by Mary Stanton
“That is quite awful,” Petru said.
“She loved him too hard,” Lavinia said. “Wouldn’t let the poor man go.”
Ron’s lips thinned with disgust. “Well, boss. I’m certainly glad I don’t have a partner like Barrie Fordham! The man’s in agony! Talk about the tortures of the damned!”
“There’s love that’s so selfish, it doesn’t care,” Lavinia said. “You can see that, Ronald. I see it, too.”
“Well, if she’s our murderer, and Bree catches her, it serves her right.” Ron picked up a cup of coffee and set it down again. “I’m so upset I don’t even want this coffee. Anybody else? No? Then I’m going to dump this out in the sink. Right along with my good opinion of Barrie, Lady Fordham.”
Bree smiled at him. “Except that Barrie’s not our killer. The jar was at hand and the killer dumped the fishing line in it because there was nowhere else to put it. I may have had the wrong client all this time, but I have the right case. Barrie didn’t kill either one of the victims. But I know who did.”
Twenty
There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave to tell us this.
—Shakespeare, Hamlet
The house on the square blazed with light. Tiny white garden lights glittered in the trees and hedges. At the windows, the curtains were drawn back so that the yellow warmth of the chandeliers spilled into the street. A couple of kids in black pants and white dress shirts parked the cars as guest after guest arrived.
Bree wore her red velvet dress. It was tea-length and swirled just above her ankles. It had a cowl neckline and no sleeves. The fabric was tissue-thin and the color was the soft sheen of a sunset. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of gold Scales of Justice earrings left to her by her birth mother, Leah. Her silver-gilt hair was swept up and out of the way on the top of her head.
She’d walked from the town house, and she was late. If she hadn’t had the kind of employees who could work minor miracles, she would have been later still. But if the information existed in a public record somewhere, it didn’t take Ron and Petru long to come up with it. The biggest time waster had come about due to the very quality she valued so much in Petru: his stubborn insistence on understanding and following the rules.
The Beaufort & Company charter, Petru argued, did not allow the angels to work on temporal cases unless the case was related directly to the needs of a client. Russell O’Rourke was apparently grateful to be assigned to Purgatory and not any of the circles of Hell to which an unkind Providence might have assigned him to. (“And so he should be,” Ron had sniffed. “How many widows and orphans did the crash of O’Rourke Investment Bank leave in the lurch, anyway?”) So what did Ciaran Fordham’s plight have to do with the murders? He, Petru, could not in good conscience use his unique talents to produce the data Bree needed by the time of Tully’s party.
Bree pointed out that the cloisonné jar would be held in evidence for as long as it took to convict the murderer—and given that the wheels of temporal justice ground exceeding slow—it was in Ciaran’s best interests to get the murderer convicted as quickly as possible. And Ciaran was their client.
So Ron and Petru had come up the circumstantial evidence in excellent time. And if all went well, Bree would have her murderer, and she could finally wrap up the Case of the Mistaken Client.
The party filled the living room and the dining room and spilled out of the French doors into the garden court-yard at the rear of the house. Waiters circled the crowd with trays of drinks and food. Someone at the piano played show tunes. A few of the young actresses from Haddad’s group linked arms and started to sing “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” Haddad stood out with his black jeans, black T-shirt, and handsome face. He waved at her. Bree nodded back.
Bree caught a glimpse of her mother’s bright head in one corner, and Antonia’s in another. As usual, Antonia was mobbed with men: older businessmen, young actors, a stockbroker or two, and poor Fig, who stood with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his gray flannel trousers at the edge of the crowd. As Bree watched, Antonia’s slim arm emerged from the group and pulled Fig in a little closer.
“You’re pretty fond of your sister,” Hunter said. “You ought to see your own smile when you look at her.”
