Savannah Drives had been around for ages. In the years when Royal and Francesca had spent part of the summer at the family townhouse on Factor’s Walk, she remembered her mother and father using them to send home the odd dinner guest who’d had too much to drink. The driver was male, white, middle-aged, and perhaps the most exhausted person Bree had ever seen.

He also claimed he’d never heard of Professor Cianquino.

“Don’t know any Cee-anquo, miss,” he said. He resettled his cap on his head. What hair he had left was ginger colored. He was bulky without being fat, although at second glance, Bree noticed that his stomach edged over a belt that was on the last hole. He might have been an athlete when he was younger. His eyes were gray, the sclera edged with yellow-pink veins. And he had a pale, indoor look that wasn’t common in a Southern state like Georgia. He stank of cigarette smoke.

“Cianquino,” she said, peering through the open driver’s window. “Professor Cianquino.”

“Nope.”

“Who did ask you to pick me up, then? I told you, I received a text message.”

“Text message!”

This was a man who scorned technology. She could see that right off.

He eased his shoulders against the back of the driver’s seat. The Lincoln was double-parked, and although Bay Street in January was relatively free of tourists, Bree was concerned about stalling traffic. Antonia and EB stood aside on the sidewalk. Antonia shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. EB clutched a hastily assembled file containing Justine Coville’s last will and testament.

“Our company provides transportation for Sundowner Productions on an as-needed basis. My shift begins at noon. I just go where they tell me, lady.”

“Mr....” Bree took a quick glance at the name tag pinned to the driver’s black wool jacket. “Mr. Dent. William. Somebody told you to come here. I just want some confirmation about the order before I get into the car.” Bree wasn’t concerned about herself particularly. By and large, she went where her job as a celestial advocate took her, and she had a terrific backup team. But involving her sister and assistant was another kettle of fish altogether. Especially since Mr. Dent had never heard of Professor Cianquino.

William Dent sighed, an oddly grudging sound. “Okay, it’s like this. Nobody sent me. I came on my own. I was just about ready to come up and get you when you three showed up down here. Thing is, Mrs. Coville’s not getting the right deal with those punks filming that damn movie. I thought you could help her out.”

“Justine?” Bree said in quick concern. “Is there anything wrong? Has something else happened? Is she all right?”

“Mrs. Coville,” Dent said with reproving emphasis, “could use a helping hand, is all. She doesn’t have any family left here in Savannah, and God knows she doesn’t have any friends on the set. I picked her up this morning after her appointment with you and took her right back to that hellhole. Seemed to think you had the goods.”

“The goods,” Bree repeated. “Thank you. I guess. So what brought you here at this particular moment?”

“She fell on the set. No, no, she’s okay. Bruised up some, but that’s one tough old bird. Thing is, I think she was pushed. She won’t talk to me about it. Figure she might talk to her lawyer.” His glance flicked Bree up and down in an oddly impersonal way. “Didn’t know you were a skirt until I saw you.”

“Didn’t know I was a what?”

“A skirt,” he said impatiently. “You know, female. What, they’re making women lawyers now?”

“Yes,” Bree said. “They’ve been making women lawyers for quite a long time now.”

“You look butch enough to take care of yourself. So maybe you can be of some help after all. Hop in. What? You okay? You got something caught in your throat or something?”

“I am,” Bree said evenly, “trying to control myself.” And it’s working, she said to herself. It’s working. She counted backwards from ten, very slowly, until her temper was under control. “Okay, Mr. Dent. I’m not going to pull your ears down around your socks. I’ll hop in. But I want to get something straight about your attitude.”

“What do you mean, attitude? What’s wrong with my attitude?”

Bree gestured to EB and Antonia that it was okay to come with her, let herself into the Lincoln’s rear seat, and then tapped William Dent firmly on the shoulder. He slouched around in the seat to face her. “What’s wrong with your attitude? Where shall I start? Your sexism, for one. Your demeaning language for another. Your absolute lack of respect for a third.”

He flushed beet red, then turned around and faced the windshield. She settled her briefcase at her feet and then looked challengingly at the back of his head. She could see his eyes in the rearview mirror.

He looked hurt.

“To sum up—I’d appreciate it if you’d keep a more civil tongue in your head,” she said in a milder tone. “There’s no need to be offensive.” Then, slightly ruining the stern-professional act, she added, “Thank you.”

Antonia scrambled into the car from the opposite side and announced her intention to sit in the middle. “With my feet on the hump.”

“Noble and self-sacrificing sister that you are,” Bree commented. Once EB was settled on the other side of Antonia, Bree faced front again and said, “Okay, William, we’re ready.” Then, since she’d been pretty hard on him, she asked in a friendlier tone, “Or is it Bill?”

“It’s Dent,” he said shortly. “I’m William to my friends and family.”

“Fine,” Bree said.

“Fine,” Dent said.

“What the hey?” Antonia shook her head, shrugged at EB, who murmured, “whatever,” and then began rummaging in her tote for her makeup. “Where are they shooting today, Dent? How much time have I got?”

“Mercury’s shooting interiors all this week. They tore out most of the guts of the old Rattigan plantation. It’s about ten miles upriver. Should be about forty minutes.”

“It shouldn’t take that long,” Bree said. “There’s an exit for Toller Road off of Highway 153. You’ve got about twenty minutes to slap some makeup on, sis.”

“The new highway?” Dent said.

“Not all that new,” Bree said crisply. “Let’s get going, Dent.”

“No need to put anything at all on that pretty face,” Dent said with that same slightly reproving air. He signaled and pulled onto Bay, heading east. “Most men prefer the natural look.”

Antonia cut her eyes at Bree. Then she said, “There is no possible response to that comment, Dent. So I am going to ignore it.”

The back of Dent’s neck turned red. Bree tried not to think of the significance of this and failed. Then a possible reason for Dent’s pallor, his unease with women, and his general churlishness hit her, and she felt her own neck turn red.

An ex-con, maybe?

