Avenging Angels (15 page)

“You’re kidding.”

“Are you familiar with this new play,
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
? The one with the onstage version of the Reichenbach Falls?”

Haddad looked seriously impressed. “You’re kidding. Your sister pulled that off?”

“Every last drop of fake water,” Bree said proudly.

“Then I’ll have somebody talk to her right now. No, no”—he waved his hand as Bree rummaged in her purse for Antonia’s card—“I know how to reach her.”

“I suppose she’s called you a couple of times,” Bree said ruefully. “I suppose a lot of actors and actresses call you all the time.”

“More than a couple. But don’t worry about it.” His easy, but detached, professional manner slipped a bit and he quirked one eyebrow at her. “Anytime you want to discuss my directorial woes over a glass of wine? Thursday evening, maybe?”

“For heaven’s sake, Tony. Do your seducing on your own time, will you?” Tully’s face was sharp with irritation. “Come along. Bree. Danica’s set up in that little office at the end of the hall. We’ll talk there.”

The barrister bookshelves under the windows were gone, replaced by the rosewood credenza. The gray filing cabinet was tucked behind the recliner. Danica sat at the small conference table, her laptop open in front of her. A vase of roses sat at one corner of the desk. A phone and the jar and inkstand sat at the other. A sleek desk top computer sat in the middle. The room was spotless, comfortable, and, despite the lack of paper files, very businesslike. Tully sat behind the desk. Bree sat opposite Danica.

“Would you like tea or coffee, Bree? Or maybe a drink?” Tully looked at her watch, a Patek Philippe with a diamond-encrusted band. She’d moved her wedding and engagement rings—the one a very large marquise-cut diamond, the other a band set with as many diamonds as the watch—to her right hand. It was an old custom—the only other widows Bree knew who’d adopted it were well in their nineties—and it surprised her a little.

“I’d welcome a cup of coffee.”

Tully jerked her chin at Danica. “And the usual for me, Dani. Then you can go out for a bit. Not too far. I won’t need you until dinner.”

Danica quirked an eyebrow at Bree and left the room without having said a word.

“Well,” Tully said, with a brisk air, “I’ve done some checking up on you.” She tapped at the laptop keyboard. “Graduated in the lower third of your class at Duke. Worked at Daddy’s law firm for a number of years. Inherited your great-uncle Franklin’s practice and moved here to Savannah a couple of months ago. Current residence: the family town house over on Factor’s Walk.” She frowned. “There doesn’t seem to be a current address for your offices.”

“It’s the warehouse building on East Bay and Drayton,” Bree said. “The building’s being rehabbed. I’ll be taking over Judge Beaufort’s office there directly.” She emphasized the “Judge” slightly. Tully’s dismissive air stung. Between this and Anthony Haddad’s casual assessment of Antonia’s talents, the Winston-Beauforts were taking a slight hammering. Bree stuck her chin out.

“You do have a competent staff?” Tully said sharply.

“I do indeed,” Bree said pleasantly. “Each and every one of them on the side of the angels.”

There was a tap at the office door, and Danica came in, a tray balanced on one hand. She set it on the conference table, poured a cup of black coffee for Bree, and handed Tully a tall glass filled with ice and what looked to be straight Scotch. Tully took it with a faint, unconscious sigh, and then lifted it up. “To you, Russ,” and took a sip and frowned up at Danica. “This is the Glenlivet. What happened to the good stuff?”

“We’ve had to reorder the Laphroaig,” Danica said. She hesitated, glanced at Bree, and added, “The liquor people wanted a word before they sent the order for this week.”

“They want to be paid, I expect. Rutger must have overlooked it.” Tully waved her out. “Give him a call. He’s in Venice today, at the Intercontinental.”

“Rutger is Mr. VanHoughton?” Bree asked as the door closed behind Danica. Then, to prod things along, she said, “Is it Mr. VanHoughton that will be paying my retainer?”

“Retainer,” Tully said. She leaned back in her chair, the Scotch held between both her hands. “There are a lot of lawyers who’d jumped at the chance to represent the O’Rourkes just for the PR value, you know.”

“That wouldn’t be me,” Bree said.

“And just how much do you think you’re worth?”

“My usual retainer’s ten thousand. But for you . . .” Bree paused, for effect, and then said, “More along the lines of fifteen.”

