Angel's Verdict Read online

  “We’ve got the same nose,” Antonia offered. “And my hair’s the same color as Mamma’s.”

  “Mamma’s is lighter,” Bree said. “More of a reddish gold. You’re frankly auburn.”

  “And Mamma’s eyes are blue, like mine. And she’s short, like me. You’re tall, like Daddy and Uncle Franklin. As far as that seaweed color of your eyes ...”

  “My eyes aren’t seaweed colored,” Bree said a little indignantly. “They’re green.”

  “Algae, then. Or mold. Anyhow, I don’t know where Bree’s moldy eye color comes from, Mrs. Billingsley. Nobody on the Beaufort or Carmichael side has ’em except her.”

  Bree, exasperated, took a bite of her sandwich. “I’m sorry I didn’t get home for lunch.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Did you walk Sasha?”

  “I walked Sasha. Although I swear that dog is perfectly capable of walking himself. If it weren’t for the leash laws, you could just let him out on his own. He’d be just fine. He’s a real angel.”

  This was truer than either Antonia or EB knew. Like her employees at the Angelus Street office, Sasha’s antecedents were rooted in other times and spaces. Sasha; Petru Lucheta, her paralegal; Ron Parchese, her secretary; and Lavinia Mather, her landlady, were all angels and members of Beaufort & Company.

  Bree tucked the remains of her sandwich back into the bag. “Thank you for the food. I’m not sure what time I’m getting home tonight, so if you could see your way clear to taking Sasha out again after supper, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I thought we’d planned on hitting the movies tonight,” Antonia said. “It’s Monday.”

  “Antonia’s theater is dark on Monday,” Bree said to EB. “It’s her night off.”

  “My only night off,” Antonia said. “So how come your nose is to the grindstone and your shoulder’s to the wheel?”

  “I’ve got some work stacked up at the Angelus office.”

  “And she’s got to get over to the Bitter Tide movie shoot,” EB said. “We’ve got ourselves a nice new client, Antonia. Ms. Justine Coville, the famous actress. I’m working on her file right now. And then we’re going to take the papers over to the set. I expect we’ll run into all sorts of famous folks. Hatch Lewis. Tyra Steele. Craig Oliver.”

  Antonia’s mouth dropped open. “Hatch Lewis!”

  Bree winced. She’d forgotten to warn EB about Antonia’s passionate desire to get into that movie.

  “Just when,” Antonia asked, after a long, dangerous silence, “were you planning on letting that little item of news drop?”

  “Hm,” Bree said feebly.

  “You’ve got an invitation to that set?! No! No! Even better than that. An actual cast member is your client?” She leaned forward and hissed, “And you were planning on going over there without me?”

  “I’m sure Justine wouldn’t mind if you took your baby sister along,” EB said comfortably.

  Antonia leaped to her feet and began pacing around the room—which was far too small for this energetic activity. “I worked myself to the bone in the theater for years!”

  Bree figured it would be counterproductive to point out that Antonia was only twenty-two.

  “Years! Waiting for a break. Longing for a break. Dying for a break. And when one of the hottest TV productions in years! Years! Comes along to Savannah, the first person you should have thought of was me!”

  “Maybe I should rethink that business about Justine not minding your baby sister,” EB muttered.

  “No kidding,” Bree said.

  “So how’s about it, Sis? I can carry your briefcase or something. Drive your car. I’ve got it! I’ll be your consultant! I mean, you’ve spent most of the productive years of your life with your nose stuck in a law book. How much does a lawyer know about film, anyway?”

  EB smacked her hand flat on her desk. “That’s enough.”

  Antonia stopped midstride.

  “You just sit yourself down and think about your behavior, young lady. Your sister and I are in the middle of building one of the finest law firms in this city.”

  “You are?”

  “We are. This is not all about you, Miss Actress of the Year.”

  “It’s not,” Antonia admitted, her voice considerably smaller.

  “This is about an important client with an important problem.”

  “What is her problem?”

  “That is confidential,” EB said sternly.

  “Sorry. Of course. Sorry.”

