by Mary Stanton
“You will talk to Lieutenant Hunter about the progress of the police investigation?” Petru asked.
“I’m not going to get much joy from Hunter. Eddie was a good friend. And he was a member of the force. There’s no hope that Hunter or anyone else in the police department is going to tolerate civilians in the investigation. So I’ll move on to the suspects on our original list. The Parsalls, Rutger VanHoughton, Fig. Then Barrie Fordham and Sir Ciaran. I saw Cullen Jameson this afternoon, but the only way we’re going to get information from him is if we tie him up and threaten him with agonizing pain. So somebody’s got to track his movements since he came into town yesterday. He arrived on the ten A.M. from Kennedy, so he had enough time to do it. That’d be a good job for you, Ron.
“And you’ll need to canvass Eddie’s neighborhood and find out if anyone saw anything of significance—that will help us a lot. And Petru, can we somehow get hold of Eddie’s phone records? Both cell and landline, if he had a landline. And of course the autopsy report . . .”
“We’ll only be able to get that when it has been filed,” Ron said. “We’ll do our best.”
“Yes,” Bree said. “But there’s one thing I want to concentrate on.” She leaned forward and clenched her hands.
“Eddie had been a policeman for a long time. And he knows what every cop knows: you can’t make a case without hard evidence. Motive doesn’t cut it. Circumstantial evidence doesn’t cut it. Hard evidence is the only shot you’ve got at a successful conviction.
“Eddie was focused on three things. The suicide note. The surveillance cameras. The fragment of the .22 bullet found at the scene of the crime. I think once Eddie realized that O’Rourke had been shot and paralyzed maybe hours before he actually died, he knew there was one piece of evidence, and one piece only, that could link the killer to the crime.
“The other half of that bullet.”
They sat for a moment in silence. Bree looked up at the Rise of the Cormorant over the fireplace. The shadowy traces of the beaked head in the fiery sky had darkened. The wind rose outside the little house, and the afternoon light was dim with oncoming rain. The excitement of the day’s discoveries drained away.
Suddenly Bree was exhausted.
Lavinia brushed by her, the scent of lavender and thyme trailing her like a fragrant scarf. She bent and kissed Bree on the cheek. “You want some more coffee, child? Maybe some of my special tea?”
Bree clasped her hand affectionately. “No. Thank you, though. I’m off to 700 Drayton to beard the Parsalls in their den. They were supposed to come in yesterday. And Ron? Could you track down Rutger VanHoughton for me, and see if you can set up an appointment? He’s back in town for Tully’s party tomorrow, and he’s not the sort of guy you can just drop in on.”
Ron got up and went toward his desk. “I’m on it! And I got you a new cell phone, same number, better battery. I stuck it in your briefcase.”
Bree collected her raincoat and briefcase. On her way out the door, she glanced at the frieze of angels treading up the stairs. The last angel had moved another quarter turn. You could almost see its face.
Outside, a heavy mist hung over the streets in a thick, gauzy swathe. The air was so damp and heavy, it took a conscious effort to breathe. Once in a while, a fog like this rose from the river to swaddle the city. It was a good time to light a fire, sit down with a book, and drink a few glasses of wine. Or take a nap. Bree had to stop herself from turning around and heading back to the couch. Instead, she went out to her car, willing her energy back with each reluctant step.
Sasha jumped into the backseat, and for a moment she paused, with the driver’s door ajar, so exhausted she could barely move. She could handle this. She was sure she could handle this. Every investigation had its jolts of adrenaline, followed by the slog, slog, slog of the patient accumulation of data.
Something glided by, on the other side of her car.
“Hello, Striker,” she said. She glanced back at the Pendergast grave under the oak. The grave was almost totally obscured by the mist. This tall, battle-ready member of the Company only showed up when something serious threatened—or when Bree herself was a serious threat to somebody. Bree smiled at him. “If something’s after me right now, they can have me. And I’m way too tired to whale on anybody.”
“Maybe you should have had some of Lavinia’s tea.”
