Angel's Verdict

by Stanton, Mary

Justine wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Blackmail. Blackmail. Ugly word. But you see the world in an ugly way, Miss Fancy Lawyer Beaufort. The way I saw it. The way I see it now, that woman owed me. I didn’t have a whole lot to lose right then. Didn’t matter to me if the whole town knew about the trick I’d pulled off. Consuelo Bulloch feared scandal more than anything. Stuck-up bitch.” The smile got uglier. “You know I met her for the first time that night. After Billy pitched a fit in the Tropi and tried to mess me up. She was just like I thought she’d be. Nose in the air. Jealous. All in a hoorah over her precious baby boy. You know she had the nerve to tell Alex we could get married after all?” Justine lifted her chin, flung out her arms, and for an eerie moment, Bree saw what Consuelo must have looked like in life. Her voice took on a soft Southern drawl. “Now that I see how it is with you, Alex, I won’t stand in your way. Go ahead. Marry her!” Justine let her arms drop with a contemptuous snort. “What does that little slut Tyra say? ‘As if!’ That’s it. As if she really would have let baby Alex marry! As if I wanted to stick around this backwater town when I could go to New York City.”

  “It might have been true,” Bree said quietly. “That she dropped her objections to your marriage.”

  “She didn’t want to give me any money,” Justine said. “That’s what that was all about. She didn’t want to fork it over then, or when I came back almost twenty years later.”

  “Which was when you thought you might tempt Alexander back into your life.” This was a guess. Bree saw immediately that it’d hit home. “But that didn’t work. Creighton Oliver didn’t want to have anything to do with you, either.”

  “Most men do and did,” Justine said reflectively. “Alexander? He was weak and crazy to boot. Creighton, he was different. Took me a little time to get him to come around with a proper amount of money to set me back up in Hollywood. But when he saw I meant to stick around at the Bullochs’ ...” She raised her hands, palms up, and clenched them. “He paid up. Didn’t want to mess up that nice life he had with his wife and my son. But, don’t worry, I’d find my baby boy again when he became a star,” Justine said. “And you know the damn Bullochs were near broke themselves? Couldn’t believe it. All that money gone. All that holier-than-thou attitude. And they didn’t have a dime.”

  “Consuelo paid in a different way, didn’t she?” Bree said. “So did Charis Jefferson. Do you come to gloat over her grave, too?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”

  “ ‘Buried right next to each other.’ Isn’t that what you told me that first day in my office? Efficient, if nothing else, having two of your victims next to one another in death.”

  Justine’s expression didn’t change, but she hissed like a snake. “You can’t prove a thing.”

  “You know how sophisticated forensic science is. Your work on Bristol Blues should have given you a pretty good idea of what a determined pathologist can do.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She shifted impatiently. “What is it you want, Miss Beaufort?”

  “Of course, it depends on how you killed her. She had a weak heart, the family said. She became dizzy. Slipped and fell in the bathtub. Struck her head. And she eventually died of it. Because somebody held her under. Just like Florida Smith.” Bree took the tin box out of her pocket and opened it up. “Do you know what’s in here? Bobby Lee Kowalski keeps mementos of his unsolved cases. Consuelo Bulloch had a fistful of hair in her hands when she fell in that tub. I wonder if Charis does, too.” She held up the sealed evidence packet. The coil of hair inside was as black as a crow’s wing. As black as a starless night. “Look familiar?”

  “Damn you to hell,” Justine said. “Get out of here. Get out!”

  “So I got out,” Bree said into the cell phone. She was sitting in her car, outside the cemetery. Her first thought had been to call Hunter. “Left her standing alone in the cemetery, by the graves of two of her victims. I suppose Bagger Bill Norris is in a pauper’s grave somewhere. Or the equivalent. Anyhow, she’s gone now. A cab drew up a little while ago and picked her up.”

  “It’ll be a tricky case to prove,” Hunter said.

  “Impossible, I should think. But she knows I know, Hunter. That’s something, isn’t it? And I made her turn over that peacock pin.” The pin lay next to her, in the passenger seat. It seemed to her that the bird’s ruby eye looked reproachful.

  “We’ll look into it. To tell you the truth, I don’t think the county would have held on to evidence from a sixty-year-old murder case. We’ll see.”

  “It’s like hunting old Nazis.”

  “Come again?”

  Bree sighed. “Once in a while, even now, there’ll be a news story about how somebody’s identified a ninety-year-old guy who was a guard at Bergen-Belsen or some other awful place. Justice demands accountability. But there again, there’s this ninety-year-old guy, frail, sick, old. So the state puts him through a trial, and he can barely sit upright on the witness stand.” Bree rubbed her forehead with her free hand. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Leave it to me. It’s not your problem anymore. I’m not sure why you made it your problem in the first place. You need to come home. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. It’s late. I’m a little worried about you. I’m going to pick up something for us to eat, and I’ll meet you at the town house. That okay with you?”

  Suddenly, she wanted nothing more on earth than Hunter’s arms around her. “That sounds more than okay. That sounds wonderful. But could we make it tomorrow? I’ve got pleadings to write tonight and a court appearance in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Will Antonia be at the theater?”

