Avenging Angels Page 20

  Antonia burst through the back door first, hair flying. She shrieked and kissed her mother, and then she shrieked and kissed Bree. Royal followed her into the kitchen at a more sedate pace, Tonia’s overnight bag in one hand. “Parking gets to be more problematic every time we visit, Chessie,” he said to Bree’s mother. He kissed Bree on the forehead. “Hello, daughter. You’re looking well.”

  “She looks like hell,” Antonia said frankly. “You’re just glad to see her. I’m glad to see her, too, of course, but to me she looks like hell.”

  “Isn’t anyone glad to see me?” Cissy walked through the kitchen and straight through into the living room without stopping. She wore a tracksuit, custom-made tennis shoes with her name emblazoned on the side in sequins, and heavy gold earrings.

  “Where are you going, sister?” Francesca demanded. “You aren’t going to stop to say hey, howdy?”

  Cissy’s voice floated back to them. “I’m taking a look at the scene of the crime, of course.” Then: “Hey, howdy, sister.”

  “You’re not going to mess with that scene if the police tape’s still up,” Royal grumbled. “Behave yourself, please.” He followed Cissy into the front room. With a shrug, Bree got up and so did her mother. In a few moments they were all crowded together, looking at the little hall.

  “Not a speck of difference that I can see,” Cissy said in evident disappointment.

  Francesca rolled her eyes. “My word, Cissy. Did you want blood and brains all over the place?”

  “There weren’t any,” Bree said. “Just the head wound.”

  “Hm.” Her father patted his sports coat pocket in an absentminded way. He’d quit smoking his pipe years before, but the reflexive habit died hard. “Killed somewhere else and dumped here?”

  “That’s the theory.”

  Cissy shuddered. “Thank the Lord he wasn’t done in here. You might have had a ghost, Bree. Think of that.”

  “Think of that,” Bree echoed.

  “Well, I’m thinking of my dinner,” Antonia said abruptly. “And I don’t want to think about the way that poor man looked any more. I told y’all I upchucked like anything, didn’t I?” She smiled sunnily at everyone. “That casserole just about warmed up, Mamma?”

  “Now,” Cissy said, as they were all seated at the dining room table a few moments later, “everyone’s coming to Tully’s party tomorrow night, I hope. I mean, that is why you came on down.”

  “We came on down to see the girls,” Francesca said. “But we’d love to go to the party, wouldn’t we, Royal? Ciaran Fordham! I had a crush on that man the first time I saw him in the first remake of Wuthering Heights. Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.” She blushed prettily. “I have a copy of his biography with me. I was hoping I could ask him to sign it.”

  “Tony’ll be there, too,” Antonia said carelessly. “You know, the famous director? Anthony Haddad?”

  “There’s a chain of Haddad funeral homes,” Francesca said doubtfully.

  “Cousins, or brothers or something,” Cissy said. “Honestly, Chessie, you need to get out of the house more. Tony Haddad is one of the most brilliant new stage directors around. He’s won every theater award there is. It’s just like you to bring up the funeral homes.”

  “I most certainly did not,” Francesca said indignantly. “All I said was, isn’t that the same family as the people who own the funeral homes, and you go off like a rocket.”

  “Ladies,” Royal said. “Not at the dinner table, please.” Antonia and Bree looked at each other and started to giggle.

  “Girls,” Royal said.

  “We know, Daddy,” Tonia said. “We’ve heard it all our lives.” Then she and Bree chimed in together, “Not at the dinner table.”

  “Tell us about Mr. Haddad and this new job,” Royal said.

  “Mamma doesn’t keep up with the theater much,” Antonia said. “If you did, Mamma, you’d be over the moon that I’m working for him.”

  “Tonia!” Cissy shrieked. “You got the part!”

  “The part!” Antonia’s eyes brimmed with sudden tears. “I should have gotten that part!”

  Bree said hastily, “It’s better than a part, Aunt Cissy. It’s a continuing job with the stage management end of things. Much better than just a part. A part lasts as long as the play. A stage management job lasts as long as the company.”

  “My,” Francesca said. “So this is more like regular employment?”

