Angel's Verdict Part 3

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 b.u.mper 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 s.h.i.+fted impatiently from one foot to the other. EB clutched a hastily a.s.sembled file containing Justine Coville's last will and testament.

"Our company provides transportation for Sundowner Productions on an as-needed basis. My s.h.i.+ft 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 a.s.sistant 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. n.o.body 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 d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.lhole. 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 att.i.tude."

"What do you mean, att.i.tude? What's wrong with my att.i.tude?"

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 att.i.tude? Where shall I start? Your s.e.xism, 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 winds.h.i.+eld. 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."

"n.o.ble 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. .h.i.t 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 would, 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 a.s.sets was blank. She'd listed Franklin Winston-Beaufort or his a.s.signees 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 hara.s.sed. But Payton had let something drop about Phillip Mercury's att.i.tude toward Justine before she'd tossed him out of the office. She put her hand on the pa.s.senger-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."

"Mercury," Dent said in disgust. "That little a.s.shole. He'd paint his mother and sell her to the Arabs if he thought it'd get him somewhere."

EB tsked at the language. Bree shook her head at the racial slur and said, "Dent, Dent, Dent."

The traffic was light in both directions. Dent slowed up as they approached the turnoff for the Rattigan plantation; he turned left onto a gravel road and pulled over. He put one hand on the steering wheel and scanned the heavy brush on each side. "Okay," he said rudely. "I'll talk. And I'll try not to offend your sensibilities, although it's a new one on me when a lady lawyer in pants gets huffy over a little straight talk." He blew air through his nose. "This is most of what you need to know. First, you're dealing with a bunch of bozos. There's not one straight shooter in the whole sloppy crowd. For one thing, they're all stuck on themselves. What do you call it? Egomania. Mrs. Coville's no different. She's a demanding old biddy with a lot of airs and she's the best of them."

So Dent didn't think a lot of his employers or even the poor old lady he was trying to help. Which wasn't a big surprise. He didn't seem to think a lot of anybody. "My information is that someone's trying to get her off the set, one way or another," Bree said cautiously.

"Everybody is. Mercury, the writers, even the other actors. They think she's a joke. I mean, yeah, she's maybe overdone it a bit with the plastic surgery." He glanced at Antonia. "She's got a heavy hand with the lipstick and rouge, no question. But she's a movie star. One of the great ones. And her style of acting is the old way, you know? It's big. Big and grand. It doesn't fit this kind of movie, with all the close-ups and two-shots and whatnot. What I think is, Hollywood gone all to h.e.l.l." He bared his teeth in what he must have thought was a smile. "Pardon my language, ladies."

"They think she's a ham," Antonia said. "That's my guess. They probably think she's too wrinkly, too."

"Antonia!" Bree protested.

"Just telling it like it is," Antonia said matter-offactly. "Movies aren't like the stage. All those tight head shots mean you have to be perfect. Perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect body."

"Not natural," EB observed.

Dent looked into the rearview mirror at Antonia and scowled.

"I'm not being critical, Dent. Acting styles change over the years. I mean, just take a look at Sir Laurence Olivier. He was the greatest actor of his generation according to this history of film cla.s.s I took when I was in school, and when we look at him now, that's all we think. Ham. Porker. That he chows down the scenery. But there's a whole theater named after him in England."

"Yeah, well. So you say."

"I do say," Antonia said. "Poor old Justine. It's a shame."

Dent snarled a little at Antonia, then said, "There's another reason they're trying to dump her. It's probably on account of this lawsuit."

Bree hadn't been much interested in the disquisition about current demands for movie stardom. But she was interested in a potential lawsuit. So Payton may not have been lying after all-or perhaps not lying as much as usual. "Which lawsuit would that be? Over the brooch?"

"What brooch? Oh, that peac.o.c.k thing? No. This one's a big sucker. The Bullochs aren't crazy about this movie being made. They tried to get an injunction to stop the shoot, and that didn't work, and now they're suing that a.s.shole . . . sorry, ladies. . . . that crumb-b.u.m Mercury, personally. Mercury and his backer, Vince White. Defamation of character, blah, blah, blah." He looked into the rearview mirror. "Thing is, Mrs. Coville is real tight with one of the Bulloch sisters. Not all of 'em-the two nasty ones are trying to sue Mrs. Coville over that bird brooch you just mentioned. But Dixie likes Mrs. C. and hates her sisters, so she's pretty tight with Mrs. C."