  She could hear both the smile and the hope in his voice. “Every day and every night for the rest of the week.”

  “Just wanted to know how much food to bring.”

  “Till then.” Bree clicked off.

  She had a Celestial Court case in the morning. Finally, she had a defense.

  It was getting dark. She picked up the jeweled peacock and slipped out of the car. Without the sun, the air was cold. The wind picked up, bringing the scent of rain. Bree held the brooch in the palm of her hand and said firmly, “Mrs. Bulloch? Consuelo?”

  At first, Bree was sure she wasn’t going to get through. Then, Consuelo’s shadow stirred and shifted, wrapping her hand in a dark swirl of something that Bree could only think of as Not. Not human, not earthly, not real, as she knew reality. She didn’t have words to describe it. She had no reference point.

  Miss Winston-Beaufort?

  “Yes,” Bree said. “It’s me. I discovered how you died, Mrs. Bulloch. I’m extremely sorry.”

  Treachery.

  “Yes. The worst kind. Mrs. Bulloch, I’m going to schedule your appeal. I want to let you know what I’m going to say in your defense.”

  My treachery. I regret . . . I’m so sorry . . .

  “Genuine penitence is a very good thing for the court to hear, Mrs. Bulloch. So that will help. There’s something else, though.” Bree hesitated. “You hated Haydee Quinn.”

  Bad for my boy.

  “Yes, she probably was. Haydee claims you would have allowed them to marry, the night she came to you for help after Bill Norris stabbed her. Is that so?”

  Bad for my boy. Worse for my boy without her.

  Bree nodded. “You loved your son Alexander. That’s really clear. And it seems to have been unselfish. I just wanted you to know that I’ll do my best for you.”

  The wraith faded in her hands to nothing.

  Bree went home to prepare her case.

  Epilogue

  “You’ve lost weight since Lavinia made this for you.” Ron shook out the supple red velvet robe that was mandated for counsel appearing before the angelic justices. Bree slipped into it. The hem and lapels were intricately worked with gold embroidery. The two of them were on the seventh floor of the Chatham County Courthouse. It was Wednesday morning, three weeks since Justine Coville had walked int
o the Bay Street office and made a claim on Bree’s time and pity.

  “I’ll gain it back once I get this bloody cast off.”

  Ron rolled his eyes. “That makes no sense at all. What does the cast have to do with it? It happened to Leah, too, you know. She slimmed right down. Like a greyhound.” He bent forward and looked into her face. “Something wrong?”

  “There’s a price to pay for the work I’m doing, Ron. I’m not sure I’m willing to pay it.”

  “I see.” His tone was noncommittal. The silence stretched on until Bree couldn’t stand it anymore. “Ron,” she said urgently, “can I quit? Can I?”

  “Of course you can.” He smoothed the gown over her shoulders with a gentle hand. “There’s a process for it, like there is for everything else. If you do quit, you won’t remember us. You won’t remember any of this. It will be as if it never happened. But otherwise?” He stepped back. He smiled at her. “No penalty.”

  Bree adjusted the high, stiff collar with one hand. She’d bundled her hair into a bun at the back of her neck, to hide the spot where they’d shaved her skull in the hospital. It was growing back, but not fast enough. Her leg was doing fine, though. She whacked the floor with her cane. “I think I can leave this outside the courtroom.”

  “There’s that big escalator to negotiate. Better carry it just in case. Besides, the justices are supposed to be totally impartial—but I personally think the Brave But Injured Warrior is a great attitude. Keep the cane.”

  Bree grinned. “Maybe you’re right.” She sighed. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “We’ve got a few minutes. Mind if we stop and see Goldstein? He wants a word.”

  “Sure.”

  Bree followed Ron down the hallway and into the great vaulted space. As the heavy oak door shut silently behind, she heard Goldstein shout, “Ha! Aha!” Several of the monks looked up in mild surprise. One waved his quill pen jauntily at her. A few of them clapped. Goldstein rustled down the flagstone aisle, his sandals slapping merrily on the stone. “My dear, my dear!” He enfolded her in a hug. He smelled like paper and damp wool, with a slight whiff of incense. A bit of feather from his wing got up Bree’s nose, and she sneezed.

  “Three pending judgments closed at once! I believe it to be a record! Thank you for dropping in, my dear. I know you’re due in court in a few moments, but I just had to offer my congratulations.”

  “You could have sent an e-card,” Ron said. “If you were online, that is. They’ve got some great ones at thankyoulord.com. Choirs of cherubim singing away. The whole bit.”

  “What? And miss the embarrassed-but-pleased expression on her face?” Goldstein let her go and clasped his hands. “Norris—first circle in Hell, not bad considering his checkered past. Alexander Bulloch, first circle in Heaven, not bad, either, considering the charge of abusing a corpse. Poor Charis Jefferson—she wasn’t pending, but I know she’s as pleased as Punch. As for Consuelo herself ... well, we shall see. Are you ready to argue, my dear?”

  “It’s a bit of a change of pace,” Bree said. “I’m not filing an appeal; I’m filing for a summary judgment. So I adjusted the language in the pleadings.”

