Angel's Verdict (7 page)

“You need background info on my uncle Franklin,” Antonia said promptly.

“Not because you’re an aspiring actor who is willing to do anything for a role in a TV movie?” Flurry’s tone was light, but the message was clear. “Ah-huh. Tell you what. I’m sure not going to be the person that keeps Justine from seeing her lawyer. So it’s okay for your sister to be here. But maybe you’d better ride back to town with Willie.”

Bree decided it was time to intervene. “My sister’s curious about the whole process here, Flurry. But she’s harmless. She won’t be any trouble at all.”

Antonia blinked innocently.

“We have a professional reputation to maintain,” EB said with an admonitory look in Antonia’s direction. “I can guarantee nobody’s going to be up to any shenanigans.”

“You can, huh? You’ll pardon my skepticism, though. There’s nothing peskier than an actor in search of a job. No offense meant, Antonia.”

“None taken, Flurry.”

EB took a firm grasp of Antonia’s upper arm. “I’ll keep hold of her all the while we’re here.”

Flurry’s lips quirked upward. “You look like you can handle her, sister.”

She smiled graciously. “I’m Emerald Billingsley, Ms. Smith. Delighted to meet you. And you have my permission to use the puppy thing.”

“And you’ve got my permission to pump me about Uncle Franklin,” Antonia said with shameless opportunism. “Bree, too.”

One of the chief aggravations of Bree’s current professional life—the otherworldly part at least—was that she didn’t know much more about Franklin than Antonia did. He’d behaved as a fond, if distant, great uncle to them both. She saw him four or five times a year while she was growing up, usually at family functions. When she was younger, she was always in the company of her adoptive mother, Francesca, when Franklin visited. After she graduated from Duke Law School, she’d taken a probationary job at her father’s law firm in Raleigh, and she’d seen more of the professional side of her uncle. When she looked back, she realized Royal had always been with them when they met. No, she didn’t know much more than anyone else about Franklin Winston-Beaufort. She hadn’t learned about her true parentage until after Franklin died and left his law firm to her and her alone.

“So is it okay if I stay here with Bree, Flurry? Or I could sit down with you right now and do a data dump about Uncle Frank.”

Bree moved her sister gently aside. “What is it you need to know, exactly?
Bitter Tide
is about the murder of Haydee Quinn, isn’t it? The script’s finished, or you wouldn’t be shooting.”

Flurry laughed cynically. “No script is ever finished. Even on a Phillip Mercury movie.”

Phillip Mercury must run a tight ship.
“Okay, so you revise a bit as you go along. But Franklin only had a tangential relationship to the case. He represented Alexander Bulloch at the sanity hearing, but he certainly wasn’t involved before that.”

“I’m writing a book.”

Antonia gave a delighted gasp. “About the Winston-Beauforts?”

“Why would I write about the Winston-Beauforts? I’m writing a book about who really killed Haydee Quinn. It’s going to be big. As big as . . .

“Don’t say it,” Bree muttered.

“. . .
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil ...
It’s going to put Savannah on the map.”

Savannah was already on the map, but Bree decided not to point this out. As far as another book about yet another notorious Savannah-based murder . . . the word “phooey” came to mind.

Flurry spread her arms wide. “The working title is
Death of a Doxy: Who Killed Haydee Quinn?
”

Bree raised her eyebrows. “I thought they executed her pimp for the crime.”

“Bagger Bill Norris did it,” EB said. “That’s what
we
were told.”

“They sent an innocent man to the chair,” Flurry said with assurance. “It’s all coming out in the book.”

Antonia beamed. “A true-crime novel. Righting injustice! That is, like, so fabulous. Any information you need, anything at all, you can count on me.”

“Great. That’s just great.” Flurry’s words were addressed to Antonia, but her eyes were on Bree. “Hang on, folks. I’m vibrating.” Flurry pulled her cell phone off her belt. “Yeah, Phillip. You’re kidding me. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Okay. I’m on it. I’ve got her lawyer with me right now.” She glanced at Bree. “I’ll ask, but I doubt it. We’re not liable anyhow, are we? We’ll be right there.” She snapped her phone shut and slipped it into her pocket. “That was Phil. I told him you were here. He’s over the moon, of course. Can’t wait to sit down and talk with you.”

