Angel's Verdict Part 11

Seven.

False face must hide,

What false heart does know.

-Macbeth, William Shakespeare Bree thought of Stubblefield, Marwick the way she thought about designer shoes. A lot of glitz for little substance, and not worth paying full price. A cheat. The satellite office in the Bay Street building occupied the whole of the second floor. Bree pushed open the heavy gla.s.s door to the reception area and announced herself to the blonde receptionist at the front desk. Her name tag read TIFFANY.

"Mr. Stubblefield is in conference at the moment, Miss Winston-Beaufort," Tiffany said. "Would you care for a latte while you're waiting? Some Evian water?"

"Actually," Bree said, "what I would care for is not to wait."

Tiffany smiled glossily. Her hair was an improbable champagne pink. "I completely understand how busy you are, Miss Winston-Beaufort. Mr. Stubblefield will be just a few moments."

"I'm not particularly busy," Bree said. "What I am is averse to hanging around waiting for John Stubblefield." She looked at her watch. "Mr. Stubblefield has exactly five minutes. If we're not in a meeting by then, he can reschedule for a time better suited to his busy schedule." She held up her tote. "Just so you know, I have Mrs. Waterman's brooch with me."

Tiffany blinked. "I'll be happy to give him the message."

She picked up the phone. Bree sat down in a satin-striped fake Regency armchair and tried to avoid looking at her surroundings. The wall-to wall carpeting was thick, unnaturally clean, and the color of Tiffany's hair. The furniture consisted of ornate, stylized versions of antiques. Ma.s.ses of silk flowers spilled from fake Tuscan urns. The drapes were Dupioni silk. The air thrummed faintly with the action of a white-noise machine, and somebody had gotten overexcited with a bottle of air freshener.

Within three minutes, the heavy mahogany door to the back rooms swung open. Payton came out first. Bree was mildly sorry to see that he favored his right knee when he walked, but not very. John Stubblefield stood behind him. Stubblefield wore a pale blue Oxford b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. Red suspenders held up beige cashmere trousers. His wing-tips were polished to a spit s.h.i.+ne. He looked as ersatz as the antiques in his foyer.

Stubblefield, with his crown of pure white hair and bright blue eyes, was the star of the firm's late-night infomercials. He came across as folksy, concerned, and not overly smart. In reality, he was self-interested to a pathological degree and greedy to a degree beyond that. He was also one of the smartest lawyers Bree had encountered in her short career. Bree hoped that one of these decades, the federal government would take a long, hard look at tort reform; until then, Stubblefield would continue to make a fortune bringing cla.s.s-action suits against the manufacturers of floor wax and dentures.

"Miss Winston-Beaufort." Stubblefield's grin was wide, white, and about as trustworthy as a fox in a hen-house. "Please! Come in. Come in."

Bree avoided his hand on her arm and walked ahead of him down the thickly carpeted hallway to the conference room. Stubblefield, Marwick negotiated a lot of their cla.s.s-action suits here, and it was set up with a grandiosity that always put Bree in mind of the United Nations, as interpreted by the descendants of Walt Disney. At least three former office suites had been knocked together to make one large room. Sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, it was dominated by a vast, highly polished round table surrounded by executive-style leather chairs. In front of each chair was a computer port, a water carafe, and old-fas.h.i.+oned yellow pads. Stubblefield, Marwick pens and pencils were placed neatly at the top of each pad. One end of the room was a stainless steel kitchen, complete with granite countertops, that could be closed off with plantation-style pocket doors. On top of the sleek kitchen island was a plate of cantaloupe, watermelon, grapes, and cheese.

Stubblefield indicated Bree should sit with a wave of his hand. "Can Tiffany make you a cappuccino? Or a 'Co-Cola?" He p.r.o.nounced "cola" the Southern way, although Bree knew for a fact he was originally from Providence, Rhode Island. "We'll have to wait a few minutes for Mrs. Waterman, I'm afraid. Her driver called. Traffic's pretty heavy around the market. Apparently, Sundowner Productions is shooting some background footage. But you know all about that."

