Angel's Verdict

by Stanton, Mary

  “There’s a little fruit and cheese for you right over there,” Stubblefield said. “Tiffany?” He patted the receptionist’s rear end. “Be a good girl and fix a plate for Mrs. Waterman.”

  Tiffany dimpled prettily and went over to the kitchen island. Payton gave her a big smile and brushed up against her breasts as she took a small plate from the stack next to the fruit bowl.

  So what’s with this guy getting away with patting a woman on the butt?

  “Dent,” Bree said. “Dammit. Not now.”

  It’s the fact the guy’s got bucks, right?

  “I said not now, Dent!”

  Sammi-Rose looked at her with arrogant distaste. Stubblefield looked amused. Bree covered her mouth with her hand and scribbled aimlessly on her yellow pad.

  One rule for the high rollers, and one for all the rest of it.

  Bree dropped her pen and smacked her temple with the heel of her hand. “Will you just cut it out?”

  “Sammi-Rose,” Stubblefield said, “I’d like you to meet Brianna Winston-Beaufort. The next time you see Justine, you might comment on the professional quality of her counsel.”

  “Sorry,” Bree said. She gestured vaguely at her ear. “Earache.”

  Samantha’s smile was meaner than Stubblefield’s. She accepted the plate of fruit Tiffany handed to her, picked over the grapes and the cantaloupe, and handed back the plate. “I don’t eat watermelon. I’d appreciate it if you’d slice up the other fruit a bit more.” She narrowed her eyes at Stubblefield. “Did she bring the brooch?”

  Stubblefield looked at Bree. “She brought the brooch.”

  She snapped her fingers. “I want to see it.”

  Bree opened her briefcase and held up the jeweled pin. The overhead lights struck small rainbows from the diamonds. “Is this the brooch? You can identify it?”

  “Of course I can. It’s a Louis Comfort Tiffany. An original.”

  “Thank you.” Bree put it back in the briefcase and snapped it shut.

  Sammi-Rose looked directly at her for the first time. “That’s mine,” she snarled.

  “It’s not yours,” Bree said cordially. “It’s your grandmother’s.”

  “My grandmother—bless her heart—passed a long time ago. And she left that brooch to the family. That old bitch got her hands on it, stole it, and we want it back.”

  Bree cut her eyes at Stubblefield. “Consuelo Bulloch’s last will and testament directed that she be buried with the brooch.”

  Stubblefield smiled a little.

  “Your grandmother’s buried at Belle Glade. I’ve got the brooch. Which means it’s not in the casket.”

  “So?” Apparently Tiffany had cut the fruit into sufficiently small pieces. Sammi-Rose picked up a square of melon and chewed it. “It would have been ridiculous to bury that fine a piece.”

  Bree stretched back in the chair. “Whoever decided to keep the jewel committed grand felony theft.”

  Sammi-Rose stopped chewing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Can you tell me who made the decision not to inter the brooch with Consuelo’s body?”

  Stubblefield spoke up. “She’s not going to answer that, are you, Samantha?”

  “I guess not.” Sammi-Rose put another piece of melon in her mouth and chewed mechanically. Bree thought she was worried, but it was hard to tell. Botox took her Aunt Cissy the same way.

  “It’s the duty of the executor of the estate to pursue this,” Bree said. “I’m afraid until it’s resolved, the executor will have custody of the peacock.”

  “The executor?” Sammi-Rose pushed the plate aside and stood up. “That’s all right, then. My father was the executor of Grandmother’s estate. And he was the one who decided what a waste it’d be to bury it with the old cat anyhow.”

  “Your father was co-executor,” Bree corrected her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stubblefield frown suddenly. “And your father was derelict in his duty, I’m afraid. Which is another kettle of fish altogether.” Bree jumped to her feet. “I’ll leave you and Mr. Stubblefield to hash this over, Mrs. Waterman. In the meantime, the brooch remains with me.”

  “God damn it,” Stubblefield hissed. “You’re going to regret this.”

  Sammi-Rose’s face flushed red. “You can’t just let her walk right out of here. That pin is worth twenty thousand dollars.”