Bree’s acquaintance with Flurry Smith was short, but she was already beginning to mistrust her persistent good humor.

“I told him you were here. He’d like to meet you right now.” The insincere smile broadened to include Antonia and EB. “And you two are going to have a chance to see a real production in operation. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Actually, it’s Justine that we’re here to see, not Mr. Mercury,” Bree said. “I heard that she had a fall on the set today. I’d like to see that she’s all right.”

“Justine’s fall? Where’d you hear that? Don’t tell me. Willy. Willy’s got a bee in his bonnet about Justine. Yeah, she fell. More of a tumble, really. But that’s the least of the worries around here. If you stick around long enough, you’ll see what I mean. It’s the other, weirder—” She cut herself off. “Never mind. Come on. They’re on the interior set. We’re supposed to be shooting the scene where Consuelo confronts Haydee for the first time and orders her to leave her son alone. It didn’t actually happen, but what the hey. It’s great theater. Follow me.” She turned and began to wind her way through the crowd of people, equipment, and vehicles. She looked back over her shoulder. “Y’all coming right along? Good. Anyhow, it’s a damn good scene. I spent a lot of time working that scene, and we should have wrapped it an hour ago.”

“But there’s a problem?” Bree prompted.

They’d reached the house. Flurry paused for a moment at the top of the brick steps until they’d all caught up with her, and then walked through the open front door. “When hasn’t there been a problem? This whole shoot has been a problem. Props gone missing, more than the usual number of injuries, financing issues. The problem today seems to be that ‘Consuelo’ doesn’t want to read the lines the way I wrote them. The
continuing
problem—yesterday, today, and for as far as I can see into the freakin’ future—is that archfiend”—she stopped at the open foyer to a large room and lowered her voice—“Tyra Steele.”

The first thing Bree noticed was a rhythmic smashing, as if someone was methodically throwing china against a wall.

The second thing was what a hodgepodge the place was.

Bree didn’t find the source of the sound at first; instead, she faced a bewilderment of activity. This must have been the ballroom in the days when the plantation was up and running; the space ran the entire length of the house. The back wall faced south and was built almost entirely of French doors, so that the view fell away to the Savannah River. The west wall held a huge fireplace. The mantel was made of marble, and it was supported by marble cherubs with gilded wings. A large oil painting of a blandly smiling woman in a ball gown hung over the mantel. Two bland blonde children leaned at her side. That half of the room was furnished with damask-covered settees, elaborately carved tables, and masses of fresh flowers: lilies, roses, lavender, and an abundance of freesia. A richly colored Oriental carpet covered the old oak floors.

The other half of the ballroom was a messy collection of big lights on tall stands, monitors, large cameras on wheels, trolleys, carts, wheelie bins, portable tables, and canvas-backed folding chairs.

Bree had expected a crowd of people, like the anthill outside.

There were only four.

Justine sat regally on a divan to the left of the fireplace. She wore a vintage Chanel suit, a large strand of pearls, and matching shoes, of the kind Francesca Beaufort always referred to as pumps. A jeweled peacock was pinned on the jacket’s lapel.

A muscular man with orange hair slouched against the east wall. It took Bree a moment to register this was the director, Phillip Mercury. The man’s peculiar orange hair, impressive biceps, and surly expression were known worldwide, thanks to the pervasiveness of Facebook and YouTube. What wasn’t as commonly known was how short he was. Not much taller than Antonia, who was five-four to Bree’s five-nine.

As Bree recognized the third person on the set, she felt a slight jolt in her midsection. Craig Oliver. She and Antonia had been nuts about him as the
Bristol Blues
leading character, Stone Cavendish. His eyes were a pale, almost transparent blue. His gaze was calm and direct. Bree half expected him to bark the famous catch-phrase, “Hit it!”

“He’s let his hair get gray,” Antonia hissed. “But he’s still gorgeous.”

The fourth person was the source of the smashing china. Tyra Steele. She was grabbing ceramic coffee mugs from the coffee service and smacking them onto the oak floor with the rhythmic, regulated grace of a tennis player lobbing practice balls.

She was improbably beautiful, even in the middle of an impressive rage. She had thick, glossy hair, the color of dark oak, flawless olive skin, and eyes exactly the color of the Caribbean Sea.

