Angel's Verdict (15 page)

Stubblefield chuckled. “The ineffable Justine. Oh what a tangled web it is. Sister suing sister. Tsk, tsk.” He settled on the tabletop and clasped his hands around his raised knee. Bree was familiar with the pose: Just-Us-Folks Stubblefield. “Nonsense. The Bullochs, as you know, are quite concerned about the slurs Phillip Mercury and his scriptwriter are casting on that fine family’s name. But any information they have about the film has been gathered through ordinary legal channels. The truth will come out in court. In the meantime, I’ve advised the Bulloch family to stay at arm’s length. You, on the other hand, seem to be closely involved in Sundowner’s affairs.”

“Well, I’m not. But I do represent Justine Coville. She’s authorized me to discuss the return of the jeweled pin lent to her by Alexandra Bulloch, a member of the Bulloch family. And as all of Savannah knows, Justine has a role in
Bitter Tide
. I wouldn’t characterize that as my being involved with the company.”

Stubblefield frowned. “
Discuss
the return of my client’s property? Your paralegal assured me that you were here to give Mrs. Waterman her property back. I wouldn’t have dragged my poor client all the way down here for anything less. Of course, I’m always glad to see you. But I’m feeling very disappointed.”

“Fib. Attack. Duck. That’s a great tactic, John.” Bree yawned for effect. “But it won’t work with me. Torture might, though. This room is too hot. Do you think you can turn down the heat?”

“This is a climate-controlled facility,” Payton said. “Everybody else is comfortable.”

“How’s the knee?” Bree asked sweetly.

Stubblefield’s grin got mean. “How’s about that knee, Payton? I’d surely like to know the story behind that little episode. I send my trusted associate down to see this little bit of a girl and he comes back all messed up.”

A small chime sounded. Tiffany’s voice floated into the room. The speaker system was a good one. It felt as if she were standing right there. “Mrs. Waterman is here, Mr. Stubblefield.”

Stubblefield lifted his chin and spoke to the air. “Please escort Mrs. Waterman to the conference room.”

Payton went to the door and opened it. Tiffany came in moments later. She stepped aside and held the door wide. Stubblefield leaped off the table, his arms open in welcome. “Samantha Rose! Aren’t you looking like an English spring this morning?”

“It’s after one’ clock in the afternoon, John. And I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

Samantha Rose Waterman was attractive in the way that women who could afford personal trainers, dieticians, and expert dermatologists were attractive. Her hair was brilliantly styled to minimize a large nose and a determined chin. Her makeup was discreet. She was in her midforties Bree guessed, maybe a little older. She wore a short mink jacket, a white silk shirt, tight-fitting Prada jeans, and red stiletto heels. A gold bracelet crowded with charms was wrapped around one wrist.

“There’s a little fruit and cheese for you right over there,” Stubblefield said. “Tiffany?” He patted the receptionist’s rear end. “Be a good girl and fix a plate for Mrs. Waterman.”

Tiffany dimpled prettily and went over to the kitchen island. Payton gave her a big smile and brushed up against her breasts as she took a small plate from the stack next to the fruit bowl.

“Dent,” Bree said. “Dammit. Not now.”

“I said not now, Dent!”

Sammi-Rose looked at her with arrogant distaste. Stubblefield looked amused. Bree covered her mouth with her hand and scribbled aimlessly on her yellow pad.

Bree dropped her pen and smacked her temple with the heel of her hand. “Will you just cut it out?”

“Sammi-Rose,” Stubblefield said, “I’d like you to meet Brianna Winston-Beaufort. The next time you see Justine, you might comment on the professional quality of her counsel.”

“Sorry,” Bree said. She gestured vaguely at her ear. “Earache.”

Samantha’s smile was meaner than Stubblefield’s. She accepted the plate of fruit Tiffany handed to her, picked over the grapes and the cantaloupe, and handed back the plate. “I don’t eat watermelon. I’d appreciate it if you’d slice up the other fruit a bit more.” She narrowed her eyes at Stubblefield. “Did she bring the brooch?”

Stubblefield looked at Bree. “She brought the brooch.”

She snapped her fingers. “I want to see it.”

Bree opened her briefcase and held up the jeweled pin. The overhead lights struck small rainbows from the diamonds. “Is this the brooch? You can identify it?”

“Of course I can. It’s a Louis Comfort Tiffany. An original.”

“Thank you.” Bree put it back in the briefcase and snapped it shut.

Sammi-Rose looked directly at her for the first time. “That’s mine,” she snarled.

“It’s not yours,” Bree said cordially. “It’s your grandmother’s.”

“My grandmother—bless her heart—passed a long time ago. And she left that brooch to the family. That old bitch got her hands on it, stole it, and we want it back.”

Bree cut her eyes at Stubblefield. “Consuelo Bulloch’s last will and testament directed that she be buried with the brooch.”

Stubblefield smiled a little.

“Your grandmother’s buried at Belle Glade. I’ve got the brooch. Which means it’s not in the casket.”

“So?” Apparently Tiffany had cut the fruit into sufficiently small pieces. Sammi-Rose picked up a square of melon and chewed it. “It would have been ridiculous to bury that fine a piece.”

Bree stretched back in the chair. “Whoever decided to keep the jewel committed grand felony theft.”

Sammi-Rose stopped chewing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Can you tell me who made the decision not to inter the brooch with Consuelo’s body?”