  “You bet. A real career move.” Bree reached over and nudged her sister affectionately. “I take it John Allen Cavendish let you go without too much of a hoorah?”

  “There was a hoorah, all right. But it wasn’t over me. It was over the funding for the theater.”

  “Oh, dear,” Francesca said. “Money troubles, I expect.”

  “Big time.” Antonia took a huge bite of casserole and said through the mouthful, “I’d have lost the job there anyway. So it’s a good thing this came along when it did.”

  “And the salary’s adequate?” Royal asked.

  Antonia smiled. “More fruit salad, Daddy?”

  “You trying to divert my attention?”

  “Is it working?”

  Bree thought she heard a faint tap from the kitchen.

  Sasha nudged Bree’s foot.

  Someone at the back door.

  “Is that someone at the back door?” Cissy said. “You want me to get it?”

  “I’ll go.” Bree tossed her napkin onto the table and wondered what would happen if she went on through the kitchen, out through the back door, and out into the night and didn’t come back for the rest of the night. Her talkative family wouldn’t miss her for hours. She could get some sleep on a park bench somewhere.

  But the way out was blocked by Sam Hunter and her fantasy faded in the pleasure of seeing him again. Although he looked even more tired than she felt. His eyes were red-rimmed and there was faint stubble on his cheeks. She wanted to stroke the tiredness away. Instead, she smiled at him.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey, yourself,” Bree said, pleased. “Are you returning my phone call?”

  “We missed the basketball game, so I thought we might at least grab a bite of dinner.” He caught sight of her mother, who’d come into the kitchen after her. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “Now, who is this?” Francesca said. “Bree, I don’t think I’ve met this nice-looking man.”

  “Come in,” Bree said. “You can join us for dinner.”

  “I thought we’d grab something at Huey’s.”

  “This is Lieutenant Hunter, Mamma. He’s with the Chatham County police.”

  “How nice to meet you, Lieutenant.”

  “And he hasn’t eaten yet.”

  “You haven’t eaten yet?” Francesca’s eyes went wide. “My word, my word, man. It’s well after nine o’clock.

  You’ll be doing us a favor if you come and help us finish up all this food.”

  Hunter hesitated. Bree smiled encouragingly. “Thank you, ma’am. I’d like that.”

  Bree led him into the dining room. As Antonia set up a sixth place at the table, Bree introduced him. “Hunter? My father, Royal.”

  “Sir.” The two men shook hands.

  “And Cecilia Carmichael, my aunt.”

  Cissy gave him an appraising look. Then a flirtatious one. She patted the space next to her. Antonia set the extra chair next to Bree, instead, and Hunter sat down in a gingerly way.

  “Hey, Hunter,” Antonia said. “Grab the last of the casserole before my aunt does.”

  Cissy frowned at her as she put the serving spoon back into the dish. “Antonia, I eat like a bird. I always have.”

  “Some birds eat three times their own weight every twenty-four hours,” Antonia said with an innocent air. “I saw that on a National Geographic special.”

  “Do you work with my daughter, Lieutenant Hunter?” Francesca ladled a large helping of fruit onto his plate and stacked two rolls next to them. “Have some butter wit
h that. And your name isn’t Hunter Hunter, is it? Like the character in that book? Major Major?”

  “Sam,” he said.

  “Now, that’s a name I’ve always liked.” She passed the green salad to him. “You’re the first of Bree’s colleagues we’ve met so far. I’ve spoken on the phone with her secretary, Ron . . . that boy has the pleasantest voice I’ve ever heard! But we haven’t seen hide nor hair of the others.”

  “Hunter and I aren’t exactly colleagues, Mamma. He works for the police.”

  “You’re on this current case, I take it?” Royal said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bad business, that.”

  “Yes, sir. He was a friend of mine.”

  “Things progressing well?”

  “Well enough.” Hunter nodded at Francesca. “Excellent casserole, ma’am.”

  “Do call me Francesca. And it’s a wonderful casserole. It’s one of Adelina’s specialties. The girls have loved it since they were little.”

  Hunter cocked an eyebrow at Bree. “Adelina?”

