Angel's Verdict (3 page)

“This Consuelo was that boy Alexander’s mamma,” EB said. “And you say she hated that poor Haydee like poison?”

“Worse than poison,” Justine said with relish. “There were no tears from
her
when the poor girl’s body was found floating in the Savannah River. One of the finest scenes in the script is when that policeman O’Malley shows up at the door of Bulloch House to tell Consuelo and her son that Haydee’s been stabbed. The camera comes in for a close-up.” She spread her hands on either side of her face and opened her eyes wide. Her collagen-filled lips formed an “O” of dismay. “Closer, closer, closer ... and I’m to gaze into the distance with a purr of triumphant satisfaction. That’s what the script calls for.” She closed her eyes slowly and opened them again. “Like that.”

Bree and EB exchanged doubtful looks. EB clapped her hands together and said, “Isn’t that something? Did you catch that, Ms. Beaufort?”

“I did,” Bree said. “It was great.”

“Wonderful. Wonderful,” EB said with kindly emphasis.

“Of course,” Justine added, “
Bitter Tide
is only television, after all. Not what you would call the legitimate theater.”

“I watch television,” EB said. “I watch it all the time. So does Ms. Beaufort. Tell you what. Point of being a famous actress is to get your face on out there, isn’t it? And how many people know you on account of that TV role you had, I mean—as that cop’s mamma.”

Justine sighed theatrically. “Dear old
Bristol Blues
. It will be how I’m remembered. Not for my Lady Bracknell! Not for my Medea! But for that cheesy cop series.”

Bree had loved
Bristol Blues
. It’d gotten a slew of Emmys. “Craig Oliver was great in that. I had a huge crush on him when I was sixteen. He’s here in town, too, isn’t he?”

“Dear Craig,” Justine purred. “We go way back. Charming man. He was the one who brought my suitability for the role of Consuelo to Phillip’s attention. He’s playing O’Malley. The police lieutenant who cracked the Haydee Quinn case. A fine actor, of course. Very fine. But never quite achieved the fame he felt he deserved after
Bristol Blues
ended.” She glanced obliquely at Bree, curved her hand as if holding a glass, and tipped it toward her mouth. “And there’s the liquor, of course.”

“Drink,” EB said. “Takes some of the finest, drink does. What a shame.”

“Not nearly as disastrous as drugs.” Justine shook her head. “I could tell you stories . . .”

Bree and EB maintained a hopeful (if slightly guilty) silence.

“Tyra Steele,” Justine said flatly. “And Hatch Lewis, of course.”

“Huh.” EB let her breath out. “There’s been more than a few stories about that. Is she really holding up the movie, like the papers say? And having it on with Hatch Lewis? That boy is about the best-looking thing I’ve seen in a long while.”

“The only love affair Hatch Lewis has is with himself,” Justine said dismissively. “As for Tyra. Well! Drugs took down Marilyn, took down Judy, and very nearly did for Liz.” Justine settled back in her chair with a judicial air. “Tyra’s not in their league, of course. I’ve seen high school cheerleaders with better talent, and if you think that body’s a gift of God, I can give you the names of her plastic surgeons. But there’s no denying she’s captured the public imagination.” Justine paused, crossly, and took another sip of tea. “As for casting her as Haydee . . . Phillip must have been out of his mind. According to the script, Haydee is magical. Alluring. Tyra’s just tacky. As for her other behavior . . .” Justine trailed off, a grim look on her face.

“But very beautiful,” Bree prompted.

Justine seemed to give herself a mental shake. “Vincent White certainly seems to think so.” Justine glanced from Bree to EB. “Vincent White’s one of the producers. The man has a great deal of money and very little sense. Quite insistent about casting Tyra in the part, if you understand what I’m saying.”

EB chuckled. “Not much changes about this old world, does it?”

Justine’s faded eyes narrowed. “Truer words were never said, Mrs. Billingsley.” Her twisted hand trembled as she set her teacup down on Bree’s desk. She clasped her wrist with her other hand to steady it, pretending to look at her watch. “Heavens! Is that the time?” She fumbled at the thin gold band. “Phillip will have my head on a plate if I’m not on set in two minutes. I must leave you now, I’m afraid.”

Bree gave Justine a gentle assist out of her chair. “As far as your legal business is concerned, we’ll get right on those revisions to your will, Mrs. Coville.”

“Justine, please.”