“Just a couple more mugs to smash,” Flurry said. “Then we can go in.”

The last mug crashed against the floor. Tyra thrust her fists into the air. Then she covered her face with her hands and bent forward at the waist. Her hair rippled to the ground. She wailed, quietly at first, and then more and more loudly until Bree wanted to clap her hands over her ears. The wail cut off suddenly.

Tyra collapsed dramatically into a broken heap and went silent.

Nobody moved. Phillip Mercury scratched his jaw. Justine glared steadily at the girl’s motionless body. After a long moment, Craig Oliver unfolded his arms and walked over to her. “Need a hand up?”

“She’s . . . she’s . . . gone.” Tyra’s voice was a mere whisper, but it was a lush resonant whisper. “For now, anyway. It’s Haydee, of course. She just won’t leave me alone.”

“She believes she’s possessed?” Bree asked Flurry quietly.

Flurry nodded. Her face was noncommittal.

“Possessed! Good grief. That’s the worst acting job I’ve ever seen. Can you say ham bone?” Antonia muttered under her breath.

“Diva,” Flurry muttered back. “Her, not you.” The two of them grinned at each other.

Tyra accepted Oliver’s outstretched hand and got lithely to her feet. She didn’t glance over at Bree and the other three women clustered in the archway, but Bree knew the actress was aware of them.

“All better now, darling?” Phillip Mercury shoved himself away from the wall and sauntered to a canvas chair with his name emblazoned on the back.

Tyra drew the back of her hand across her perfect forehead. “All better, Phillip. But maybe . . . could I have a glass of water?”

“If Haydee hasn’t broken ’em all, sure. Craig? Would you mind? As a matter of fact, why don’t you give Tyra a hand back to her trailer? Your fridge is full of Evian, Tyra, and I know how you feel about tap water. I sent the crew on break the minute Haydee showed up. We’ll get back to the scene after I have a quick story conference with Flurry. So take an hour. No more than that. Okay?”

Tyra nodded and said “okay” in a childish little voice.

Craig Oliver cast a rueful glance at Justine, who raised her hand in weary resignation. Then he supported Tyra out of the room.

Phillip Mercury waited a moment, then snapped his fingers at Flurry and called, “Come! And bring whichever one’s the lawyer with you. Boot the other two.”

“Mrs. Billingsley and I will wait outside,” Antonia said nervously. Then, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mercury!” She whispered in Bree’s ear, “I’ll just take a look around.”

“Good idea.” Bree patted her sister on the back. “Don’t go too far.”

“I’m waiting here!” Phillip Mercury called petulantly.

Bree nodded pleasantly in his direction and raised her voice a little. “I’ll speak with my client first, Mr. Mercury.”

“Is that so?” He regarded her steadily for a moment. He sucked his teeth. “Okay. So you two want to talk, no reason you can’t talk in front of me. Justine, you get over here, too.”

The elderly actress rose from the sofa with difficulty. Bree moved quickly across the set to help her up.

“I’m fine.” Justine steadied herself with one hand on the sofa. “No, I don’t need to lean on you. I sat there so long my muscles stiffened up.”

Bree put her hand under Justine’s elbow in a companionable way. “You had an accident on the set this morning?”

Justine snorted. “If you call being throttled by that lunatic girl an accident.” She sank back onto the couch.

“I thought you fell,” Bree said with concern.

“I fell this morning before I came to see you. That little hellcat tried to strangle me just minutes ago.”

Although Bree had her back to him, she knew Mercury had gotten out of his chair, moved noiselessly across the set, and stationed himself behind her.

“A little mishap with the rug?” Phillip Mercury said in her ear. “Not bloody likely. She fell over her own two feet.”

Bree straightened up in seeming surprise. “Mr. Mercury? How interesting to meet you at last.” He was too close to her. She tapped him lightly on the chest, and he took an instinctive step backwards. “Brianna Winston-Beaufort, attorney-at-law. I represent Mrs. Coville’s interests. You say there was a mishap?”

“I was shoved,” Justine said. “And it wasn’t any ghostly presence. That was Tyra, too.”

Bree sat down next to Justine. “Tyra shoved you over this morning and tried to strangle you this afternoon?”

“Yes!”

Mercury stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Tyra didn’t shove you, Justine. You got tangled up in your own feet and fell down.”