  “Our cook,” Bree said shortly. She and Hunter didn’t see eye to eye on the advantages of her family background. He tended to resent it. She resented it, too. But she didn’t like anyone else resenting it.

  “About this case, Lieutenant.” Cissy broke into the conversation with a determined air. “I’m just fascinated by the way y’all work in the police. You must know who committed this dreadful crime by now. Do you . . .”

  “Cecilia.” Royal’s interruption was firm. “The lieutenant’s not allowed to discuss current cases. Pass the fruit salad to me, would you? And tell me how things have been with you lately. Did your counsel—what’s his name?”

  “Dave Burbank?”

  “That’s the one. Did Burbank straighten out the quit-claim deed on the cabin for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t want to let something like that drag on.”

  “Maybe Bree can handle it.”

  “Bree doesn’t handle real estate law.”

  Bree cast her father a grateful look, both for the diversion in the conversation and for saving her from the irksome details of Cissy’s muddled affairs.

  “She could if she wanted to,” Cissy said with sublime confidence. “Bree can handle anything. Besides, she’d never send me a bill.”

  Bree caught Hunter’s eye and bit her lip so hard it hurt.

  The conversation meandered on like the Savannah River on a hot afternoon, digressive and placid. When Bree got her relatives out the door at the end of the evening, she collapsed on the living room couch with a sigh of relief. Antonia bounced out the door to take Sasha for a last nighttime walk. Hunter leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed.

  Bree batted her eyelashes and struck a pose. “Did Aunt Cissy manage to get your phone number?”

  A look of alarm crossed his face.

  “She’s a force of nature, Cissy is.”

  “I like your mother.”

  Bree smiled. “Everyone likes Mamma.”

  “And your father, too. Your aunt’s . . .”

  “A caution,” Bree agreed. “Mamma slipped up once and called her man-hungry. But she means well, Cissy does. She doesn’t have a clue about what kind of law I actually practice, but she’s always dragging prospective clients in to see me, no matter what the problem is.”

  “Like the O’Rourke case.”

  “Yes.”

  He came and sat next to her. He sat close, but they didn’t touch. “We’ve got a few leads on Eddie’s movements just before he met up with the killer.”

  “His cell phone records?”

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about his cell phone records?”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? If he talked to you about what he discovered in the autopsy records he must have talked to a pathologist, right? Maybe even the killer. That’s where I’d look first,” she added disingenuously.

  “We did run the cell phone records. He did talk to the police pathologist.”

  “What about?”

  “Eddie had some notion that O’Rourke was shot twice.”

  “Twice?” Bree hadn’t had time to think about how she’d present Lowry’s theory to Hunter. She did know she faced a number of minefields. There would be a lot of questions about how she’d obtained the actual copies of the investigation from New York. She could fudge a little, maybe say that Eddie had let her have copies, but Hunter was too smart and too quick to swallow that whole. If she asked him leading questions, he was going to be furious if he found out later that she’d had information about the case that she hadn’t turned promptly over to the police.

  Finally, there was her duty to her clients—the live one and the dead one. The canon of ethics was quite clear: she had no obligation to turn information about past crimes over to the courts or the police.

  “What did the police pathologist say about Eddie’s idea?”

  “Forester? He’s a crusty old s.o.b. Told Eddie to get back on his meds. Not the kind of guy that likes to be proved wrong.”

  “Do you think he’s wrong? The pathologist? That maybe O’Rourke was shot twice?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Forester’s the best we’ve got. When he gives an opinion, you can bet it’s going to hold up under the toughest cross-examination.”

  “But?” Bree urged.

  Hunter put his head back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “Evidence has to hold up in court. It’s worthless unless it does. This second-bullet theory is a lead I’ll follow up, of course. But I don’t expect it to pan out. This case was so thoroughly covered the first time around, I’d be surprised if anything new came up at this point.” He put his hand over hers. “You have any ideas?”

  Bree got up and moved away from his warmth. It was dangerous, that warmth. And all that it represented.

  “No,” she said. “Not a one.”

  Eighteen

  At the door of life, by the gate of breath,

  There are worse things waiting for men than death.

