The first thing Bree noticed was a rhythmic smashing, as if someone was methodically throwing china against a wall.
The second thing was what a hodgepodge the place was.
Bree didn’t find the source of the sound at first; instead, she faced a bewilderment of activity. This must have been the ballroom in the days when the plantation was up and running; the space ran the entire length of the house. The back wall faced south and was built almost entirely of French doors, so that the view fell away to the Savannah River. The west wall held a huge fireplace. The mantel was made of marble, and it was supported by marble cherubs with gilded wings. A large oil painting of a blandly smiling woman in a ball gown hung over the mantel. Two bland blonde children leaned at her side. That half of the room was furnished with damask-covered settees, elaborately carved tables, and masses of fresh flowers: lilies, roses, lavender, and an abundance of freesia. A richly colored Oriental carpet covered the old oak floors.
The other half of the ballroom was a messy collection of big lights on tall stands, monitors, large cameras on wheels, trolleys, carts, wheelie bins, portable tables, and canvas-backed folding chairs.
Bree had expected a crowd of people, like the anthill outside.
There were only four.
Justine sat regally on a divan to the left of the fireplace. She wore a vintage Chanel suit, a large strand of pearls, and matching shoes, of the kind Francesca Beaufort always referred to as pumps. A jeweled peacock was pinned on the jacket’s lapel.
A muscular man with orange hair slouched against the east wall. It took Bree a moment to register this was the director, Phillip Mercury. The man’s peculiar orange hair, impressive biceps, and surly expression were known worldwide, thanks to the pervasiveness of Facebook and YouTube. What wasn’t as commonly known was how short he was. Not much taller than Antonia, who was five-four to Bree’s five-nine.
As Bree recognized the third person on the set, she felt a slight jolt in her midsection. Craig Oliver. She and Antonia had been nuts about him as the Bristol Blues leading character, Stone Cavendish. His eyes were a pale, almost transparent blue. His gaze was calm and direct. Bree half expected him to bark the famous catch-phrase, “Hit it!”
“He’s let his hair get gray,” Antonia hissed. “But he’s still gorgeous.”
The fourth person was the source of the smashing china. Tyra Steele. She was grabbing ceramic coffee mugs from the coffee service and smacking them onto the oak floor with the rhythmic, regulated grace of a tennis player lobbing practice balls.
She was improbably beautiful, even in the middle of an impressive rage. She had thick, glossy hair, the color of dark oak, flawless olive skin, and eyes exactly the color of the Caribbean Sea.
“Just a couple more mugs to smash,” Flurry said. “Then we can go in.”
The last mug crashed against the floor. Tyra thrust her fists into the air. Then she covered her face with her hands and bent forward at the waist. Her hair rippled to the ground. She wailed, quietly at first, and then more and more loudly until Bree wanted to clap her hands over her ears. The wail cut off suddenly.
Tyra collapsed dramatically into a broken heap and went silent.
Nobody moved. Phillip Mercury scratched his jaw. Justine glared steadily at the girl’s motionless body. After a long moment, Craig Oliver unfolded his arms and walked over to her. “Need a hand up?”
“She’s . . . she’s . . . gone.” Tyra’s voice was a mere whisper, but it was a lush resonant whisper. “For now, anyway. It’s Haydee, of course. She just won’t leave me alone.”
“She believes she’s possessed?” Bree asked Flurry quietly.
Flurry nodded. Her face was noncommittal.
“Possessed! Good grief. That’s the worst acting job I’ve ever seen. Can you say ham bone?” Antonia muttered under her breath.
“Diva,” Flurry muttered back. “Her, not you.” The two of them grinned at each other.
Tyra accepted Oliver’s outstretched hand and got lithely to her feet. She didn’t glance over at Bree and the other three women clustered in the archway, but Bree knew the actress was aware of them.
“All better now, darling?” Phillip Mercury shoved himself away from the wall and sauntered to a canvas chair with his name emblazoned on the back.
Tyra drew the back of her hand across her perfect forehead. “All better, Phillip. But maybe . . . could I have a glass of water?”
