Avenging Angels

by Mary Stanton

  Bree had to admit she was shocked. Barrie, Lady Fordham, a petty thief? But it explained Dani’s “whatever else they are” comment. And it did provide a good lead-in for one of the questions she had for Fig. “Is that why your father disliked the Fordhams? Because Barrie is a bit of a . . .”

  “Crook?” Fig said. “How the heck should I know? Actually,” he corrected himself, “I do know. He’d get all hot and bothered about missing petty cash, or some of Mother’s jewelry, and then it’d blow over. She and Mother go way back, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know Mother Dear started out in the thee-ay-ter? Barrie went on to fame, if no fortune. Mother went on to Father. And to me.”

  Bree didn’t deal well with adolescents. Lindsey Chandler had been as balky and rude as this kid, and she found herself wanting to give Fig a good smack up the side of the head, same as she had with Lindsey. At least Lindsey had washed her hair.

  “Fig. You know that part of the reason your mother hired me was to look into your father’s death.”

  He shrugged.

  “Something very tragic has come up related to that.”

  “The Chinese guy. The cop. Somebody blew his head off, too.” He grimaced. “Sweet.”

  “Yes. Tell me, how well did you know Eddie Chin?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Pretty well?” Bree stared at him, astonished.

  “Sure. Eddie thought Father was murdered. I think so, too. After it . . .” He paused, swallowed, and then went on. “After it happened, Eddie started to, like, cozy up to me, you know? Thinking maybe I’d spill some family secrets or whatever. But I said, like, Man! I’m down with this. I think somebody offed the old man, and I want to catch him just as much as you do.”

  “Did you see much of him when he was in Savannah?”

  “Nah. After Mother Dear took him to court to stop harassing her, he kind of lost it, you know? Like maybe the wheels came off?” He whirled his forefinger around his ear in a rapid circle.

  “So you didn’t have any contact with him after that?”

  “No. Well, there was that, like, totally off-the-wall phone call a couple of days ago. I was, like, ‘Man, you’re off your meds.’ ”

  “What phone call was that?”

  “Aah, let’s see. I was awake, so it must have been after eleven. And the sun was out. And my cell rings and this voice says: ‘I know you did it. I’m coming to get it.’ And I go, like, ‘Hey Eddie, is that you? It’s Russell, man. What’s going on?’ And he goes, like, ‘Russ? Is that you? Sorry, man, sorry.’ Then he hangs up.” His eyes shifted sideways. “That was it. Weird, huh?”

  “What do you think he meant? ‘I know you did it. I’m coming to get it.’ ”

  “He knows I did what? Killed Father? No way. He’s coming to get it? Get what?”

  “He called you Russ, not Fig?”

  “My friends call me Russ, yeah.”

  There was something about the story that didn’t ring true. Bree looked at Sasha, still sitting patiently in the corner. Fig hadn’t acknowledged the dog. It didn’t mean he didn’t see him. Sasha lifted a paw and set it down, which was not at all enlightening.

  “Do you prefer to be called Fig, or Russ?”

  “He’s called Fig because he liked the cookie when he was little. You know, Fig Newtons?” Tully swept in. She held the silver inkstand in one hand and the little cloisonné jar in the other. She was wearing very well-cut jeans, a man’s white shirt, and a small fortune in diamond earrings. “That damn Barrie,” she said with a mock-tragic roll of her eyes. “Just one of her delightful failings. Where the hell should I put this? Not back on the desk, that’s for sure. The credenza.”

  Fig got out of the recliner. “Here, Mother. I’ll get it.” He thought a minute. “Maybe you ought to put the earrings in there, too.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Tully snapped. “And don’t be more of an ass than you can help. And for God’s sake, go clean up. We’ve got three hundred people showing up in a few hours and you look like an unmade bed.” Tully slammed the credenza door closed and faced Bree. “Are you through with him?”

  “Yes,” Bree said mildly. “Thank you for your time, Russ.”

  “And do you think my son created this elaborate plot to kill my husband?”

  “What the hell?” Fig said. “You think I had something to do with Father’s death?”

  Bree couldn’t look at the expression on his face. She looked at her hands, instead. Then curled them into fists, so she wouldn’t smack some sense into Tully.