"Do I?" Bree pulled out a chair nearest the kitchen and sat down. Payton, who hadn't said a word and didn't seem about to, stationed himself behind the island and took out his Blackberry. She fought the impulse to holler, "Yo, steno boy," and turned to Stubblefield instead. "You're in a better position to know what's happening at Sundowner Productions, surely, John? Phillip Mercury thinks the place is full of your spies."

Stubblefield chuckled. "The ineffable Justine. Oh what a tangled web it is. Sister suing sister. Tsk, tsk." He settled on the tabletop and clasped his hands around his raised knee. Bree was familiar with the pose: Just-Us-Folks Stubblefield. "Nonsense. The Bullochs, as you know, are quite concerned about the slurs Phillip Mercury and his scriptwriter are casting on that fine family's name. But any information they have about the film has been gathered through ordinary legal channels. The truth will come out in court. In the meantime, I've advised the Bulloch family to stay at arm's length. You, on the other hand, seem to be closely involved in Sundowner's affairs."

"Well, I'm not. But I do represent Justine Coville. She's authorized me to discuss the return of the jeweled pin lent to her by Alexandra Bulloch, a member of the Bulloch family. And as all of Savannah knows, Justine has a role in Bitter Tide. I wouldn't characterize that as my being involved with the company."

Stubblefield frowned. "Discuss the return of my client's property? Your paralegal a.s.sured me that you were here to give Mrs. Waterman her property back. I wouldn't have dragged my poor client all the way down here for anything less. Of course, I'm always glad to see you. But I'm feeling very disappointed."

"Fib. Attack. Duck. That's a great tactic, John." Bree yawned for effect. "But it won't work with me. Torture might, though. This room is too hot. Do you think you can turn down the heat?"

"This is a climate-controlled facility," Payton said. "Everybody else is comfortable."

"How's the knee?" Bree asked sweetly.

Stubblefield's grin got mean. "How's about that knee, Payton? I'd surely like to know the story behind that little episode. I send my trusted a.s.sociate down to see this little bit of a girl and he comes back all messed up."

A small chime sounded. Tiffany's voice floated into the room. The speaker system was a good one. It felt as if she were standing right there. "Mrs. Waterman is here, Mr. Stubblefield."

Stubblefield lifted his chin and spoke to the air. "Please escort Mrs. Waterman to the conference room."

Payton went to the door and opened it. Tiffany came in moments later. She stepped aside and held the door wide. Stubblefield leaped off the table, his arms open in welcome. "Samantha Rose! Aren't you looking like an English spring this morning?"

"It's after one' clock in the afternoon, John. And I haven't had my breakfast yet."

Samantha Rose Waterman was attractive in the way that women who could afford personal trainers, dieticians, and expert dermatologists were attractive. Her hair was brilliantly styled to minimize a large nose and a determined chin. Her makeup was discreet. She was in her midforties Bree guessed, maybe a little older. She wore a short mink jacket, a white silk s.h.i.+rt, tight-fitting Prada jeans, and red stiletto heels. A gold bracelet crowded with charms was wrapped around one wrist.

"There's a little fruit and cheese for you right over there," Stubblefield said. "Tiffany?" He patted the receptionist's rear end. "Be a good girl and fix a plate for Mrs. Waterman."

Tiffany dimpled prettily and went over to the kitchen island. Payton gave her a big smile and brushed up against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she took a small plate from the stack next to the fruit bowl.

So what's with this guy getting away with patting a woman on the b.u.t.t?

"Dent," Bree said. "Dammit. Not now."

It's the fact the guy's got bucks, right?

"I said not now, Dent!"

Sammi-Rose looked at her with arrogant distaste. Stubblefield looked amused. Bree covered her mouth with her hand and scribbled aimlessly on her yellow pad.

One rule for the high rollers, and one for all the rest of it.

Bree dropped her pen and smacked her temple with the heel of her hand. "Will you just cut it out?"

"Sammi-Rose," Stubblefield said, "I'd like you to meet Brianna Winston-Beaufort. The next time you see Justine, you might comment on the professional quality of her counsel."

"Sorry," Bree said. She gestured vaguely at her ear. "Earache."

