waited.

“She’s a stable hand at the Seaton Stud.” His eyes widened at the look on Bree’s face, and he checked himself. “Anything wrong about that? She loves the job, even though she has to work her tail off. It seems like a pretty good place to work.”

“No,” Bree said. There seemed to be a frog in her throat. She cleared it. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“You know how to get there? It’s not far. You get onto 80, on the way to Tybee Island.”

“I know the way, Mr. Jensen. Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

She retreated to the parking lot and her car. Bree dumped her briefcase in the backseat, then poured Sasha, Belli, and Miles each a bowl of water from her water bottle. Sasha lapped it up. Belli took a tentative sniff, then emptied the entire bowl with great scoops of her huge pink tongue. Miles put one outsized paw on the water bottle after he’d emptied his bowl. Bree refilled the bowl for him and wondered if she should stock up on a couple of hundred pounds of dog food. Like the rest of the Company, Belli and Miles had temporal requirements when in temporal bodies, and they’d have to eat pretty soon. She’d offered each of them a fast-food hamburger on the way back from Plessey the day before, but they’d turned up their massive noses at it. Maybe they just hated Burger King.

Sasha put his paw on her knee and barked.

“Right,” Bree said. “I’m dithering. This is me, putting the key in the ignition and me driving straight to the Seaton Stud.” She stroked Sasha’s ears. “He’s probably not even there. Off on a buying trip.”

It was a lowering day, with a threat of rain to come. Bree rolled the windows down, and all three dogs stuck their heads out and faced into the breeze, ears flying. The sight of two huge, fierce faces sticking out of either side of her car caused more than a few double takes from the other drivers on the road. Sasha, as usual, merely looked beautiful.

Abel’s brother, Charles Trask, had married into the Seaton Stud, which was an old, long-established racing farm for Thoroughbred horses. His widow, Missy Seaton Trask, had a side interest in three-day eventing. She’d branched out into the light draft breeds, with an emphasis on Trakehners and Swedish Warmbloods. As a result, the Seaton racing reputation had ebbed, and winners at the track were scarcer now than they had been in the past. According to Aunt Cissy, at least, who had been full of information at Saturday’s party, Missy was facing some pretty significant cash flow problems.

Bree pulled into the long flat road that led up to the main house and the barns. The place looked a lot shab bier than when she had been here last. Which was what? Eight years ago, at least. Maybe ten. Three-railed fences ran for a mile or more on either side of the asphalted drive. The fences were in poor repair, and the edges of the verge needed mowing. The slightly rolling pastures were filled with mares grazing under sycamores and oaks. By this time of year, the year’s crop of foals had long been weaned, and the mares bred back. They grazed peacefully under the gray skies, their bellies rounded with the foals to be delivered in spring. They, at least, looked in great condition. Whatever her cash situation, Missy wasn’t skimping on the feed.

Bree pulled to a stop at the head of the drive. The sign announcing the farm was still there, considerably weathered. Letters picked out in dark green said: SETON HORSE FARMS, INC., CHARLES AND MELISSA SEATON TRASK, PROP., EST. 1883.

The barns lay to the left, the house to the right. The office was directly in front of her. The barns were long and low, with green metal roofs and gray metal siding. The house and the office building dated from the mid-nineteenth century. Both were brick, with Carpenter Gothic white trim and small mullioned windows. Bree parked and got out and addressed the dogs. “The three of you are going to stay here, right? No roaming around and scaring folks.”

She grabbed her briefcase, with a rather confused idea that if she did run into Abel, he’d see at once that she was here on business. The blinds on one of the office windows moved, as if someone had looked out at her. Then a short, muscular woman came out the front door and trudged down the steps. She wore jeans, green rubber boots, and a flannel shirt. She had short, bristly hair and a pugnacious jaw. Missy Trask. And she hadn’t changed a bit. Bree hadn’t known her well, but her looks were memorable. “No salesmen, no salesmen!” She stumped up to Bree, her eyes slitted against the daylight, and stopped dead in her tracks. “My God. It’s Bree Beaufort. I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Ten at least,” Bree said. “I was here for the Hunt Ball.”

Missy’s gaze shifted past Bree to the dogs, who were looking around with interest. “And what the hell are those?”

“My dogs,” Bree said. “Totally quiet. Totally obedient. They’ll stay right there.”

Missy squinted so hard her eyes almost disappeared between folds of flesh. “What kind of breed are those big black ones?”

“Newfies,” Bree hazarded. “Nicest dogs on the planet.”

“Newfies, my ass,” Missy said. She swung her tur retlike gaze to Bree. “And what are you up to these days?”

Bree mentioned her need to see Shirley Chavez, and offered her card.

“Attorney-at-law,” the woman mused. Then, accusingly, “You’re kin to Cissy Carmichael.”

“My mother’s sister.” Then, in case this wasn’t enough, she added, “My aunt.”

“
Those
Winston-Beauforts. Abel ran your cotton farm a few years back. It’s all coming back to me now.” She gave Bree a knowing, very unpleasant look.

“That’s right.”