  “Go on, Fig, Make yourself useful for a change.” Tully waited impatiently until the door closed behind her sullen son. “Well? Have you done anything significant yet? Other than pissing off most of my friends?”

  “Really?” Bree said. “Which ones in particular? One of your friends, Tully, killed your husband. And a troubled cop. Not to mention the fact,” she added with some heat, “that we drew up this list of suspects together.”

  Tully put her hands to her eyes and stood absolutely still. “Sorry.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. This is the first big party I’ve given since Russ died, and I’m being a bitch. But that’s what I do best. Be a bitch.” Her eye fell on Sasha, who gazed somberly back at her. “And you have to go into the garden, kiddo. Unless you want Ciaran sneezing all over you.”

  “Oh, dear,” Bree said. “I’d forgotten about that.” She got up and beckoned Sasha into the hall. “Go find Emerald,” she suggested. “She’s in the kitchen. She might give you a nice bit of something.” Sasha trotted outside obediently. Bree closed the door behind him.

  “You’d think he understands you?” Tully asked sarcastically.

  “I understand him. Works out to the same thing.” There was a light tap at the door. The clock on the credenza sounded eleven with a soft “ching.”

  “That’ll be Miss Pickpocket and her husband,” Tully said. Then, in one of those maddening swings of temperament, she said, “Do you need anything? Coffee? A drink?”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll have it sent in.” The door opened, and she said, “Barrie, darling! And Ciaran. This is Miss Beaufort, whom you’ve met, and who is going to walk you through the contracts for your share in the Shakespeare Players.”

  Barrie floated in, followed by the magnificent figure of her husband. Neither Fordham was classically beautiful; Barrie’s forehead was high, her pale face too long, her mouth a small curve too sweet for contemporary beauty. Ciaran was . . . Ciaran. It was hard not to look anywhere else when they were in the room.

  Bree thought she did very well for a person interviewing a demigod of the theater and his possessive wife. She didn’t stutter, she didn’t blush, and she wasn’t too shy to look the great actor right in the eye. Ciaran sat at his ease behind Tully’s desk, graceful even in repose. The golden baritone was reduced to a languorous murmur. The late morning sunlight wasn’t particularly kind to the lines around his eyes and his mouth, but that face! She’d seen that version of Wuthering Heights with Francesca and the image of Heathcliff gazing longingly through the windows at Catherine Earnshaw put the two of them in tears. And here he was, sitting right in front of her.

  Sneezing.

  “You had a dog in here,” Barrie said accusingly. Up close, the great, tragic eyes took on a rather beady aspect. And the famous rose petal complexion was overlain with a skein of fine wrinkles. “I told you about Sir Ciaran’s allergies.”

  Sir Ciaran sneezed again.

  Tully shook her head. “I’ll get you some tissue, Ciaran.” “Quite all right,” the great man said. The sneezing made him so approachable, Bree was sure she could get him to sign an autograph for her mother.

  Bree began the interview with the ploy provided by Tully. “You’ve had your own attorney look at the contracts giving you shares in the Players?” she asked.

  “We can’t afford a lawyer,” Barrie said. She smiled tightly. “Only if you screw us over.
Then, of course, we can sue you. I understand that solicitors here in the United States operate on what’s called a contingency fee?”

  “That’s what it’s called,” Bree said agreeably. “The agreement offers you ten percent of the Players in return for Sir Ciaran’s performance as leading man in the company for a period of three years. It also provides for your contribution as a member of the troupe for the same period of time.”

  “I do believe Tully meant to give us fifteen percent.”

  “No, she was quite clear about the division, Lady Fordham.”

  “Well.” She sighed, and for just a moment, she seemed old, vulnerable, and very, very tired. “You know, Miss Winston-Beaufort, there aren’t many secure positions for people like us. We’ve never been in those dreadful, moneymaking shows like The Producers or The Lion King that bring in lots of lovely lolly. Although Ciaran here is my lion king.” She smiled at her husband. “Yes, we’ll sign, and be grateful, too. Won’t we, darling?” The look she cast at Sir Ciaran was so full of love, and longing, that Bree’s heart contracted.