Samantha's smile was meaner than Stubblefield's. She accepted the plate of fruit Tiffany handed to her, picked over the grapes and the cantaloupe, and handed back the plate. "I don't eat watermelon. I'd appreciate it if you'd slice up the other fruit a bit more." She narrowed her eyes at Stubblefield. "Did she bring the brooch?"

Stubblefield looked at Bree. "She brought the brooch."

She snapped her fingers. "I want to see it."

Bree opened her briefcase and held up the jeweled pin. The overhead lights struck small rainbows from the diamonds. "Is this the brooch? You can identify it?"

"Of course I can. It's a Louis Comfort Tiffany. An original."

"Thank you." Bree put it back in the briefcase and snapped it shut.

Sammi-Rose looked directly at her for the first time. "That's mine," she snarled.

"It's not yours," Bree said cordially. "It's your grandmother's."

"My grandmother-bless her heart-pa.s.sed a long time ago. And she left that brooch to the family. That old b.i.t.c.h got her hands on it, stole it, and we want it back."

Bree cut her eyes at Stubblefield. "Consuelo Bulloch's last will and testament directed that she be buried with the brooch."

Stubblefield smiled a little.

"Your grandmother's buried at Belle Glade. I've got the brooch. Which means it's not in the casket."

"So?" Apparently Tiffany had cut the fruit into sufficiently small pieces. Sammi-Rose picked up a square of melon and chewed it. "It would have been ridiculous to bury that fine a piece."

Bree stretched back in the chair. "Whoever decided to keep the jewel committed grand felony theft."

Sammi-Rose stopped chewing. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"Can you tell me who made the decision not to inter the brooch with Consuelo's body?"

Stubblefield spoke up. "She's not going to answer that, are you, Samantha?"

"I guess not." Sammi-Rose put another piece of melon in her mouth and chewed mechanically. Bree thought she was worried, but it was hard to tell. Botox took her Aunt Cissy the same way.

"It's the duty of the executor of the estate to pursue this," Bree said. "I'm afraid until it's resolved, the executor will have custody of the peac.o.c.k."

"The executor?" Sammi-Rose pushed the plate aside and stood up. "That's all right, then. My father was the executor of Grandmother's estate. And he was the one who decided what a waste it'd be to bury it with the old cat anyhow."

"Your father was co-executor," Bree corrected her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stubblefield frown suddenly. "And your father was derelict in his duty, I'm afraid. Which is another kettle of fish altogether." Bree jumped to her feet. "I'll leave you and Mr. Stubblefield to hash this over, Mrs. Waterman. In the meantime, the brooch remains with me."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it," Stubblefield hissed. "You're going to regret this."

Sammi-Rose's face flushed red. "You can't just let her walk right out of here. That pin is worth twenty thousand dollars."

"And a beautiful piece to boot." Bree reached the door, opened it, and paused on her way out. "You haven't asked, John, but it is pretty obvious. You should have read Consuelo's will more carefully. Whatever else you are, you're a capable man, so I'll cut you some slack and a.s.sume that you had someone else do it for you." She very pointedly avoided looking at Payton. "There's a reason why he's not looking too pleased, Mrs. Waterman. The law firm of Franklin Winston-Beaufort was your grandmother's co-executor, too. She chose him because he helped your father through a rough patch after the Haydee Quinn murder. My great-uncle, bless his heart, turned his legal obligations over to me when I took over his practice. Which is why I have the brooch, will keep the brooch, and will dispose of the brooch according to the rule of law. I'll let you know what the courts decide about the disposition of your grandmother's property. I'm going to pet.i.tion that it be reburied with her." She touched her brow in a half salute. "See ya!"

Bree jogged up the four flights of stairs to her own office, reflecting there were few things as satisfying as a complete (admittedly temporary) victory over chiselers and cheats. EB would enjoy the story. EB would also remind her that the Bullochs in general and Stubblefield in particular were bad enemies to have.

Except EB wasn't there. It was after two o'clock. EB went home at noon. The Bay Street practice was still too new to carry a full-time a.s.sistant-other than Justine Coville, the only other clients Bree had were clients who'd already made out their wills. Bree stood in the middle of the room and tried to look at the room through the eyes of a prospective client.