“Good to see you again, I guess.” She stuck out her hand, and Bree took it. It was hard and calloused, the rather grubby nails clipped short. Her eyes were small, bright brown, and very sharp. “So,” she said, as if she’d come across an unusual and not particularly useful artifact, “you’ve come out to see Abel?”

“No!” Bree said, rather more violently than she’d intended. “I thought I mentioned that up front. I’m working on a case. I’m representing Lindsey Chandler, and one of the witnesses to the incident works here for you. Shirley Chavez.”

“Shirley? Yes. She’s a stable hand. Part-time. And a good worker, too.” Her face was weathered, in the way of those who work outdoors, and the dry wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she looked Bree up and down. “So poor little Sophie found herself mixed up with a bunch of snotty girls all in the name of the cookie charity. Huh. What’s your business with Shirley?”

“If you don’t mind my taking a few minutes of her time, I’m afraid I’ll have to discuss that with her.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” She looked at Bree’s leather pumps. “You might not like what’s going to happen to your good shoes, but that’s all in a day’s work for you lawyers, eh?” Without another word, she turned and stamped off toward the barn.

Missy Trask’s legs were short, but she moved like a runaway train, and Bree found herself almost jogging to keep up.

The barns formed a square around a paved courtyard. The buildings were all one story high, with the exception of a gambrel-roofed structure filled with hay. Each of the one-storied buildings held twenty horse stalls, with Dutch doors that opened to the center yard. The top halves of the doors were fastened open. About half of the stalls were occupied, and a row of brown, gray, black, chestnut, and bay heads bobbed up and down as Bree followed Missy to the farthest building. A couple of workers were mucking out, dumping the manure and straw into wheel-barrows. “Yo! Shirl!” Missy shouted. “Someone here to see you!”

A small, skinny figure propped her pitchfork against the barn wall. Wiping her hands down her jeans, she trotted toward them.

“This is Brianna Winston-Beaufort, Shirl.”

“We’ve met. Or rather, I know who she is. I saw her when I was in court.”

“Right. Well, you know then that she’s been hired by Probert Chandler’s widow to represent Lindsey Chandler’s criminal case. You don’t have to talk to her, but she won’t lie to you, from what I know of her. You have any questions, you can come and talk to me anytime. Would you like me to stick around?”

“No,” Shirley said quietly. “But thank you just the same, Mrs. Trask.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. If you wouldn’t mind, Bree, would you stop on and see me before you go?”

“Surely.”

Missy whirled and stamped in the direction of the office.

A soft, misty rain started to fall. Shirley drew the cowl of her hooded sweatshirt over her head and gestured toward the stall she’d been cleaning out. “We can stand partway in there. But you’ll get your shoes all messed up.”

“I should have thrown a pair of boots into the car. I would have, if I’d known I’d be stopping here.”

“It’s a nice place to work.” Shirley stepped all the way inside the stall, which was empty of horse but full of straw, and turned to regard Bree with candid gray eyes. “I like it. They treat the animals real good, and the people, too.”

Shirley had handled herself with a certain amount of dignity in court, although Bree had seen that the judge, the phalanx of officials, and the high, imposing ceilings of the courtroom itself were intimidating to her.

“Is that Lindsey in jail still? I saw that the cops came and got her again, after I stood up and told the judge I didn’t want to press charges.”

Bree set her briefcase onto the straw. “No. She’s out on bail. In the custody of her mother, and supervised by the juvenile court. She has an ankle bracelet.”

Shirley smiled faintly. “Bet she finds a way to ditch it.”

Bree looked at her closely. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

She shrugged. “Kid that’s got all she got—why’d she have to go after my Sophie?”

“Beats me,” Bree said frankly. “Your Sophie’s adorable, Mrs. Chavez.” And wasn’t that the truth. Sophie had big dark eyes, long curly black hair, dimples, and an amazing sangfroid in the face of the TV cameras. Although Bree had noticed that most kids under twenty seemed totally at ease in front of cameras. Maybe it had something to do with a life lived on YouTube. “And I can’t see her going the way of the Lindsey Chandlers of this world. You take awfully good care of her.”

“We try, Luis and me. We’ve got five, you know. Both of us work the two jobs to keep the right kind of money coming in. My oldest, Luisa, does a lot more babysitting than I’d like. ’Course, now . . .” She stopped and sucked her lower lip.

“Now what?” Bree asked patiently, although she was pretty sure what was coming.

“Nothing.”

“Mrs. Chavez, you know that I’m Lindsey’s lawyer. That I’m on her side. Not the side of the courts. Necessarily,” she added, since a lawyer was, in fact, an officer of the court. “I’ll get to the point, shall I? I’d like to know if anyone from the Chandler family gave you money to drop the charges against Lindsey and the family itself.”

Shirley looked at her feet.

“I’m not here to take it back or anything.” She held her hand up. “And I’m not here to give you any more. If you sued the family in civil court, you’d probably collect damages. So if someone did give you a check, it was a private settlement, anticipating a court-ordered one. At least, I could defend it that way if I had to. I just need to know if . . .” Bree stopped and tried to think of a phrase less provocative than “paid off.” “If you’ve received some consideration.”