“Of course. Justine. It shouldn’t take too long to update your assets. And you’re sure about the changes in your beneficiaries?”

“Quite sure,” she said firmly. “Dixie Bulloch has been marvelous to me. Any director will tell you that I’m an absolute fiend about research, and when I wrote to the family asking for information about Consuelo, she responded immediately. It’s only right I leave her a little something. She lent me a brooch that used to belong to Consuelo. When I play real characters, I always like to have something that helps me connect to the essence of the character. Dixie said her grandmother simply cherished it. Wore it all the time and had it on when she died. They even considered burying her with it, but thank heavens they thought the better of that! I make quite a ceremony of pinning it on when I’m dressing for the part. I feel her spirit right here.” She pressed her open palm against the lapels of her dark blue linen jacket.

EB handed the actress her navy clutch, her lace-trimmed handkerchief, and a neatly folded umbrella. “Are you going over to the set right now, Ms. Coville? Would you like me to call you a taxi?”

“The hire car should be waiting downstairs,” Justine said. “And I’d be pleased if you’d call me Justine, Mrs. Billingsley. So many great performers can be identified that way. Sarah. Cher. Liza. Marilyn.”

“Haydee,” Bree pointed out with a slight smile.

Justine blinked. “Oh dear. And look what happened to the poor thing. I hadn’t thought of that.” She patted Bree’s arm. “That’s quite a good point. I find myself quite pleased that you’ve taken over Judge Beaufort’s practice.” She worked her lips for a moment. “Do you specialize in estates, my dear? I mean to say, do you handle other kinds of law?”

“We handle it all,” EB said.

“Is there something else you’d like to discuss with us?” Bree asked.

“If there is, you just come right out with it,” EB said. “You got a problem, we can help you with it.” She walked the few feet to the office door and opened it. “Now that we’ve got the Bay Street office up and running, we’re ready to handle a few select cases of any kind, Ms. Coville. Be sure and tell your friends about us.”

“I surely will. Thank you both for your assistance. And, oh!” She lifted her chin. “I’d appreciate it if you’d bring the paperwork directly to the set.”

“I’ll make sure to send it by courier,” EB said. “In case Ms. Beaufort’s in court, or with another client. This is a growing practice, and you just never know what the day will bring.”

“That’s just it.” Justine stood still, trembling a little, her gaze on the floor. “I never know what the next day will bring.” She brought her head up and seemed to have come to a decision. “May I sit down again? I haven’t been entirely candid with you about the extent of my concerns.”

“Oh my,” EB said. “One thing you have to be is honest with your lawyer.”

Bree waited a moment and then said gently, “We’d be happy to help if we can.”

“It’s an ugly story.” Justine brushed her hand lightly over her forehead and perched on the edge of the chair. “Those changes to my will aren’t at all essential, as I’m sure you realized. I could have phoned them in to you. As busy as I am, I probably should have. But I may need some help.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m being cowardly about this. And of all the things I’ve been in my life, I’ve never been a coward. No. I do need some help. I wanted to meet you. See if you were . . . sympathetic. Not the I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss sort of sympathetic. The we-understand-you kind. Do you see what I mean?” Her gaze was unexpectedly sharp. “There’s a lot of steel underneath you. Don’t think I don’t see it. You would have made an excellent Eleanor of Aquitaine. Except for your hair. Hers was reputedly red, not silver-blonde. It’s
The Lion in Winter
I’m speaking of. One of my finer roles.”

Justine wasn’t dithering, Bree realized. She was trying to avoid addressing something painful. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.” She made a conscious effort not to look at her watch. Antonia might spit tacks if this appointment took too much longer, but there was a lot she could occupy herself with at home. Walk Bree’s dog, Sasha, for instance. And it was Antonia’s turn to do the laundry. “Shall we all sit down again, and you tell us what’s troubling you?”

Justine stood up. “What’s the matter with me? I can’t sit down. I must get going. It doesn’t do to stay away from the set for long. But I will tell you this. Someone on that set is trying to kill me”

“Kill you?” EB gasped. “Lord, Lord.”

Justine blinked away tears. “Professionally, I mean. Someone is dropping poison in Phillip Mercury’s ear about my performance. He’s threatened to void my contract. There’s more. Strange things have been happening to me on the set. A rug rolled up so that I’ll trip on it. A chair moved out of position so that I’ll fall.” She dabbed at the tears with the back of her hand. “There’s a concentrated malevolence there. Violence. Aimed at me. Aimed directly at me.

