by Mary Stanton
“I suppose we’ll meet up eventually, if you like me for the job,” Mrs. Billingsley said. “I do like a happy office, where everybody gets along.”
“I like a happy office, too,” Bree said to Ron as they waited to cross Broughton to get to Tully’s house, some twenty minutes later. “And a happy office means everyone meets everyone else and then everyone gets along. You’re visible, and then you’re not. Is Mrs. Billingsley going to get to know you or not? With all these new expenses, I’m going to have to think about building a firm with real-time clients and a real-time bank account. That means more real-time employees. There has to be some organizing principle about when you guys show up and when you don’t. What is it?”
Ron kept a hand on her shoulder. The traffic was slow, but heavy, and he seemed to feel she was going to dart out into the middle of it.
“Good point about building the firm to help with expenses,” Ron said. “Franklin had his judge’s salary. And of course, a bit of family money, too.”
“You know very well I’ve got a bit of family money myself,” Bree said.
“But you don’t like to use it.” The traffic slowed. Ron released her shoulder and they crossed the street. Sasha ranged ahead, sniffing at interesting bits of litter.
“It’s not a huge amount. Enough to keep me in peanut butter sandwiches and living on an abandoned bus. I’ll draw on it if I have to, of course, but darn it, Ron, I should be able to make my own way, without my family’s help. And you’re not answering my question.”
Ron reached the brick pathway to Tully’s house and turned around to look at her. It was close to six o’clock, and twilight cupped the sky, but his hair seemed filled with sunlight. “It’s about energy, in a way. Every encounter leaves something behind. It’s best to keep things to a minimum. For everyone’s sake.”
The breeze stirred his hair. “Loss and gain,” he said. “Loss and gain.”
Bree shivered and thought of Beazley and Caldecott and the changes in her own body. Ron’s eyes were very blue. Very remote. There was compassion there, too, and that made Bree uneasiest of all.
After a long, silent moment, he gestured toward Tully’s house and followed her in.
There seemed to be even more of a crowd than there had been the day before. Anthony Haddad stood by himself, scribbling intently on a clipboard. A mass of people about Bree’s age chattered, gossiped, read scripts, drank coffee, and did stretches. Everyone seemed to be in sweats. There was no sign of Tully. A space had been cleared in front of the grand piano with folding chairs grouped around it. With a thump of excitement, she saw Ciaran Fordham, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to the street, his gaze impassive. Barrie Fordham stood at his side. She was dressed in a black cowl turtleneck and a long cotton skirt. Her hair was swept up in a knot, and soft brown tendrils drifted around her face. Bree hadn’t read much poetry in school, but something about the way the Fordhams stood there jogged her memory. Barrie looked abandoned. Like the Lady of Shalott. Sir Ciaran looked—lost.
A familiar shriek made her jump.
“Thank God!” Antonia said. “I was afraid you weren’t coming!” Her sister danced her way through the crowd. She was wildly excited. Like most everyone there, she wore sweats and a leotard. She looked gorgeous. “Where’s Ron? He promised he’d be here, too, for a bit, he said. There he is. Keeping a low profile in the back. Is Sasha with him? Good. Sir Ciaran’s allergic, you know.” She waved energetically, and then shoved Bree into an armchair. Then she bent over and peered into Bree’s face. “You’re frowning. What’s the matter? Do I look okay? Should I have worn something else?”
“You look great. I wasn’t frowning at you.” She glanced as discreetly as she could toward the Fordhams. “Neither one of them looks very happy.”
Antonia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’ve been here a while, talking to people, and everybody’s, like, totally amazed that Ciaran signed up for this, even though Tony’s agreed to direct. It’s awful, Bree. Everyone thinks that maybe Tony’s got something on him. You know? Like a blackmail thing.”
“Tony? Not Tully?”
“Sssht! Keep your voice down. Of course Tony. Tully doesn’t know squat about Shakespeare. She never has. She’s just in it for the prestige. All of the planning for this, it’s Tony’s bag, not hers.”