"Dixie," EB said. "Alexandra 'Dixie' Charles Bulloch. Daughter of Alexander junior, and granddaughter of Consuelo."

"Right. And Mercury figures Mrs. Coville is feeding the broadie the inside dope."

Antonia's lips formed the word "broadie." She rolled her eyes.

"What inside dope specifically?" Bree asked.

Dent shrugged his meaty shoulders. "Who's smoking what? Who's sleeping with whom? Cost overruns. Budget issues. Mrs. Coville's a gossipy old broad. What old broad isn't? She doesn't realize that sort of c.r.a.p can get the investors fighting each other." He put the car in gear and drove back onto the gravel. "Word is the movie's having more trouble than most getting made."

"All those movie stars get up to shenanigans," EB said. "Why would that make any difference to a lawsuit?"

"Depends on the cause of action, I suppose," Bree said absently. "You never know what information might be useful to a plaintiff. Dent, Mrs. Coville has a contract, right? Has Phillip Mercury made any effort to buy her out?"

"Does your grandmother suck eggs? Sure he's waved some coin at her. Wants this Allison Buckley to take over the part, or so the scuttleb.u.t.t goes. I don't know much about actresses, or actors, either, but I haven't seen one that'd take a paycheck over a part."

"Very true," Antonia murmured. "If I'd wanted money, I would have gone into banking."

"Tonia," Bree said, "there are so many things wrong with that statement I don't know where to start."

Antonia gave Bree a pinch. "Hush up. We're almost there."

"Don't pinch me, Tonia."

"Then don't lecture me, Bree."

The narrow road snaked to the right, then to the left, and finally debouched into a vast green lawn thick with cars, trucks, vans, generators, and trailers. The Rattigan house-three stories high, with wide verandahs wrapping around each level-sprawled on a slight rise at the end of the green s.p.a.ce. The front of the house looked splendid; the black shutters were freshly painted; wisteria and ivy curled around the white clapboard; out-of-season roses bloomed underneath the stone bal.u.s.trade of the front porch. The brick steps to the front porch had been recently pointed. The front was in stark contrast to the north side of the house, which was visible from Bree's vantage point. The battered shutters hung askew, and at least one of the mullioned windows was broken. Dirty white paint bubbled under the eaves of the slate roof.

"Welcome to the anthill," Dent said.

"It certainly is busy." EB pushed the b.u.t.ton to roll down her window and peered out, wide-eyed. The whole area was alive with people, most of them dressed in jeans, T-s.h.i.+rts, and flip-flops, despite the forty-degree temperature.

EB surveyed the chaos. "How are we going to find Justine in this big old mess?"

Dent drew the Lincoln under a large live oak hung with Spanish moss, killed the motor, and took a small clipboard from the glove compartment. "I have a general idea of where they might be. They issue a shooting schedule every morning, but they never stick to it. What time is it, one thirty?"

"One thirty-five exactly." Antonia jumped out of the car, eyes glowing, cheeks flushed with excitement. She drew a deep breath. "Just smell this air, Mrs. Billingsley!"

EB sniffed obligingly. "Roses in January," she said. "And somebody's cooking chili."

"It's the movies!"

Bree followed Antonia out of the car, ready to rein in her sister if need be.

"Haydee was murdered the first of July," Dent said as he, too, exited the car. "They're trying to fake the time of year. Make good sense if they waited for summer and saved the cost of the rosebushes. But this place isn't swamped with common sense." He tossed the clipboard onto the driver's seat. "I can't make head or tail of this schedule." He put his hand on Bree's shoulder. "You see that colored girl over there?"

"I see two African-American women," Bree said pointedly. "I don't see any colored girls."

"Right, sorry. I keep s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g that up. Anyhow, the pretty one in the gray cardigan. That's Florida Smith. She's the head writer. She usually knows what's going on." He put two fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. "Hey! Flurry!"

A slim woman in a gray hoodie and tattered jeans glanced their way. Dent waved at her, pointed at Bree, and then pushed Bree forward a little. "Right. You go ask her about where to find Mrs. Coville."

Flurry Smith met them halfway across the lawn. "Where have you been, w.i.l.l.y? Did you turn your cell phone off again? Phil's been looking for you."

"Had to make a run back into Savannah to fetch these folks."