Dead By Midnight (3 page)

By the time she was old enough to date, she had known that she would never get married. She would never be able to trust a man enough to pledge until death do us part.

When she sat down and curled up on the lush leather sofa, one hand holding her mug, she reached out for the TV remote. She surfed through the channels until she found a local station’s early morning news program. Keeping the sound muted, she lifted the mug to her lips and sipped on the strong, sweet coffee. Black, heavy on the sugar, or rather the sugar substitute. A girl had to watch her figure, and in Maleah’s case, being only five-four and curvy, keeping trim was a constant battle. Just as she settled back and relaxed, her phone rang. When she’d come downstairs half an hour ago, she had slipped her phone into the pocket of her cotton knit sweater. Four years as an agent for the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency, based in Knoxville, had taught her to never be without her iPhone.

Checking caller ID, she smiled and placed her mug atop a coaster on the end table. “Morning,” she said. “What’s up?”

Nicole Powell, Maleah’s boss and close friend, laughed. It was good to hear Nic laughing again. She’d had a rough year. For a while, Maleah had wondered if Nic and Griff’s marriage could survive, but recently they seemed to have worked through their problems. And even though Maleah knew that Griff still kept secrets from Nic, it wasn’t her place to interfere in her best friend’s marriage.

“I wanted to let you know that Griff and I are going away for a week, just the two of us. Sort of a second honeymoon. And I have no idea where we’re going. Griff’s keeping it top secret to surprise me.”

What is it suddenly with all these honeymoons?

Only two honeymoons,
she reminded herself.
Just because you’re allergic to marriage and all the trimmings doesn’t mean other people don’t have the right to take a chance on happily ever after.

“That’s great. It sounds so romantic.”

“If for any reason you need something while I’m gone, you’ll have to go through Sanders,” Nic said. “Naturally, Griff’s leaving him in charge.”

“I can’t imagine why I’d need anything Powell Agency related. I’m on vacation. Well, sort of. House-sitting and keeping tabs on my nephew, even though Seth is actually staying with his grandparents, isn’t exactly a vacation.”

“How’s that going—staying in your childhood home?”

“The old home place isn’t the same. Jack and Cathy completely renovated and updated the whole house. Except for the bare bones, the interior is like an entirely different house. And they had the exterior painted in colors true to the time period, very similar to the way this old Victorian looked when it was built.”

“So staying there isn’t reviving bad memories?” Nic asked.

“A few, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good.” Nic paused, then said, “Think positive thoughts for me—for us—will you? Griff and I love each other and our marriage is important to us, but we realize we have some fundamental problems. We’re hoping we can work through a lot of things while we’re away.”

“Good luck. And I’ll send tons of positive thoughts your way.”

“Thanks. Talk to you when I get back. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Maleah slipped her iPhone into her sweater pocket.

She truly wished Nic and Griff the best. In the beginning of their marriage, they had seemed happy, seemed perfect for each other. Maleah would have laid odds that if any couple had a chance to make it work, Nic and Griff did.

Maleah had never been tempted to marry, even though she had received two proposals. As soon as a guy got serious, she broke it off and ran in the opposite direction. Both of her former serious relationships had been with wonderful men, either a real catch. She’d heard that Brad Douglas was now married and had twin daughters. She and Brad had enjoyed a two-year relationship and had even lived together for a while.

Back in college, she had lost her virginity to Noah Laborde. She had been in love for the first time. Noah had been handsome, intelligent, and every girl’s dream come true. A week after graduation, he had popped the question. She had taken one look at the diamond solitaire he held in his hand and had broken out in a cold sweat. He’d been ready for marriage. She hadn’t been, never would be. Less than a year later, a mutual friend had called to tell her that Noah was dead. Murdered. Even now, after ten years, it broke her heart to think that Noah never got the chance to live a full, complete life. It was so unfair. But then, she had learned at her mother’s knee that life was seldom fair.

Lorie drove by Mike’s house three times, trying to build up enough courage to stop, ring the doorbell, and tell the county sheriff that she had received her second death threat. He would ask to see both letters. She’d tell him she threw the first one in the trash. He’d look over the second letter, all the while wondering if she had written it to herself as an excuse to draw him into her life. Damn him! Did he honestly think she was that desperate?

And if he believed her, what would he do? Tell her to come down to the office in the morning and fill out a report? He certainly wouldn’t take a personal interest. He’d hand her problem over to one of his deputies and that would be the end of it.

There had been a time when Mike Birkett would have gone to hell and back for her. But that had been when he had loved her, when he had thought she was going to be his wife and the mother of his children. That had been before she had gotten on a plane and flown to California to become a famous movie star. Seventeen years and a million heartbreaks ago.