“No kidding,” Bree said. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. It was just like Tully to equate writing the check with creating the art. And Tully wasn’t even writing the checks—she got other people’s money to fund it. It was consummate gall, when you thought about it, but it had an epic sweep that Bree kind of admired.
Antonia perched on the chair’s arm. “You know what else? I heard that Russell—Senior, not Fig—just hated the whole idea of the Players. And the person he hated most of all?” She tilted her head toward the Fordhams. “Couldn’t stand either one of them, as a matter of fact. Thought they were phonies. Isn’t it amazing, how some people think? I mean, the man’s the greatest actor in the world!”
“Hang on a minute.” Bree jerked upright. “Russell O’Rourke hated Sir Ciaran?”
“Sssht!” Antonia’s whisper was so fierce she sputtered a bit, and Bree rubbed the spit off her cheek. “I told you to keep your voice down. Yes. He did. At least, that’s the scuttlebutt. And now that O’Rourke Senior’s out of the way . . . Tony’s got the funds and the Fordhams, too.”
“Whoa.” Bree had a logical mind and she didn’t like broadsides like this one. The addition of Anthony Haddad to the suspect list was unwelcome, for a whole bunch of reasons.
But he wasn’t in the room when the gun went off. And that had to count for a lot.
And if he wasn’t in the room when the gun went off, how could he have done it? She craned her neck, the better to see around Antonia. There he was, the clipboard tucked under his arm, a pair of sunglasses shoved to the top of his head, looking utterly gorgeous.
He clapped his hands together, and instantly the room fell silent. “Places, please. This is an audition, despite the fact that it’s Tully’s grand salon, so I want quiet.”
Bree was willing to bet that half the people in the room decided not to breathe until Tony gave the say-so.
“All right? We’re good to go? We’ve got three actors here ready to knock my socks off, so settle down and enjoy, people. Andrea Colville? There you are, Andrea. I’ve asked everyone to prepare the same scene. Final scene of The Winter’s Tale. Places, please. You’re reading Paulina.”
Bree didn’t know much about The Winter’s Tale (as a matter of fact, she knew very little about Shakespeare at all) but she did know it was the play with the infamous stage direction “exit, pursued by a bear” and that the not-very-well-regarded plot involved bringing a king’s wife back from the dead.
Barrie Fordham stepped onto the stool in front of the piano, turned her palms upward, and somehow, through some magic alchemy of skin, bone, and imagination, became a grieving statue. Sir Ciaran placed himself beside her.
All of a sudden, he was a king. Regal. Imperious. Arrogant. Bree caught her breath in admiration.
“She’s Hermione,” Antonia said into her ear. “Hermione is King Leontes’ wife, only she’s in sort of, like, suspended animation, and Paulina comes and wakes her up.”
Andrea was slim, pretty, and, to Bree’s uncritical eye, very good as Paulina. But Antonia was better. Antonia, in Bree’s opinion, was magnificent, and when she waved her arms and said, Music, awake her! Strike! ’Tis time; descend and be stone no more! and Barrie Fordham stirred and indeed was “stone no more,” Bree wanted to burst into applause and cheer.
The third Paulina was a little older and not a patch on Antonia for beauty. Tony Haddad broke the auditions up with the casual, imperious authority that everyone else seemed to take for granted and thanked the crowd. People broke into little chattering groups and the brief magic was gone, as if it had never been.
He caught Bree’s eye and beckoned her over to him. “And you’re here again
, Miss Winston-Beaufort,” he said pleasantly. “Another meeting with the dragon lady?”
“Tully? No. I just came to cheer Antonia on. I think she was very, very, very good. The best of the three, by far.”
“She was the best of a bad lot,” Tony agreed absently. “But I don’t want any of them.” He was looking past Bree, to the windows, where the Fordhams had resumed their places and Ron had disappeared. “And if Ciaran doesn’t start shaping up some, I may not even want him.” His dark eyes clouded, and for a moment, his good looks disappeared in a furious grimace. “After all the bullshit I went through to get him signed up, he ends up giving me mediocre performances at best.”