Bree raised her eyebrows. “Really? I didn’t think magic potions were part of our arsenal.”
He laughed. “No magic potions. Just a lot of caffeine.” He turned and swept the mist with his gaze, and then he looked under the car. Bree bent and looked under it, too. He straightened up and slapped the car roof. “Everything looks okay. Get in.”
“All this is waking me up, at least.” Bree folded herself into the driver’s seat and looked up at him. “Anything I should know about?”
“Guess not. But I’m puzzled. Everything’s quiet.”
“Too quiet?” Bree said cheekily.
“Yeah.” His eyes looked steadily back at her. “Way too quiet.”
“It’s way past time that Tully did something for us,” Harriet Parsall said. Her voice had a discontented whine. “This share of the Shakespeare Players better be just the start of what Tully’s due us. And I’m assumin’ that this time the deal’s goin’ to go through. It all collapsed when Russ kicked the bucket.”
Bree looked around the suite on the fourth floor of the Mansion at Forsyth Park.
“And yes, she’s payin’ for this.” Harriet gave a mean little smile. “Or rather, Rutger is.”
Harriet was dressed in an expensive knit suit. St. John’s, if Bree was any judge. She had a thick strand of pearls at her throat and big gold earrings. Big Buck fussed at the minibar and then thudded over with a drink in each hand. He gave one to his wife, took a large swallow of the other, and said, “Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Maybe later,” Bree said. She tapped the edges of the contract together to make a neat stack. “You’ve had your own legal counsel take a look at this, is that right?”
“Yuh.” Big Buck settled on the chintz-covered couch next to his wife. He wore a wrinkled white dress shirt, a bolo tie, jeans, and crocodile cowboy boots and he smelled of whiskey. Bree had a vague notion that his oversized silver belt buckle had something to do with cows.
“You’re lookin’ at last year’s Barrel Racing World Championship,” Buck said. He slapped the buckle in a satisfied way.
“My goodness,” Bree said. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a barrel racer, Mr. Parsall. Bull riding, maybe.”
“Oh, that’s not his,” Harriet said with a mean smile. “It’s our foreman’s.”
Buck slewed around and glared at her. She ducked a little. Bree, who’d been predisposed to like—or at least understand Harriet—was rapidly changing her mind.
“Bought the horse, paid the foreman, and supervised the workouts myself, didn’t I?” Buck demanded.
“Sure thing, honey.” Harriet winked at Bree.
“I bought it, I own it.”
“Sure thing, honey.” This time, she rolled her eyes in a “get this!” gesture.
Buck drained his glass and got up again. “You sure about that drink, Miz Beaufort?”
“I’m sure.” Bree offered her pen to Harriet. “The document requires both your signatures. I’ll notarize it for you.”
“I thought you were a lawyer,” Harriet said sharply.
“Most lawyers are notaries, Mrs. Parsall. It saves time.”
“And you sure we can sell our shares in this thing? What did you call it? An assignment?”
“Yes. You can assign your shares without the approval of the majority shareholders,” Bree said.
She had, in fact, advised Tully against allowing this practice, but she’d waved Bree’s objection aside impatiently. Seeing the Parsalls in action, Bree was beginning to understand why. There were a fair number of people anxious to break into Tully’s circle, and they were undoubtedl
y willing to pay for the privilege. The Savannah Players was shaping up to be quite a little quid pro quo for its investors.
“Just put your John Hancock right there at the bottom, Harriet, and then plunk your initials where you’re supposed to,” Buck said from the bar. “And let that pretty girl notarize for you.”
“I never know what that means.” Harriet wrote her name on the last page of the contract and then began initialing as Bree turned the pages over. “John Hancock. Who the hell is he?”
“The first signer of the Declaration of Independence.” Bree turned another page. “And right here, please.”
“Was he a Texan?”
Bree bit her lip. Were these people for real? “No, ma’am. He wasn’t a Texan.” She put her notary stamp next to Harriet’s signature and signed her own name. “And Mr. Parsall, you aren’t a shareholder in this at all.”