“If Haydee hasn’t broken ’em all, sure. Craig? Would you mind? As a matter of fact, why don’t you give Tyra a hand back to her trailer? Your fridge is full of Evian, Tyra, and I know how you feel about tap water. I sent the crew on break the minute Haydee showed up. We’ll get back to the scene after I have a quick story conference with Flurry. So take an hour. No more than that. Okay?”
Tyra nodded and said “okay” in a childish little voice.
Craig Oliver cast a rueful glance at Justine, who raised her hand in weary resignation. Then he supported Tyra out of the room.
Phillip Mercury waited a moment, then snapped his fingers at Flurry and called, “Come! And bring whichever one’s the lawyer with you. Boot the other two.”
“Mrs. Billingsley and I will wait outside,” Antonia said nervously. Then, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mercury!” She whispered in Bree’s ear, “I’ll just take a look around.”
“Good idea.” Bree patted her sister on the back. “Don’t go too far.”
“I’m waiting here!” Phillip Mercury called petulantly.
Bree nodded pleasantly in his direction and raised her voice a little. “I’ll speak with my client first, Mr. Mercury.”
“Is that so?” He regarded her steadily for a moment. He sucked his teeth. “Okay. So you two want to talk, no reason you can’t talk in front of me. Justine, you get over here, too.”
The elderly actress rose from the sofa with difficulty. Bree moved quickly across the set to help her up.
“I’m fine.” Justine steadied herself with one hand on the sofa. “No, I don’t need to lean on you. I sat there so long my muscles stiffened up.”
Bree put her hand under Justine’s elbow in a companionable way. “You had an accident on the set this morning?”
Justine snorted. “If you call being throttled by that lunatic girl an accident.” She sank back onto the couch.
“I thought you fell,” Bree said with concern.
“I fell this morning before I came to see you. That little hellcat tried to strangle me just minutes ago.”
Although Bree had her back to him, she knew Mercury had gotten out of his chair, moved noiselessly across the set, and stationed himself behind her.
“A little mishap with the rug?” Phillip Mercury said in her ear. “Not bloody likely. She fell over her own two feet.”
Bree straightened up in seeming surprise. “Mr. Mercury? How interesting to meet you at last.” He was too close to her. She tapped him lightly on the chest, and he took an instinctive step backwards. “Brianna Winston-Beaufort, attorney-at-law. I represent Mrs. Coville’s interests. You say there was a mishap?”
“I was shoved,” Justine said. “And it wasn’t any ghostly presence. That was Tyra, too.”
Bree sat down next to Justine. “Tyra shoved you over this morning and tried to strangle you this afternoon?”
“Yes!”
Mercury stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Tyra didn’t shove you, Justine. You got tangled up in your own feet and fell down.”
“Is that right, Phillip? And I suppose Tyra didn’t do this.” She lifted the pearls encircling her throat to show them the faint bruises there. “You have it on tape, for God’s sake!”
“Yeah, well, she got a little carried away with the role. When Haydee takes over, there’s not too much the poor girl can do, is there? Besides, people your age bruise at the drop of a beer mug, Justine. It’s a known fact. Makes you a liability to have around.”
“Is this harassment intentional, Mr. Mercury? Or is your r
udeness to my client the norm for you?”
His eyebrows rose. “Harassment. What are you talking about?”
“Your language, for a start. These accidents, too, if that’s what they actually are.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment but stood looking at her with his head tilted to one side. His eyes were small, dark brown, and definitely unfriendly. He snapped his fingers. “Flurry! Get me a chair. Bring one for yourself.”
Flurry grabbed two canvas chairs by the backs and dragged them over. Mercury positioned them directly in front of the couch. Then he sat down, his clasped hands between his knees, and leaned forward. “What I want to know,” he said in a low voice, “is how the heck you do that?”
Bree raised an eyebrow.
“You know. That I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass-from-here-to-Topeka look. As far as I can tell, you didn’t move a muscle. But you are the scariest beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve gone head-to-head with Angelina. And that silver hair.” He reached forward. Bree grabbed him by the wrist before he could touch her. “Ouch! Okay! Lemme go! I’m backing off.” He grinned cockily at her. “I give, okay?” He rubbed his wrist. “Quite a grip you’ve got, darlin’. Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?”
Bree smiled back. “All I need is a moment with my client.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You got it, then.” He got to his feet with a grunt of effort.
