Angel's Verdict (6 page)

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 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 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.”

“Mercury,” Dent said in disgust. “That little asshole. 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 Hell.” 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 class 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 peacock 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 asshole . . . sorry, ladies. . . . that crumb-bum 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 crap 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 scuttlebutt 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 space. 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 balustrade 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 button to roll down her window and peered out, wide-eyed. The whole area was alive with people, most of them dressed in jeans, T-shirts, 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 screwing 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, Willy? 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.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to head right back there again. Phil wants a couple of beignets from Huey’s.”

Dent made a noise between a grunt and a cough.

“Yeah, yeah. I know it’s beneath your dignity, but you better step on it.” She grabbed at his sleeve as he moved away. “Hang on a minute. Who are these people?”

“They have business with Mrs. Coville.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Bree. “She’s a lawyer.”

“Is that so?” Flurry cocked her head. Her smile never left her face, but she was clearly wary. “Okay, then. I’ll take care of them. You’d better get a move on, Willy. Try to make it back by three, okay? He’s shooting now, but I’ve scheduled him for a script revision. He’s promised faithfully, absolutely to be there, which makes it a real possibility.”

Dent turned and began to trudge back to the car.

“And turn your cell phone on!”

“Go soak yourself.”

“Go soak myself?” Flurry marveled. “Can you beat that guy?” She chuckled.

“That man’s a few puppies shy of a litter,” EB said with more than a touch of indignation.

Flurry rounded on EB in sudden delight. “He’s what? Two puppies shy of a . . . hang on a sec.” She pulled a small spiral notebook from a back pocket and scribbled in it. “I love it. I’m stealing it. And no, you don’t get a writing credit.” She tucked the notebook back where it came from. “Willy’s not so bad. If you can get past the attitude. He’s working on it. Now, what’s up with the three of you?”

Bree stepped forward. “I’m a lawyer from Savannah . . .”

Flurry’s smooth face tightened, but the smile didn’t waver. “Look, if this is about that insane Bulloch lawsuit . . .”

“This is about Justine Coville. She’s retained my firm to update her will. She asked us to bring the amended version to the set. It’s ready for her signature.” Bree held up the file folder.

Flurry relaxed a little. “Oh. That’ll be okay, I guess. Phil’s in the middle of an interior shot right now, but she’ll be free in a bit. Follow me to the food wagon. We can probably find a cup of coffee for a lawyer who isn’t in the middle of suing us. As opposed to the ones that are. I’m Florida Smith, by the way. Call me Flurry.”

“Brianna Winston-Beaufort. This is my associate, Emerald Bil—”

Flurry stopped and turned her delighted grin on Bree. “Get out! Any relation to Franklin Winston-Beaufort? The lawyer who represented Alex at the insanity hearing? How cool is this? I haven’t been able to dig up much on him at all!”

“We’re his nieces,” Antonia said. She elbowed her way in front of Bree, the better to face the scriptwriter. “We both are. Bree’s his older niece, and I’m the younger one. Antonia Winston-Beaufort.” She grabbed Flurry’s unresisting hand and shook it. “I’m temporarily with the Savannah Rep. We’re staging a revival of
The Winslow Boy
at the moment. I’d be happy to comp you if you’re free some night this week.”

Flurry’s smile disappeared. “So
you’re
not a lawyer. You’re an actor. And you’re here because . . .”