Tully laughed, that short sharp bark that was such a startling disruption of her bitchy elegance. “Because you’re worth it? Fine. Fifteen it is.”

Bree added, pleasantly, “Lieutenant Chin suggested I get the retainer up front.”

Tully’s black eyes flickered. “How in the world did you get connected with that miserable little bastard?”

“He thinks your husband was murdered, too.”

“But he thinks
I
did it.” Tully drained half of the Scotch. “There’s a restraining order out against him, you know. He’s not supposed to come within two hundred yards of me, or something like that. You know the musical
Les Miz
? That one guy that won’t let the other guy alone?”

“Inspector Javert,” Bree said.

“That’s the one. Well, Lieutenant Chin is my Javert. And me? I’m Russell’s Javert. I won’t stop until I find my husband’s murderer. And when I do . . .” Her black eyes glittered. She tapped the laptop. “There’s more interesting information about you in here. The first two cases you took on here in Savannah? You solved two murders. One each. And that, Miss Brianna Winston-Beaufort, is what I want you to do for me.”

There was a clock somewhere in the room, perhaps hidden in the credenza. Its soft tick-tick-tick filled the silence.

Bree wondered if she really needed this woman as a client. It was iffy, anyway, since her first responsibility was to her dead husband, and the possibilities for a conflict of interest were too many to ignore. And Bree was an orderly person. The woman in front of her was a mass of conflicting impulses and behaviors, and Bree didn’t like her much. Tully veered from imperious to arrogant to rude like a billiard ball. Of course, if a lawyer’s affection for a client were a career requirement, three-quarters of the attorneys in the state of Georgia would be out of a job.

But just when Bree was sure she couldn’t stand another minute of Tully’s willful and careless cruelty, there was that unexpected sense of humor.

And to be fair, Tully had been through a lot in the past year.

“I’ll need a retainer,” Bree said firmly.

Tully tightened her lips. She got up, went to the gray filing cabinet, unlocked the top drawer, and pulled out a ledger. She scribbled in it for a moment, tore off a check, and tossed it onto the desktop. Then she sat down again. Bree picked the check up. It was drawn on a Cayman bank and it was for fifteen thousand dollars. It’d probably bounce. On the other hand—it could be an offshore account that had escaped the clutches of the SEC.

Bree tucked it into her briefcase. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do my best. I’m going to ask you some questions. Some of them might seem a little off the wall, but you’ll bear with me, please.”

Any questions would have to be narrowly phrased. Bree didn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon sorting through a barrage of irrelevant hoorah, so she thought for a long moment before she spoke.

“Tully—you must have one, single, compelling reason to believe your husband was murdered.” Tully drew a deep breath and Bree held her hand up. “Hang on. I’m not finished. The police investigation into his death was careful and complete. The NYPD is one of the best equipped in the world. Why are they wrong?” Bree smiled at her. “One sentence. That’s all I want.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy,” Tully said sullenly.

“So what? You don’t really care about my opinion, do you?”

“That’s true enough.” She shrugged. “Okay. The truth. Russell is haunting me.”

“Okay.”

Tully’s eyebrows rose. “You believe me?”

“Sure.” Benjamin Skinner had haunted his CFO in her first case; Eddie Chin was being haunted in this one.

Tully’s shoulders sagged a little. “Well, thank God somebody does.”

Bree glanced at the desk and away again. “Is there any particular spot where he shows up?”

“It’s when I fall asleep. He shows up in my sleep. He just says, ‘They did for me, T. They did for me. I never would have left you that way.’ ” Her voice wavered, but her eyes were dry. “That’s how I know. Russ never lied to me in life. He wouldn’t lie to me in death.”

“When I was last in this room, you tried to . . .” Bree tried to think of a word that wouldn’t sound too hokey, but couldn’t. “Summon him, is the best way I can put it.”

“I’ve been trying that several different places. Barrie says you can summon the dead at the place where they died.”

“Barrie? You mean Lady Fordham?”

“Yes.” Tully shrugged. “Theater people. You know how superstitious they are. Barrie’s heavily into some sort of Egyptian crap at the moment. Last year it was the Kabbalah. Next year, who knows? It’s all rot.” She laughed suddenly. “And look at me! The original skeptic. I believe in money, basically, which is about as real-world as you can get, but here I am, talking to you about ghosts.” She shivered.