Stubblefield spoke up. “She’s not going to answer that, are you, Samantha?”

“I guess not.” Sammi-Rose put another piece of melon in her mouth and chewed mechanically. Bree thought she was worried, but it was hard to tell. Botox took her Aunt Cissy the same way.

“It’s the duty of the executor of the estate to pursue this,” Bree said. “I’m afraid until it’s resolved, the executor will have custody of the peacock.”

“The executor?” Sammi-Rose pushed the plate aside and stood up. “That’s all right, then. My father was the executor of Grandmother’s estate. And he was the one who decided what a waste it’d be to bury it with the old cat anyhow.”

“Your father was co-executor,” Bree corrected her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stubblefield frown suddenly. “And your father was derelict in his duty, I’m afraid. Which is another kettle of fish altogether.” Bree jumped to her feet. “I’ll leave you and Mr. Stubblefield to hash this over, Mrs. Waterman. In the meantime, the brooch remains with me.”

“God damn it,” Stubblefield hissed. “You’re going to regret this.”

Sammi-Rose’s face flushed red. “You can’t just let her walk right out of here. That pin is worth twenty thousand dollars.”

“And a beautiful piece to boot.” Bree reached the door, opened it, and paused on her way out. “You haven’t asked, John, but it
is
pretty obvious. You should have read Consuelo’s will more carefully. Whatever else you are, you’re a capable man, so I’ll cut you some slack and assume that you had someone else do it for you.” She very pointedly avoided looking at Payton. “There’s a reason why he’s not looking too pleased, Mrs. Waterman. The law firm of Franklin Winston-Beaufort was your grandmother’s co-executor, too. She chose him because he helped your father through a rough patch after the Haydee Quinn murder. My great-uncle, bless his heart, turned his legal obligations over to me when I took over his practice. Which is why I have the brooch, will keep the brooch, and will dispose of the brooch according to the rule of law. I’ll let you know what the courts decide about the disposition of your grandmother’s property. I’m going to petition that it be reburied with her.” She touched her brow in a half salute. “See ya!”

Bree jogged up the four flights of stairs to her own office, reflecting there were few things as satisfying as a complete (admittedly temporary) victory over chiselers and cheats. EB would enjoy the story. EB would also remind her that the Bullochs in general and Stubblefield in particular were bad enemies to have.

Except EB wasn’t there. It was after two o’clock. EB went home at noon. The Bay Street practice was still too new to carry a full-time assistant—other than Justine Coville, the only other clients Bree had were clients who’d already made out their wills. Bree stood in the middle of the room and tried to look at the room through the eyes of a prospective client.

A bamboo screen split the room into two parts; the two-thirds in front held EB’s desk and her computer, three gray metal filing cabinets containing Franklin’s old files and Bree’s very few new ones, and a visitor’s chair. Bree’s desk was behind the screen, set under the double-hung window that looked out over Bay Street. The carpeting was the standard industrial type that Bree mentally thought of as “no color,” just like the walls. All the furniture was secondhand—maybe even third. EB had picked it up from Second Hand Rows down on Whitaker Street. Paint, pictures, plants, Bree thought. When she had time.

She sat down at her desk to pick up her messages. There was a note in EB’s distinctive handwriting:

The transcript of the sanity hearing was on top of the pile. Bree picked it up, surprised to discover she was nervous. Her memories of Franklin were good ones. She had known him as a tall, rather reserved man with a mane of white hair and a deep, resonant voice. She was about to see him again, through his words on the pages she held.

She reviewed the list of witnesses first. The consulting MD was a Dr. Pythias Warren. Bree frowned. He was a GP. His credentials didn’t include psychiatry. The presiding judge was a man she’d heard about but who’d died long before she was born: Bulwar Kinney. She was vague about his reputation, but undoubtedly he would have been part of the city’s Old Guard. The Kinney family certainly was.

Eddie O’Malley was listed as a witness. He’d been part of the team that had arrested Alex’s pitiful journey with the burning cart.

The witness testimony about Alex’s behavior after Haydee’s death was consistent. He was tragically distraught. Consuelo, Alexander senior, Dr. Warren—their testimony didn’t have the sameness of agreed-upon lies. Alex wept, scarified his face and chest with a table knife, couldn’t sleep, and then, finally, relapsed into a sort of stupor, neither eating nor responding to the people around him. It made Bree’s eyes sting with tears just reading about it. It must have been horrible in the courtroom.

She came to Alex’s own testimony:

Bree set the transcript aside. No real answers there. Tyra Steele’s behavior had put paid to the notion that Haydee’s spirit had returned to seek justice. The young actress may have fooled herself into thinking she was possessed, but Bree was willing to bet most of her sorry bank account that that notion would disappear once the Facebook fans lost interest. As for a ghostly appearance in Alex Bulloch’s room all those years ago?

Maybe.

She picked up the thick manila packet that contained the downloads from the Internet. There were three separate bundles inside, labeled MURDER, BEFORE, and AFTER. She picked up the MURDER file first. The lead story was from the
Savannah Daily News
dated July 1, 1952:

The photographs attached to the story were typical of the time. There was a smeary black-and-white shot of the riverbank, showing the old pier and the blurred outline of the opposite shore. A white arrow pointed to an area in the water just beyond where the Savannah Tourist Bureau was now.