Avenging Angels

by Mary Stanton

  “I think,” Bree said, “that we’ll all be ready for some shortbread late this afternoon. And Sasha, you can come with me. With any luck, Mr. Sam Hunter will be free for lunch.”

  “Nice fellow,” Lavinia said. “Been thinkin’ you might take him on a date, like.”

  Bree blinked. “A date? Sam? Maybe. But first, I need to get a better handle on what’s going on with Eddie Chin.”

  “Hm,” Lavinia said, with a faint air of disapproval. “You be fair with the man, chile.”

  “Good grief,” Bree said. “He’s as interested in this case as I am.”

  “For goodness’ sakes, Bree. The man’s also interested in you!”

  Nine

  Men have died from time to time,

  and worms have eaten them—but not for love.

  —Shakespeare, As You Like It

  “Not you, too.” Hunter balled up the paper bag that had held his chicken salad sandwich and tossed it into the trash bin that stood at the base of Oglethorpe memorial in the Bay Street park. “I’m just getting Eddie to see some sense about this bloody O’Rourke case, and here you bungle in with another crackpot theory.”

  “Bungle!” Bree said indignantly. “Crackpot? I had lunch with you and Eddie, remember? Yesterday. And you said—do you mind if I quote you? I didn’t think so. You said: ‘Bree has something unique to offer.’ That’s what you said.” She was so irritated she turned her back to him, folded her arms, and glared down the high bank at the river. Her view was partially obscured by the top two stories of the River Front Inn. The old brick building had been around for close to two hundred years and seen a lot: pirate raids and slave auctions, not to mention skirmishes in two wars—1812, and Civil. A little disagreement between friends was a piffle compared to all that history. She dropped her arms and turned around. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to jump out at you like that. And that’s really the reason why I asked you to stop by for some lunch. That the case doesn’t seem to have much value, I mean. So I don’t know why I ripped up at you like that.”

  “Guilt,” Hunter said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re feeling guilty. You pulled that Southern charm on me . . . and, Bree, I told myself I wasn’t going to fall for it one more time—and it turns out you’re after Eddie.”

  “I am not after Eddie.” She’d been holding her own sandwich bag so tightly it was a crumpled mess in her fist, so she, too, tossed it into the garbage can. And she hadn’t finished her sandwich. “And if you’re inferring—even in the most sideways sort of manner—that I was leading you on, you’re flat wrong.”

  “I am, am I?”

  “You most certainly are.”

  He stepped closer. Bree liked the way he smelled and the warmth of his body next to hers. “So how do you feel about basketball?”

  “Okay, I guess,” Bree said cautiously. “I played some at Duke, as a matter of fact. Not since they got good,” she said hastily. “I was on the house team. The A team used to whale on us before they went out to really compete. But basketball’s okay. More than okay.”

  “The department’s sponsoring a local high school team Thursday night. You want to go? Maybe grab something to eat?”

  Hunter’s face was calm, his posture casual. But there was a slightly higher pitch to his voice than usual. Then he gulped. It was a quiet, almost unnoticeable gulp. He was nervous. He was afraid she’d turn him down. Bree found it completely endearing. “Sure.”

  “About six, then. Thursday? I think we’ll have a good time.” His face darkened. “I say something funny?”

  “Sorry.” Bree bit her lip, but it didn’t help her giggles much. “I haven’t had a date in a possum’s age. So I promised Sasha . . .”

  “Sasha?” Hunter said, a little warily. He looked down at the dog, who wagged his tail cheerfully.

  “He’s the only friend I’ve got these days, and that includes my little sister. Anyhow, I told him that the next date I had . . . never mind. Yes, I think we will have a good time.” She touched his hand, lightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He smiled, which made the corners of his eyes wrinkle in a really attractive way. Bree was suddenly conscious of the breadth of Hunter’s chest, and the way his hair curled a little on the nape of his neck. She tilted her head.

  He leaned forward and kissed her.