Lorie slowed her Ford Edge SUV at the stop sign, glanced down at her wristwatch—2:46
P.M
.—and wondered what the hell she was going to do. Who could she turn to for help?

Not Mike.

And not the Dunmore police. Even if they took the threat on her life seriously, what could they actually do?

What she needed was a private detective, someone who could find out the identity of the person who had sent her the threatening letters.

Lorie suddenly had a lightbulb moment and knew exactly who she could go to for help.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the driveway at 121 West Fourth Street, parked her SUV, got out, and walked up and onto the front porch. She rang the doorbell and waited.

Maleah Perdue, Jack’s younger, all-American, blond sister, opened the door and smiled. “Hi there. What brings you out on a day like this that’s not fit for anybody or anything, except maybe ducks?”

“Are you busy?” Lorie asked. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“You’re interrupting my game of solitaire on my laptop.” Maleah laughed.

Lorie forced a tight smile. “I…uh…have a problem that I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Well, come on in and tell me about it,” Maleah said.

Lorie entered the large two-story foyer.

“Come on back in the den.”

Lorie followed her best friend’s sister-in-law. When they reached the small, cozy room, Maleah asked, “Want some hot tea or coffee?”

“No, thanks. Nothing for me.”

“Have a seat.”

Lorie nodded, but didn’t sit down. “I want to hire you. I don’t know how much you charge, but I need a professional.”

Maleah stared at Lorie, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I received a death threat in a letter about a month ago. I convinced myself that it was just a prank and threw the letter away and almost forgot about it. But I received a second letter identical to the first. It arrived in yesterday’s mail, but I didn’t open the mail until today.”

“Did you bring the letter with you?”

Lorie dug in her purse, pulled out the envelope, and handed it to Maleah.

“Do you think you could get any fingerprints off the envelope or letter?” Lorie asked.

“Yeah, yours, the mail carrier’s, and anybody else who might have touched it. But my guess is whoever wrote it made sure he or she didn’t leave any prints.”

Maleah removed the letter from the envelope and read it aloud. “Do you know anyone who might want to kill you?”

“No. No one.”

“Does anything in the letter ring a bell? Any of the phrases sound familiar?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea what he—or maybe she—means by ‘midnight is coming’?”

“No, not really,” Lorie said. “Do you think this is for real, that someone is actually threatening to kill me?”

“I don’t know, but you’d be a fool to ignore a second letter,” Maleah told her. “I’m glad you’ve come to me. We’ll get in touch with Mike Birkett and—”

“No!” When Maleah looked at her quizzically, Lorie explained. “I could have gone to Mike, but I didn’t. He’s not going to take this seriously. As you know, we…uh…we share some ancient history. I don’t want to involve local law enforcement, especially not Mike. Not yet. Not until we know for sure that this is for real.”

“Want my opinion?”

Lorie nodded.

“It’s for real.”

“Then you think somebody wants to kill me?”

“Possibly. At the very least, somebody wants to scare the shit out of you.”

Had they all received the most recent letter? He could have mailed them from anywhere, but it seemed only appropriate for the letters to have a Memphis postmark, so he’d made a quick one-day trip back to Memphis. In the future, he’d mail the letters before leaving town. He liked to imagine each person’s reaction when they opened the envelope, how they must have prayed that it wasn’t another dire warning.

Smiling, he ran the tips of his fingers over his closed laptop where the letter was stored. There would be no need to write a new message each time after this, not when the original said it all so perfectly.

He could only surmise that each of them was puzzled by the letter, wondering who had sent it and why. Stupid fools!

Sooner or later, somebody, probably a smart FBI agent, would figure it out, but by then it would be too late. They would all be dead, the guilty punished, and a cruel, ugly part of the past erased. And the best part was that no one would ever suspect him.

He picked up the glass of chardonnay he had poured only moments ago and sat down in his favorite chair. As he sipped the wine, he lifted the remote control with his other hand and hit the Play button to start the DVD.

He owned dozens of copies of this particular movie, both on DVD and on video. If he could have purchased every copy ever made, he would have. And he would have destroyed all of them.

Derek Lawrence arrived late. He wouldn’t have even considered attending if this wasn’t his mother’s sixty-fifth birthday bash. As a general rule, he deliberately avoided spending time with the woman who had given birth to him. But not being a total bastard, he had felt compelled to put in an appearance this Sunday afternoon at the party hosted by his sister, a party for family and a few close friends. He had known that to Diana a few close friends meant there would be no less than a hundred in attendance. His baby sister loved nothing better than to host a social event so that she could show off her fifteen-million-dollar estate on the outskirts of Nashville. Unlike their mother, who had come from a middle-class background, Diana had been born into money and had married money. He loved the girl, but the older she got, the more like their mother she became. God help her.