  “The very best of luck,” Goldstein beamed. “The very best.”

  Minutes later, Bree descended the long silver escalator to the floor of the courtroom. On either side, the high walls held moving murals of Consuelo’s life. She saw Alexander as a small child in his mother’s lap. Consuelo at her wedding, stiff with pride and joy.

  Consuelo and Haydee, backs arched like spitting cats.

  Caldecott and Beazley lounged behind the solid oak table for the defense. Bree took her place on the opposite side of the aisle, set her briefcase down, and stacked her pleadings in order. The massive bench loomed in front of them, carved with readings from the Koran, the Bible, and the Torah.

  The room reverberated with the sound of a mellow gong. All the lawyers rose. An immense golden sphere took shape behind the bench. The winged scales of justice appeared on the thick marble slab that covered the dais.

  The golden light behind the dais paused and seemed to regard the cane Bree leaned upon in a kindly way.

  Then the great Voice rang out, “Proceed.”

  “Your Honor,” Bree said. “I am representing Consuelo Bingham Bulloch, a woman who loved her son completely and unselfishly. We are here to ask for mercy.”

  “That went pretty well, I think.” Bree shrugged herself out of her robe and folded it carefully before handing it to Ron. Ron punched the Down button for the elevator. “Good thing you took the cane. Helped with the sympathy vote. Caldecott had a couple of zingers up his sleeve. Might have gone the other way.”

  “Purgatory,” Bree said. “I asked for the first circle of Heaven.”

  “I think you should be thankful we got what we did.”

  “You’re right. The woman was a complete bigot in some ways.” Bree sighed. “A product of her time, I suppose. Which is no excuse.”

  The doors whisked open, and they stepped in. Bree fell into abstraction, only rousing herself as they came to a stop on the first floor. The case was over. Justine’s fate was in hands other than her own. Consuelo’s case had been heard, for good or for ill. Florida Smith’s murder case would wind its way through the temporal courts. Bree sincerely hoped Justine would be held to account for her role in that. And she would drop in, now and again, on the brave and honorable Bobby Lee Kowalski.

  The case was over.

  “The thing is,” she said to Ron, “I really want to know what happened to Dent.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Bree looked up. She’d seen the young lawyer in the elevator before. At Huey’s maybe or the gym. The woman smiled at her. “You were asking about a dent?” Ron was right next to her, so close, in fact, that Bree knew he wasn’t visible.

  “Sorry. Just thinking aloud.”

  “No problem,” the woman stepped aside so that Bree could precede her out the door. “You’re Bree Beaufort, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” Bree hooked her cane over her arm and held out her hand.

  “Margery Slack. Heard you took quite a thwack on the head a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Which is just fine,” Bree said bitterly as she and Ron walked back through the fresh morning to the Angelus office. “I’ll bet Margery’s already on Facebook with forty of her closest friends letting them know I talk to myself in elevators.”

  “You accomplished a lot with this case. Goldstein’s not what you’d call an indiscriminate praiser. He hasn’t let out a ‘Hosanna!’ since before the Flood.”

  “Very funny,” Bree grumbled. They stopped at the iron gate in front of the house at 666 Angelus Street. The sun was out. The spheres worked into the wrought iron fence seemed to spin the clear and sunny air.

  The cemetery was as dank and gloomy as ever.

  Bree opened the gate and let herself in. Ron followed her. They stopped at the newest grave. It hadn’t been there when they’d left for the Court that morning.

  The marker read:HAYDEE QUINN

  b.1930——————————d.

  The Evil Men Do Lives After Them

  Mary Stanton is at work on the fifth Beaufort & Company novel, Angel Condemned. As Claudia Bishop, she is the author of twenty mystery novels, including the popular Hemlock Falls Mysteries. She is the senior editor of four successful mystery anthologies, including A Merry Band of Murderers. Stanton divides her time between a working farm in upstate New York and a small house in West Palm Beach, Florida. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached at www.marystanton.com or www.claudiabishop.com.

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Mary Stanton

  DEFENDING ANGELS

  ANGEL’S ADVOCATE

  AVENGING ANGELS

  ANGEL’S VERDICT

  Titles by Mary Stanton writing as Claudia Bishop

  Hemlock Falls Mysteries

  A TASTE FOR MURDER

  A DASH OF DEATH

  A PINCH OF POISON
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  MURDER WELL-DONE

  DEATH DINES OUT

  A TOUCH OF THE GRAPE

  A STEAK IN MURDER

  MARINADE FOR MURDER

  JUST DESSERTS

  FRIED BY JURY

  A PUREE OF POISON

  BURIED BY BREAKFAST

  A DINNER TO DIE FOR

  GROUND TO A HALT

  A CAROL FOR A CORPSE

  TOAST MORTEM

  The Casebooks of Dr. McKenzie Mysteries

  THE CASE OF THE ROASTED ONION

  THE CASE OF THE TOUGH-TALKING TURKEY

  THE CASE OF THE ILL-GOTTEN GOAT

  Anthologies

  A PLATEFUL OF MURDER

  DEATH IN TWO COURSES