  “And a beautiful piece to boot.” Bree reached the door, opened it, and paused on her way out. “You haven’t asked, John, but it is pretty obvious. You should have read Consuelo’s will more carefully. Whatever else you are, you’re a capable man, so I’ll cut you some slack and assume that you had someone else do it for you.” She very pointedly avoided looking at Payton. “There’s a reason why he’s not looking too pleased, Mrs. Waterman. The law firm of Franklin Winston-Beaufort was your grandmother’s co-executor, too. She chose him because he helped your father through a rough patch after the Haydee Quinn murder. My great-uncle, bless his heart, turned his legal obligations over to me when I took over his practice. Which is why I have the brooch, will keep the brooch, and will dispose of the brooch according to the rule of law. I’ll let you know what the courts decide about the disposition of your grandmother’s property. I’m going to petition that it be reburied with her.” She touched her brow in a half salute. “See ya!”

  Bree jogged up the four flights of stairs to her own office, reflecting there were few things as satisfying as a complete (admittedly temporary) victory over chiselers and cheats. EB would enjoy the story. EB would also remind her that the Bullochs in general and Stubblefield in particular were bad enemies to have.

  Except EB wasn’t there. It was after two o’clock. EB went home at noon. The Bay Street practice was still too new to carry a full-time assistant—other than Justine Coville, the only other clients Bree had were clients who’d already made out their wills. Bree stood in the middle of the room and tried to look at the room through the eyes of a prospective client.

  A bamboo screen split the room into two parts; the two-thirds in front held EB’s desk and her computer, three gray metal filing cabinets containing Franklin’s old files and Bree’s very few new ones, and a visitor’s chair. Bree’s desk was behind the screen, set under the double-hung window that looked out over Bay Street. The carpeting was the standard industrial type that Bree mentally thought of as “no color,” just like the walls. All the furniture was secondhand—maybe even third. EB had picked it up from Second Hand Rows down on Whitaker Street. Paint, pictures, plants, Bree thought. When she had time.

  She sat down at her desk to pick up her messages. There was a note in EB’s distinctive handwriting:Went through the storage cabinet. Found transcript of December 13th 1952 file on Alexander Bulloch. Ron came to pick up. Left case file for you to read before you meet Florida Smith at 7:00 p.m. What a nice smile that boy has. Calls from Lt. Hunter—please call back. Dent wants to see you. Heard from Ron you’d be here today so I told him stop by. See you tomorrow I hope.—EB

  The transcript of the sanity hearing was on top of the pile. Bree picked it up, surprised to discover she was nervous. Her memories of Franklin were good ones. She had known him as a tall, rather reserved man with a mane of white hair and a deep, resonant voice. She was about to see him again, through his words on the pages she held.

  She reviewed the list of witnesses first. The consulting MD was a Dr. Pythias Warren. Bree frowned. He was a GP. His credentials didn’t include psychiatry. The presiding judge was a man she’d heard about but who’d died long before she was born: Bulwar Kinney. She was vague about his reputation, but undoubtedly he would have been part of the city’s Old Guard. The Kinney family certainly was.

  Eddie O’Malley was listed as a witness. He’d been part of the team that had arrested Alex’s pitiful journey with the burning cart.

  The witness testimony about Alex’s behavior after Haydee’s death was consistent. He was tragically distraught. Consuelo, Alexander senior, Dr. Warren—their testimony di
dn’t have the sameness of agreed-upon lies. Alex wept, scarified his face and chest with a table knife, couldn’t sleep, and then, finally, relapsed into a sort of stupor, neither eating nor responding to the people around him. It made Bree’s eyes sting with tears just reading about it. It must have been horrible in the courtroom.

  She came to Alex’s own testimony:JUDGE KINNEY: You say that Miss Quinn asked you to purify her, Mr. Bulloch? How did she come to do that?

  DEFENDANT BULLOCH: She called to me.

  JUDGE KINNEY: She called you? Where did she call you from, son?

  DEFENDANT BULLOCH: In my room. She was in my room. At night. With her hair down. Calling me.

  JUDGE KINNEY: This was the night of July 3?