  She looked away, fumbling a bit with the contract. Then she put each page in front of Barrie, who signed and passed it on to Sir Ciaran. After the very last page, Bree took out Sir Ciaran’s biography, A Rogue and Peasant Slave: An Actor’s Life, and offered it to him. “My mother Francesca and I would be so pleased if you’d sign this, Sir Ciaran.”

  He’d been gazing out the window in an absentminded way, but turned and looked at her. The brilliant turquoise eyes narrowed, focused, and searched her face. (“He looked at me, Mamma,” she was later to say to Francesca, “just like he looked at Cathy on the heath. I practically melted in my chair.”) “I’d be delighted. To Bree? And Francesca? Lovely ladies of my acquaintance.” He signed with a flourish and large, open strokes of his pen.

  “Thank you.” Bree tucked the book back into her briefcase.

  “Where,” Barrie asked, in her vague, demanding way, “are the elevenses?”

  There was a knock at the door. Emerald Billingsley opened the door with one hand and held a tray of coffee and tea in the other. A box of tissues sat next to the sugar and creamer.

  “Ah,” Sir Ciaran said. “Excellent timing, fair maid.”

  “I’m not a maid, sir,” Mrs. Billingsley said politely. “I’m Miss Winston-Beaufort’s secretary. I’m just helping my niece out, who is shorthanded today.”

  “I used ‘maid’ in the sense of ‘fair lady.’ ” Sir Ciaran rose, relieved her of the tray, and set it on the desk. Then he took her hand and kissed it.

  “Well,” Mrs. Billingsley said. “That was very nice of you, sir.” She bit her lip and made an astonished face at Bree.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Billingsley. If you could drop back after Sir Ciaran and Lady Fordham leave, I’d appreciate it. I’d like you to get these contracts back to the office.”

  “Surely.” She left with as much dignity as she had coming in, which was considerable.

  “I’ll be Mother, shall I?” Barrie drifted to the tray and began to pour the coffee.

  “There are just a few other questions I have, before we finish up here.” Barrie raised an inquiring eyebrow and set a cup of coffee in front of Bree. “Tully’s asked me to look into some of the consequences of Mr. O’Rourke’s death.”

  “That fellow,” Sir Ciaran said with distaste. “Tully and Barrie have been friends for years, and we tolerated the man for her sake, but truly.” He broke off, took a sip of coffee, and set it down. “Philistine.”

  “We would have tolerated him for more than that,” Barrie said. “My friendship with Tully, that is. May I speak frankly, Miss Beaufort?”

  “Sure.”

  “We were between a rock and a hard place after Russell killed himself.”

  “Scylla and Charybdis,” Ciaran said.

  “The theater doesn’t have the patrons it used to.”

  “And we’re getting older.” Ciaran returned his wife’s indignant glance with an apologetic look. “Sorry, my dear.”

  “And the last thing we wanted was Russell’s death. It was disastrous for us. Financially, I mean. The great parts have been drying up. The theater itself is in dreadful shape. The Players was the first offer to come along that would provide a true venue for Ciaran’s talents.” She lifted the tea ball out of the pot and poured the liquid into her cup with the elegance of a queen. “I understand from some of the investors in the Players that you are looking into the circumstances surrounding Russell’s suicide.” She placed a thin slice of lemon into the cup and took a delicate sip. “As well as the murder of this unfortunate man from the New York Police Department.” She raised her great eyes to Bree’s. “Is this true?”

  “After a fashion,” Bree said cautiously. “I have no official standing, of course.”

  “Of course. Unofficially, it would be good for you to know we had nothing to do with either problem.”

  “I see,” Bree said. Then: “Did either of you know the detective in charge of the case in New York?”

  “Eddie Chin?” Barrie said. She moved suddenly—and Bree never did figure out how she accomplished it—and poor Eddie seemed to sit there, bitten nails, twitchy nerves, and all. She gave a faint, pleased smile at Bree’s look of surprise. “Actors collect idiosyncrasies.”

  “Have you heard from him at all, since you were in Savannah?”

  “I don’t think so,” Barrie said doubtfully.

  “A cell phone message, perhaps?”

  “We don’t have a cell phone,” Ciaran said. “Can’t stand the things.”