  “But it has to do with threats to the poor woman’s life.”

  “Oh dear.” Antonia thought about this for a minute. “What sort of role is she playing? I’ll bet it’s something I could do. If anything should happen, God forbid.”

  “Mrs. Coville is eighty years old, child. And I cannot believe I heard what you just said!”

  “You don’t know actors,” Bree muttered.

  Antonia’s face fell. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s not that I want anything to happen to her. Eighty years old? Jeez!”

  “So you mind yourself, now. I think an apology is due.” She snorted. “Imagine. Busting in on that poor old lady like you wanted to do.”

  Antonia pulled at her lower lip. “Mrs. Billingsley’s right. I’m a jerk,” she said to Bree. “It’s just so hard. I audition and audition and audition, and I never seem to get anywhere.”

  “It’s a horrible life, the actor’s life,” Bree said. “I’m sorry myself.” Then, because she couldn’t stand the desperate look in her sister’s eyes, “Okay. So I probably do need a consultant. A very well-behaved one, though.”

  “You do?”

  “And a well-behaved assistant,” EB said with authority. “We all have to go along. I read about it. It’s called having a posse. But you”—she shook her finger at Antonia—“no shenanigans.”

  “A posse?” Bree said. “You want me to show up on the set with a posse?”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Antonia said excitedly. “Mrs. Billingsley’s right. Everybody who’s anybody has an entourage. We’ll be your entourage. Except we have to be a better-dressed entourage.”

  “We look just fine,” Bree said repressively.

  “The money I do have goes to night school tuition,” EB said. “I’m not hauling out of here to buy anything else.”

  “Okay, so you guys look fine. Boring but fine.” Antonia waved her hand dismissively. “You don’t expect me to show up in sweats, do you?” She bounced to the door. “Give me twenty minutes. That’s it. It’ll take you that amount of time to run and get the car.”

  “If you make it thirty, I’ll have Justine’s will ready for her to sign,” EB said. “If nobody believes Bree’s worth a posse, we’ll say we have to be there as witnesses so Justine can legally sign her will. The State of Georgia requires two.”

  “Hey!” Bree said. “What do you mean I’m not worth a posse?”

  “Oh my goodness,” EB said, chagrined. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I do believe I’m flustered.”

  Antonia clapped her hands with excitement. “Who wouldn’t be? It’s perfect, Mrs. Billingsley! I’m out of here. I’ll meet you two outside the townhouse, okay?”

  “Stop!” Bree said, more loudly than she meant to.

  Antonia deflated like a balloon stuck with a pin. “You mean we can’t go?”

  “Will the two of you keep cool? You’re behaving like crazy people. I’m not sure we should hare off down there to begin with.” Her cell phone chimed. “Lord, Lord. Hang on a minute. I’m getting a text message.” Bree kept her business dress simple; she alternated between three elegantly cut pantsuits and a series of silk tees. All of the suit jackets had inside pockets where she could keep her cell phone, a credit card, and a fifty-dollar bill. She dug her cell phone out:

  CAR WTG DWNSTRS

  The sender was Armand Cianquino.

  Her former law school professor and director of Beaufort & Company, the firm specializing in celestial law based on Angelus Street. Her firm, si
nce she was the only advocate.

  “Lord,” Bree said again. She clicked on Reply and tapped in “?”

  The reply was GET TO BITTER TIDE SET SOONEST.

  Suddenly, Justine’s fears for her safety seemed very real.

  “Okay,” Bree said. “I’m headed out.”

  “I’ve got to change!” Antonia wailed.

  “I can’t take you with me, Tonia.”

  “You have to!”

  Bree hesitated. “You promise not to pitch a fit, right?”

  “Right.”

  “We’ll see.” She picked up her briefcase. “I’m not making any promises. Not yet.”

  “But . . . !”

  Bree shook her head. It all depended on who was driving the car.

  Three

  All the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely

  players.

  —As You Like It, William Shakespeare

  The hire car was a black Lincoln Continental with a discreet bumper sticker that read, SAVANNAH DRIVES.