“Have you been successful? In raising Mr. O’Rourke.”

“No. Barrie’s sweet, but she’s about as bright as a box of rocks. We’ve tried a couple of goofy rituals. Nothing worked. Just the dreams. It’s as I told you. I sleep, and I dream of him.” She blinked hard, twice. “And it’s him for sure. Asking for help.”

“Then we’ll see what we can do,” Bree said. “Can we talk about suspects?”

“Of course.” Tully didn’t have any fidgety habits. She didn’t bite her lip or tug at her hair or drum her fingers impatiently. She walked tall, sat straight, and gave orders like a five-star general. So when she clasped her hands together, as she did now, it made her seem vulnerable. “He doesn’t say
who
,” she said fretfully. “You’d think if the dead had the will to come back, they would tell you
who
.”

“Frustrating,” Bree agreed. “It’d sure make my life easier. But they never do.”

“Haunted clients just run-of-the-mill for you, huh?” Tully said ironically. “I appreciate the lip service, Bree, but you don’t need to buy into this, too. On my saner days, I wonder just how crazy I really am. But you know what? I don’t give a good goddamn. I just want results.” She let her breath out in an explosive “Pah!” “So. Suspects.”

“Cui bono is a good place to start,” Bree suggested. “Who benefits? It’s one of the principal rules of any criminal investigation.”

“You mean who inherits? I do, obviously.”

Bree thought of the check drawn on the Cayman bank.

“But I would have benefited a lot more if Russ were still alive. You do know that Rutger had stepped in with a last-minute loan. If Russ had stuck with it, we could have pulled it out.”

“Money seems to be the most powerful benefit,” Bree agreed. “Right up there with love and revenge. Were you, for example, having an affair with Mr. VanHoughton?”

Tully’s laughter had a malicious edge. “We both were, Russ and I. Does that shock you, Miss Winston-Beaufort? Rutger didn’t need to kill Russ to get to me. He had both of us right where he wanted us.”

Bree didn’t think of herself as particularly shockable. But yes, she was. And jealousy was a powerful force. She scribbled
VanH
on her yellow pad and went on, doggedly, “And you mentioned the Parsalls.”

“Those people,” Tully said scornfully, “and while you’re at it, that little creep Jameson can be added to the list.”

“Anyone else?”

Tully shook her head. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Whoever planned this thing had brains, and a hard-on for Russ and for me. I know a lot of people who hated us, and a fair number of people with brains. But the list you’ve got there is the only one that combines the two. The Parsalls and Jameson. One or all of them. They hated Russ.”

Motive, Bree knew, offered no kind of proof when stacked up against means, opportunity, and good hard evidence. But she had a start.

“You’ll want to look into these people, right?” Tully drained the last of her Scotch. “I’m making it easy for you. I’m giving a party to launch the Players here in Savannah on Friday. Everybody on that list?” She pointed at Bree’s yellow pad. “Each of them received an invitation. And each of them is going to be at the party. They’re all flying in this week. You want to see each of them in turn, right? I’ll make sure they stop by your office. If you’ve actually got one,” She set the glass on the desk with a thump. “So get me some results, Bree. Soon.”

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

—Coleridge, “Kubla Khan”

 

 

 

“Tech director?” Antonia said. “No! No! What about my audition?”

Bree put her head down on the kitchen table and sighed. “Let’s see. You’ve got to run before you can walk?”

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that everybody needs to pay dues. You can’t jump into starring roles at any theater company, much less one with the reputation of the Savannah Shakespeare Players, without having worked your way up from the . . .” Bree suddenly realized she had talked herself into a corner. She looked over at Sasha, who was sitting by his food bowl with an expectant face.

“. . . bottom,” Antonia finished, bitterly. “That’s where I am, and that’s where I’m doomed to stay. The bottom.”

“Sasha’s starving,” Bree said. “There’s some chicken and rice in the fridge. Why don’t you mix it with some of the Iams under the counter.”

“I don’t know why I have to do it,” Antonia grumbled. “Half the time he gets his food out of the bag himself.” She crouched next to the dog and cuddled his head. “You smart puppy, you.” She pulled the Iams bag out and shook some into Sasha’s blue plastic bowl. “What about those guys?” She nodded toward the living room. When they were in residence, Miles and Belli sat on each side of the fireplace like a pair of giant temple dogs.