Or was she imagining things?

Would Professor Cianquino get her mixed up with an ex-con? Of course he would, if he thought it would serve some angelic purpose. But her sister and her friend were with her this time, and if Cianquino had put them into any kind of danger, he was going to hear about it.

Bree had an excellent memory, and she rapidly reviewed her brief glimpse of Dent’s arms and hands. No tattoos, but that didn’t mean much. She’d have to call in a few favors at the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department, see if they knew anything about a William Dent who mistrusted female lawyers and called women “skirts.”

Dent was an obnoxious throwback, and maybe even an ex-con, but he drove well, with an easy authority. Bree spent the drive time checking the revisions EB had made to Justine’s will. She had left the bulk of her estate to a home for retired actors in New York City. The only individual named in the will was Dixie Bulloch, who had been left the sum of one hundred dollars in “thanks for her support of my art.” The addendum requiring her list of assets was blank. She’d listed Franklin Winston-Beaufort or his assignees as executors.

No family left in Savannah, Dent had said, and she couldn’t count any friends on the crew of Bitter Tide, except Dent himself. On the other hand, Bree didn’t have any independent verification of Justine’s claims about being harassed. But Payton had let something drop about Phillip Mercury’s attitude toward Justine before she’d tossed him out of the office. She put her hand on the passenger-side headrest and leaned forward. “Dent. Talk to me about Sundowner Productions. Why should Justine be at risk from anyone there?”

“You want background, talk to Mrs. Coville.”

“But I’m talking to you,” Bree said pleasantly.

Dent either wasn’t going to answer or was taking his time about it. He executed a smooth right-hand turn onto 153. It was a one-lane highway, the shoulders thick with trees and brush that hid the river on their left from sight. This was the Low Country, and shallow pools of brackish water appeared among the foliage.

“Dent?” Bree said, more firmly this time. “I can’t help Justine if I don’t know what’s going on. When I spoke with her this morning, she said Phillip Mercury had a high regard for her acting abilities.”

“Mercury,” Dent said in disgust. “That little asshole. He’d paint his mother and sell her to the Arabs if he thought it’d get him somewhere.”

EB tsked at the language. Bree shook her head at the racial slur and said, “Dent, Dent, Dent.”

The traffic was light in both directions. Dent slowed up as they approached the turnoff for the Rattigan plantation; he turned left onto a gravel road and pulled over. He put one hand on the steering wheel and scanned the heavy brush on each side. “Okay,” he said rudely. “I’ll talk. And I’ll try not to offend your sensibilities, although it’s a new one on me when a lady lawyer in pants gets huffy over a little straight talk.” He blew air through his nose. “This is most of what you need to know. First, you’re dealing with a bunch of bozos. There’s not one straight shooter in the whole sloppy crowd. For one thing, they’re all stuck on themselves. What do you call it? Egomania. Mrs. Coville’s no different. She’s a demanding old biddy with a lot of airs and she’s the best of them.”

So Dent didn’t think a lot of his employers or even the poor old lady he was trying to help. Which wasn’t a big surprise. He didn’t seem to think a lot of anybody. “My information is that someone’s trying to get her off the set, one way or another,” Bree said cautiously.

“Everybody is. Mercury, the writers, even the other actors. They think she’s a joke. I mean, yeah, she’s maybe overdone it a bit with the plastic surgery.” He glanced at Antonia. “She’s got a heavy hand with the lipstick and rouge, no question. But she’s a movie star. One of the great ones. And her style of acting is the old way, you know? It’s big. Big and grand. It doesn’t fit this kind of movie, with all the close-ups and two-shots and whatnot. What I think is, Hollywood gone all to Hell.” He bared his teeth in what he must have thought was a smile. “Pardon my language, ladies.”

“They think she’s a ham,” Antonia said. “That’s my guess. They probably think she’s too wrinkly, too.”

“Antonia!” Bree protested.

“Just telling it like it is,” Antonia said matter-offactly. “Movies aren’t like the stage. All those tight head shots mean you have to be perfect. Perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect body.”

“Not natural,” EB observed.

Dent looked into the rearview mirror at Antonia and scowled.

“I’m not being critical, Dent. Acting styles change over the years. I mean, just take a look at Sir Laurence Olivier. He was the greatest actor of his generation according to this history of film class I took when I was in school, and when we look at him now, that’s all we think. Ham. Porker. That he chows down the scenery. But there’s a whole theater named after him in England.”

“Yeah, well. So you say.”

“I do say,” Antonia said. “Poor old Justine. It’s a shame.”

Dent snarled a little at Antonia, then said, “There’s another reason they’re trying to dump her. It’s probably on account of this lawsuit.”

Bree hadn’t been much interested in the disquisition about current demands for movie stardom. But she was interested in a potential lawsuit. So Payton may not have been lying after all—or perhaps not lying as much as usual. “Which lawsuit would that be? Over the brooch?”

“What brooch? Oh, that peacock thing? No. This one’s a big sucker. The Bullochs aren’t crazy about this movie being made. They tried to get an injunction to stop the shoot, and that didn’t work, and now they’re suing that asshole . . . sorry, ladies. . . . that crumb-bum Mercury, personally. Mercury and his backer, Vince White. Defamation of character, blah, blah, blah.” He looked into the rearview mirror. “Thing is, Mrs. Coville is real tight with one of the Bulloch sisters. Not all of ’em—the two nasty ones are trying to sue Mrs. Coville over that bird brooch you just mentioned. But Dixie likes Mrs. C. and hates her sisters, so she’s pretty tight with Mrs. C.”

“Dixie,” EB said. “Alexandra ‘Dixie’ Charles Bulloch. Daughter of Alexander junior, and granddaughter of Consuelo.”

“Right. And Mercury figures Mrs. Coville is feeding the broadie the inside dope.”

Antonia’s lips formed the word “broadie.” She rolled her eyes.

“What inside dope specifically?” Bree asked.