  Savannah Drives had been around for ages. In the years when Royal and Francesca had spent part of the summer at the family townhouse on Factor’s Walk, she remembered her mother and father using them to send home the odd dinner guest who’d had too much to drink. The driver was male, white, middle-aged, and perhaps the most exhausted person Bree had ever seen.

  He also claimed he’d never heard of Professor Cianquino.

  “Don’t know any Cee-anquo, miss,” he said. He resettled his cap on his head. What hair he had left was ginger colored. He was bulky without being fat, although at second glance, Bree noticed that his stomach edged over a belt that was on the last hole. He might have been an athlete when he was younger. His eyes were gray, the sclera edged with yellow-pink veins. And he had a pale, indoor look that wasn’t common in a Southern state like Georgia. He stank of cigarette smoke.

  “Cianquino,” she said, peering through the open driver’s window. “Professor Cianquino.”

  “Nope.”

  “Who did ask you to pick me up, then? I told you, I received a text message.”

  “Text message!”

  This was a man who scorned technology. She could see that right off.

  He eased his shoulders against the back of the driver’s seat. The Lincoln was double-parked, and although Bay Street in January was relatively free of tourists, Bree was concerned about stalling traffic. Antonia and EB stood aside on the sidewalk. Antonia shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. EB clutched a hastily assembled file containing Justine Coville’s last will and testament.

  “Our company provides transportation for Sundowner Productions on an as-needed basis. My shift begins at noon. I just go where they tell me, lady.”

  “Mr....” Bree took a quick glance at the name tag pinned to the driver’s black wool jacket. “Mr. Dent. William. Somebody told you to come here. I just want some confirmation about the order before I get into the car.” Bree wasn’t concerned about herself particularly. By and large, she went where her job as a celestial advocate took her, and she had a terrific backup team. But involving her sister and assistant was another kettle of fish altogether. Especially since Mr. Dent had never heard of Professor Cianquino.

  William Dent sighed, an oddly grudging sound. “Okay, it’s like this. Nobody sent me. I came on my own. I was just about ready to come up and get you when you three showed up down here. Thing is, Mrs. Coville’s not getting the right deal with those punks filming that damn movie. I thought you could help her out.”

  “Justine?” Bree said in quick concern. “Is there anything wrong? Has something else happened? Is she all right?”

  “Mrs. Coville,” Dent said with reproving emphasis, “could use a helping hand, is all. She doesn’t have any family left here in Savannah, and God knows she doesn’t have any friends on the set. I picked her up this morning after her appointment with you and took her right back to that hellhole. Seemed to think you had the goods.”

  “The goods,” Bree repeated. “Thank you. I guess. So what brought you here at this particular moment?”

  “She fell on the set. No, no, she’s okay. Bruised up some, but that’s one tough old bird. Thing is, I think she was pushed. She won’t talk to me about it. Figure she might talk to her lawyer.” His glance flicked Bree up and down in an oddly impersonal way. “Didn’t know you were a skirt until I saw you.”

  “Didn’t know I was a what?”

  “A skirt,” he said impatiently. “You know, female. What, they’re making women lawyers now?”

  “Yes,” Bree said. “They’ve been making women lawyers for quite a long time now.”

  “You look butch enough to take care of yourself. So maybe you can be of some help after all. Hop in. What? You okay? You got something caught in your throat or something?”

  “I am,” Bree said evenly, “trying to control myself.” And it’s working, she said to herself. It’s working. She counted backwards from ten, very slowly, until her temper was under control. “Okay, Mr. Dent. I’m not going to pull your ears down around your socks. I’ll hop in. But I want to get something straight about your attitude.”

  “What do you mean, attitude? What’s wrong with my attitude?”

  Bree gestured to EB and Antonia that it was okay to come with her, let herself into the Lincoln’s rear seat, and then tapped William Dent firmly on the shoulder. He slouched around in the seat to face her. “What’s wrong with your attitude? Where shall I start? Your sexism, for one. Your demeaning language for another. Your absolute lack of respect for a third.”