“There you are. I hoped you’d gotten my message.” Bree slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “And yes, I am fond of Antonia, at that. She’ll drive me to the screaming point, and then she’ll do something really sweet, like make sure that poor old clueless Fig isn’t left out of a good time. But if you tell her that, I’ll have to pull your hair out. I can’t explain it. It’s a girl thing.”
“You were right about the rental car,” he said abruptly. “We found Eddie’s blood and hair in the trunk.”
“Thank God.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I thought this was a lead pipe cinch. That’s what you said on the phone—it’s a lead pipe cinch.”
“I was darn sure of the motive—the financial records Petru unearthed leave no doubt about that. And I was darn sure about the means. But you said it yourself—you can never be certain. Poor Eddie. But that ought to clinch the case, for sure.” She nudged him. “Over there.”
Hunter scanned the crowd. “Got it.”
“You’re going to make the arrest?”
“Markham’s ready when I am.”
“Can you wait two seconds? I want to ask the piano player to do something for me.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. Bree held up two fingers. “Two seconds. I’ll meet you there.”
Bree made her request, and as the pianist broke into the obnoxiously jaunty theme from The Producers Sam Hunter arrested Harriet and Big Buck Parsall for the murder of Edward Chin, formerly a sergeant in the Homicide Division of the New York Police Department.
“You sure know how to break up a party,” Aunt Cissy grumbled. “Of all the things, Buck and Harriet doing for Russell O’Rourke.”
“They weren’t arrested for that murder, Cissy,” Francesca said. “Although our Bree said they did that, too. They’re going to be convicted of Lieutenant Chin’s death.”
“I sure hope so.” Bree tucked her feet under her. They were all seated at the dining room table, Royal, Francesca, Cissy, Antonia, and Bree herself, eating crab cakes and sweet potato fries from Huey’s. The arrest of Harriet and Buck might have gone unnoticed by most of the partygoers, but for the fact that Harriet threw a spectacular fit of hysterics and attacked Tully O’Rourke with a party skewer before Markham could get the handcuffs on her. Tully, with a notable scratch down one cheek, had thrown everyone out. The last Bree had seen of her temporal client was a rueful look and a shrug: Sorry about that, the look said, and then, who knew it’d turn out like this?
“But you’re pretty sure they committed both crimes?” Royal patted his blazer jacket for his absent pipe and sighed.
“Almost certain,” Bree said. “But Hunter doesn’t think there’s enough hard evidence to get them on the first one.”
“Why kill anyone in the first place?” Cissy said. “It’s just stupid, that kind of thing.”
“Buck and Harriet couldn’t handle losing all their money,” Bree said. “And they blamed Russell O’Rourke for it. They started raising some funds by selling off their shares in the Shakespeare Players over and over again. Just like that silly plot in The Producers.”
Cissy looked blank.
“Never mind, Aunt,” Antonia said kindly. “I just think it’s totally cool my sister solved a murder with a theater clue.”
“That isn’t exactly true, Tonia, but thanks all the same. Anyway,” Bree sighed, “Russell discovered the scam and threatened them with exposure. So Harriet set up the very elaborate murder scheme, and it worked.”
“You’re fairly sure they can’t be convicted of that crime, too?” her father asked.
“The suicide note was torn from a letter Russell sent to Buck accusing him of fraud with the Players’ stock. Petru unearthed the original lette
r. It starts with accusing the Parsalls of selling the shares over and over again, and ends with O’Rourke’s apology for losing all the Parsalls’ money in the crash. ‘I very much regret the collapse of the O’Rourke Investment Bank, a regret that I will carry to my grave. My apologies to all. Good-bye.’ That’s where all the language about guilt over the collapse of Russell’s own business venture came. He was greedy, Russell was, but Tully was right. He was within his rights to run his company the way he did. And VanHoughton did step in with an offer to put things right. But then O’Rourke died.
“And the Players started up again. And Harriet went right back to her old tricks. She was selling the same ten percent of the company to at least five different prospects that we’ve turned up so far.
