Angel's Verdict

by Stanton, Mary

  “Mercury,” Dent said in disgust. “That little asshole. He’d paint his mother and sell her to the Arabs if he thought it’d get him somewhere.”

  EB tsked at the language. Bree shook her head at the racial slur and said, “Dent, Dent, Dent.”

  The traffic was light in both directions. Dent slowed up as they approached the turnoff for the Rattigan plantation; he turned left onto a gravel road and pulled over. He put one hand on the steering wheel and scanned the heavy brush on each side. “Okay,” he said rudely. “I’ll talk. And I’ll try not to offend your sensibilities, although it’s a new one on me when a lady lawyer in pants gets huffy over a little straight talk.” He blew air through his nose. “This is most of what you need to know. First, you’re dealing with a bunch of bozos. There’s not one straight shooter in the whole sloppy crowd. For one thing, they’re all stuck on themselves. What do you call it? Egomania. Mrs. Coville’s no different. She’s a demanding old biddy with a lot of airs and she’s the best of them.”

  So Dent didn’t think a lot of his employers or even the poor old lady he was trying to help. Which wasn’t a big surprise. He didn’t seem to think a lot of anybody. “My information is that someone’s trying to get her off the set, one way or another,” Bree said cautiously.

  “Everybody is. Mercury, the writers, even the other actors. They think she’s a joke. I mean, yeah, she’s maybe overdone it a bit with the plastic surgery.” He glanced at Antonia. “She’s got a heavy hand with the lipstick and rouge, no question. But she’s a movie star. One of the great ones. And her style of acting is the old way, you know? It’s big. Big and grand. It doesn’t fit this kind of movie, with all the close-ups and two-shots and whatnot. What I think is, Hollywood gone all to Hell.” He bared his teeth in what he must have thought was a smile. “Pardon my language, ladies.”

  “They think she’s a ham,” Antonia said. “That’s my guess. They probably think she’s too wrinkly, too.”

  “Antonia!” Bree protested.

  “Just telling it like it is,” Antonia said matter-offactly. “Movies aren’t like the stage. All those tight head shots mean you have to be perfect. Perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect body.”

  “Not natural,” EB observed.

  Dent looked into the rearview mirror at Antonia and scowled.

  “I’m not being critical, Dent. Acting styles change over the years. I mean, just take a look at Sir Laurence Olivier. He was the greatest actor of his generation according to this history of film class I took when I was in school, and when we look at him now, that’s all we think. Ham. Porker. That he chows down the scenery. But there’s a whole theater named after him in England.”

  “Yeah, well. So you say.”

  “I do say,” Antonia said. “Poor old Justine. It’s a shame.”

  Dent snarled a little at Antonia, then said, “There’s another reason they’re trying to dump her. It’s probably on account of this lawsuit.”

  Bree hadn’t been much interested in the disquisition about current demands for movie stardom. But she was interested in a potential lawsuit. So Payton may not have been lying after all—or perhaps not lying as much as usual. “Which lawsuit would that be? Over the brooch?”

  “What brooch? Oh, that peacock thing? No. This one’s a big sucker. The Bullochs aren’t crazy about this movie being made. They tried to get an injunction to stop the shoot, and that didn’t work, and now they’re suing that asshole . . . sorry, ladies. . . . that crumb-bum Mercury, personally. Mercury and his backer, Vince White. Defamation of character, blah, blah, blah.” He looked into the rearview mirror. “Thing is, Mrs. Coville is real tight with one of the Bulloch sisters. Not all of ’em—the two nasty ones are trying to sue Mrs. Coville over that bird brooch you just mentioned. But Dixie likes Mrs. C. and hates her sisters, so she’s pretty tight with Mrs. C.”

  “Dixie,” EB said. “Alexandra ‘Dixie’ Charles Bulloch. Daughter of Alexander junior, and granddaughter of Consuelo.”

  “Right. And Mercury figures Mrs. Coville is feeding the broadie the inside dope.”

  Antonia’s lips formed the word “broadie.” She rolled her eyes.

  “What inside dope specifically?” Bree asked.

  Dent shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Who’s smoking what? Who’s sleeping with whom? Cost overruns. Budget issues. Mrs. Coville’s a gossipy old broad. What old broad isn’t? She doesn’t realize that sort of crap can get the investors fighting each other.” He put the car in gear and drove back onto the gravel. “Word is the movie’s having more trouble than most getting made.”

  “All those movie stars get up to shenanigans,” EB said. “Why would that make any difference to a lawsuit?”

  “Depends on the cause of action, I suppose,” Bree said absently. “You never know what information might be useful to a plaintiff. Dent, Mrs. Coville has a contract, right? Has Phillip Mercury made any effort to buy her out?”

  “Does your grandmother suck eggs? Sure he’s waved some coin at her. Wants this Allison Buckley to take over the part, or so the scuttlebutt goes. I don’t know much about actresses, or actors, either, but I haven’t seen one that’d take a paycheck over a part.”

  “Very true,” Antonia murmured. “If I’d wanted money, I would have gone into banking.”

  “Tonia,” Bree said, “there are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t know where to start.”

  Antonia gave Bree a pinch. “Hush up. We’re almost there.”

  “Don’t pinch me, Tonia.”

  “Then don’t lecture me, Bree.”