  He smelled of soap and clean sweat. Bree liked that, and she liked the kiss. You be fair with the man, Lavinia had said, so Bree backed away some and said, “Let’s make a deal. Let’s agree to a clear division between work and play, okay? I’ve just taken on a new case and right now, I’m wearing my lawyer’s hat. Thursday night, I leave my lawyer’s hat at home.” She looked down at her suit, which was gray summer-weight wool with a hemline just below the knee. “And my lawyer’s suit, too, for that matter.” He looked delighted and she burst into laughter. “I just mean I’ll wear something that doesn’t make me look like I’m about to present a defense in superior court.” She stuck out her hand. Hunter shook it. Then he said, flatly, “About this business of Eddie’s, Bree. Russell O’Rourke killed himself.”

  “You’re sure.”

  Hunter threw one hand up in a “hold it” gesture. “I’ve been fairly certain twice in my life as a cop, Bree. Both times, we caught the crime on a surveillance tape, we got a confession, and the forensics were solid. But have I ever been one hundred percent sure in any case I’ve ever handled? No.”

  Bree herself had been fairly certain Hunter was a good cop. Now, she was sure.

  Hunter moved restlessly down the sidewalk and then back again. “All cases are about what you can prove. Eddie can’t prove murder. Not unless some kind of miracle occurs. And every cop has cases where you know who did it, how they did, but there’s no proof. You let those cases go. Eddie’s been a cop, a good cop, way too long to get hung out like this.” He rubbed the back of his neck in clear frustration. “He just can’t let it go. I told him he doesn’t need my help, he needs a . . .”

  “Shrink,” Bree supplied helpfully.

  Hunter sighed, an explosion of resignation. “Yeah. Yeah.”

  Bree had seen the psychiatric summaries in Eddie’s file. One of the less attractive diagnoses had been “Obsessive-compulsive personality disorder with long-standing paranoid psychosis/ideation.” She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant but it didn’t sound promising.

  “Is there any lead at all? Anything real that he’s following up on?”

  Hunter shook his head. “It’s about time I asked you about your interest, isn’t it? Why are you poking into this?”

  “Well,” Bree said cautiously, “Mrs. O’Rourke seems to feel it’s murder, too.”

  “Smoke screen,” Hunter said dismissively. “She’s pointing the finger at somebody else, right? Classic move on the part of a perp.” Then, in a complete U-turn: “And if she does think it’s murder why bring the harassment suit against Chin in the first place? She dropped it almost immediately,” he said in response to Bree’s raised eyebrows, “but that’s what tipped off the suspension.”

  Bree had a theory about that. But she’d agreed to represent Tully in civil matters, and she couldn’t speculate about criminal behavior on the part of a client. But she did say, “I don’t think I’ve met a more arrogant person in my life.”

  “Vigilante justice?” he said sharply. “Is she expecting you to give her a hand?”

  Hunter was quick. She’d have to remember that.

  He scowled at her. “Don’t get mixed up in this, Bree. Eddie’s got enough trouble. The last thing he needs is somebody else feeding this . . . fixation he’s got.” He looked at his watch. A sudden, boyish smile lit his face. “I’ve got to be getting back to the precinct. But I’ll see you Thursday?”

  “Did he tell you why?” Bree asked abruptly.

  “Why? We’re back to Eddie, now? You heard why. He’s got a couple of unresolved questions—the bullet fragment of the .22, the dead surveillance camera, the scrap
of the suicide note. Every case has them. If things fit perfectly together in a case, you have to start wondering if you’ve been set up. Why Eddie can’t see that is something that’s been driving me nuts.” Hunter balled his fists in frustration. “I’ve pressed him on it. But what he tells me doesn’t make any sense. Not common sense, anyway. And he won’t tell it to the shrinks.”

  Bree raised her eyebrows in an encouraging way. “Dreams. He says he has bad dreams.” He passed his hand over his mouth, shook his head, and said, “Claims O’Rourke’s begging him to solve the case from beyond the grave.” Hunter glanced at his watch. “Shoot! Got to run. See you Thursday, then.” He hesitated, bent and kissed her on the cheek, then took off for his car at a jog trot.

  Bree waited until he was out of earshot, then speed-dialed the professor on her cell.

  “Yes, indeed,” Professor Cianquino said after she explained Eddie Chin’s problem with O’Rourke’s ghost. “I wouldn’t say it’s uncommon.”