“They got Eddie’s phone call, of course, and decided he was too much of a threat to live. They booked an early flight into Savannah, rented a car, and met Eddie at the visitors’ center much earlier than the two o’clock time Eddie requested. They shot him, put his body in the trunk, and checked into the Mansion at Forsyth Park. It takes five minutes or less to get from Forsyth Park to here on Factor’s Walk, by car. And whatever Buck is, he’s got the balls of a buffalo. Sorry, Daddy. Eddie was wrapped in canvas. Buck and Harriet sat in the bar all afternoon, then Buck excused himself for a bit, drove over here, dropped him into my hallway with some fuzzy idea of implicating me in the murder, and scooted on back to the bar at 700 Drayton in the time it’d take some folks to go to the bathroom and back.”
“Why you?” Francesca asked anxiously.
“When they called Eddie back to arrange an earlier meeting time, he told them he was about to turn all the evidence over to me and Hunter.” Bree shrugged. “It must have seemed like a good idea at the time,. My guess is if they’d laid off the whiskey they might have come up with a better way of disposing of the body—but they didn’t have much time. And it’s hard to get rid of a corpse.”
“Some nerve,” Antonia said.
“That’s what it took,” Bree agreed. “Some nerve. And a half bottle of Jameson’s whiskey, They were due to leave here tomorrow, so we had to act fast.”
“This is the third time you’ve had to deal with a body in as many months,” Francesca said. “I hope you aren’t considering criminal law as a career, Bree, darlin’.”
Bree reached down and scratched Sasha’s ears. “Not in this life, Mamma.”
Epilogue
Ron adjusted Bree’s courtroom robes over her shoulders, fixed the collar that rose behind her head, and smoothed the lapels. “Very nice,” he said. “Did you notice what Lavinia embroidered on the hem?”
Bree shook out the folds of the heavy red velvet. Tiny, elegantly shaped letters had been added under the gold spheres: Beaufort & Company. Lavinia did beautiful work. She could stand here and look at it all night. Especially in preference to pleading this case before the Celestial Court.
Ciaran Fordham stood with them on the seventh floor of the Chatham County Courthouse. He held the cloisonné bowl in one hand.
At least the red velvet robes made her look competent. “Are you ready, Sir Ciaran?”
“Are you taking me home?”
“I hope so,” she said gently. “We’re applying for a Writ of Sanctuary. If the judge grants it . . .” She paused. She wasn’t sure what would happen after that. The case precedents Petru found were based on a small, almost forgotten Christian sect that believed all the bits and pieces of a person had to be in place for a correct and proper burial. Barrie and Tully had removed Ciaran’s heart and kept it in the cloisonné jar. It wasn’t a decorative piece at all, but a canopic jar, made especially for the purpose. Ciaran’s spirit was bound to a spirit so old, Petru had been unable to find any written references to it. “There are hieroglyphs, which perhaps allude to its presence. But we truly know not much, dear Bree. All we know is that it is hungry.”
The Celestial Courts were ecumenical in their application of the legal code. As long as the petitioner hadn’t committed a variant on one of the Seven Deadly Felonies (and especially if the defendant had—and Bree was sure the Being, whatever it was, was guilty of an attempted murder of Ciaran’s spirit), all temporal beliefs were worthy of consideration.
So they had a shot. If she could convince the Judicial Presence that Ciaran should be offered sanctuary, he could indeed go home to the Light that called him. If Beazley and Caldecott prevailed, the case would be thrown out of court for lack of jurisdiction.
And Ciaran’s terrible half-life would go on.
Ron pushed the door to Superior Court open and stepped aside to let them enter.
Bree had been in Superior Court once before, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief to see that the venue hadn’t changed. A long elevator led from the entrance platform to the vast courtroom below. Scenes from the current case were painted on the walls, colorful murals that flickered with movement. Bree paused in front of the one that showed Ciaran in the hands of those who had removed his heart. She hoped the Judicial Presence took a long time looking at that one.