“I want to know who is behind it.

And I want to know why.”

From ghoulies and ghosties and long leggity beasties
that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.

—Old Saying

 

 

 

 

“Someone’s trying to physically harm you? Of course I’ll come by the set,” Bree said, alarmed. “I’ll come with you now if you like.”

“You sit right down here,” EB ordered, planting the visitor’s chair next to her own desk. “Shall I get my steno pad, Ms. Beaufort? Shall I take notes?”

“ ‘Alarms and excursions,’ ” Justine murmured. Then, loudly, “No notes, Mrs. Billingsley. I don’t want to say anything more right now, Bree. And before you ask, no, I don’t want to call the police.” She suddenly looked her full age, and exhausted as anyone Bree had ever seen. “If I may be frank, I need this part. You’re how old . . . twenty-five? Thirty?”

“Twenty-eight,” Bree said.

“So you haven’t a clue. About how the world looks at you when you have a few years on you. Actually it’s how the world
doesn’t
look at you when you’re old. They raise their voices, as if you were deaf. Their gazes slide right past you in a crowd. You’re treated like a child, or a mental defective. But I’m not losing it, as you young people say. My powers of observation are as great as they’ve ever been.” Her lower lip trembled. “The whole production seems to be in trouble. Things disappear. Equipment gets damaged. The cost overruns are horrendous. Something is very wrong on the set of
Bitter Tide
. And they are trying to blame it on me.” Justine breathed in and out slowly, visibly willing herself calm. “I beg your pardon. I’m a bit frightened. I’m not used to living in fear.”

“Blaming it on you?” Bree said. “How can they blame cost overruns on you? Or damaged equipment?”

“Phillip is an artist. He insists on multiple takes and that costs money. He can be a bit of a bully. Most great directors are, of course. Erich von Stroheim used to walk around with a riding crop in his hand. And he used it. So it’s no wonder I get a bit flustered and forget my lines. Anyone would. It’s impossible to be at one’s best under those circumstances. But as far as replacing me with Allison Buckley. T’uh!”

“Allison Buckley?” EB said. “She was in that TV show
The Silver Sneakers
, Bree. You know, the one about the lady detectives in the nursing home.” She patted Justine’s shoulder “That Buckley’s not half the actress you are, Ms. Coville.”

“She certainly is not.”

Bree leaned back against the desk and folded her arms. “Mercury wants to void your contract and put someone else in the role. Is that it? Because he doesn’t feel you’re up to the job?”

“He says I’m too old.”

The word seemed to hang in the air like a curse. Bree felt swamped with pity.

Justine held up her hand. “Listen to me, please. These incidents Phil blames on me could be viewed as the imaginings of a dotty old lady. I want you to come to the set because I want you to see for yourself. “

“All right,” Bree said.

“You appear to me to be both forthright and honest. If you think Phillip’s right, you will tell me.”

“I will.”

Justine held her head up with spirit. “But if what I think is correct—that someone is out to get me—I expect you to take all appropriate action.”

Bree suppressed a smile. “You bet,” she said.

“Then if Mrs. Billingsley can make those few—admittedly minor—updates to my last will and testament as quickly as I believe she can, I will expect you on the set tomorrow afternoon. About three o’clock.” She lifted her chin, looked slowly from Bree to EB and back again, and walked out of the office, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Hm,” EB said after a long, startled moment.

“That was quite an exit.” Bree sank down in the visitor’s chair. “Good grief.”

EB tugged the yellow pad with the amendments to Justine’s will out of Bree’s hand and sat down at her desk.

“You don’t think we should see her down the elevator?” Bree asked. “Make sure that the hire car’s waiting? That she’s safe?”

EB looked at Bree over her reading glasses. “That’s one old lady who can take care of herself. You heard her. Wants help on her own terms, and my goodness if she didn’t dictate those terms like Joe Stalin bossing FDR at Yalta.”

Bree blinked.

“The teacher’s up to World War II in my night school class.” EB tapped at her keyboard with a self-satisfied air. “You better get yourself on home for lunch while I finish this will up. Antonia e-mailed me twice wondering where you are. Sooner I get this done, the sooner we can go get a gander at what’s happening on that movie.” She shook herself. “Lord! What a great place to work this is! Go on, now, Bree. Get some food in you. You’re getting thinner than a fence post.”