"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 hara.s.sment intentional, Mr. Mercury? Or is your rudeness to my client the norm for you?"

His eyebrows rose. "Hara.s.sment. 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-a.s.s-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 c.o.c.kily 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.ddam 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.s."

". . . 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, "s.h.i.t! 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 d.a.m.n peac.o.c.k 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 s.l.u.t's against me, too."

Bree bent forward and looked at the jewel on Justine's lapel. "Why does Mercury want you to remove the peac.o.c.k 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 compa.s.sion 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 peac.o.c.k's body was set with diamonds. The tail feathers glowed with emeralds, tipped with sapphires. The bird's eye was a small round ruby.

Consuelo was wearing it when she died.

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?"