  He flushed beet red, then turned around and faced the windshield. She settled her briefcase at her feet and then looked challengingly at the back of his head. She could see his eyes in the rearview mirror.

  He looked hurt.

  “To sum up—I’d appreciate it if you’d keep a more civil tongue in your head,” she said in a milder tone. “There’s no need to be offensive.” Then, slightly ruining the stern-professional act, she added, “Thank you.”

  Antonia scrambled into the car from the opposite side and announced her intention to sit in the middle. “With my feet on the hump.”

  “Noble and self-sacrificing sister that you are,” Bree commented. Once EB was settled on the other side of Antonia, Bree faced front again and said, “Okay, William, we’re ready.” Then, since she’d been pretty hard on him, she asked in a friendlier tone, “Or is it Bill?”

  “It’s Dent,” he said shortly. “I’m William to my friends and family.”

  “Fine,” Bree said.

  “Fine,” Dent said.

  “What the hey?” Antonia shook her head, shrugged at EB, who murmured, “whatever,” and then began rummaging in her tote for her makeup. “Where are they shooting today, Dent? How much time have I got?”

  “Mercury’s shooting interiors all this week. They tore out most of the guts of the old Rattigan plantation. It’s about ten miles upriver. Should be about forty minutes.”

  “It shouldn’t take that long,” Bree said. “There’s an exit for Toller Road off of Highway 153. You’ve got about twenty minutes to slap some makeup on, sis.”

  “The new highway?” Dent said.

  “Not all that new,” Bree said crisply. “Let’s get going, Dent.”

  “No need to put anything at all on that pretty face,” Dent said with that same slightly reproving air. He signaled and pulled onto Bay, heading east. “Most men prefer the natural look.”

  Antonia cut her eyes at Bree. Then she said, “There is no possible response to that comment, Dent. So I am going to ignore it.”

  The back of Dent’s neck turned red. Bree tried not to think of the significance of this and failed. Then a possible reason for Dent’s pallor, his unease with women, and his general churlishness hit her, and she felt her own neck turn red.

  An ex-con, maybe?

  Or was she imagining things?

  Would Professor Cianquino get her mixed up with an ex-con? Of course he woul
d, if he thought it would serve some angelic purpose. But her sister and her friend were with her this time, and if Cianquino had put them into any kind of danger, he was going to hear about it.

  Bree had an excellent memory, and she rapidly reviewed her brief glimpse of Dent’s arms and hands. No tattoos, but that didn’t mean much. She’d have to call in a few favors at the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department, see if they knew anything about a William Dent who mistrusted female lawyers and called women “skirts.”

  Dent was an obnoxious throwback, and maybe even an ex-con, but he drove well, with an easy authority. Bree spent the drive time checking the revisions EB had made to Justine’s will. She had left the bulk of her estate to a home for retired actors in New York City. The only individual named in the will was Dixie Bulloch, who had been left the sum of one hundred dollars in “thanks for her support of my art.” The addendum requiring her list of assets was blank. She’d listed Franklin Winston-Beaufort or his assignees as executors.

  No family left in Savannah, Dent had said, and she couldn’t count any friends on the crew of Bitter Tide, except Dent himself. On the other hand, Bree didn’t have any independent verification of Justine’s claims about being harassed. But Payton had let something drop about Phillip Mercury’s attitude toward Justine before she’d tossed him out of the office. She put her hand on the passenger-side headrest and leaned forward. “Dent. Talk to me about Sundowner Productions. Why should Justine be at risk from anyone there?”

  “You want background, talk to Mrs. Coville.”

  “But I’m talking to you,” Bree said pleasantly.

  Dent either wasn’t going to answer or was taking his time about it. He executed a smooth right-hand turn onto 153. It was a one-lane highway, the shoulders thick with trees and brush that hid the river on their left from sight. This was the Low Country, and shallow pools of brackish water appeared among the foliage.

  “Dent?” Bree said, more firmly this time. “I can’t help Justine if I don’t know what’s going on. When I spoke with her this morning, she said Phillip Mercury had a high regard for her acting abilities.”