Dent shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Who’s smoking what? Who’s sleeping with whom? Cost overruns. Budget issues. Mrs. Coville’s a gossipy old broad. What old broad isn’t? She doesn’t realize that sort of crap can get the investors fighting each other.” He put the car in gear and drove back onto the gravel. “Word is the movie’s having more trouble than most getting made.”

“All those movie stars get up to shenanigans,” EB said. “Why would that make any difference to a lawsuit?”

“Depends on the cause of action, I suppose,” Bree said absently. “You never know what information might be useful to a plaintiff. Dent, Mrs. Coville has a contract, right? Has Phillip Mercury made any effort to buy her out?”

“Does your grandmother suck eggs? Sure he’s waved some coin at her. Wants this Allison Buckley to take over the part, or so the scuttlebutt goes. I don’t know much about actresses, or actors, either, but I haven’t seen one that’d take a paycheck over a part.”

“Very true,” Antonia murmured. “If I’d wanted money, I would have gone into banking.”

“Tonia,” Bree said, “there are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t know where to start.”

Antonia gave Bree a pinch. “Hush up. We’re almost there.”

“Don’t pinch me, Tonia.”

“Then don’t lecture me, Bree.”

The narrow road snaked to the right, then to the left, and finally debouched into a vast green lawn thick with cars, trucks, vans, generators, and trailers. The Rattigan house—three stories high, with wide verandahs wrapping around each level—sprawled on a slight rise at the end of the green space. The front of the house looked splendid; the black shutters were freshly painted; wisteria and ivy curled around the white clapboard; out-of-season roses bloomed underneath the stone balustrade of the front porch. The brick steps to the front porch had been recently pointed. The front was in stark contrast to the north side of the house, which was visible from Bree’s vantage point. The battered shutters hung askew, and at least one of the mullioned windows was broken. Dirty white paint bubbled under the eaves of the slate roof.

“Welcome to the anthill,” Dent said.

“It certainly is busy.” EB pushed the button to roll down her window and peered out, wide-eyed. The whole area was alive with people, most of them dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and flip-flops, despite the forty-degree temperature.

EB surveyed the chaos. “How are we going to find Justine in this big old mess?”

Dent drew the Lincoln under a large live oak hung with Spanish moss, killed the motor, and took a small clipboard from the glove compartment. “I have a general idea of where they might be. They issue a shooting schedule every morning, but they never stick to it. What time is it, one thirty?”

“One thirty-five exactly.” Antonia jumped out of the car, eyes glowing, cheeks flushed with excitement. She drew a deep breath. “Just smell this air, Mrs. Billingsley!”

EB sniffed obligingly. “Roses in January,” she said. “And somebody’s cooking chili.”

“It’s the movies!”

Bree followed Antonia out of the car, ready to rein in her sister if need be.

“Haydee was murdered the first of July,” Dent said as he, too, exited the car. “They’re trying to fake the time of year. Make good sense if they waited for summer and saved the cost of the rosebushes. But this place isn’t swamped with common sense.” He tossed the clipboard onto the driver’s seat. “I can’t make head or tail of this schedule.” He put his hand on Bree’s shoulder. “You see that colored girl over there?”

“I see two African-American women,” Bree said pointedly. “I don’t see any colored girls.”

“Right, sorry. I keep screwing that up. Anyhow, the pretty one in the gray cardigan. That’s Florida Smith. She’s the head writer. She usually knows what’s going on.” He put two fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. “Hey! Flurry!”

A slim woman in a gray hoodie and tattered jeans glanced their way. Dent waved at her, pointed at Bree, and then pushed Bree forward a little. “Right. You go ask her about where to find Mrs. Coville.”

Flurry Smith met them halfway across the lawn. “Where have you been, Willy? Did you turn your cell phone off again? Phil’s been looking for you.”

“Had to make a run back into Savannah to fetch these folks.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to head right back there again. Phil wants a couple of beignets from Huey’s.”

Dent made a noise between a grunt and a cough.

“Yeah, yeah. I know it’s beneath your dignity, but you better step on it.” She grabbed at his sleeve as he moved away. “Hang on a minute. Who are these people?”

“They have business with Mrs. Coville.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Bree. “She’s a lawyer.”

“Is that so?” Flurry cocked her head. Her smile never left her face, but she was clearly wary. “Okay, then. I’ll take care of them. You’d better get a move on, Willy. Try to make it back by three, okay? He’s shooting now, but I’ve scheduled him for a script revision. He’s promised faithfully, absolutely to be there, which makes it a real possibility.”

Dent turned and began to trudge back to the car.

“And turn your cell phone on!”

“Go soak yourself.”

“Go soak myself?” Flurry marveled. “Can you beat that guy?” She chuckled.

“That man’s a few puppies shy of a litter,” EB said with more than a touch of indignation.

Flurry rounded on EB in sudden delight. “He’s what? Two puppies shy of a . . . hang on a sec.” She pulled a small spiral notebook from a back pocket and scribbled in it. “I love it. I’m stealing it. And no, you don’t get a writing credit.” She tucked the notebook back where it came from. “Willy’s not so bad. If you can get past the attitude. He’s working on it. Now, what’s up with the three of you?”

Bree stepped forward. “I’m a lawyer from Savannah . . .”

Flurry’s smooth face tightened, but the smile didn’t waver. “Look, if this is about that insane Bulloch lawsuit . . .”

“This is about Justine Coville. She’s retained my firm to update her will. She asked us to bring the amended version to the set. It’s ready for her signature.” Bree held up the file folder.

Flurry relaxed a little. “Oh. That’ll be okay, I guess. Phil’s in the middle of an interior shot right now, but she’ll be free in a bit. Follow me to the food wagon. We can probably find a cup of coffee for a lawyer who isn’t in the middle of suing us. As opposed to the ones that are. I’m Florida Smith, by the way. Call me Flurry.”