“I thought he was wonderful,” Bree said. “I mean, I’m no critic, but it was hard to take my eyes off him.”
“No,” Tony said bluntly, “you clearly aren’t a critic. And he can’t rely on his looks alone to get through. He’s been phoning in his performances for the last year, and I’m not going to put up with it much longer, I can tell you that.”
“How much bullshit did you go through to get them to sign up with the Players?”
He shrugged angrily. “It’s Barrie mostly. Her demands are unbelievable. I thought we were in for clear sailing after Russell took the long ride home, but no such luck.”
“You didn’t care for Russell much?”
His eyes cleared, and he looked down at her with a smile. “Hey. Work’s over for me. What if you and I get a head start on that glass of wine you promised and go out right now?”
Bree looked at her watch. She’d just have time to walk home with Tonia and then get to her dinner meeting with Eddie Chin. But she definitely wanted to talk to Tony Haddad, and soon. She’d just have to cancel the date with Hunter. “I’ve got an interview with a potential witness in a few minutes. Now, about Thursday?” She felt a touch at her sleeve and automatically moved aside.
“Mr. Haddad,” Antonia said.
Bree recognized that determined tilt to her chin. Haddad frowned at her discouragingly. Bree grabbed at her sister, but Antonia shook her off. “I was just wondering when you were going to make the decision about the part.”
“I have already made a decision about the part.”
Antonia licked her lips nervously. “Okay, then, so what do you think?”
“I think I need an assistant tech director, and that you would do very well at that. If you are interested in the job, please let Danica Billingsley know. She’s handling the payroll thing for us.” He nodded pleasantly, then quirked his eyebrow at Bree. “You are not free at the moment?”
“Maybe later this week,” Bree said pleasantly. She didn’t look at her sister, but she could tell from the tension in the air that Antonia was on the brink of tears. And she didn’t call Tony Haddad seven kinds of a jerk, but she wanted to.
“Thank you,” Antonia said. “I appreciate the offer, sir. I’ll have to make sure that I’m not leaving my current employer in the lurch. If they agree to let me go, I’ll call Miss Billingsley first thing in the morning.”
Haddad drifted away without a farewell. Bree put her arm around her sister and squeezed her, hard. “I am so proud of you. And you were the best of them up there. Including Lady Fordham herself.”
“Yeah, well. Can you get me out of here? I’m just, like, barely holding it together.” Antonia’s eyes brimmed.
“Sure.”
“And maybe pinch me, so I won’t cry in front of all these people.”
“Permission to pinch?” Bree said. “It’s going to be hard to resist that.” She put her hand in the small of Antonia’s back and began to steer her through the crowd. Ron had gone and Bree was sorry about that because he was terrific at cheering Antonia up. But by the time they reached the sidewalk, Antonia’s volatile spirits had bounced back, and she spent the rest of the walk home devising ways to bring her acting talents back to Haddad’s notice.
“What you said about being too young for the parts?” she said as Bree unlatched the small wrought-iron gate that led to their town house and waved absently as Sasha bounced toward them. “The very problem with Paulina. She’s Hermione’s maidservant, and even if you account for the fact that she was, like, fifteen when Hermione got turned to stone twenty years before the play opens . . . Ouch! What are you pinching me now for? I am so over being upset, it isn’t even funny.”
“Did you leave the lights on in the town house?” Bree stopped cold and fumbled for Sasha. She wasn’t as recovered from last night’s terrors as she thought. He stiffened under her cold fingers. A low growl started in his throat and died away.
“Me? I never leave the lights on,” Antonia said indignantly. “Oh, my God. You know what?”
“What?” Bree asked tersely. The lights from the living room window cast a yellow glow onto the pathway. She could always call for Striker if she needed him. He hadn’t failed her yet.
“I’ll bet it’s Mother and Dad. I forgot. They wanted to come down for some party of Aunt Cissy’s. They said they were going to call you, too. Daddy heard about your involvement with the O’Rourke case.”
