Angel's Verdict (29 page)

The wraith faded in her hands to nothing.

Bree went home to prepare her case.

“You’ve lost weight since Lavinia made this for you.” Ron shook out the supple red velvet robe that was mandated for counsel appearing before the angelic justices. Bree slipped into it. The hem and lapels were intricately worked with gold embroidery. The two of them were on the seventh floor of the Chatham County Courthouse. It was Wednesday morning, three weeks since Justine Coville had walked into the Bay Street office and made a claim on Bree’s time and pity.

“I’ll gain it back once I get this bloody cast off.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “That makes no sense at all. What does the cast have to do with it? It happened to Leah, too, you know. She slimmed right down. Like a greyhound.” He bent forward and looked into her face. “Something wrong?”

“There’s a price to pay for the work I’m doing, Ron. I’m not sure I’m willing to pay it.”

“I see.” His tone was noncommittal. The silence stretched on until Bree couldn’t stand it anymore. “Ron,” she said urgently, “can I quit? Can I?”

“Of course you can.” He smoothed the gown over her shoulders with a gentle hand. “There’s a process for it, like there is for everything else. If you do quit, you won’t remember us. You won’t remember any of this. It will be as if it never happened. But otherwise?” He stepped back. He smiled at her. “No penalty.”

Bree adjusted the high, stiff collar with one hand. She’d bundled her hair into a bun at the back of her neck, to hide the spot where they’d shaved her skull in the hospital. It was growing back, but not fast enough. Her leg was doing fine, though. She whacked the floor with her cane. “I think I can leave this outside the courtroom.”

“There’s that big escalator to negotiate. Better carry it just in case. Besides, the justices are supposed to be totally impartial—but I personally think the Brave But Injured Warrior is a great attitude. Keep the cane.”

Bree grinned. “Maybe you’re right.” She sighed. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“We’ve got a few minutes. Mind if we stop and see Goldstein? He wants a word.”

“Sure.”

Bree followed Ron down the hallway and into the great vaulted space. As the heavy oak door shut silently behind, she heard Goldstein shout, “Ha! Aha!” Several of the monks looked up in mild surprise. One waved his quill pen jauntily at her. A few of them clapped. Goldstein rustled down the flagstone aisle, his sandals slapping merrily on the stone. “My dear, my dear!” He enfolded her in a hug. He smelled like paper and damp wool, with a slight whiff of incense. A bit of feather from his wing got up Bree’s nose, and she sneezed.

“Three pending judgments closed at once! I believe it to be a record! Thank you for dropping in, my dear. I know you’re due in court in a few moments, but I just had to offer my congratulations.”

“You could have sent an e-card,” Ron said. “If you were online, that is. They’ve got some great ones at
thankyoulord.com
. Choirs of cherubim singing away. The whole bit.”

“What? And miss the embarrassed-but-pleased expression on her face?” Goldstein let her go and clasped his hands. “Norris—first circle in Hell, not bad considering his checkered past. Alexander Bulloch, first circle in Heaven, not bad, either, considering the charge of abusing a corpse. Poor Charis Jefferson—she wasn’t pending, but I know she’s as pleased as Punch. As for Consuelo herself ... well, we shall see. Are you ready to argue, my dear?”

“It’s a bit of a change of pace,” Bree said. “I’m not filing an appeal; I’m filing for a summary judgment. So I adjusted the language in the pleadings.”

“The very best of luck,” Goldstein beamed. “The very best.”

Minutes later, Bree descended the long silver escalator to the floor of the courtroom. On either side, the high walls held moving murals of Consuelo’s life. She saw Alexander as a small child in his mother’s lap. Consuelo at her wedding, stiff with pride and joy.

Consuelo and Haydee, backs arched like spitting cats.

Caldecott and Beazley lounged behind the solid oak table for the defense. Bree took her place on the opposite side of the aisle, set her briefcase down, and stacked her pleadings in order. The massive bench loomed in front of them, carved with readings from the Koran, the Bible, and the Torah.

The room reverberated with the sound of a mellow gong. All the lawyers rose. An immense golden sphere took shape behind the bench. The winged scales of justice appeared on the thick marble slab that covered the dais.

The golden light behind the dais paused and seemed to regard the cane Bree leaned upon in a kindly way.

Then the great Voice rang out, “Proceed.”

“Your Honor,” Bree said. “I am representing Consuelo Bingham Bulloch, a woman who loved her son completely and unselfishly. We are here to ask for mercy.”

“That went pretty well, I think.” Bree shrugged herself out of her robe and folded it carefully before handing it to Ron. Ron punched the Down button for the elevator. “Good thing you took the cane. Helped with the sympathy vote. Caldecott had a couple of zingers up his sleeve. Might have gone the other way.”

“Purgatory,” Bree said. “I asked for the first circle of Heaven.”

“I think you should be thankful we got what we did.”

“You’re right. The woman was a complete bigot in some ways.” Bree sighed. “A product of her time, I suppose. Which is no excuse.”

The doors whisked open, and they stepped in. Bree fell into abstraction, only rousing herself as they came to a stop on the first floor. The case was over. Justine’s fate was in hands other than her own. Consuelo’s case had been heard, for good or for ill. Florida Smith’s murder case would wind its way through the temporal courts. Bree sincerely hoped Justine would be held to account for her role in that. And she would drop in, now and again, on the brave and honorable Bobby Lee Kowalski.

The case was over.

“The thing is,” she said to Ron, “I really want to know what happened to Dent.”

“Excuse me?”

Bree looked up. She’d seen the young lawyer in the elevator before. At Huey’s maybe or the gym. The woman smiled at her. “You were asking about a dent?” Ron was right next to her, so close, in fact, that Bree knew he wasn’t visible.

“Sorry. Just thinking aloud.”

“No problem,” the woman stepped aside so that Bree could precede her out the door. “You’re Bree Beaufort, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” Bree hooked her cane over her arm and held out her hand.

“Margery Slack. Heard you took quite a thwack on the head a couple of weeks ago.”

“Which is just fine,” Bree said bitterly as she and Ron walked back through the fresh morning to the Angelus office. “I’ll bet Margery’s already on Facebook with forty of her closest friends letting them know I talk to myself in elevators.”

“You accomplished a lot with this case. Goldstein’s not what you’d call an indiscriminate praiser. He hasn’t let out a ‘Hosanna!’ since before the Flood.”

“Very funny,” Bree grumbled. They stopped at the iron gate in front of the house at 666 Angelus Street. The sun was out. The spheres worked into the wrought iron fence seemed to spin the clear and sunny air.

The cemetery was as dank and gloomy as ever.

Bree opened the gate and let herself in. Ron followed her. They stopped at the newest grave. It hadn’t been there when they’d left for the Court that morning.

The marker read:

Mary Stanton is at work on the fifth Beaufort & Company novel,
Angel Condemned
. As Claudia Bishop, she is the author of twenty mystery novels, including the popular Hemlock Falls Mysteries. She is the senior editor of four successful mystery anthologies, including
A Merry Band of Murderers
. Stanton divides her time between a working farm in upstate New York and a small house in West Palm Beach, Florida. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached at
www.marystanton.com
or
www.claudiabishop.com
.