  The narrow road snaked to the right, then to the left, and finally debouched into a vast green lawn thick with cars, trucks, vans, generators, and trailers. The Rattigan house—three stories high, with wide verandahs wrapping around each level—sprawled on a slight rise at the end of the green space. The front of the house looked splendid; the black shutters were freshly painted; wisteria and ivy curled around the white clapboard; out-of-season roses bloomed underneath the stone balustrade of the front porch. The brick steps to the front porch had been recently pointed. The front was in stark contrast to the north side of the house, which was visible from Bree’s vantage point. The battered shutters hung askew, and at least one of the mullioned windows was broken. Dirty white paint bubbled under the eaves of the slate roof.

  “Welcome to the anthill,” Dent said.

  “It certainly is busy.” EB pushed the button to roll down her window and peered out, wide-eyed. The whole area was alive with people, most of them dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and flip-flops, despite the forty-degree temperature.

  EB surveyed the chaos. “How are we going to find Justine in this big old mess?”

  Dent drew the Lincoln under a large live oak hung with Spanish moss, killed the motor, and took a small clipboard from the glove compartment. “I have a general idea of where they might be. They issue a shooting schedule every morning, but they never stick to it. What time is it, one thirty?”

  “One thirty-five exactly.” Antonia jumped out of the car, eyes glowing, cheeks flushed with excitement. She drew a deep breath. “Just smell this air, Mrs. Billingsley!”

  EB sniffed obligingly. “Roses in January,” she said. “And somebody’s cooking chili.”

  “It’s the movies!”

  Bree followed Antonia out of the car, ready to rein in her sister if need be.

  “Haydee was murdered the first of July,” Dent said as he, too, exited the car. “They’re trying to fake the time of year. Make good sense if they waited for summer and saved the cost of the rosebushes. But this place isn’t swamped with common sense.” He tossed the clipboard onto the driver’s seat. “I can’t make head or tail of this schedule.” He put his hand on Bree’s shoulder. “You see that colored girl over there?”

  “I see two African-American women,” Bree said pointedly. “I don’t see any colored girls.”

  “Right, sorry. I keep screwing that up. Anyhow, the pretty one in the gray cardigan. That�
�s Florida Smith. She’s the head writer. She usually knows what’s going on.” He put two fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. “Hey! Flurry!”

  A slim woman in a gray hoodie and tattered jeans glanced their way. Dent waved at her, pointed at Bree, and then pushed Bree forward a little. “Right. You go ask her about where to find Mrs. Coville.”

  Flurry Smith met them halfway across the lawn. “Where have you been, Willy? Did you turn your cell phone off again? Phil’s been looking for you.”

  “Had to make a run back into Savannah to fetch these folks.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to head right back there again. Phil wants a couple of beignets from Huey’s.”

  Dent made a noise between a grunt and a cough.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know it’s beneath your dignity, but you better step on it.” She grabbed at his sleeve as he moved away. “Hang on a minute. Who are these people?”

  “They have business with Mrs. Coville.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Bree. “She’s a lawyer.”

  “Is that so?” Flurry cocked her head. Her smile never left her face, but she was clearly wary. “Okay, then. I’ll take care of them. You’d better get a move on, Willy. Try to make it back by three, okay? He’s shooting now, but I’ve scheduled him for a script revision. He’s promised faithfully, absolutely to be there, which makes it a real possibility.”

  Dent turned and began to trudge back to the car.

  “And turn your cell phone on!”

  “Go soak yourself.”

  “Go soak myself?” Flurry marveled. “Can you beat that guy?” She chuckled.

  “That man’s a few puppies shy of a litter,” EB said with more than a touch of indignation.

  Flurry rounded on EB in sudden delight. “He’s what? Two puppies shy of a . . . hang on a sec.” She pulled a small spiral notebook from a back pocket and scribbled in it. “I love it. I’m stealing it. And no, you don’t get a writing credit.” She tucked the notebook back where it came from. “Willy’s not so bad. If you can get past the attitude. He’s working on it. Now, what’s up with the three of you?”

  Bree stepped forward. “I’m a lawyer from Savannah . . .”

  Flurry’s smooth face tightened, but the smile didn’t waver. “Look, if this is about that insane Bulloch lawsuit . . .”

  “This is about Justine Coville. She’s retained my firm to update her will. She asked us to bring the amended version to the set. It’s ready for her signature.” Bree held up the file folder.

  Flurry relaxed a little. “Oh. That’ll be okay, I guess. Phil’s in the middle of an interior shot right now, but she’ll be free in a bit. Follow me to the food wagon. We can probably find a cup of coffee for a lawyer who isn’t in the middle of suing us. As opposed to the ones that are. I’m Florida Smith, by the way. Call me Flurry.”

  “Brianna Winston-Beaufort. This is my associate, Emerald Bil—”

  Flurry stopped and turned her delighted grin on Bree. “Get out! Any relation to Franklin Winston-Beaufort? The lawyer who represented Alex at the insanity hearing? How cool is this? I haven’t been able to dig up much on him at all!”

  “We’re his nieces,” Antonia said. She elbowed her way in front of Bree, the better to face the scriptwriter. “We both are. Bree’s his older niece, and I’m the younger one. Antonia Winston-Beaufort.” She grabbed Flurry’s unresisting hand and shook it. “I’m temporarily with the Savannah Rep. We’re staging a revival of The Winslow Boy at the moment. I’d be happy to comp you if you’re free some night this week.”

  Flurry’s smile disappeared. “So you’re not a lawyer. You’re an actor. And you’re here because . . .”

  “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.”