“Brianna Winston-Beaufort. This is my associate, Emerald Bil—”

Flurry stopped and turned her delighted grin on Bree. “Get out! Any relation to Franklin Winston-Beaufort? The lawyer who represented Alex at the insanity hearing? How cool is this? I haven’t been able to dig up much on him at all!”

“We’re his nieces,” Antonia said. She elbowed her way in front of Bree, the better to face the scriptwriter. “We both are. Bree’s his older niece, and I’m the younger one. Antonia Winston-Beaufort.” She grabbed Flurry’s unresisting hand and shook it. “I’m temporarily with the Savannah Rep. We’re staging a revival of The Winslow Boy at the moment. I’d be happy to comp you if you’re free some night this week.”

Flurry’s smile disappeared. “So you’re not a lawyer. You’re an actor. And you’re here because . . .”

“You need background info on my uncle Franklin,” Antonia said promptly.

“Not because you’re an aspiring actor who is willing to do anything for a role in a TV movie?” Flurry’s tone was light, but the message was clear. “Ah-huh. Tell you what. I’m sure not going to be the person that keeps Justine from seeing her lawyer. So it’s okay for your sister to be here. But maybe you’d better ride back to town with Willie.”

Bree decided it was time to intervene. “My sister’s curious about the whole process here, Flurry. But she’s harmless. She won’t be any trouble at all.”

Antonia blinked innocently.

“We have a professional reputation to maintain,” EB said with an admonitory look in Antonia’s direction. “I can guarantee nobody’s going to be up to any shenanigans.”

“You can, huh? You’ll pardon my skepticism, though. There’s nothing peskier than an actor in search of a job. No offense meant, Antonia.”

“None taken, Flurry.”

EB took a firm grasp of Antonia’s upper arm. “I’ll keep hold of her all the while we’re here.”

Flurry’s lips quirked upward. “You look like you can handle her, sister.”

She smiled graciously. “I’m Emerald Billingsley, Ms. Smith. Delighted to meet you. And you have my permission to use the puppy thing.”

“And you’ve got my permission to pump me about Uncle Franklin,” Antonia said with shameless opportunism. “Bree, too.”

One of the chief aggravations of Bree’s current professional life—the otherworldly part at least—was that she didn’t know much more about Franklin than Antonia did. He’d behaved as a fond, if distant, great uncle to them both. She saw him four or five times a year while she was growing up, usually at family functions. When she was younger, she was always in the company of her adoptive mother, Francesca, when Franklin visited. After she graduated from Duke Law School, she’d taken a probationary job at her father’s law firm in Raleigh, and she’d seen more of the professional side of her uncle. When she looked back, she realized Royal had always been with them when they met. No, she didn’t know much more than anyone else about Franklin Winston-Beaufort. She hadn’t learned about her true parentage until after Franklin died and left his law firm to her and her alone.

“So is it okay if I stay here with Bree, Flurry? Or I could sit down with you right now and do a data dump about Uncle Frank.”

Bree moved her sister gently aside. “What is it you need to know, exactly? Bitter Tide is about the murder of Haydee Quinn, isn’t it? The script’s finished, or you wouldn’t be shooting.”

Flurry laughed cynically. “No script is ever finished. Even on a Phillip Mercury movie.”

Phillip Mercury must run a tight ship. “Okay, so you revise a bit as you go along. But Franklin only had a tangential relationship to the case. He represented Alexander Bulloch at the sanity hearing, but he certainly wasn’t involved before that.”

“I’m writing a book.”

Antonia gave a delighted gasp. “About the Winston-Beauforts?”

“Why would I write about the Winston-Beauforts? I’m writing a book about who really killed Haydee Quinn. It’s going to be big. As big as . . .

“Don’t say it,” Bree muttered.

“. . . Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil ... It’s going to put Savannah on the map.”

Savannah was already on the map, but Bree decided not to point this out. As far as another book about yet another notorious Savannah-based murder . . . the word “phooey” came to mind.

Flurry spread her arms wide. “The working title is Death of a Doxy: Who Killed Haydee Quinn?”

Bree raised her eyebrows. “I thought they executed her pimp for the crime.”

“Bagger Bill Norris did it,” EB said. “That’s what we were told.”

“They sent an innocent man to the chair,” Flurry said with assurance. “It’s all coming out in the book.”

Antonia beamed. “A true-crime novel. Righting injustice! That is, like, so fabulous. Any information you need, anything at all, you can count on me.”

“Great. That’s just great.” Flurry’s words were addressed to Antonia, but her eyes were on Bree. “Hang on, folks. I’m vibrating.” Flurry pulled her cell phone off her belt. “Yeah, Phillip. You’re kidding me. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Okay. I’m on it. I’ve got her lawyer with me right now.” She glanced at Bree. “I’ll ask, but I doubt it. We’re not liable anyhow, are we? We’ll be right there.” She snapped her phone shut and slipped it into her pocket. “That was Phil. I told him you were here. He’s over the moon, of course. Can’t wait to sit down and talk with you.”

Bree’s acquaintance with Flurry Smith was short, but she was already beginning to mistrust her persistent good humor.

“I told him you were here. He’d like to meet you right now.” The insincere smile broadened to include Antonia and EB. “And you two are going to have a chance to see a real production in operation. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Actually, it’s Justine that we’re here to see, not Mr. Mercury,” Bree said. “I heard that she had a fall on the set today. I’d like to see that she’s all right.”

“Justine’s fall? Where’d you hear that? Don’t tell me. Willy. Willy’s got a bee in his bonnet about Justine. Yeah, she fell. More of a tumble, really. But that’s the least of the worries around here. If you stick around long enough, you’ll see what I mean. It’s the other, weirder—” She cut herself off. “Never mind. Come on. They’re on the interior set. We’re supposed to be shooting the scene where Consuelo confronts Haydee for the first time and orders her to leave her son alone. It didn’t actually happen, but what the hey. It’s great theater. Follow me.” She turned and began to wind her way through the crowd of people, equipment, and vehicles. She looked back over her shoulder. “Y’all coming right along? Good. Anyhow, it’s a damn good scene. I spent a lot of time working that scene, and we should have wrapped it an hour ago.”

