Angel's Verdict

by Stanton, Mary

  “They’ve arrested Mrs. Waterman for the murder of Florida Smith?” Bree said.

  Officer Arnold clammed up. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am. Lieutenant Hunter wants to have a word before I take you home. You can ask him.”

  “Hang on a second.” Bree swung her legs to the floor and tried the door handle. It was locked. “Hey,” Bree said. “Would you let me out, please?”

  “Sorry. The lieutenant doesn’t want any civilians at the scene.”

  “You’ve got civilians all over the scene,” Bree said furiously. “Either arrest me, Officer Arnold, or let me out. You can’t do this.” She whacked her hands on the glass. “Right now!”

  “She giving you a little trouble, Arnie?” Hunter opened the back door. “I didn’t give in to the temptation to leave you standing on one leg at the end of the street, but right now, right here, I’m asking myself why the hell not.”

  Bree glared at him.

  Hunter didn’t twitch. “Arn?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get yourself a cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, sir.” Officer Arnold touched her finger to her Stetson. “Ma’am. Pleasure driving you.” Then she ambled off in the direction of the clam bucket restaurant.

  “Pleasure driving me? Was she being Southern-polite or sarcastic?”

  “Since she’s from Detroit, I hazard a guess at the latter. Come on, Bree. Move over.” He eased in beside her and took her hand in his. “This is a bad business. You’re in no shape to take it on.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He cocked his head. His eyes were gray, with fine wrinkles at the corners. He looked older than he was; most cops did. Sometimes, Bree thought she might love him. Sometimes she thought she could never love anyone, given the job she had to do. Mostly, she wasn’t sure. “You don’t look as bad as you might.” He touched a finger to her cheek. “You’re peeling.”

  “Really?” She strained to catch a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. “Yikes. So I am.”

  “You’ve made a remarkable recovery. No doubt about it. But it’s a little soon to be back in the game, don’t you think?”

  “What I think is, I’m capable of making that decision myself.”

  “Fair enough. So what’s with the intemperate invasion of my crime scene?”

  “Intemperate?” she flashed.

  “Yep. As in ill-considered. What’s your real interest in this case?”

  I’m trying to solve a sixty-year-old murder on behalf of my client, who’s been dead for more than thirty years wasn’t going to cut it. “Florida Smith was a friend of mine. And a client.” Bree thought a bit and improvised. “She had me on retainer to defend her against the Bulloch lawsuit.”

  “I thought the Bitter Tide attorneys would take care of that.”

  “As far as the script is concerned, of course. Flurry was worried about the book deal.”

  “Wouldn’t her publisher pay for her defense?”

  “She had an advance, Hunter. She didn’t want anything to jeopardize publication. It was her first big break.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Was she murdered, Hunter?”

  “I don’t know. I won’t know until the results of the autopsy are in.”

  “But you arrested Mrs. Waterman.”

  “Mrs. Waterman arrived on the set this morning about nine thirty, with her lawyer, John Stubblefield, and an injunction to stop filming Bitter Tide. She got into a shouting match with Florida Smith and assaulted her.”

  “With what?”

  “She picked up a folding chair and hit Ms. Smith on the back of the head.”

  Bree’s hand went to the back of her own head. The area was still tender. And she was really angry about the shaved patch at the base of her skull. Criminals were known to stick with the same MO. Maybe Sammi-Rose had clocked her after all. “Is the back of the victim’s head a usual target for Mrs. Waterman?”

  Hunter’s smile was faint, but his eyes were cold. “That possibility occurred to me. Florida left to get a cold compress. She wasn’t seen again until they pulled her out of the river at ten fifteen.”

  “Did anyone go with Florida, to give her a hand?”

  “Two of the grips. Mercury’s got a trailer here. The grips—Grant Thomas and Hudson James—got her settled with an ice pack and offered to call the paramedics. Florida said she was fine. They left her there.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’re interviewing the cast and crew, one by one. So far, no one admits to seeing her between the time the grips left her at the trailer and the time she was found in the river.”

  “Could she have been disoriented? Wandered off and fallen in, then been unable to get out again?”