“No, ma’am.” He wandered back toward them. This drink had a lot less water than the last one. And very little ice. “This little game is all Harriet’s.” He winked at her, too.
“I jus’ don’t know a thing about business,” Harriet said. “But Tully’s been so generous, at such a time in our lives, how could I pass it up?”
A sudden, very unwelcome (and highly probable) scenario flashed through Bree’s mind. Harriet, selling three hundred percent of her shares in the Shakespeare Players for outrageous sums of money. Harriet, blinking those big, blue mascaraed eyes at a judge: I jus’ don’ know a thang about bidness, Your Honor.
“What?” Harriet asked sharply.
“Not a thing,” Bree said easily. “Just checking to make sure all the t’s are crossed and the i’s dotted.”
She had a theory about the murderer: whoever it was had to be smart, unscrupulous, and with nerves of steel. And a planner. Her first reaction to the Parsalls had been to the comic-Texan act. They seemed too dumb, too greedy, and too impulsive to plan it. Now she wasn’t so sure. And she admitted to an increased respect for Tully. If she’d planned to assure the suspects’ presence at an investigation, the Shakespeare Players shares were a pretty nifty way to do it. And Bree was going to have to watch her own tendency to prejudge. She relaxed in her chair and crossed her legs. “Now that we’ve accomplished that, Mr. Parsall, I just might right rethink that drink.”
“Don’t like to be fuddled when doing business?” Buck said. “Your daddy raised a smart young woman.”
‘Thank you,” Bree said demurely. She accepted the iced whiskey, took a swallow, and just managed not to choke. “Y’all have been in Savannah before.”
“Sure thing,” Buck said. “The Christmas parties, you know. When old Russ was alive and kicking.”
“That was a terrible thing,” Bree said. “I never met him. But Tully surely grieves his loss. I mean, this bee in her bonnet about his murder.”
The Parsalls exchanged looks.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to spill any beans.” Bree waved the whiskey tumbler. “Not that used to having a little drink in the afternoon.”
“Tully thinks somebody did for old Russ?” Buck rubbed his hand across his jaw.
“That Chinese cop,” Harriet said sharply. “He was the one with all those accusations. He said Tully did it.” Her lips thinned. “Wouldn’t put it past her, either. I said so at the time, didn’t I, darlin’?” She nudged Buck with her elbow.
“Yeah. You did.”
Bree took a moment to marvel at Harriet’s flexibility: from best friend to squealer in less than sixty seconds.
“And that Chinese cop turned up dead on your doorstep last night, didn’t he, Miss Not-used-to-drinking-in-the-afternoon? I saw it on the news last night.” Harriet’s big blue eyes narrowed. “Tully do for him, too, do you think?”
“I think she thinks it was us.” Buck grinned.
“Us!” Harriet shrieked. “Not likely, darlin’. Not likely at all. Not that Buck here didn’t think about it.”
Buck nodded heavily. “Got the Terminator out and waved it at him some, old Russ. But he ended up takin’ care of it his ownself.”
“Deserved it, too.” Harriet’s lips thinned to an even nastier line. “Was dead set against this whole Shakespeare Players thing from the git go, not to mention his turnin’ poor old Buck down for a partnership in his stupid investment company. Anyways, about this Chinaman? Chin, his name is?”
“Was,” Bree said quietly.
“Can’t pin that one on us, either. We came straight from the airport yesterday. And we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening at the bar downstairs.”
“At 700 Drayton?” It was a popular place. But it wouldn’t have been that crowded on a Wednesday afternoon. And the charge slips would have been dated and timed.
“Nice bar,” Buck said. “A lot of witnesses. The ball and chain is right on, as you youngsters say. Nope. We didn’t do the Chinaman in.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Harriet muttered. “Ball and chain. You asshole.”
“Now, missy, if you’re about finished with the third degree, Tiger Woods is teein’ up right about now. Not a bad player for a colored.” Buck picked up the remote and clicked the wide screen on.
“Thanks. But I need to be moving on.” Bree set her drink on the end table and collected the contracts.