“But there’s a problem?” Bree prompted.

They’d reached the house. Flurry paused for a moment at the top of the brick steps until they’d all caught up with her, and then walked through the open front door. “When hasn’t there been a problem? This whole shoot has been a problem. Props gone missing, more than the usual number of injuries, financing issues. The problem today seems to be that ‘Consuelo’ doesn’t want to read the lines the way I wrote them. The continuing problem—yesterday, today, and for as far as I can see into the freakin’ future—is that archfiend”—she stopped at the open foyer to a large room and lowered her voice—“Tyra Steele.”

The first thing Bree noticed was a rhythmic smashing, as if someone was methodically throwing china against a wall.

The second thing was what a hodgepodge the place was.

Bree didn’t find the source of the sound at first; instead, she faced a bewilderment of activity. This must have been the ballroom in the days when the plantation was up and running; the space ran the entire length of the house. The back wall faced south and was built almost entirely of French doors, so that the view fell away to the Savannah River. The west wall held a huge fireplace. The mantel was made of marble, and it was supported by marble cherubs with gilded wings. A large oil painting of a blandly smiling woman in a ball gown hung over the mantel. Two bland blonde children leaned at her side. That half of the room was furnished with damask-covered settees, elaborately carved tables, and masses of fresh flowers: lilies, roses, lavender, and an abundance of freesia. A richly colored Oriental carpet covered the old oak floors.

The other half of the ballroom was a messy collection of big lights on tall stands, monitors, large cameras on wheels, trolleys, carts, wheelie bins, portable tables, and canvas-backed folding chairs.

Bree had expected a crowd of people, like the anthill outside.

There were only four.

Justine sat regally on a divan to the left of the fireplace. She wore a vintage Chanel suit, a large strand of pearls, and matching shoes, of the kind Francesca Beaufort always referred to as pumps. A jeweled peacock was pinned on the jacket’s lapel.

A muscular man with orange hair slouched against the east wall. It took Bree a moment to register this was the director, Phillip Mercury. The man’s peculiar orange hair, impressive biceps, and surly expression were known worldwide, thanks to the pervasiveness of Facebook and YouTube. What wasn’t as commonly known was how short he was. Not much taller than Antonia, who was five-four to Bree’s five-nine.

As Bree recognized the third person on the set, she felt a slight jolt in her midsection. Craig Oliver. She and Antonia had been nuts about him as the Bristol Blues leading character, Stone Cavendish. His eyes were a pale, almost transparent blue. His gaze was calm and direct. Bree half expected him to bark the famous catch-phrase, “Hit it!”

“He’s let his hair get gray,” Antonia hissed. “But he’s still gorgeous.”

The fourth person was the source of the smashing china. Tyra Steele. She was grabbing ceramic coffee mugs from the coffee service and smacking them onto the oak floor with the rhythmic, regulated grace of a tennis player lobbing practice balls.

She was improbably beautiful, even in the middle of an impressive rage. She had thick, glossy hair, the color of dark oak, flawless olive skin, and eyes exactly the color of the Caribbean Sea.

“Just a couple more mugs to smash,” Flurry said. “Then we can go in.”

The last mug crashed against the floor. Tyra thrust her fists into the air. Then she covered her face with her hands and bent forward at the waist. Her hair rippled to the ground. She wailed, quietly at first, and then more and more loudly until Bree wanted to clap her hands over her ears. The wail cut off suddenly.

Tyra collapsed dramatically into a broken heap and went silent.

Nobody moved. Phillip Mercury scratched his jaw. Justine glared steadily at the girl’s motionless body. After a long moment, Craig Oliver unfolded his arms and walked over to her. “Need a hand up?”

“She’s . . . she’s . . . gone.” Tyra’s voice was a mere whisper, but it was a lush resonant whisper. “For now, anyway. It’s Haydee, of course. She just won’t leave me alone.”

“She believes she’s possessed?” Bree asked Flurry quietly.

Flurry nodded. Her face was noncommittal.

“Possessed! Good grief. That’s the worst acting job I’ve ever seen. Can you say ham bone?” Antonia muttered under her breath.

“Diva,” Flurry muttered back. “Her, not you.” The two of them grinned at each other.

Tyra accepted Oliver’s outstretched hand and got lithely to her feet. She didn’t glance over at Bree and the other three women clustered in the archway, but Bree knew the actress was aware of them.

“All better now, darling?” Phillip Mercury shoved himself away from the wall and sauntered to a canvas chair with his name emblazoned on the back.

Tyra drew the back of her hand across her perfect forehead. “All better, Phillip. But maybe . . . could I have a glass of water?”

“If Haydee hasn’t broken ’em all, sure. Craig? Would you mind? As a matter of fact, why don’t you give Tyra a hand back to her trailer? Your fridge is full of Evian, Tyra, and I know how you feel about tap water. I sent the crew on break the minute Haydee showed up. We’ll get back to the scene after I have a quick story conference with Flurry. So take an hour. No more than that. Okay?”

Tyra nodded and said “okay” in a childish little voice.

Craig Oliver cast a rueful glance at Justine, who raised her hand in weary resignation. Then he supported Tyra out of the room.

Phillip Mercury waited a moment, then snapped his fingers at Flurry and called, “Come! And bring whichever one’s the lawyer with you. Boot the other two.”

“Mrs. Billingsley and I will wait outside,” Antonia said nervously. Then, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mercury!” She whispered in Bree’s ear, “I’ll just take a look around.”

“Good idea.” Bree patted her sister on the back. “Don’t go too far.”

“I’m waiting here!” Phillip Mercury called petulantly.

Bree nodded pleasantly in his direction and raised her voice a little. “I’ll speak with my client first, Mr. Mercury.”

“Is that so?” He regarded her steadily for a moment. He sucked his teeth. “Okay. So you two want to talk, no reason you can’t talk in front of me. Justine, you get over here, too.”

