by Mary Stanton
Well, she was about to find out about Russell O’Rourke, wasn’t she? That—and if Tully O’Rourke was the kind of person who had driven a man to suicide, and to a place in the circles of Hell.
Three
Just a little touch of star quality.
—Tim Rice, “Buenos Aires,” Evita
“How do I look?” Antonia tugged nervously at her black bustier. She’d been so nervous at the thought of meeting Ciaran Fordham and Anthony Haddad at the same party that she’d only changed once, into an outfit that had brought her luck at three auditions: black leather pants, black bustier, and a pair of long gold mesh earrings that tangled in her red hair when she tossed her head.
“Fabulous,” Bree said absently. She parallel parked her little Ford Fiesta into a place not much larger than the length of a shopping cart, in front of a row of clapboardsided town houses, all painted white. Oglethorpe Square was less than a quarter mile from their town house overlooking the Savannah River, but Antonia had gotten shrill about sweat, so she’d reluctantly agreed to drive. St. James Episcopal Church towered over them at the east end of the square, the carillon clanging out “Abide with Me” at the cadence of a funeral march. A mid-nineteenth-century Carpenter Gothic mansion, painted pink, sat elegantly opposite the church. It had been a restaurant for the past fifty years, named, with a kind of direct and unambiguous naïveté, the Pink House. A clutch of churchgoers came down the steps of the restaurant, looking well fed and contented with the cool and sunny November afternoon.
“You couldn’t find anywhere closer to park?” Antonia tugged at her strap.
“We’re lucky to find this one! The O’Rourke house is, like, three hundred yards across the middle of the square,” Bree said. “And you won’t get sweaty if we just sort of stroll along like we’re enjoying the gardens on a nice autumn afternoon.”
“Stroll,” Antonia said. “Right.”
When James Oglethorpe founded Savannah, he’d created the bones of an enduring beauty. Twenty-four squares formed the heart of Historic Savannah. And each was anchored by a garden in which flowering bushes, trees, statues, fountains, and benches offered a pleasing refuge to passersby. Oglethorpe had seen a community—not just a city—and he’d mandated that a church, a government building, and fine homes surround each of the squares. Through three hundred years of Revolutionary War, pirates, slave auctions, Civil War, and fires, storms, and tornadoes, the bones of the city endured. Most of the original Georgian homes were replaced by succeeding generations of Federal, Colonial Revival, Country French, and Southern Plantation. With each addition, the beauty of the city grew.
The O’Rourke mansion—one of five houses owned by the couple in more successful days—was a brick Queen Anne, set well back from the one-lane road that ran around the square. The gardens were lush—and carefully landscaped—showcasing late autumn flowering shrubs and plants. Milk-soft camellias shouldered against the blush and lime of flowering hellebore. The orange-yellow honeysuckle poked brave blooms against the November chill. The most direct route was through the gardens in the middle of the square. Bree locked the car and headed across, Antonia trailing behind.
“We’re strolling, right?”
Bree caught two dark, familiar shapes out of the corner of her eye and slowed down. Antonia bumped into her.
“You’re not strolling. You’re ambling.” She shoved Bree forward. “And now you’re not even ambling.”
Miles and Belli sat at the foot of the bronze statue of a forgotten Civil War general. The guardian dogs had vanished at the end of Bree’s last case, and here they were, back again. They were huge, fifty-two inches at the shoulder, and so black that they seemed like a hole in the universe as they sat there. Belli’s fierce yellow eyes brightened as she caught sight of Bree. She rose to her haunches and stood, ears upright, her short, stubby mastiff’s tail wagging back and forth to the doleful chime of “Abide with Me.”
“You seriously don’t want to meet Ciaran Fordham, right? That’s why you’re standing there like a booby?” Antonia plowed on straight ahead. She hadn’t said a word when Miles and Belli had disappeared, and she walked on past them now. As if she didn’t see them. Just like all the other people walking through the square. None of them behaved as if the dogs existed. And surely, the sight of two massive canines would have pulled people up short.
Bree sighed. She didn’t know what the dogs meant, or why they were here. But she was pretty sure they hadn’t shown up to play a game of fetch.