  “It’s possible. You’re thinking like a defense lawyer. Anything’s possible at this point. I don’t have the autopsy results back, we aren’t finished with the interviews, and we don’t have enough information.”

  Bree scratched irritably at the top of the cast.

  “You need a knitting needle,” Hunter said.

  “So Ron tells me. Sam, you must have a theory of the case. What do you think?”

  “My gut tells me it’s murder.”

  “I think so, too.” She glanced at him. His eyes were on his team. They were moving methodically through the crowd of restless cast and crew members, taking names, statements. “Why? Her death isn’t going to stop the movie going forward. It might not even stop the book. She had a first draft. She told me so. If it’s in decent shape, her publisher could hire another writer to finish it off.”

  “If they find it,” Hunter said. “We searched her trailer. Her laptop, her zip files, her CD files. They’re all missing.”

  Fourteen

  Rest, rest, perturbed spirit.

  —Hamlet, William Shakespeare

  Bree sat and stared at the whiteboard in the meeting room at the Angelus Street office. She’d added a question mark above her previously scrawled 4:30 a.m.: Haydee’s body discovered in the river, and it seemed to leer at her. What had happened between Haydee’s running out of the bar at one thirty and her being pulled from the river at four thirty? “I’m missing something here,” Bree said aloud.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of it,” Lavinia said placidly. Her gnarled fingers whipped rapidly along. She was knitting a cardigan out of soft violet wool. Bree’s request to borrow a knitting needle had reminded her of the unfinished project. Her skin had taken on a faint, bronze glow, as if she were lit from within. She looked happy, and it eased Bree’s heart.

  “I looked through all of the police documents available at the time,” Ron said. “Florida Smith didn’t miss a thing.”

  “It would be more accurate to say that there is nothing in the police files that is not in the deceased’s files. Those that we have in our possession,” Petru corrected him.

  Bree scratched at her cast with the knitting needle. Her team politely avoided looking at her. “Nothing about a possible witness to Haydee’s whereabouts after she left the Tropicana?”

  “Notes of the persons interviewed only.” Petru drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “That scratching is most annoying, my dear.”

  “Sorry.” Bree tucked the needle into the tote at her side.

  “As far as this current case is concerned, Lieutenant Hunter is of the opinion that Florida’s death was motivated by a desire to stop the publication of the book?” Petru asked.

  “If she fell into the river because Sammi-Rose gave her a concussion when she smacked her over the head with that chair, it sure was. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he’s thinking a manslaughter charge, for sure. And maybe that’s what it is.” Bree rubbed her forehead. “Maybe I’m totally off base about this. Maybe it’s not murder.”

  “Could be. You’re still recovering from your own concussion,” Ron said cheerily. “All of Flurry’s original files have been stolen. If she was murdered, whoever did it doesn’t know that we have copies.”

 
; “That lets out just about everybody,” Bree said crossly. “All of our possible suspects—Waterman, Cicerone, White, Mercury, Stubblefield, and even Justine were in B. Matthew’s the night Flurry handed over the stuff to Dent and me. For all they knew, a copy of the manuscript was with it.”

  “And all of those suspects were present this morning,” Ron said. “Why look for intelligent conduct from a killer?”

  Bree stared at him. “Now, that’s given me an idea.”

  “I don’t see why it should,” Petru said with a look of slight disapproval. “The evidence we do have points to a person who thinks logically, albeit with immoral ruthlessness.”

  “Something must have happened yesterday,” Bree said. “Flurry turned something up. I wish I’d answered her call last night.”

  “She called you?” Ron said.

  “Left a message on my cell phone. I figured I’d call her back sometime today.” Bree rubbed her eyes. She wanted to cry with frustration.

  Lavinia tilted her head, as if listening to something only she could hear. “I do believe Mr. Dent is outside.”

  “Is it time to go see Kowalski already? All right.” Bree heaved herself to her feet. She needed something solid to do. Something that would give her some facts. It was way past time to see Kowalski. The missing witness was a solid lead, and with just a little bit of luck, Kowalski could get her further ahead.

  “He’s going out to see his old friend at last?” Lavinia asked.