The elderly actress rose from the sofa with difficulty. Bree moved quickly across the set to help her up.

“I’m fine.” Justine steadied herself with one hand on the sofa. “No, I don’t need to lean on you. I sat there so long my muscles stiffened up.”

Bree put her hand under Justine’s elbow in a companionable way. “You had an accident on the set this morning?”

Justine snorted. “If you call being throttled by that lunatic girl an accident.” She sank back onto the couch.

“I thought you fell,” Bree said with concern.

“I fell this morning before I came to see you. That little hellcat tried to strangle me just minutes ago.”

Although Bree had her back to him, she knew Mercury had gotten out of his chair, moved noiselessly across the set, and stationed himself behind her.

“A little mishap with the rug?” Phillip Mercury said in her ear. “Not bloody likely. She fell over her own two feet.”

Bree straightened up in seeming surprise. “Mr. Mercury? How interesting to meet you at last.” He was too close to her. She tapped him lightly on the chest, and he took an instinctive step backwards. “Brianna Winston-Beaufort, attorney-at-law. I represent Mrs. Coville’s interests. You say there was a mishap?”

“I was shoved,” Justine said. “And it wasn’t any ghostly presence. That was Tyra, too.”

Bree sat down next to Justine. “Tyra shoved you over this morning and tried to strangle you this afternoon?”

“Yes!”

Mercury stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Tyra didn’t shove you, Justine. You got tangled up in your own feet and fell down.”

“Is that right, Phillip? And I suppose Tyra didn’t do this.” She lifted the pearls encircling her throat to show them the faint bruises there. “You have it on tape, for God’s sake!”

“Yeah, well, she got a little carried away with the role. When Haydee takes over, there’s not too much the poor girl can do, is there? Besides, people your age bruise at the drop of a beer mug, Justine. It’s a known fact. Makes you a liability to have around.”

“Is this harassment intentional, Mr. Mercury? Or is your rudeness to my client the norm for you?”

His eyebrows rose. “Harassment. What are you talking about?”

“Your language, for a start. These accidents, too, if that’s what they actually are.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment but stood looking at her with his head tilted to one side. His eyes were small, dark brown, and definitely unfriendly. He snapped his fingers. “Flurry! Get me a chair. Bring one for yourself.”

Flurry grabbed two canvas chairs by the backs and dragged them over. Mercury positioned them directly in front of the couch. Then he sat down, his clasped hands between his knees, and leaned forward. “What I want to know,” he said in a low voice, “is how the heck you do that?”

Bree raised an eyebrow.

“You know. That I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass-from-here-to-Topeka look. As far as I can tell, you didn’t move a muscle. But you are the scariest beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve gone head-to-head with Angelina. And that silver hair.” He reached forward. Bree grabbed him by the wrist before he could touch her. “Ouch! Okay! Lemme go! I’m backing off.” He grinned cockily at her. “I give, okay?” He rubbed his wrist. “Quite a grip you’ve got, darlin’. Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?”

Bree smiled back. “All I need is a moment with my client.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You got it, then.” He got to his feet with a grunt of effort.

“There is just one more thing,” Bree said.

“I’m too young to have worked on Columbo, but I’ll fall for it anyway. What is it?”

“Your star, Tyra Steele. She thinks she’s possessed by the spirit of Haydee Quinn?”

“She is possessed by the spirit of Haydee Quinn. You haven’t kept up your National Enquirer subscription or you wouldn’t have to ask.”

Bree searched his face. His tone was jocular, but there was a definite unease at the back of his eyes. “You believe that?”

“You saw for yourself.”

“I saw a temper tantrum. I’m not sure I saw a case of possession.”

“Hey. Gotta believe in my star.”

Bree couldn’t help a cynical laugh. “A case of possession would be good publicity for your movie.”

Flurry made a sound of disgust.

Mercury laughed. “Might be. If we were making a different kind of movie.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But to tell you the absolute truth, I’d rather she’d haunt somewhere else. You don’t happen to know any good exorcists, do you?”

Flurry snorted again. “Come on, Phillip. We’ve had this discussion before.” She looked at Bree in appeal. “I am not, I repeat, not putting a woo-woo slant on this movie. I don’t care what kind of ratings it’ll bring in. This movie—and the book I’m writing—take a credible, serious look at a major injustice. We’re going for the awards with this one, Phil. You promised me.”

“Yeah. I did. But who knew?”

“I agree with Flurry,” Justine said. “All this hocuspocus. It’s nonsense. That idiot girl is playing right into your bias, Phillip, and you can’t see it.”

“This isn’t about Tyra necessarily,” Mercury said.

“This is all about Tyra.” Justine’s cheeks were flushed.

“I’m not sure I have a clear picture of the problem,” Bree said. “What is this about exactly?”

“I bring my movies in on budget and on time,” Mercury said. “This movie is over budget and late. That’s usually the director’s fault. This time it isn’t. Someone’s engaging in sabotage. Might be Haydee. Might not.” He glanced at Justine and away again, so quickly that Bree almost didn’t catch it.

“Why?” Bree said.

“Why?”

Bree waited.

“Somebody hates my guts, is why. Tyra says it’s Haydee. Haydee doesn’t like the script.” He ran his hands through his hair. Bree wondered what drugs his hair stylist was on. The orange color was truly bizarre. “And since I’m responsible for the movie, she’s after me. The investors hate my guts too.” His face sagged. “Everybody hates my guts. But the only person who hates my guts enough to want to destroy my film is Haydee Quinn. Everybody else has money riding on it.”

Flurry sighed. “Phillip, your reputation is going to survive a two-million-dollar debacle, if this in fact turns into a debacle, which it won’t. No.” Her expression darkened. “No. The obvious answer is usually the right one. If anyone’s trying to sabotage this movie, it’s the Bullochs.”

“The daughters of Alexander and the granddaughters of Consuelo,” Justine said with a rather grand air.