“Tonia!” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“Look who’s back.” Bree nodded toward the dogs.
“Oh, my God,” Tonia said. She stopped and threw her hands in the air. “General Sherman! Good to see you, buddy.”
This was Antonia’s idea of humor. General Sherman was the last person Savannah would erect a statute to. Bree still didn’t know if she saw Miles and Belli or not.
“That’s all you see?” Bree said carefully.
Her sister stared at her. “What do you mean? There’s a forty-foot bronze statue in the middle of the park. It’s pretty hard to miss. Glad he’s back—although I have to say”—her voice dripped with sarcasm—“I hadn’t noticed that he was gone. Now, will you come on? We’re going to be late.”
Bree nodded. She walked past the dogs and they wheeled and fell in step behind her. When the four of them reached the white-painted fence that surrounded the O’Rourke house, the dogs melted into the shade and settled beneath the pair of mullioned windows overlooking the square. As she mounted the brick steps to the oak front door, she could feel Belli’s level gaze on her back.
The dominant color inside Tully’s house was lemon. The front door entered into a square foyer, a long sweep of staircase leading up to the second floor, and huge parlors off to the left and the right. A twenty-four-foot dining room table ran the length of the parlor on the right. Expensive yellow velvet drapes hung at the windows facing the square. Egyptian artifacts hung on the yellow-painted walls. The table was loaded with an elaborate English-style tea. Tiered servers held sandwiches, cakes, buns, and a variety of amuse-bouches cupped in pastry shells. A lowboy set against the back wall held crystal decanters of Scotch, bourbon, and what had to be either gin or vodka.
The living room on the left was just as large. It held a grand piano, more velvet drapes, and a quantity of chairs and love seats in lemon-patterned chintz, arranged to accommodate conversation. The very back of the room had a double set of French doors that led to an exquisite garden.
People moved edgily back and forth across the foyer carrying glasses and plates. A young guy in black pants and a white shirt circulated with a tray of filled wine-glasses. Somebody was playing the piano. Mozart, Bree guessed, but she couldn’t identify the piece.
“Cooee! Girls! Over here!” Cissy stood near the piano and waved at them. Antonia grabbed Bree’s arm. “Ssst! There he is! Right next to Aunt Cissy.”
Bree didn’t need to ask who. Ciaran Fordham leaned against the wall, a drink in his hand, a look of polite attention on his face. Bree hadn’t met many celebrities in her life, and she was surprised (and a little embarrassed) at the wave of excitement that hit her. A small dark man with expressive hands was talking to him.
Antonia poked her in the back. “You go first.”
“Sure.”
Antonia poked her again. “Are you going?”
“I’m going.”
Aunt Cissy met them with an enthusiastic kiss, although they’d parted less than a few hours before. “Sir Ciaran,” she said. “I’d like to introduce you to my nieces. Brianna Winston-Beaufort and her sister, Antonia.”
“Miss Beaufort, Antonia.” Ciaran’s hand was cool, dry, and curiously light. There’d been a lot of media comment about Ciaran Fordham’s looks. He wasn’t conventionally handsome. His nose jutted out at an aggressive angle and was too big for his face. His jaw was massive. His face was broad, with flat cheekbones that gave him the look of a latter-day Genghis Khan. B
ut his eyes were beautiful—a clear, brilliant blue almost too bright to look into. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, and his posture that of a king or a cardinal.
“Your New York Hamlet!” Antonia gurgled. “Definitive! Brilliant! Brilliant.”
Bree moved sideways, stepped lightly on Antonia’s foot, and moved back.
“Yes,” Antonia gasped. “Well. I’m burbling. Sorry. Um.”
Ciaran’s voice was dry, and a little bored, with only an echo of the famous organlike baritone tones. “It was Haddad’s Hamlet, to be precise. Ladies? This is Tony Haddad. He directs.”