  “It’s more than that, I think. He feels awfully guilty about the way he treated Kowalski when they were on the force together. I spent a little time last night thinking about how to help Dent with that, and I believe I’ve found an answer. So we’ll see.”

  “But you are going to inquire from him about this missing witness,” Petru asked.

  “You bet I am. I hope we get some kind of lead. It’s about time we had a break in the case. Speaking of the case ... Ron, I want to find out where Florida was yesterday, all day, and all the time.”

  “Sunday?” Lavinia murmured. “I hope the child was in church.”

  “If she was, I hope it wasn’t an all-day service.” Bree slung her tote strap around her neck and started out the door. “That last night at B. Matthew’s, Flurry kept saying she needed a last little bit of proof, right? Maybe she found it. And if she found it, so can we.”

  “I take it you got Dixie back home without any trouble.” Bree adjusted her cast so that it was elevated on her tote. The whole leg throbbed, the knee worst of all.

  “Depends on what you call trouble.” Dent had written out directions to the Sweet Briar Adult Care Facility on his lap. His refusal to use the GPS system in Bree’s car was absolute. “The only woman I ever met who talked as much as she does was my ex-wife.”

  “You were married?”

  “Before the war,” Dent said curtly. “She wasn’t long on patience. Wasn’t there when I was shipped home.” He shrugged. “Happened to a lot of guys.”

  Bree wanted to ask what had happened to her, if Dent had any children, if he still missed her. She didn’t.

  “She did tell me why her family hates Justine so much.”

  “I figured it was part of the Bullochs’ total harassment plan. Stop the movie, stop the book, and get the actress playing their mother fired. There’s more?”

  “Justine worked for the Bullochs. Did you know that?”

  Bree was taken aback. “Justine Coville? When was this?”

  “The mid ’70s. Dixie’s recall isn’t much to write home about. She says Justine left Savannah to make it big on the New York stage, ended up broke, and came back to Savannah with her tail between her legs. Mrs. Bulloch took her on as sort of a secretary. Dixie says her mamma remembers that the family treated her like a queen. They lived out near Rattigan’s old mansion at the time. Dixie said it was gorgeous. There was some kind of horse house out back that Justine lived in.”

  “Horse house?” Bree said. “Do you mean a carriage house?”

  “That’s it. Mrs. Bulloch had been sick sometime before Justine showed up. Bad heart. The daughters ’bout run themselves ragged lookin’ after her, and then Justine took over taking care of the old lady.” He snorted. “That nursing didn’t last too long. A week or so after Justine came in, Mrs. Bulloch ended up falling in the bathtub and eventually dying from the effects of the fall. Justine took off right away for Hollywood. Left the family high and dry at the worst possible time, Dixie said. Sammi-Rose never forgave her, either. They were just kids at the time. Dixie thinks maybe six or seven years old. Dixie’s mamma, the woman Alexander married after Haydee died in ’52, ended up nursing Mrs. Bulloch right through to the end, which wasn’t long in coming after that fall. Liked to have killed Dixie’s mamma, all that nursing. Dixie thinks maybe it did. Her mamma keeled over from a heart attack at a Stuckey’s just after Dixie went into middle school, and they figured Consuelo had just wore her heart right out. The old lady was pretty demanding. Anyhow, there’s no love lost over Consuelo, that’s clear as crystal. They slung her body into the cheapest cemetery they could find, out to Belle Glade, and that was that.”

  “Oh dear.” Belle Glade was where Haydee was buried. What was it Justine had said? With an angel watching over her tomb. Bree had a brief vision of the two bitter enemies lying side by side in their graves. Ugh.

  “Families,” Dent said. “They’ll kill you, if you let them. I told Dixie that you just have to rise above. It’s all there in Step Four.” He braked at a red light and looked at the directions in his lap. “We’re on Skidaway. We take a left here, go down a quarter of a mile, and that should be it.”

  “GPS is much easier, Dent. There’s a little voice that tells you exactly where to go.”

  “I got enough little voices telling me exactly where to go.”

  They rolled along in silence for a bit. The area was what real estate people called “mixed use.” They passed a strip mall containing an auto parts store, a Denny’s restaurant, and a Michaels craft shop. A development of small, one-story frame houses was next. Then on the east side of the road, a group of low, pale yellow buildings sprawled out just beyond a sign bearing their collective name.