  Barrie looked rueful. Bree was willing to bet that as soon as the income from the Players kicked in, Ciaran’s prejudice would disappear. “We have an answering service, of course,” Barrie said. “We could check with them to see if Lieutenant Chin left us a message there.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind leaving me the number, I’ll take care of that for you,” Bree said.

  “My card.” Ciaran withdrew his calling card from his vest pocket. It was on heavy stock, with raised press letterhead. It listed their names and a phone number.

  Barrie looked at her watch. “The Act Two run-through, darling. Tony will be furious if we’re at all behind time.”

  “Thank you,” Bree said. “Thank you both very much. If there’s anything I can do for either of you, please let me know. Here, sir, is my card.”

  Sir Ciaran’s eyes sought hers again. (“Honestly, Tonia,” Bree said to her sister, much later, “the man’s face ought to be illegal.”) “Thank you. But I already have one, my dear.”

  “It’s time, darling,” Barrie said.

  As if on cue, the small clock on the credenza chimed twelve, and the Fordhams swept out the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

  Bree sat at the conference table. Fine. Good. Nobody had killed Eddie Chin. Or Russell O’Rourke. They were all as pure as the driven snow.

  She walked over to the desk and addressed the empty air. “Mr. O’Rourke?”

  Nothing.

  She swept her hand over the surface.

  “Mr. O’Rourke? I could use a little assistance here.”

  Still nothing.

  Bree’s temper stirred. In both her previous cases, her clients had managed to send her tangible clues from beyond their graves, and she could use a few tangible clues right now.

  “Beazley? Caldecott? I’m entitled to a conference with my client.”

  Still nothing.

  Frustrated, Bree walked behind the desk with the fuddled idea that a different angle might work. Right now, it looked as if nobody had done it, and she was furious at the thought of having to interview everyone over again. She must have missed something. Some cue. Some lie someone had told her with a perfectly straight face. She thought of that look of puzzlement in Cullen Jameson’s eyes; the mockery in VanHoughton’s; the confusion in poor old Fig’s; the artful innocence in Barrie’s; the malicious glee in Harriet’s.

  And, of course, the erratic behavior of Tully herself.

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nbsp; A curious humming filled the room. Like a top spinning. The air grew very hot. The door pushed wide open, and Miles and Belli walked in, their eyes a fierce red.

  Bree whirled.

  The humming came from behind her. From the credenza. The doors flew open and the entire cabinet vibrated with a weird, desert wind keening.

  The cloisonné jar.

  Miles shouldered her aside and caught the jar with a snap of his jaws.

  The air cooled.

  The humming died away.

  Miles dropped the jar on the floor in front of her, where it bounced and lay still.

  The heat had softened the wax around the lip. Bree peeled it carefully away and shook out the contents.

  Among the bits and pieces that lay there was a coiled wad of fishing line.

  “Fishing line.” Bree settled the jar on the chest that served as a coffee table in the living room of the office at Angelus Street. She’d replaced the line and the dried bits and pieces that had fallen out of the jar, put them back, and resealed it.

  “We can see from your expression that you think it’s a clue,” Ron said.

  “I’m sure it’s a clue.”

  “If it is, you have broken the chain of evidence, perhaps,” Petru said.

  “I hope not.” Bree bit her lip and held up her new cell phone. “This has all kinds of extra features. One of them is a video function. So I called in Mrs. Billingsley, and we did a sort of discovery. I resealed the jar and she witnessed my opening it.” She lowered the cell phone. “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Of course it is,” Ron said. “But what does it have to do with the case?”

  “You’ve thought about how the murder was accomplished, haven’t you? There’s only one theory that makes any kind of sense. The murderer shot O’Rourke in the neck several hours before the shotgun blast that eventually killed him went off. It was a clever shot, and it could have killed him, but it didn’t. It paralyzed him, though. We won’t know if the crime was actually planned this way, or whether the murderer was an opportunist who decided that a death later in the day would provide an alibi. The point’s moot, anyway, because what happened, happened.” Bree sat a moment, marshaling her thoughts. “The murderer rigged up the shotgun and attached fishing line to the trigger. When the crowd of people burst into the room several hours later, the gun went off. In the shock and confusion that followed, the murderer rolled up the fishing line and dropped it into the jar on O’Rourke’s desk, knowing that the police would search everyone in the room as a matter of course.”