“And who told him about that?” Bree asked.
Antonia’s look of innocence didn’t fool Bree for a second. “If you’d just get the battery on your cell fixed, Bree, you’d know all about this stuff.”
“Damn it all,” Bree said. She loved Francesca and Royal dearly. But they did have an annoying habit of popping up at the most inconvenient times. Like right now.
“I’ve got to meet a witness in about ten seconds, Tonia. So you’re going to have to handle them on your own.”
“No way,” Antonia said. “They’re going to be all over me like a blanket, trying to get me to go back to school. I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not!”
The door to the town house opened, and it wasn’t the tall lean shape of their father that stepped out into the night. It was Sam Hunter. “Bree? Antonia?”
“What is it?” Bree demanded. “What’s going on?”
“You had an appointment with Lieutenant Chin this evening?”
“At B. Matthew’s.” Bree turned and pointed to the restaurant, which was just across the street. “He’s waiting for me right now. Why? Is anything wrong?”
Hunter stepped aside. Bree saw two uniformed cops in the small foyer and an ominous shape prone on the hall floor.
“Eddie’s not waiting for anyone. Eddie’s right here. Somebody shot him in the head. Probably a .22.” Hunter’s face was bleak. “He’s dead.”
Fourteen
Murder will out.
—Chaucer, “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale”
“There’s no way Bree and I can stay in the house tonight.” Antonia stood in the kitchen, shivering. Bree had draped a raincoat over her, but it didn’t seem to help. “This is the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to my sister and me, Lieutenant.”
Bree thought about this for a moment. It was certainly the worst thing that had happened to the two of them together.
“. . . And I know I should be braver about it, but I just . . .” She bit her lip. “I just can’t seem to stop shivering.”
Hunter was unexpectedly gentle. “A little brandy might help.”
Bree had been leaning against the kitchen cabinet, her arms folded across her chest. “There’s some in the front in the bookshelf. I’ll get it.”
The kitchen had two doors. The back door led directly to the outside and a little stone porch with steps that went down to River Street below. The other led straight into the living room. The bookshelves were built into the wall directly across from the fireplace. Bree knelt down and got the brandy bottle from the lower shelf and looked to her left, through the small archway to the front door. Eddie lay facedown on the black and white tile. The back of his head didn’t bear looking at, although the damage wasn’t as horrific as Bree had expected. Two white-suited forensics guys were crowded into the small spac
e. One had a video camera on her shoulder; the other bagged Eddie’s left hand, and then his right. The front door was open, and the whap-whap-whap of the ambulance lights lit up the crowd gathered in the street.
Bree carried the bottle back into the kitchen and poured a small measure into a glass she took from the dish drainer by the sink. Tonia took a shaky sip, and then another. A little color came back into her cheeks. “I’ve never seen a dead body before,” she said.
“Well, you shouldn’t have looked at this one,” Bree said in a practical way. Antonia had bolted to the front door, looked, screamed, and promptly been sick all over the brick stoop.
“And you don’t need to spend the night here, or tomorrow night, for that matter. I called Aunt Cissy. She offered to come and get you, but Sam’s going to have a patrol car take you over to her place.”
“After we get your statement,” Hunter said.
“Not you, Bree? You’re going to stay here? Are you crazy?”
“This has to be part of the O’Rourke case. My case. I need to know what happened.” Hunter made a noise. She shook her head apologetically. “It’s true, Sam. Unless you think this was just a random shooting.”
“I know damn well it wasn’t a random shooting.”
The back door opened a crack, and Hunter’s red-haired sergeant stuck her head into the kitchen. Her name was Markham and she liked Bree about as well as a hound liked chiggers. She ignored Bree completely, cast a contemptuous glance at Antonia, and said, “Ready when you are, Lieutenant.”
“Go put a few things into an overnight case, Tonia,” Bree said. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”
“Maybe I’ll go home to Plessey,” Tonia said. “Just for a little while.”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Bree repeated. “Sergeant Markham is going to take your statement and then you go straight to Cissy’s.”