  “Sweet Briar,” Dent said, and turned into the parking lot. He drew the car into an open space near the front door and killed the engine. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he said after a long moment. The shrubbery around the buildings was well tended, and the grass was clipped. A threat of rain hung in the overcast sky, but somehow, the surroundings weren’t at all somber.

  “You haven’t been to see Kowalski before?”

  “I’ve been putting it off.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I owe him a lot. He wasn’t the kind of guy who tolerates drunks. But he put up with it. Kept the heat from the brass off me when he could. I’m trying to figure out a way to make amends in a quiet way. Can’t let him know I’m back, of course, and he wouldn’t believe it anyway. But it’d be nice to get his forgiveness.”

  Bree noticed Dent’s hands were trembling. “How old is he now?”

  “Ninety-two.”

  “We’ve got an excellent reason to see him. We’re following up on Florida’s visit. I read her interview notes. She thought he was in pretty good shape. I know what I want to do. I want to ask him about that missing witness, and hope like heck he remembers. So we’ll start with that. Have you got any ideas about how to bring the conversation around to what you want to do?”

  Dent chewed his lower lip.

  “I do. I’ve been thinking about it.” Bree reached into her tote and pulled out an envelope. “Write him a note. Tell him your father was a Marine Corps buddy of Dent’s who was asked to go through Dent’s effects when he died, and he found this letter. Tell him when your father died a few months ago, he passed the note on to you.”

  Dent scowled. “He’s not going to buy that. He’s ninety-two, but he’s a ninety-two-year-old cop. He’s going to know I wrote the note.”

  “My grandmother kept a day journal most of
her life. I took a blank page from the back. This paper is old.” She shook it out of the envelope and smoothed it out on her knee. It was a heavy rag-content paper, with the soft, yellow patina that only comes with years. Dent picked it up and rubbed the worn surface with his thumb. “Franklin left all his effects to me when he died—including a fountain pen. If you use that, it will look old, too. It might work, Dent. Can’t hurt to try. I’ll go on ahead to reception and make sure that he can see us today. You think about that note.” She dropped the fountain pen on the dashboard and went into the building.

  The door was handicapped accessible, for which she was grateful. She tapped the red button for the automatic door and walked through into a quiet, carpeted space with a small reception center in the middle of the foyer. A neatly dressed, middle-aged woman looked up with a smile as Bree hopped in. “Can I give you a hand there?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Bree paused to take in her surroundings. Two hallways ran off the foyer, one to the right and one to the left. Small brass plaques set in the wall listed room numbers. The air was faintly scented with the odors of food, hospital disinfectant, and soiled linen. A small bureau set against the wall adjacent to the reception desk held a big bowl of silk flowers. Behind the reception desk, a set of glass doors gave into a large open space with a skylight. It was filled with plants, several televisions sets, and a lot of elderly people in wheelchairs.

  “Are you a family member of one of our guests? Have you visited us before?” The receptionist was polite but wary. She had a name tag pinned to her white blazer: FLORENCE BAGLEY. She grinned, suddenly, at the crutches. “Unless you’re checking in.”

  “Not yet, at any rate. I’m here to see Robert Kowalski.” Bree dug a business card out of the side pocket of her tote and handed it over.

  “Brianna Beaufort. Of course! That’s where I saw you. You were on TV. Something to do with that rich guy that killed himself up in New York.”

  “Mr. O’Rourke. My fifteen minutes of fame. Now in the past, fortunately. I’m here with a ...” She stumbled slightly. She was beginning to think the biggest problem she had with her Angelus Street cases was the number of times she had to fib to temporals. If there was a scale somewhere in the Sphere with her bad behavior piled up on it, it was tilted heavily to the downward side. “A client, who’s tidying up his father’s estate. His visit coincides with an older case I’m working on. I’m hoping Mr. Kowalski can help me with that, as well.” She heard the front door open and close behind her. “This is Mr. William Dent, who is here on his father’s behalf. Mr. Dent? This is Mrs. Bagley.”