  —Swinburne, “The Triumph of Time”

  “Auntie Em is having a wonderful time working for you,” Danica Billingsley said. “I hope she’s fitting in okay.” She unlocked the door to Tully’s den and stepped back so Bree and Sasha could go in.

  “Auntie Em?” Bree paused in the doorway. Had she heard Dani correctly? She was on edge; in addition to talking to Fig O’Rourke this morning, Ron had arranged an interview with Sir Ciaran and Barrie Fordham. Bree had promised to get Francesca an autograph, if she could do it with aplomb. Or at the very least, without turning bright pink.

  Danica winced. “I know. But we love The Wizard of Oz. We watch it every Easter, all of us squashed together in Aunt Emerald’s trailer. And I mean squashed. My mamma’s the same size as my aunt. It’s a family tradition. Eating moon pies and singing our little hearts out. Ever since I was five and my little brother was three.”

  Bree laughed delightedly at the thought of the two small children squashed on the couch between the “traditionally built” ladies. “She’s great, your aunt Emerald. And quick. We hadn’t been working together more than two hours before she pulverized a colleague I especially dislike. And talk about deft. The guy never knew what hit him.”

  Danica’s smooth brown face sobered. “She didn’t have the chances I did, Bree. If she had—she’d be governor by now! Never got beyond eighth grade and thought she’d be working in the Hyatt kitchen all her life, scrubbing pots. But she took that online secretarial course, and you gave her the first chance she’s had to move on up. Things are going to get good for her. I can feel it.”

  “It’s going to be a real pleasure working with her, I’ll tell you that.” Bree went into the office and sat down at the small conference table. Danica lingered in the doorway. Sasha sat in the corner, eyes alert. “I’m not so sure it’s going to be a pleasure talking to Russell Junior, though.” She glanced at her watch.

  “He makes a point of being
late,” Danica said regretfully. “If he’s in his Goth mode, you won’t get much sense out of him at all. If he’s in his Young Heir mode, he’ll be insufferable. As for the Fordhams, whatever else they are, they’re real professionals. If they said they’d be here at eleven, it’ll be to the minute.”

  Danica lived with these people. She’d be a great source of information if Bree could get her to talk a bit. “Can you come in and sit down until Fig gets here?”

  “I’d better not, as much as I’d love to. The house is in an uproar over the prep work for the party tonight.”

  “I noticed.” When she’d walked in the front door, she’d dodged flower deliveries, professional cleaners, a caterer or two, and the liquor salesman. Anthony Haddad held court in the huge living room, surrounded by his acolytes. “How many guests do you expect?”

  “Three hundred or so. Ah. Here he is. Hey, Fig.”

  Fig stopped just outside the door, hands shoved in his pockets. There were deep smudges under his eyes, his clothes were wrinkled, and he needed a shampoo. He yawned. “Somebody said I was supposed to come and see you. I see you. Now what.”

  Dani looked at Bree and mouthed: Goth.

  “Why don’t you come in and sit down?” Bree suggested.

  “Yes, Fig. Miss Beaufort just has a few questions, and then you can go back to bed. I’ll be around if you need me, Bree,” Dani added. “Check with the kitchen. They’ll track me down in nothing flat. Em’s in there, and my mamma, too. Maybe you can meet them later. Oh. And be sure to lock the door when you’ve finished up, will you? Tully’ll have a fit, otherwise.” She turned and disappeared down the hallway.

  As Fig slouched past the desk, he ran his hands over the top. Then he shouted, “Dani!”

  Bree imagined that the short silence from the hall was an exasperated one. Danica’s expressionless face appeared around the door a few seconds later. “Yes, Fig.”

  He pointed to the desk. “She’s done it again. The pot, this time.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Sorry, Bree, this will just take a minute. Okay, Fig. I’ll let your mother know.”

  Fig sat down in the recliner and bumped the footrest up. “It’s Her Highness, Lady Barrie,” he explained, although Bree hadn’t asked. “Tends to be light-fingered with small, valuable objects. Dani says it’s because she grew up dirt-poor and is scared to be broke.”