  “I know that. It may even been routine for someone directly involved with a case. Liz Overshaw came to me for just that reason. But she worked with Ben Skinner every day of her life. Eddie Chin never even met Russell O’Rourke.”

  “I don’t have all the answers, Bree. There’s certainly precedent for the dead to appear in the dreams of the living. A violent death and a desire for justice can bring the strong-willed back for short periods of time. But no, I would not be frank in my discussions with Mr. Chin. I would say Mr. Chin is a perfectly normal temporal with no connection whatever to the work that we do. An attempt to reveal the scope of Beaufort & Company’s activities would certainly alarm him.

  “One thing seems to be clear, dear Bree. Mr. O’Rourke was murdered.”

  Bree clicked her cell phone shut and waved at Hunter’s car as he pulled away from the curb and headed back down Bay to Montgomery.

  It was past time to sit down with Tully O’Rourke.

  Ten

  Who profits from this? (Cui bono?)

  —Cicero, “Pro Milone”

  “The place off Bull Street,” Tully snapped into her cell phone. “It’s perfect and I don’t care if there’s an existing lease. I want it. Break it, Barney. That’s what I pay you the big bucks for.” She snapped the cover shut and slipped the phone back into her purse and addressed the air over Bree’s head. “It’s a gorgeous building. Just perfect for a theater in the round. Some events company has a long-term lease. Screw that. Built in the 1920s and it was a Chevrolet dealership, if you can believe it. Fabulous tin ceilings.” She still didn’t look at Bree directly as she talked, but over Bree’s shoulder, at the crowd milling in her living room. She wore another one of her filmy, swirling dresses. This one was in shades of navy blue. With her severe cap of white hair, dark eyebrows, and plum-colored eyes, she looked like a product so expensive, an ad writer would only need one word to promote it. The Tully, Bree thought, and suppressed a sigh.

  Tully switched into Southern belle mode with a flutter of coal black eyelashes. “Thank God you’re here, though, Bree. Barney went back to his New York law firm after the auction and it’s a lot harder to intimidate people over the phone. Much better in person. So you can take care of that for me?” She paused in her restless review of the people behind Bree and gave her an appraising look. “I hear you’re pretty good at intimidation when you need to be.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be working too well with you,” Bree said dryly.

  Tully burst into startled laughter. It was more of a bark than a laugh, really, but at least Bree had her full attention.

  “It was good of you to see me on such short notice, Mrs. O’Rourke,” Bree added hastily, since she’d felt she’d been a little abrupt.

  “Please.” She fluttered her fingers. “I’ve said it before. Call me Tully. Mrs. O’Rourke is for the staff. Besides, I like your aunt Cissy and any relative of Cissy’s has just got to be a friend of mine.”

  Bree could do the Southern charm thing with the best of them, and at this point, she should have responded with a “Why, thank you, Tully. And Cissy is just a caution, isn’t she . . .” blabber blabber blabber. (Her mother, Francesca, had been a careful tutor.) But she didn’t want to. She wanted to solve this case and she didn’t give a hoot about the usual civilities. “I’d like to talk with you about your husband. Is there somewhere we can be a little quieter, where we can sit and talk frankly?”

  “And I need to give you copies of the Players’ stock contracts. It is a bit of a zoo around here,” Tully admitted. “Even more than usual. But everyone’s just so excited about Ciaran signing on with us that they can’t help getting together and making plans. Anthony’s beside himself, aren’t you, darling?”

  Anthony Haddad, who was even better looking than Bree’s lively libido remembered, wound his way through the crowd and gave Tully an absentminded kiss on the cheek. “Yes, darling, of course.” Bree could never figure out why so many creative people wore black. But the black jeans and black shirt suited Haddad nicely. His eyes warmed as he looked at Bree. “And you, Miss Beaufort, are even more striking than I recall. Is it too much to hope that you’re here to audition?”

  “She’s my lawyer, Tony. It’s the little redhead who’s going to audition.”

  “Are you holding auditions right now?” Bree asked. Her hand went to her cell phone. Poor Tonia would have a genuine hissy fit if she missed out on this chance.