“Directs!” Antonia shrieked. “That’s like saying Pavarotti sang! I—Ow!” She reached down suddenly, rubbed her left foot, and glared at Bree.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Haddad,” Bree said. She found herself really liking the looks of the guy. He was slim and elegantly dressed in a dark navy shirt and beautifully cut gray trousers. He was also flat-out gorgeous. He smiled at her. “Now here’s a bright spot in this dreary afternoon.” He touched her hair gently. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “But that silver-blonde color is very rare. And very lovely.”
“Thank you,” Bree said. “And for the record, I thought the New York Hamlet was brilliant, too.”
His eyebrows quirked upward. “Hm. And what particularly did you like about it? There was some controversy about our interpretation of Hamlet’s affection for Laertes.”
“The sword fights,” Bree said promptly. “I’m not big on Shakespeare, as such, but I do love a good sword fight.” She waited a few beats and said innocently, “Um. There are sword fights in Hamlet, right?”
His hand brushed hers. “Sword fights are a specialty of mine.”
I’ll just bet they are, Bree thought. She had the oddest feeling—that she was suddenly wide awake.
“Oh, my. We’re being summoned,” Cissy said. “Tully’s just come in.” She pulled Antonia gently, but firmly, a small distance away from the group and tilted her head questioningly at Bree. “Gentlemen, I know y’all will understand if I drag my two girls here over to say howdy to Tully. She asked Bree here specially to talk about signing her on to handle some contracts, and there she is, beckoning us on over.”
“So we may meet again?” Haddad leaned a little closer and she caught his scent: spicy and warm.
Haddad’s smile, Bree decided, ought to be registered as a lethal weapon. “We just might,” she said.
Cissy propelled the two of them through the crowd and hissed into Bree’s ear, “You were flirting with that man, Bree Beaufort.”
“I would have been, if you hadn’t dragged me off.”
“Well, I’m glad to see it. These past few weeks you’ve been in Savannah, I thought you’d given up on life altogether.” Then at full voice: “Well, now, Tully. Here they are.”
“I see you’ve been talking to my favorite Egyptian,” Tully said smoothly. She’d exchanged the blazer and slacks she’d worn at the auction for a deceptively simple-looking dress. It was gray, belted at the waist, and flowed around her like a soft wind. “He’s agreed to sign on for another year as director of the Players.” Something like triumph flickered in her eyes. “And Ciaran, too, of course. We confirmed that as of this morning. But look at this. You don’t have anything to drink. Antonia, get your sister a glass of wine. Or a julep? No? Take your time about it, please. And Cissy, go with her. Bree? Come with me.”
Her aunt and her sister trotted off obediently. Bree thought about throwing a Nazi salute, but didn’t.
“We’re over here.” Tully sailed briskly through the crowd, like an arrogant sailboat on the Savannah River. And I, Bree thought irritably, am the little rubber dinghy bumping behind. They walked across the foyer and then straight down the hallway leading to the back of the house. “Kitchen’s straight ahead,” Tully said with a jerk of her thumb. “And I asked Fig and Danica to meet us in here.” She opened a mahogany door set in the wall a few feet in front of the foyer leading to the kitchen and stepped aside. “Go in. Both of them will be there. I’ll be back in a moment. I need to speak to the kitchen.”
“And speak to the kitchen she will,” Fig O’Rourke said. “Was she carrying a cleaver?”
“Nope,” Bree said. “Just an attitude.”
“Heads will roll anyway.” Fig got to his feet, reluctantly. “Come in and sit down.”
Somebody had banned the color lemon from this room, and Bree was glad of it. It was an ordinary, rather undistinguished home office. A set of barrister bookshelves sat under the windows on the far wall. A small round table with two chairs was tucked into one corner, and a leather recliner and reading lamp sat on the opposite side. Fig O’Rourke sat back down in the recliner. The quiet black woman Bree had seen at the auction sat at the table, an open briefcase on her lap.
The middle of the room was empty. A very good Turkish carpet covered the floor. From the four indentations at the corner of the rug, Bree could tell a large desk or table had sat there.
“Father’s desk was supposed to be here already,” Fig said. “I guess Mother Dear went to shriek at whoever screwed up.”