“There is just one more thing,” Bree said.
“I’m too young to have worked on Columbo, but I’ll fall for it anyway. What is it?”
“Your star, Tyra Steele. She thinks she’s possessed by the spirit of Haydee Quinn?”
“She is possessed by the spirit of Haydee Quinn. You haven’t kept up your National Enquirer subscription or you wouldn’t have to ask.”
Bree searched his face. His tone was jocular, but there was a definite unease at the back of his eyes. “You believe that?”
“You saw for yourself.”
“I saw a temper tantrum. I’m not sure I saw a case of possession.”
“Hey. Gotta believe in my star.”
Bree couldn’t help a cynical laugh. “A case of possession would be good publicity for your movie.”
Flurry made a sound of disgust.
Mercury laughed. “Might be. If we were making a different kind of movie.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But to tell you the absolute truth, I’d rather she’d haunt somewhere else. You don’t happen to know any good exorcists, do you?”
Flurry snorted again. “Come on, Phillip. We’ve had this discussion before.” She looked at Bree in appeal. “I am not, I repeat, not putting a woo-woo slant on this movie. I don’t care what kind of ratings it’ll bring in. This movie—and the book I’m writing—take a credible, serious look at a major injustice. We’re going for the awards with this one, Phil. You promised me.”
“Yeah. I did. But who knew?”
“I agree with Flurry,” Justine said. “All this hocuspocus. It’s nonsense. That idiot girl is playing right into your bias, Phillip, and you can’t see it.”
“This isn’t about Tyra necessarily,” Mercury said.
“This is all about Tyra.” Justine’s cheeks were flushed.
“I’m not sure I have a clear picture of the problem,” Bree said. “What is this about exactly?”
“I bring my movies in on budget and on time,” Mercury said. “This movie is over budget and late. That’s usually the director’s fault. This time it isn’t. Someone’s engaging in sabotage. Might be Haydee. Might not.” He glanced at Justine and away again, so quickly that Bree almost didn’t catch it.
“Why?” Bree said.
“Why?”
Bree waited.
“Somebody hates my guts, is why. Tyra says it’s Haydee. Haydee doesn’t like the script.” He ran his hands through his hair. Bree wondered what drugs his hair stylist was on. The orange color was truly bizarre. “And since I’m responsible for the movie, she’s after me. The investors hate my guts too.” His face sagged. “Everybody hates my guts. But the only person who hates my guts enough to want to destroy my film is Haydee Quinn. Everybody else has money riding on it.”
Flurry sighed. “Phillip, your reputation is going to survive a two-million-dollar debacle, if this in fact turns into a debacle, which it won’t. No.” Her expression darkened. “No. The obvious answer is usually the right one. If anyone’s trying to sabotage this movie, it’s the Bullochs.”
“The daughters of Alexander and the granddaughters of Consuelo,” Justine said with a rather grand air.
“You wouldn’t believe the ton of research I did for this script,” Flurry said. “It’s a terrific story. Just terrific. The Bullochs are petrified that my work could force the powers that be to reopen the case.”
“That’d create a sensation of sorts, I suppose,” Bree offered.
“You see, they executed the wrong man.” Flurry jumped out of her chair and began to pace up and down. “I spent an entire year looking up old court records, the old police file, and all the old evidence. I even found an old guy that actually worked on the case. Robert E. Lee Kowalski. He was Eddie O’Malley’s sergeant. O’Malley was the cop that forced a confession out of Bagger Bill Norris. Kowalski’s parked out in a nursing home near Tybee Island.” She smacked her hand into her fist. “He’s, like, a hundred and three, or something, but he remembers the case like it was yesterday. I’ve been to see him a few times, and I’m going to see him a couple more.”
“Ninety-two,” Mercury said. “Kowalski’s ninety-two.”
Flurry had the light of a crusader in her eye. “There were payoffs. Bribes in the right places. They railroaded Bagger Bill Norris right into the electric chair. All so the real killer could go free.”
Bree was momentarily at sea. “Bagger Bill was . . .”
“The murderer,” Justine said tartly. “Owner of the Tropicana Tide nightclub. Unless you made that up, too, Flurry. I’m from Savannah myself, and I don’t remember ever hearing a thing about it.”