“You wouldn’t believe the ton of research I did for this script,” Flurry said. “It’s a terrific story. Just terrific. The Bullochs are petrified that my work could force the powers that be to reopen the case.”

“That’d create a sensation of sorts, I suppose,” Bree offered.

“You see, they executed the wrong man.” Flurry jumped out of her chair and began to pace up and down. “I spent an entire year looking up old court records, the old police file, and all the old evidence. I even found an old guy that actually worked on the case. Robert E. Lee Kowalski. He was Eddie O’Malley’s sergeant. O’Malley was the cop that forced a confession out of Bagger Bill Norris. Kowalski’s parked out in a nursing home near Tybee Island.” She smacked her hand into her fist. “He’s, like, a hundred and three, or something, but he remembers the case like it was yesterday. I’ve been to see him a few times, and I’m going to see him a couple more.”

“Ninety-two,” Mercury said. “Kowalski’s ninety-two.”

Flurry had the light of a crusader in her eye. “There were payoffs. Bribes in the right places. They railroaded Bagger Bill Norris right into the electric chair. All so the real killer could go free.”

Bree was momentarily at sea. “Bagger Bill was . . .”

“The murderer,” Justine said tartly. “Owner of the Tropicana Tide nightclub. Unless you made that up, too, Flurry. I’m from Savannah myself, and I don’t remember ever hearing a thing about it.”

“That’s because you weren’t from the wrong side of the tracks,” Flurry said flippantly. “Norris was Haydee’s pimp,” Flurry said to Bree. “Not a role model for your children or mine, but he didn’t kill Haydee. I mean, why off the goose that laid the golden egg?”

“So who was the real killer?” Bree was interested in spite of herself.

“Consuelo Bulloch.” Flurry sat down with an air of triumph. “Alexander’s nasty mother.”

“Nonsense,” Justine said. “Utter nonsense.”

Bree raised her eyebrows. “You can prove this, Flurry?”

“No. Not yet. I’m close. But I’m going to. It’s all going to be in the book.”

“Does your movie directly accuse Consuelo of the murder? If it does, I can see why the Bullochs are upset.”

“It does not,” Mercury said flatly. “The ending’s ambiguous. My movie is a hell of a meditation on illusion and the nature of truth. Which is why this whole business about Haydee’s spirit is such a grabber.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me there,” Bree admitted.

“Phillip’s theory is Haydee’s looking for justice. That she’s trying to communicate with us through Tyra, to help us find the real killer.” Flurry snorted. “Why doesn’t she communicate with me, if she wants to get the record straight? I mean, Tyra’s IQ isn’t much higher than room temperature. You’d think a spirit would want a smarter medium.”

Bree looked at Justine, who gave her a who-knows, who-cares sort of shrug. Then she looked at Flurry. “When does the spirit of Haydee appear? Does it ever happen when Tyra’s alone?”

Flurry grinned. “Tyra doesn’t do much of anything without an audience. Why don’t you ask her?”

“I might,” Bree admitted, “if you don’t mind. I’m quite concerned about my client’s well-being.”

Justine touched the bruises darkening her throat. “I don’t believe in spirits. What I do believe is that little jumped-up tart is out to get me. If you would just—”

“Tyra’s not out to get you,” Mercury said with elaborate patience. “We’ve been through this before, and I’m getting goddam good and sick of it. These fits . . . well . . . she doesn’t have any more control over them than I do. Maybe it’s Haydee’s spirit, maybe not. I’m thinking that if it is, we’ve got one hell of an ending for the movie.”

Justine trembled with indignation. “Tyra’s no more possessed than I am.”

Bree decided nothing would be gained by avoiding the question. “Why? Why is Tyra out to get you in particular? Or has Tyra exhibited this behavior with other people?”

“As far as I can tell, it only happens when she’s in character as Haydee,” Flurry said. “And no, the behavior isn’t directed solely at Consuelo. She did her best to take a piece out of Craig Oliver’s ear the other day . . .”

“Which means I’ve got to shoot him in profile until the bite marks disappear,” Mercury said. “He’s playing O’Malley. He carries a lot of the movie. It’s a giant pain in the ass.”

“. . . He plays Lieutenant O’Malley, the cop who solved the case,” Flurry said, as if Mercury hadn’t spoken. “Then Tyra whacked Hatch Lewis with a cue stick in one of the bar scenes. He plays Alexander Bulloch, her lover.”

“Which put Hatch out of commission for a week,” Mercury said. “Kid needs to man up.”

Hatch Lewis was equally famous for his action roles and his partying. Bree devoutly hoped Antonia didn’t run into him.

“It’s directed at me,” Justine said stubbornly. “All this animus is to get me off this movie.”

Mercury smirked. “Justine, sweetie, like every actor I’ve ever met, it’s always all about you. Listen.” He crouched down next to her chair. “You need to give serious thought to whether this is the right role for you. Talk to your lawyer about it. Tell her what we’re offering you. I’m not going to hold out the big bucks for long.” He gave Bree a considering look. “And I might have to get my legal eagles in from LA. You never know. That’s gonna end up costing you a bomb.” Mercury got to his feet, pulled out his cell phone, glanced at the time, and muttered, “Shit! You’re wasting my time here, people. I’m at my trailer in ten, Flurry. I want those new pages stat. Justine, try to be ready to reshoot this scene in thirty. By the way, Justine, if you don’t turn over that damn peacock pin, I’m going to rip it off you myself.”

Bree worked this out. Ten: ten minutes. Thirty: thirty minutes.

Justine waited until Mercury had charged out of the room before she said, “Repellant little man.”

Flurry shrugged into her hoodie and slung her tote over her shoulder. “He’s making a pretty good movie, though, Justine. And he’s right. You ought to consider his offer to buy out your contract. Catch you later, Bree? I’d like a little face time. See what you remember about your uncle.”

Justine didn’t wait for Flurry to disappear outside before she said, “The little slut’s against me, too.”