A bamboo screen split the room into two parts; the two-thirds in front held EB's desk and her computer, three gray metal filing cabinets containing Franklin's old files and Bree's very few new ones, and a visitor's chair. Bree's desk was behind the screen, set under the double-hung window that looked out over Bay Street. The carpeting was the standard industrial type that Bree mentally thought of as "no color," just like the walls. All the furniture was secondhand-maybe even third. EB had picked it up from Second Hand Rows down on Whitaker Street. Paint, pictures, plants, Bree thought. When she had time.

She sat down at her desk to pick up her messages. There was a note in EB's distinctive handwriting: Went through the storage cabinet. Found transcript of December 13th 1952 file on Alexander Bulloch. Ron came to pick up. Left case file for you to read before you meet Florida Smith at 7:00 p.m. What a nice smile that boy has. Calls from Lt. Hunter-please call back. Dent wants to see you. Heard from Ron you'd be here today so I told him stop by. See you tomorrow I hope.-EB The transcript of the sanity hearing was on top of the pile. Bree picked it up, surprised to discover she was nervous. Her memories of Franklin were good ones. She had known him as a tall, rather reserved man with a mane of white hair and a deep, resonant voice. She was about to see him again, through his words on the pages she held.

She reviewed the list of witnesses first. The consulting MD was a Dr. Pythias Warren. Bree frowned. He was a GP. His credentials didn't include psychiatry. The presiding judge was a man she'd heard about but who'd died long before she was born: Bulwar Kinney. She was vague about his reputation, but undoubtedly he would have been part of the city's Old Guard. The Kinney family certainly was.

Eddie O'Malley was listed as a witness. He'd been part of the team that had arrested Alex's pitiful journey with the burning cart.

The witness testimony about Alex's behavior after Haydee's death was consistent. He was tragically distraught. Consuelo, Alexander senior, Dr. Warren-their testimony didn't have the sameness of agreed-upon lies. Alex wept, scarified his face and chest with a table knife, couldn't sleep, and then, finally, relapsed into a sort of stupor, neither eating nor responding to the people around him. It made Bree's eyes sting with tears just reading about it. It must have been horrible in the courtroom.

She came to Alex's own testimony: JUDGE KINNEY: You say that Miss Quinn asked you to purify her, Mr. Bulloch? How did she come to do that?

DEFENDANT BULLOCH: She called to me.

JUDGE KINNEY: She called you? Where did she call you from, son?

DEFENDANT BULLOCH: In my room. She was in my room. At night. With her hair down. Calling me.

JUDGE KINNEY: This was the night of July 3?

DEFENDANT BULLOCH: No response. Weeping.

JUDGE KINNEY: She came to you the night of July 3?

DEFENDANT BULLOCH: In my bed! In my bed!

Bree set the transcript aside. No real answers there. Tyra Steele's behavior had put paid to the notion that Haydee's spirit had returned to seek justice. The young actress may have fooled herself into thinking she was possessed, but Bree was willing to bet most of her sorry bank account that that notion would disappear once the Facebook fans lost interest. As for a ghostly appearance in Alex Bulloch's room all those years ago?

Maybe.

She picked up the thick manila packet that contained the downloads from the Internet. There were three separate bundles inside, labeled MURDER, BEFORE, and AFTER. She picked up the MURDER file first. The lead story was from the Savannah Daily News dated July 1, 1952: GRUESOME DISCOVERY IN RIVER! Haydee Quinn Found Stabbed Beautiful Danseuse Dies of Wounds!

The photographs attached to the story were typical of the time. There was a smeary black-and-white shot of the riverbank, showing the old pier and the blurred outline of the opposite sh.o.r.e. A white arrow pointed to an area in the water just beyond where the Savannah Tourist Bureau was now.

The photograph that really drew Bree's interest was of Haydee herself. It was a black-and-white head shot, obviously a studio pose for publicity purposes. Haydee looked into the camera over her left shoulder. Her hair was dark, coiled on top of her head. She wore a jeweled cap, with feathers sweeping down her cheek to the tip of her chin. Her eyes were light-someone, it might have been Justine, had said they were blue. Bree was willing to bet her eyelashes were fake; they were too thick and lush to be natural. Her lips were distinctive; she had a triangular smile with a seductive curl that reminded Bree of the actress Vivien Leigh in the old movie Gone with the Wind.

