A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
~ Oscar Wilde
Brianna sped away from Churchill’s, guilt seeping from every pore. Sure, she’d been honest and told Steven what she’d overheard at work. She’d just left out one key factor—her plan to break into Begley’s office tomorrow night.
Why had she held back? Steven noticed her awkwardness. The hurt on his face was more than evident, especially when she told him she wouldn’t see him until Saturday.
Maybe she wasn’t sure if he’d break her heart, so why confess a crime she planned to commit? Or maybe because the Graysons—his dead family—had put her up to the idea in the first place?
She still could’ve mentioned her plans, leaving the Graysons out. Stop. Guilt wouldn’t accomplish anything, not at this point. She needed to blast some music and forget the last hour.
At the next stoplight, she flipped through her CD case and pulled out the Dropkick Murphys. Cranking the volume, she fast-forwarded to their kick-ass rendition of Amazing Grace. Bagpipes and electric guitars, combined with the gruff male voices, let her escape into her own mini rock concert for the drive home. She’d love to see Steven perform ballads one day. But on some occasions, the hard rock was the perfect escape.
When she opened her front door, Willie Nelson’s version of “Georgia on my Mind” reverberated through the house. Only she didn’t own any Willie Nelson music, and her CD player at home had been on the blink.
The ghosts cooked grits. They sang a lot, off-key. Now they came with their own speaker system?
“Greetings, Yankee.” Virginia offered a warm smile and returned to dusting the counters.
Ghosts housecleaned too?
“Um,” Brianna said, a bit taken aback by Virginia’s nicer side. “Thanks. You’re cleaning?”
“Just doing our part, a thank you for agreeing to help us.”
Ah, so Brianna’s help was what sparked this nicer, nonsinging side of the woman whose Southern roots stretched deeper than the Earth’s core.
“Thanks.” Brianna set down her purse and relaxed on the couch in the den. James sat in the recliner, reading the paper with Plato at his feet. Amy said she’d straightened up the kitchen and put glasses away.
Wow. If Brianna had known her agreeing to help them came with free housework, she might’ve said yes sooner.
And yet, something besides satisfaction stirred in her soul. Appreciation, maybe? Not only for the chance to keep her promise to Declan, but for the Graysons’ faith she would succeed. James had told her so, long before she ever agreed to help.
Her parents didn’t operate that way. Not only had they become empty shells since Declan’s death, they stopped having faith at all unless something or someone proved successful. To see the Graysons believe in her, have faith even though she hadn’t accomplished the goal yet, warmed her insides.
Was she feeling an appreciation for Southern life, that evocative custom that charmed so many?
She didn’t know. Dare she admit it? As she relaxed, listening to Willie Nelson’s melodic guitar—twangy though it was—she imagined herself strolling under cypress trees, soaking in warm sunshine, breathing in summertime’s freshly cut grass.
A leisurely Southern day, one she wanted to spend with Steven without a care in the world. Such a wish might come true, but only after she helped the Graysons, kept her promise to Declan, and brought Begley and maybe Edwin to justice.
If she could succeed, she could face anything.
* * *
On Thursday evening, Brianna walked to Begley’s office. Her new pants hugged her thighs, and she sucked in her stomach to ease the pressure. The shopping trip hadn’t been what she’d hoped, and in the end she’d settled for a stretchy pair of horizontal black-and-white striped tights, in petite. At five foot nine, she looked like a rogue Cat in the Hat as she traipsed her way through dark Savannah squares.
She ducked around parked cars and trees, hiding from clusters of Savannah ghost tours. Offered on foot and by trolley, ghost tours fascinated tourists, who flocked to where hauntings were spotted, or at least imagined, at any given time. Brianna had no trouble not adding her ghost-invaded home to such a tour.
A boisterous trolley driver drove past, exclaiming to her passengers, “And y’all may not realize how many ghosts live here in Savannah...”
Yes, I do. They’re squatting in my house.
Couples walked the main streets, holding plastic cups filled with beverages. Unlike the rest of Georgia, Savannah allowed people to walk around with open containers, provided they weren’t made of glass. A cup of Guinness in her hand meant she blended in, and it made the neighborhood seem sweeter, though she wished the tourists would hurry up and move. She needed to break into Begley’s office without witnesses.
When she reached Reynolds Square, she heard footsteps and ducked behind a live oak. Men with dark navy jackets and women in sequined tops strolled past, laughing and joking about their week. They were likely headed to the Pink House for dinner, one of Savannah’s most delectable restaurants on the square.
Just thinking about food made her stomach growl. She should’ve eaten a granola bar or something before this venture. But preparing for criminal activity wasn’t a skill on her resume. Live and learn.