  DEFENDANT BULLOCH: No response. Weeping.

  JUDGE KINNEY: She came to you the night of July 3?

  DEFENDANT BULLOCH: In my bed! In my bed!

  Bree set the transcript aside. No real answers there. Tyra Steele’s behavior had put paid to the notion that Haydee’s spirit had returned to seek justice. The young actress may have fooled herself into thinking she was possessed, but Bree was willing to bet most of her sorry bank account that that notion would disappear once the Facebook fans lost interest. As for a ghostly appearance in Alex Bulloch’s room all those years ago?

  Maybe.

  She picked up the thick manila packet that contained the downloads from the Internet. There were three separate bundles inside, labeled MURDER, BEFORE, and AFTER. She picked up the MURDER file first. The lead story was from the Savannah Daily News dated July 1, 1952:GRUESOME DISCOVERY IN RIVER! Haydee Quinn Found Stabbed Beautiful Danseuse Dies of Wounds!

  The photographs attached to the story were typical of the time. There was a smeary black-and-white shot of the riverbank, showing the old pier and the blurred outline of the opposite shore. A white arrow pointed to an area in the water just beyond where the Savannah Tourist Bureau was now.

  The photograph that really drew Bree’s interest was of Haydee herself. It was a black-and-white head shot, obviously a studio pose for publicity purposes. Haydee looked into the camera over her left shoulder. Her hair was dark, coiled on top of her head. She wore a jeweled cap, with feathers sweeping down her cheek to the tip of her chin. Her eyes were light—someone, it might have been Justine, had said they were blue. Bree was willing to bet her eyelashes were fake; they were too thick and lush to be natural. Her lips were distinctive; she had a triangular smile with a seductive curl that reminded Bree of the actress Vivien Leigh in the old movie Gone with the Wind.

  Below the head shot was a photograph of Haydee in full theatrical costume. She wore a net bodysuit covered with spangles. She looked a little chubby to Bree’s eyes and definitely underexercised. But she supposed beauty standards in the Cold War era had differed from those now. And in any era, her face was dazzling.

  The article stated the facts right up front. An early morning fisherman cast his line over the banks. The hook caught in Haydee’s hair. As soon as he realized what was on the other end of the line, the dismayed fisherman ran for the beat policeman, Patrolman Herbert Wilson. Bleeding and unconscious, Haydee was pulled from the river. An ambulance rushed her to Savannah General Hospital. Every effort was made to save her, but she died of a dozen wounds to the chest six hours later.

  The articles subsequent to the discovery of the victim herself concerned the police investigation. Haydee was the star attraction at a nightclub called the Tropicana Tide in the docks area east of Old Savannah. Shipping was a dying industry at the time, but the area was home to what the newspaper referred to as “the rougher elements of our fair city.” (Bree was struck with the reticent tone of the reporting when it came to sex and drugs.) Her manager, a “notorious gangster, three times convicted of illegal gambling,” was Dysart William Norris, known as Bagger Bill. A helpful sidebar indicated that he’d come by this nickname after running numbers for “gentlemen from up North.” Bagger Bill was suspected of the crime almost immediately by “our fair city’s crack homicide team,” Lt. Edward O’Malley and Sgt. Robert E. Lee Kowalski.

  There was a black-and-white photograph of O’Malley—Dent, to her—and another of a square-jawed man with slicked-back hair. Bree examined the picture of Dent closely. This was an official police photo taken in a studio, like Haydee’s. It showed a younger Dent, with a lot more hair, staring directly at the camera. Florida Smith must have come across this photograph, too. But most of the lenses at the time flattened faces out and added weight to their frames. It would have taken a highly skilled professional a lot of fiddling to get a genuinely representational portrait. And by the time Dent died in the car crash years later, alcohol had taken its toll on his face.

  Two days after Haydee’s death at the hospital, O’Malley and Kowalski charged Bagger Bill with the first-degree murder of Haydee Quinn. In the statement given to the press, the police claimed Norris was found dead drunk with “blood on his hands” and a knife at his side. According to the bartender at the Tropicana Tide, the accused and the victim had a “knock-down, drag-out set-to” the night before Haydee was found in the river.