Bree didn’t believe that people’s looks reflected their character, or at least, she didn’t believe in prejudging character based on the shape of, for example, somebody’s mouth. (Fig’s was sulky.) Or eyes. (Fig’s were the color of muddy coffee—and he squinted at people in a very supercilious way.) Or even fingernails. (Fig’s were bitten to the quick.) But she did wonder how well the quick-tempered, intolerant Tully got along with her only son. She already had a good idea of how well Fig got along with Tully.
“It’ll be odd to have it back,” Danica said from her chair in the corner.
“How do you do, Ms. Billingsley?” Bree said quickly. “I do beg your pardon. I’m Brianna Beaufort. I saw you at the auction this morning, but we haven’t really met, have we?”
“And I’m Mrs. O’Rourke’s executive assistant, as you seem to have figured out already. Won’t you come and sit down?”
Bree crossed the rug and they shook hands. Danica’s handshake was firm, her hand warm, and Bree sensed a nice, rather solid composure behind her reserve. “Have you been with Tully long?”
“Three years. I graduated from Moorhouse with a degree in accounting and a lot of student loans. I was on my way to become a CPA, but money got pretty tight. And the job market hasn’t been all that hot, so when my mamma got me this chance with Mrs. O’Rourke, I took it. My mamma,” she added, “works in the kitchen back there where Mrs. O’Rourke went to pound some heads.”
“Is she pretty fair? As fair as employers go?” Bree liked—and respected—Danica’s slight hesitation. “I only ask because I offered to refer her to local counsel. Some of my friends are sturdier than others. And it looks as though a sturdy advocate will serve her better than a nambypamby one.”
“Not work for the great Tully O’Rourke?” Fig said. He clutched his chest dramatically. “I thought you were here to take the job.”
“You could do worse,” Danica said. “I can’t say fairer than that.” She glanced at her watch. “She ought to be back soon. I’m sure the desk is here—it’s just a matter of finding out where they put it.”
“My father,” Fig interrupted loudly, “killed himself at that desk.”
Bree and Danica looked at each other.
“Now, Fig,” Danica said.
“I told her we ought to burn the damn thing. And bury the ashes with Father. Not have it here in the house.”
“I should think it would be very odd to have it back,” Bree said. She hesitated and then sat down across the small table from Danica.
“Well, Mother”—the venom in those words would have slaughtered a cockroach or two—“insisted on getting the damn thing back. Can’t think why.”
“Of course you know why,” Danica said gently. She glanced at Bree then away again. “I don’t normally betray confidences, Miss Beaufort . . .”
“Bree, if you would.”
“Bree, then. But Mrs. O’Rourke will tell you herself, at some point. And if you are going to represent some of the family’s concerns, it’s as well to know about this ahead of time.”
Bree folded her hands on the table and looked expectant. One of the things she’d learned early in her practice was the value of an encouraging silence.
“She thinks he’ll come back,” Fig said. He sniffed. More of a snuffle than a sniff, as if his nose were clogged.
Whoa, Bree thought. “I’m not sure I understand what you just said.”
Using both heels, Fig extended the footrest of the recliner with a thump, then stretched out and locked his hands behind his head. “Father shot himself in front of her. She’s got some hairball idea that if she sits there, like he used to do, and works there, like he used to do, he’ll come back and tell her what happened. She thinks he was murdered. And that he’ll tell her who murdered him. Have you ever heard of anything so goddamn stupid?”
“I don’t think it’s so stupid,” Bree said.
“It’s grief,” Danica said. “Grief and guilt. I mean, yes, things looked very bad from the outside. If you were reading the newspapers at the time, and believed all the misinformation out there, Mr. O’Rourke’s suicide made sense. If suicide ever makes sense.” She made a vague gesture toward the contents of her briefcase. “But Mr. VanHoughton had come up with some outside financing that very afternoon. It wasn’t going to put everything right, not by a long shot. But it was going to go a fair ways toward rescuing part of the business. And Mr. O’Rourke was a hard man to keep down.”
“Murder?” Bree said. “Tully thinks her husband was murdered?”
“And she’s pretty sure who did it,” Fig shouted. He seemed unable to keep his voice at a normal level.
“She is?”
“Ever heard of a guy named Cullen Jameson?”