Below the head shot was a photograph of Haydee in full theatrical costume. She wore a net bodysuit covered with spangles. She looked a little chubby to Bree's eyes and definitely underexercised. But she supposed beauty standards in the Cold War era had differed from those now. And in any era, her face was dazzling.

The article stated the facts right up front. An early morning fisherman cast his line over the banks. The hook caught in Haydee's hair. As soon as he realized what was on the other end of the line, the dismayed fisherman ran for the beat policeman, Patrolman Herbert Wilson. Bleeding and unconscious, Haydee was pulled from the river. An ambulance rushed her to Savannah General Hospital. Every effort was made to save her, but she died of a dozen wounds to the chest six hours later.

The articles subsequent to the discovery of the victim herself concerned the police investigation. Haydee was the star attraction at a nightclub called the Tropicana Tide in the docks area east of Old Savannah. s.h.i.+pping was a dying industry at the time, but the area was home to what the newspaper referred to as "the rougher elements of our fair city." (Bree was struck with the reticent tone of the reporting when it came to s.e.x and drugs.) Her manager, a "notorious gangster, three times convicted of illegal gambling," was Dysart William Norris, known as Bagger Bill. A helpful sidebar indicated that he'd come by this nickname after running numbers for "gentlemen from up North." Bagger Bill was suspected of the crime almost immediately by "our fair city's crack homicide team," Lt. Edward O'Malley and Sgt. Robert E. Lee Kowalski.

There was a black-and-white photograph of O'Malley-Dent, to her-and another of a square-jawed man with slicked-back hair. Bree examined the picture of Dent closely. This was an official police photo taken in a studio, like Haydee's. It showed a younger Dent, with a lot more hair, staring directly at the camera. Florida Smith must have come across this photograph, too. But most of the lenses at the time flattened faces out and added weight to their frames. It would have taken a highly skilled professional a lot of fiddling to get a genuinely representational portrait. And by the time Dent died in the car crash years later, alcohol had taken its toll on his face.

Two days after Haydee's death at the hospital, O'Malley and Kowalski charged Bagger Bill with the first-degree murder of Haydee Quinn. In the statement given to the press, the police claimed Norris was found dead drunk with "blood on his hands" and a knife at his side. According to the bartender at the Tropicana Tide, the accused and the victim had a "knock-down, drag-out set-to" the night before Haydee was found in the river.

After undergoing extensive interrogation, Norris confessed. A few weeks later, he recanted his confession, and ultimately went to the chair loudly claiming his innocence.

Confessed.

Bree sat back and thought about this. There was no mention of the accuser's lawyer until some weeks after the murder. The police weren't required to Mirandize suspects until 1964. As far as police interrogation techniques at the time, there was a lot less oversight than there was now.

She wondered if Dent had been capable of beating a false confession out of William Norris.

Bree paged through the rest of the articles, pausing at the news stories about Alexander Bulloch's tragic odyssey on the riverbank. The stories were remarkably restrained. Maybe not so remarkably, Bree thought, since the Bulloch family was reverently referred to when they were referred to at all. There were no photographs of Alexander himself, although Petru had researched a picture of Consuelo. Bree found it a little eerie to see a temporal representation of her client. The woman was quite thin, with a tight mouth and an even tighter perm. The peac.o.c.k pin rode high on her right shoulder, fastened to the collar of her prim dress. The small headline below her picture read, Mrs. Alexander Bulloch at the Red Cross Relief Fund-Raiser. Bree studied Consuelo's face. She certainly didn't look like a woman who would welcome the lush curves of Haydee Quinn at her dinner table. She recalled the charges that had sent her client to h.e.l.l: spite, malice, bigotry, treachery. Yes, that face looked capable of all those behaviors. But murder?

On an impulse, Bree took the peac.o.c.k jewel from her briefcase and held it between her palms.

"Mrs. Bulloch?"