  After undergoing extensive interrogation, Norris confessed. A few weeks later, he recanted his confession, and ultimately went to the chair loudly claiming his innocence.

  Confessed.

  Bree sat back and thought about this. There was no mention of the accuser’s lawyer until some weeks after the murder. The police weren’t required to Mirandize suspects until 1964. As far as police interrogation techniques at the time, there was a lot less oversight than there was now.

  She wondered if Dent had been capable of beating a false confession out of William Norris.

  Bree paged through the rest of the articles, pausing at the news stories about Alexander Bulloch’s tragic odyssey on the riverbank. The stories were remarkably restrained. Maybe not so remarkably, Bree thought, since the Bulloch family was reverently referred to when they were referred to at all. There were no photographs of Alexander himself, although Petru had researched a picture of Consuelo. Bree found it a little eerie to see a temporal representation of her client. The woman was quite thin, with a tight mouth and an even tighter perm. The peacock pin rode high on her right shoulder, fastened to the collar of her prim dress. The small headline below her picture read, Mrs. Alexander Bulloch at the Red Cross Relief Fund-Raiser. Bree studied Consuelo’s face. She certainly didn’t look like a woman who would welcome the lush curves of Haydee Quinn at her dinner table. She recalled the charges that had sent her client to Hell: spite, malice, bigotry, treachery. Yes, that face looked capable of all those behaviors. But murder?

  On an impulse, Bree took the peacock jewel from her briefcase and held it between her palms.

  “Mrs. Bulloch?”

  A faint sigh went around the room. The blinds at the window stirred, although there was no breeze.

  “Mrs. Bulloch?”

  Somebody rapped on the office door. Bree, absorbed in the frustrating task of summoning her client, thought for a wild moment it was Mrs. Bulloch herself, released from the Sphere.

  It wasn’t.

  Eight

  There’s husbandry in heaven,

  Their candles are all out.

  —Macbeth, William Shakespeare

  “Oh,” Bree said. “It’s you, Dent.”

  “Got a minute?” He stepped into the office. He held his driver’s hat in one hand.

  “Sure. Come in.” She gestured at the visitor’s chair. “Have a seat.”

  “This your office?” He looked around at the bare walls and the sparse furniture. “Business doesn’t look too good.”

  “It’ll be even worse if you keep bouncing into my head at inopportune moments. I behaved like an idiot this morning.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “I mean that episode this morning. In John Stubblefield’s office? In front of Sammi-Rose Waterman?” She thought a moment and then added indignantly. “Not to mention Payton the Rat.”

  Hi
s brow cleared. “Oh. You mean the ass-grabbing incident. Yeah, well, it’s something I want you to keep in mind.”

  “That you want me to keep in mind?” Then, she added automatically, “Please don’t call women’s asses, asses. It’s demean—oh forget it. Just what am I supposed to keep in mind?”

  “That there’s a standard for the muckety-mucks and a standard for the rest of us down here.” He pursed his lips. “Thing is, you’re one of the muckety-mucks, so . . .”

  “Dent!” Bree took a breath, stared down at her knees, and counted backwards from ten. “Okay. So you’ve got a self-esteem problem. I’m your sponsor, right? It’s one of the things we can work on. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident,’ remember? ‘That all men are created equal?’”

  “Except some are more equal than others.” Dent wasn’t smiling. “Look, I want to go out and see Bobby Lee and I want you to come with me.”

  “Sergeant Kowalski?” Bree glanced at her watch. “Not enough time today. I’ve arranged to meet Flurry Smith at seven tonight, and I’m hoping that she’ll have a lot of useful information. But let’s talk about the case a little bit, shall we? We can make up a list of questions for him. I’ll make sure we see him tomorrow or the day after, at the very latest.” She pulled a legal pad from her desk drawer and headed it SUSPECTS. “Now, I know you think you don’t remember a lot about the case, but I’d like to try.”

  “I was drinking then. A lot.”

  “So you told me. But it’s not a total blur, is it?” The newspaper photograph of Lt. Edward O’Malley was on top of the pile of papers on her desk. “You remember this?”