Bree bent forward and looked at the jewel on Justine’s lapel. “Why does Mercury want you to remove the peacock pin?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why does Mercury want you to remove it?”

“Something to do with the lawsuit. The Bullochs want it back. Except for Dixie. Dixie’s on my side. But Dixie had a perfect right to lend it to me. Consuelo wore it all the time. When I wear it, I get such a feeling that she’s with me. It helps my performance tremendously.” Her lips trembled. “I’m an excellent actress. Excellent. These people have no idea what great art is all about.”

Bree personally thought that great art should be more about compassion than beating up on an octogenarian. “Would you like me to handle this contract dispute for you, Justine?”

“There is no dispute. I am part of this movie.”

“We want to keep it that way. I’d like you to find your performance contract for me so I can review it.”

“My agent has it. She’s in New York.”

Bree nodded. She could find the address through the Screen Actors Guild website.

Justine fumbled with her handkerchief and pressed it to her lips. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a lawyer on call. Do you think you can stop this persecution?”

“I’ll do my best. There is one thing we can take care of right away. Might help to defuse the situation a bit.”

“You want me to give up the brooch.”

“Yes,” Bree said gently.

Justine blinked away tears. Her fingers were surprisingly deft. She unpinned the jewel and laid it carefully on the damask cushion. “Will you see that it gets back to Dixie Bulloch?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well. That’s that.” Justine closed her eyes for a long moment. Then her chin came up. “Do you remember what the New York Times had to say about my Medea? The 1965 production, on Broadway. I absolutely wiped Zoe Caldwell’s eye. I stood in for her for two performances. I am capable of doing great work.” She pressed her hands to her chest. “I am Consuelo Bulloch.”

“You’ll be splendid.”

“Thank you, my dear. I’m going to freshen up in my trailer now. I need to ready myself for the work later on today. Perhaps we can get the business of my will done tomorrow?”

“Certainly.” Bree stood up politely and escorted Justine to the foyer.

She came back for the brooch.

For a few minutes, she stood looking down at it as it lay glittering on the couch. It was a beautiful piece of work. The peacock’s body was set with diamonds. The tail feathers glowed with emeralds, tipped with sapphires. The bird’s eye was a small round ruby.

Bree’s dead clients frequently came to her through such objects.

Bree bent and picked up the jewel.

She wasn’t disappointed.

The apparition trickled from the jewel like water pooling from a narrow crevice. It was dark—more an absence of light than any particular gray or black—and formed itself into a shape that was vaguely human. A woman, Bree decided, or womanlike, at least.

“I’m Brianna Beaufort,” she said. “Have you come to me for help?”

“Help . . .” The voice was less than a whisper, almost less than sound.

“You’re Consuelo Bulloch?”

The shadow swayed. It might have been a nod. It might have been a wind from whichever circle of Hell poor Consuelo had been sentenced to. A faint echo sounded: “Yes.”

Not for the first time, Bree was frustrated by the dysfunctional modes of communication between her and her clients. There didn’t seem to be too much she could do about it, although she had filed a petition protesting the current process with Goldstein, the recording angel at the Celestial Hall of Records. Dead souls, she’d argued, should have the right to unobstructed dialogue with counsel. Goldstein had been amused, but at least he’d sent the petition on to wherever it was supposed to go.

“Have you come to me regarding the murder of Haydee Quinn?”

The shadow flared briefly into an angry flame.

“Haydee . . .” The malice in the shadow’s voice came through loud and clear.

“You’d like me to file an appeal on your behalf, Mrs. Bulloch?”

“Yes. Yes. Help me! Treachery . . .” The shadow sighed. “Treachery . . .”

The shade of Mrs. Bulloch trickled away as slowly as it had arrived. Bree tucked the brooch into her briefcase and took out her cell phone. She’d call the Angelus office and get the staff moving on collecting the existing filings on the Quinn case. Flurry Smith would be a good source of background data, too. She’d schedule an interview with the scriptwriter as soon as possible.

“Ready to go?”

Bree jumped. She’d been so absorbed in planning the case that she hadn’t noticed Dent come into the room. He held a small cardboard pastry box.

“Yes, I’m ready.” She gestured toward the box. “I see you got the beignets.”

“They gave me a couple extra. You look like you could use a good feed.”

“Thank you,” Bree said in surprise. “It’s been a long day. I’d like a beignet.”

“I like a woman with a little more meat on her bones than you have.” He handed over the box. “There’s one for your sister and your colored friend, too.”

Bree took a deep breath. “Dent, please don’t take this amiss. But in polite society there are acceptable ways to speak about other people and unacceptable ways. It borders on rude to refer to my weight. It is disrespectful to refer to Mrs. Billingsley as ‘colored.’ And to be perfectly candid, I have no interest, none, in what you personally like about women.” Good grief, Bree thought, I sound just like Francesca.

“That’s what I like to see,” Dent said. “A nice big smile.”

“I was thinking about my mother,” Bree said stiffly. “Dent, you’re past praying for. Let’s round up Mrs. Billingsley and my sister and go back to Savannah.”

“You didn’t mean that. That I’m past praying for.”

She’d hurt his feelings. Again. “No. Lavinia would remind me that no one is past praying for, and she’d be right. But do try to be less dense . . . I mean offensive, Dent.”

“Who’s Lavinia?”

“My landlady.”

“Your landlady owns the Bay Street building?”

“I have a satellite office on Angelus Street. She owns the house.”

She tucked the cardboard box under her arm and picked up her briefcase. “Let’s go. I’ve got a lot to get through this afternoon, and it’s late.”

“You going to take on Mrs. Bulloch’s appeal?”

Bree froze. The back of her neck prickled. “You mean Mrs. Coville. Justine.”

“No,” he said patiently, “Mrs. Bulloch. That was Mrs. Bulloch you were talking to, wasn’t it? Just now?”

Bree set her briefcase down so that her hands were free, backed up a little, and faced him. “Okay, Mr. Dent. Spill it. Who are you? What do want? And what do you want from me?”