“Don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” Harriet said. Then, to Buck: “How’s about another little drink?”
“I don’t think they did it,” Bree said to Sasha as soon as she was downstairs, clear of the suite and away from the Parsalls. “Ugh!” She kicked at the bottom riser of the staircase. “Have you ever met a more obnoxious pair in your life? I want them to have done it. I want to call up Hunter and have them hauled off to the clink right this minute.”
Sasha wagged his tail.
“And they didn’t notice you. Why is that, do you suppose?”
Sasha shook himself, as if getting rid of muddy water.
“Right. Who needs attention from a female like that?” Her cell phone buzzed in her briefcase. She retrieved it and flipped it open.
RUTGER VH 4pm 700 DRY TN. RP
Bree texted back OK and looked at the time. She had an hour. Time for a quick lunch and a call to Hunter. She glanced up the staircase. With any luck, the two of them would pass out before the thirteenth hole. “So I’m not going to worry that they’ll stumble into the bar and disrupt my interview with Rutger VanHoughton, Sasha. We’ll eat right here. Maybe another chicken salad sandwich. See how this one stacks up against the Front Street deli.”
Sasha sat down and scratched furiously at his ear, which Bree took as a sign of agreement.
Seven Hundred Drayton didn’t have a single dining area, but rather a series of rooms that led directly into one another, without intervening hallways. The bar was in a long narrow room set between two square ones. Bree figured the decorator was fond of Frida Kahlo; the principal colors were gold, purple, and red with an accent of acid green.
She sat at a small table near the main bar and ordered a chicken salad sandwich. From her vantage point, she could see into both dining rooms and into the hall. She called Hunter’s cell and left a message, telling him where she was and asking him to call back. She didn’t have much hope of a response. She didn’t have much hope that the Parsalls had been lying about how they’d spent the hours up to Eddie Chin’s death, either. She was sure they had a decent alibi. She had to check it out, though, so when the waiter set down her lunch, she thanked him, and then said, “Is this your regular shift?”
“I get off at five thirty,” he said, encouragingly. He sat down at the opposite side of the table and dared a quick glance behind him. “Can’t sit here too long, before my manager comes out looking for me, but maybe long enough to exchange phone numbers?”
Bree realized her mouth was open. She closed it. Antonia was right. She was far, far too involved in her work. She’d been out of things way too long if she couldn’t recognize a pickup line when she heard it.
Not only that, now that she took a good look
at him, this guy was really cute. Although definitely not much over twenty-three, which was pretty flattering. She smiled happily at him. “Sorry. I would be flirting with you like mad if I had the time, but I don’t. I was just checking on a couple of friends of mine that may have been here yesterday.”
“Oh. Huh. Too bad for us both, huh?” He bounced up cheerfully. “Let me know if you need anything. Ketchup?”
Bree poked dubiously at the sweet potato fries that accompanied the sandwich. “I think I’m fine for now. But I do want to know if you had an older couple here yesterday. The guy’s about fifty, maybe sixty. Cowboy boots, string tie.”
“The Texans,” he said. He made a face. “Those are the friends you were looking for?”
Bree looked at him a little warily. “Not friends, especially. I’m actually trying to establish an alibi.”
He leaned in a little closer. “For you or for them?”
“Them.”
“So if I say they were here, they won’t get dragged off and maybe water-boarded by the CIA?”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“Didn’t see ’em.” He grinned. “Make the call. And I want to watch.”
“Really,” Bree said. “It’s important.”
He sighed. “They were here, all right. Guy knocked back five double Scotches.”
“Five? Wow.” Bree thought about that. If Parsall had actually drunk all that, would he have been sober enough to kill Eddie? Or maybe he drank all that to forget that he had killed Eddie? “You have a time frame for me?”
“They came in about two. By the time I got off at five thirty—I told you I get off at five thirty, didn’t I?”
“You sure did,” Bree said.
“By five thirty the guy was well into the bag. And the wife wasn’t much better off.” He cocked his head. “Didn’t I see you on TV earlier today?”