then shook hands with Bree. “Nice to see you again, counselor. We’ve got about a half an hour before we need to split. How can we help you?”
“This is about that old bat, isn’t it?” Tyra said. “Mila said I had to talk to you, because otherwise we could get sued. The shoot’s got a lot of problems already, Mila says, and Phil’s not cool with any more lawsuits. So, like, ask me whatever.” Her eyes were a true, limpid turquoise, as clear as seawater.
“Okay.” Bree sat down across from Tyra and did her best to swing into prosecutorial mode. “Mrs. Coville is concerned about your attitude toward her. She fell this morning because you pushed her. She has bruises on her throat this afternoon because you put your hands around her neck and attempted to strangle her. I’d like to get to the cause of this behavior.”
“Jeez . . . us,” Tyra said. “Like, I don’t know, okay? I mean, Justine is what, a hundred and three or something. She’s older than my grandma. About as tough as my old grandma, too. But, like, you don’t hurt old people. It’s not something you do. It’s Haydee you have to ask. Not me. I honest-to-God don’t understand a thing about it.”
“Okay,” Bree said. “I’d like to talk to Haydee, if I may.” She looked around the lounge. Some of the hotel guests had started to gather for the late-afternoon piano performance of Johnny Mercer songs. Some elderly couples, a few young families, and a sprinkling of men and women in business suits. They had all left a respectful space between where they sat and Tyra. “Is this the best place?”
Tyra’s oak-colored hair hung to her waist. She flipped it back over her shoulders with a toss of her head. “I don’t, like, choose the place. She just shows up.”
“Any unusual circumstances surround her ‘just showing up’? Are you holding something of hers, perhaps? Or near the place where she . . . um . . . passed away?”
“It’s usually around Facebook time,” Mila said. She dropped another wink in Bree’s direction.
Tyra’s turquoise eyes opened wide. “Like, you’re right, Millie! Team Tyra is totally awed with Haydee. And that’s what she likes, you know? She had fans when she was alive, and she needs fans now that she’s dead.” She leaned forward and said earnestly, “Team Tyra can’t believe I’m so into the spiritual side of life. It’s very awesome.”
“You’re the awesome one, Tee.” The hearty voice was male, somehow middle-aged, and carried a hostile edge. Bree glanced up at a man in his midforties. He wore a tailored suit jacket and trousers in a slim European cut and a white shirt, open at the throat. He carried what looked to be a scotch on the rocks in his left hand. “This is the lawyer, Mila?”
“Mr. White.” Mila got to her feet. “This is Miss Beaufort, yes. Bree, this is Vincent Victor White, one of our producers.”
He didn’t offer his free hand, so Bree didn’t offer hers. He jerked his chin toward the chair Bree had been sitting in. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”
“Now, why should I have a drink with you, Mr. White? As pleasant a prospect as that seems to be.”
“Millie,” Tyra said, “are we finished here? I gotta go.” She uncurled herself from the chair. Her hair swung forward over her face. Bree noticed that she kept the chair between herself and Vincent White. She also noticed that White kept his eyes on Tyra. He had a greedy look, like a fat bully after a cake.
“We’re finished here, Miss Steele. Thank you. I’d like to suggest that you have a little talk with Haydee, next time the two of you are in touch. Just remember that Mrs. Coville is a very old lady. She’s fragile. Physically and emotionally.”
“You mean she bruises real easy.” Tyra nodded wisely. “My grandma does, too. I have to watch it when I hug her. I’ll let Haydee know.”
“Thank you,” Bree said.
“You going to give me my cell back, Millie?”
“Only if you stop
“This is about that old bat, isn’t it?” Tyra said. “Mila said I had to talk to you, because otherwise we could get sued. The shoot’s got a lot of problems already, Mila says, and Phil’s not cool with any more lawsuits. So, like, ask me whatever.” Her eyes were a true, limpid turquoise, as clear as seawater.
“Okay.” Bree sat down across from Tyra and did her best to swing into prosecutorial mode. “Mrs. Coville is concerned about your attitude toward her. She fell this morning because you pushed her. She has bruises on her throat this afternoon because you put your hands around her neck and attempted to strangle her. I’d like to get to the cause of this behavior.”
“Jeez . . . us,” Tyra said. “Like, I don’t know, okay? I mean, Justine is what, a hundred and three or something. She’s older than my grandma. About as tough as my old grandma, too. But, like, you don’t hurt old people. It’s not something you do. It’s Haydee you have to ask. Not me. I honest-to-God don’t understand a thing about it.”
“Okay,” Bree said. “I’d like to talk to Haydee, if I may.” She looked around the lounge. Some of the hotel guests had started to gather for the late-afternoon piano performance of Johnny Mercer songs. Some elderly couples, a few young families, and a sprinkling of men and women in business suits. They had all left a respectful space between where they sat and Tyra. “Is this the best place?”
Tyra’s oak-colored hair hung to her waist. She flipped it back over her shoulders with a toss of her head. “I don’t, like, choose the place. She just shows up.”
“Any unusual circumstances surround her ‘just showing up’? Are you holding something of hers, perhaps? Or near the place where she . . . um . . . passed away?”
“It’s usually around Facebook time,” Mila said. She dropped another wink in Bree’s direction.
Tyra’s turquoise eyes opened wide. “Like, you’re right, Millie! Team Tyra is totally awed with Haydee. And that’s what she likes, you know? She had fans when she was alive, and she needs fans now that she’s dead.” She leaned forward and said earnestly, “Team Tyra can’t believe I’m so into the spiritual side of life. It’s very awesome.”
“You’re the awesome one, Tee.” The hearty voice was male, somehow middle-aged, and carried a hostile edge. Bree glanced up at a man in his midforties. He wore a tailored suit jacket and trousers in a slim European cut and a white shirt, open at the throat. He carried what looked to be a scotch on the rocks in his left hand. “This is the lawyer, Mila?”
“Mr. White.” Mila got to her feet. “This is Miss Beaufort, yes. Bree, this is Vincent Victor White, one of our producers.”
He didn’t offer his free hand, so Bree didn’t offer hers. He jerked his chin toward the chair Bree had been sitting in. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”
“Now, why should I have a drink with you, Mr. White? As pleasant a prospect as that seems to be.”
“Millie,” Tyra said, “are we finished here? I gotta go.” She uncurled herself from the chair. Her hair swung forward over her face. Bree noticed that she kept the chair between herself and Vincent White. She also noticed that White kept his eyes on Tyra. He had a greedy look, like a fat bully after a cake.
“We’re finished here, Miss Steele. Thank you. I’d like to suggest that you have a little talk with Haydee, next time the two of you are in touch. Just remember that Mrs. Coville is a very old lady. She’s fragile. Physically and emotionally.”
“You mean she bruises real easy.” Tyra nodded wisely. “My grandma does, too. I have to watch it when I hug her. I’ll let Haydee know.”
“Thank you,” Bree said.
“You going to give me my cell back, Millie?”
“Only if you stop
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