Once the square cleared out a little, she sat on the park bench to prepare herself. In the center of Reynolds Square stood a large statue of John Wesley, founder of the Methodist church. It towered over her, seemingly judging what she planned to do.
“I’m doing the right thing here, John,” she muttered. “Begley’s corrupt. I’m only going to peek, not take anything.”
The statue didn’t reply. She didn’t expect it to, but given all the paranormal things in her current life, anything was possible. Wait a second. Why was she explaining herself to a Methodist statue, anyway? She was Catholic.
Focus. She sprinted across the street and reached Johnson Square, the location of Begley’s office. While most squares had homes, churches, or hotels on their corners, prestigious Johnson Square had banks, law firms, and corporate buildings. Wall Street wannabes.
Sneaking up to the building, she jimmied the back door lock. “Thanks, Uncle Jack,” she whispered. Uncles who dated Irish mafia princesses and knew how to break into offices weren’t such a bad thing. There’s always something positive to say about family, right?
Once inside, she took a quick look around. His office conformed to every other executive suite she’d seen: filing cabinets against walls, overstuffed bookshelves, and an antique oak desk placed in the center. Its enormous legs must have killed ten trees. Way to go green, Begley.
She pulled on the desk drawer. Locked. Uncle Jack’s criminal expertise couldn’t help her on this massive beast. Surely, she hadn’t done all this worrying and prep only to have no access to any files.
Glancing around, she noticed a scuffed file cabinet in the rear corner, with two dents in the side. Strange. Begley’s Southern charm and vanity were key parts of his persona. Why have a crappy looking cabinet amid all the ornate décor?
Knowing his pompous attitude, if he wanted to hide something, the perfect place would be where no one would suspect. No one would ever think Begley would keep anything of use in such a cheap-looking piece of furniture.
A few whacks to the side, and she opened the top drawer. Thumbing through the files, mysteries became disturbingly clear. All the notations listed families who refused to sell, with their names, addresses, and comments. She suspected every case matched a house fire in the historic district. Steven would probably know. She’d have to tell him about her new criminal lifestyle.
Smith family, August 2011: refused to sell. No children, matter handled without issue.
Ballard family, January 2012: refused to sell. Four children, case closed.
Case closed? She wrote down the details and would research later. Did case closed mean he had killed—or arranged to kill—the four kids who would inherit the house?
When she picked up the next folder, her pulse beat loud in her ears.
Grayson family, January 2012: refused to sell. Difficult case. Must keep oldest son out of affairs.
She flipped through the other papers in the Grayson file. There was a dummy ad in the Los Angeles Times that looked more photoshopped than real. Had Begley lied about trying to find Steven? She wouldn’t be surprised.
What else was in the file? She flipped through, searching for any other clues.
What the hell? A cremation permission form signed by James? He hadn’t mentioned anything about allowing cremation. Knowing Virginia with her three-generations-spent-in-Savannah stance, she already had the perfect family plot picked out and ready. Doing so would assure her remains stayed south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Oh shit. Brianna looked closer, analyzing the scribbled signature. She recognized the handwriting—and it wasn’t James’s. It was Edwin’s.
So that’s how Begley and Edwin work together? Anybody Begley wants to kill gets burned in a house fire, and Edwin authorizes the cremation slips after the fact? Holy shit. This mess went deeper than she thought.
She just hadn’t wanted to believe it.
Sirens blared outside. Shit. She’d been so careful. Torn between the desire to get the hell out of there or pee in her fashionable pants, she froze. No doors busted open. No voices demanded she leave, that they had the place surrounded. Had she watched too much TV?
A few seconds passed. She couldn’t stay still forever. Tiptoeing, she went to the window and peeked through the blinds. Two fire trucks sped by, the sirens drowning out all other sounds.
“Thank God.” She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Time to write down a few notes and run like hell.
There was another signature in the files, a Lt. Grainger. One of Begley’s crooked cops, perhaps? She grabbed a purple Post-it on Begley’s desk and jotted down the information.
Before leaving, she glanced through Begley’s rolodex. There were numbers for developers, land surveyors, and funeral homes. What would the three have in common?
A strong wind blew outside, rustling through the oaks and carrying violin notes. Uh oh. Strange things happened when violins played in the wind. Last time, she’d met Anzhela. She wasn’t about to stick around to see what other oddities would happen.
Gathering her notes, she replaced the files and slipped out the back door. Begley would never know she’d snooped around. Perfect. Time to go home and continue to keep her promise. Things were going to work out after all. Nothing could stop her.