The judge’s platform held the scales of justice, made of gold and, for now, evenly balanced.
Bree took a seat on the bench provided for the plaintiff on the right. Ciaran sat down beside her. First Beazley, then Caldecott appeared on the bench at her left.
All rise.
Bree got to her feet again, as did the others. She didn’t know the source of the voice. It was everywhere and nowhere.
A soft gold light shone behind the scales. There was no shape to it. It was a presence without form. The Judicial Presence.
Be seated.
And then a soft, glorious voice, stern and beautiful all at once:
“Plaintiff’s counsel may present her case.”
Bree stepped forward and began her plea for the death of Ciaran Fordham.
“Displaced Persons, indeed,” Caldecott sniped when the verdict had been rendered. “Sanctuary offered and received. Phooey!” The four of them rode up the escalator back to the seventh floor. “Crock of baloney. We should have been granted that Motion for Dismissal. This case is not part of our jurisdiction.”
“Caldecott hates to lose,” Beazley said. He smiled at Bree. It wasn’t a nice smile. “On the other hand, Caldecott, she has to deliver the Writ of Sanctuary to whatever it is that holds her client’s soul. Bad luck to you, Miss Beaufort.”
They exited into the seventh floor. Bree and Ciaran turned right. Beazley and Caldecott turned left. When Bree looked back over her shoulder, both lawyers had disappeared.
“I’m to go home?” Ciaran asked. He held the canopic jar in one hand and the Writ of Sanctuary in the other.
“I hope so.” Bree shepherded him into the elevator. “It’ll be just a little longer.”
Ron was waiting for them in the lobby. It was very late at night. It had taken Petru all weekend to track down the case precedents to make the argument that Ciaran’s soul had been stolen and his true death desired. The security guard touched his cap in a wry salute as he unlocked the front door and let her out.
“You sure you don’t want an escort home, ma’am? Kind of late for the two of you to be out on the streets all by yourself.”
Bree ran her hand over Sasha’s ears and smiled at Ron. “We’ll be fine, Officer. Thank you.”
The security guard at the Bay Street office building was new, and wasn’t anywhere near as solicitous as the other one had been, merely bored. He unlocked the doors with a yawn and waved Bree and Ciaran toward the elevators with indifference.
Sasha and Ron rode up with them.
They rode to the sixth floor in silence. As the elevator doors opened, Bree was in the middle of recalling a particularly apt objection she’d made to one of Caldecott’s snide objections. She was totally unprepared for the shrieking figure that jumped at her.
“You!” Barrie Fordham screamed. She swung out wildly, and her nails raked down Bree’s face. “You leave my husband alone!”
“Barrie,” Ciara
n said. He glanced at her but continued to walk down the hall. Barrie ran after him. Bree dropped her briefcase and touched the blood on her cheek.
“Ciaran! Ciaran! What are you doing?” Barrie clutched at his waist. He walked on. Barrie fell to her knees and scrambled to her feet again.
“Oh, my,” Ron said. “We’ll have to stop her. He has to get through the door.”
Bree ran down the hall. Ciaran reached 616 and stopped, his hand on the door. Barrie grabbed at him again, tugging at his coat. She was a small woman, and frail, but her strength was rooted in utter panic. Ciaran swayed backwards. Bree caught Barrie’s wrist and pulled her away from her husband. Barrie turned and beat at Bree’s face with her fists. “Let me go! Let me go!”
Ciaran opened the door into the deep, cold black that had greeted Bree once before. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. Barrie screamed, a long anguished shriek of despair.
A great white light flared behind the door.
Then silence.
From the Savannah Daily, Tuesday
FAMED ACTOR DEAD
Family friend and noted stage director Anthony Haddad announced the death of Shakespearean great Sir Ciaran Fordham, due to a sudden heart attack. The body has been cremated, in accordance with the actor’s wishes. Barrie, Lady Fordham, is in seclusion.