“That’s because you weren’t from the wrong side of the tracks,” Flurry said flippantly. “Norris was Haydee’s pimp,” Flurry said to Bree. “Not a role model for your children or mine, but he didn’t kill Haydee. I mean, why off the goose that laid the golden egg?”
“So who was the real killer?” Bree was interested in spite of herself.
“Consuelo Bulloch.” Flurry sat down with an air of triumph. “Alexander’s nasty mother.”
“Nonsense,” Justine said. “Utter nonsense.”
Bree raised her eyebrows. “You can prove this, Flurry?”
“No. Not yet. I’m close. But I’m going to. It’s all going to be in the book.”
“Does your movie directly accuse Consuelo of the murder? If it does, I can see why the Bullochs are upset.”
“It does not,” Mercury said flatly. “The ending’s ambiguous. My movie is a hell of a meditation on illusion and the nature of truth. Which is why this whole business about Haydee’s spirit is such a grabber.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me there,” Bree admitted.
“Phillip’s theory is Haydee’s looking for justice. That she’s trying to communicate with us through Tyra, to help us find the real killer.” Flurry snorted. “Why doesn’t she communicate with me, if she wants to get the record straight? I mean, Tyra’s IQ isn’t much higher than room temperature. You’d think a spirit would want a smarter medium.”
Bree looked at Justine, who gave her a who-knows, who-cares sort of shrug. Then she looked at Flurry. “When does the spirit of Haydee appear? Does it ever happen when Tyra’s alone?”
Flurry grinned. “Tyra doesn’t do much of anything without an audience. Why don’t you ask her?”
“I might,” Bree admitted, “if you don’t mind. I’m quite concerned about my client’s well-being.”
Justine touched the bruises darkening her throat. “I don’t believe in spiri
ts. What I do believe is that little jumped-up tart is out to get me. If you would just—”
“Tyra’s not out to get you,” Mercury said with elaborate patience. “We’ve been through this before, and I’m getting goddam good and sick of it. These fits . . . well . . . she doesn’t have any more control over them than I do. Maybe it’s Haydee’s spirit, maybe not. I’m thinking that if it is, we’ve got one hell of an ending for the movie.”
Justine trembled with indignation. “Tyra’s no more possessed than I am.”
Bree decided nothing would be gained by avoiding the question. “Why? Why is Tyra out to get you in particular? Or has Tyra exhibited this behavior with other people?”
“As far as I can tell, it only happens when she’s in character as Haydee,” Flurry said. “And no, the behavior isn’t directed solely at Consuelo. She did her best to take a piece out of Craig Oliver’s ear the other day . . .”
“Which means I’ve got to shoot him in profile until the bite marks disappear,” Mercury said. “He’s playing O’Malley. He carries a lot of the movie. It’s a giant pain in the ass.”
“. . . He plays Lieutenant O’Malley, the cop who solved the case,” Flurry said, as if Mercury hadn’t spoken. “Then Tyra whacked Hatch Lewis with a cue stick in one of the bar scenes. He plays Alexander Bulloch, her lover.”
“Which put Hatch out of commission for a week,” Mercury said. “Kid needs to man up.”
Hatch Lewis was equally famous for his action roles and his partying. Bree devoutly hoped Antonia didn’t run into him.
“It’s directed at me,” Justine said stubbornly. “All this animus is to get me off this movie.”
Mercury smirked. “Justine, sweetie, like every actor I’ve ever met, it’s always all about you. Listen.” He crouched down next to her chair. “You need to give serious thought to whether this is the right role for you. Talk to your lawyer about it. Tell her what we’re offering you. I’m not going to hold out the big bucks for long.” He gave Bree a considering look. “And I might have to get my legal eagles in from LA. You never know. That’s gonna end up costing you a bomb.” Mercury got to his feet, pulled out his cell phone, glanced at the time, and muttered, “Shit! You’re wasting my time here, people. I’m at my trailer in ten, Flurry. I want those new pages stat. Justine, try to be ready to reshoot this scene in thirty. By the way, Justine, if you don’t turn over that damn peacock pin, I’m going to rip it off you myself.”
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