  Haddad surveyed the lively crowd. Bree decided the people in jeans, T-shirts, and flip-flops were the tech crew. The men and women in leotards, leggings, and white shirts tied at the midriff were the artists. “Well, it looks like it, doesn’t it? Half of the actors are here and the tech managers, too, but no, this is just Tully’s regular afternoon madness. Cocktails, little bits of things to eat, and talk, talk, talk.”

  “I hate silence.” Tully pouted. “But my lawyer says I need a bit of silence at the moment, Tony, so I’m hauling counsel away to my little den.” She tucked her arm into Bree’s. “Come along, darling, and we’ll figure out how to break that silly lease on the Bull Street building.”

  Mindful of her sisterly duties, Bree removed Tully’s arm from her own with a polite smile and said, “Just a second, if you wouldn’t mind. Mr. Haddad?”

  “Tony, please. Only the bill collectors call me Mr. Haddad.”

  “My sister is very anxious to audition, as I’m sure you know.”

  Boredom closed his face. “They all are, Bree. She’s sent you as her advance man, is that it?”

  Bree felt herself blushing. She was going to kill Antonia when she saw her next. But she was going to get her an audition if she had to embarrass herself six ways from Sunday. “Something like that. But she’s truly talented. I don’t think you’ll be sorry.” She pressed on, “Is there a best time for you?”

  “A ‘best time’?” His eyebrows twitched cynically. “There’s never a best time to deal with aspiring actresses. I should tell you, Miss Beaufort, that she’s not got a suitable look for anything that I’m casting right now.”

  “She’s very talented,” Bree repeated loyally. “Very.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Then he shook himself, like a dog coming out of water. “Sorry. There’s no excuse for rudeness. I apologize. Have her call my people, will you? I’ll be setting something up tomorrow. I honestly can’t think of a place to put a delicious-looking redhead—at least, not for now. But we’ll see.”

  At least his tone was kind, Bree thought. Maybe the audition wouldn’t be too awful.

  “Now, if only she had some experience with tech, I might be able to use her.”

  “You mean stage management?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I lost Rebecca to a musical production of Moonstruck just a few days ago, and there doesn’t seem to be a tech director in the entire state of Georgia that’s free to begin work right now.” Whoever Rebecca was, he looked extremely sorry to have lost her.

  “My sister is a superb tech manager,” Bree said with complete sincerity. I
t was true. Confounding all expectations, Antonia handled the enormously complicated business of staging shows with a great deal of expertise.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Are you familiar with this new play, The Return of Sherlock Holmes? The one with the onstage version of the Reichenbach Falls?”

  Haddad looked seriously impressed. “You’re kidding. Your sister pulled that off?”

  “Every last drop of fake water,” Bree said proudly.

  “Then I’ll have somebody talk to her right now. No, no”—he waved his hand as Bree rummaged in her purse for Antonia’s card—“I know how to reach her.”

  “I suppose she’s called you a couple of times,” Bree said ruefully. “I suppose a lot of actors and actresses call you all the time.”

  “More than a couple. But don’t worry about it.” His easy, but detached, professional manner slipped a bit and he quirked one eyebrow at her. “Anytime you want to discuss my directorial woes over a glass of wine? Thursday evening, maybe?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Tony. Do your seducing on your own time, will you?” Tully’s face was sharp with irritation. “Come along. Bree. Danica’s set up in that little office at the end of the hall. We’ll talk there.”

  The barrister bookshelves under the windows were gone, replaced by the rosewood credenza. The gray filing cabinet was tucked behind the recliner. Danica sat at the small conference table, her laptop open in front of her. A vase of roses sat at one corner of the desk. A phone and the jar and inkstand sat at the other. A sleek desk top computer sat in the middle. The room was spotless, comfortable, and, despite the lack of paper files, very businesslike. Tully sat behind the desk. Bree sat opposite Danica.

  “Would you like tea or coffee, Bree? Or maybe a drink?” Tully looked at her watch, a Patek Philippe with a diamond-encrusted band. She’d moved her wedding and engagement rings—the one a very large marquise-cut diamond, the other a band set with as many diamonds as the watch—to her right hand. It was an old custom—the only other widows Bree knew who’d adopted it were well in their nineties—and it surprised her a little.