The house was buzzing with activity. In one glance, he counted thirty people milling about in the massive foyer and adjoining living room. A small band filled the place with music befitting the Queen Bee’s birthday. Nothing common and vulgar. Classical and semi-classical only.

When a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes passed him, Derek grabbed a glass. He meandered through the crowd, nodding and smiling at those who glanced his way. Some he knew. Some he didn’t. Others looked vaguely familiar. And then he spotted her—the most beautiful woman in the room. Alexa Daugherty. Too bad she was his first cousin. Derek chuckled to himself. Even if they weren’t related, he would never take on Alexa. The lady was too high maintenance for his tastes. As a child, she had epitomized the saying “poor little rich girl.” As a woman, she brought another catchphrase to mind—“rich bitch.” His darling cousin had a reputation for chewing up men and spitting them out in little pieces.

The moment she saw him, she smiled and motioned for him to come to her. He made his way through the celebrators and when he reached Alexa, he leaned over and kissed her flawless cheek.

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” she said. “You’re not still working for the FBI, are you? I believe Aunt Happy mentioned that you were an associate of Griffin Powell’s. Is that right?”

Happy was Derek’s mother. He had never heard anyone call her anything else. He wasn’t sure where the nickname had come from or who had given it to her, but it certainly didn’t suit the snooty, social-climbing woman he had known and hated for most of his life.

Before Derek could reply, a man he didn’t know—mid-fifties, trim, well dressed—injected himself into the conversation. “We were just talking about this shocking murder case over in Memphis, and Alexa mentioned you used to be with the FBI, a profiler, I believe.”

Derek nodded. His sister’s crowd always found it fascinating that he had chosen to work in a field usually reserved for those not in their social circle—law enforcement.

Alexa slipped her arm through his, but she looked directly at the other man. “You simply must tell Derek all about it. The killer is still at large and the Memphis police have no idea who did it.”

“Ward Dandridge.” The man stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, silly me.” Alexa giggled. Even her giggles sounded sexy. “I forgot that you two didn’t know each other. Sorry about that.”

Alexa was not an airheaded bimbo, despite appearances to the contrary. His guess was that she’d had one glass of champagne too many. Alexa was a brilliant woman with an IQ that bordered on genius. And he knew for a fact that she was a shrewd businesswoman who had recently taken over as CEO of her father’s empire. The old man still maintained his position as chairman of the board, but he happily left the day-to-day running of Daugherty, Inc. to his only child.

“Do you know Tagg Chambless?” Dandridge asked.

“The former NFL halfback?”

“That’s the one. Tagg and I are business associates. We both have an interest in one of the Tunica casinos.” Dandridge downed the remainder of his champagne and motioned to one of the waiters, who quickly exchanged his empty glass for a full one.

“Didn’t you date Chambless for a few months?” Derek winked at Alexa.

She gave him the evil eye, a look for which she had become notorious. Grown men had been brought to their knees in submission by that look alone.

When Ward Dandridge stared questioningly at Alexa, Derek laughed. “No, his name wasn’t Chambless, was it? But the fellow was a football player, wasn’t he? Not Chambless, though. If I recall, he was a big, burly brute with—what did you say at the time? Oh yes, that he had more muscles than brains.”

“You’re mistaken. That’s not my type,” Alexa said coolly. “But we’re getting off subject. Ward did so want your thoughts on the murder case.”

“And just what does Tagg Chambless have to do with the murder case?” Derek asked.

“Oh, the victim was Tagg’s wife,” Ward said. “Gorgeous woman, even if she was little more than a plastic doll. She’d had all sorts of cosmetic surgery. Everything from breast implants to rhinoplasty.”

Derek wished he could think of a diplomatic way to escape. It had become apparent that Ward Dandridge loved gossip, and discussing other people’s private lives bored Derek.

“I’d love to hear more,” Derek lied. “Maybe later. I really should find Mother and wish her a happy birthday.”

Alexa tightened her hold on Derek’s arm, leaned close and whispered, “Stay. Please. Ward’s a friend of Daddy’s and I simply can’t be rude to him.”

“I’ll make this quick,” Dandridge said, apparently determined to drag an opinion out of Derek. “Mrs. Chambless, Tagg’s wife, had quite a reputation. The lady used to be an actress of sorts. She starred in several”—he cleared his throat—
“adult
films and was a
Playboy
centerfold about ten or eleven years ago.

“The woman was shot numerous times, killed right there in her own home.” Dandridge lowered his voice. “The police never released certain information, but Tagg shared a few things with me. Seems when the maid found her, she was naked and was wearing a mask of some sort. Odd, don’t you think?”

“Yes, quite odd,” Derek agreed.

“You would assume that she was raped, considering the fact she was naked, but Tagg said she wasn’t. Raped, that is.”

“Hmm…” Derek wasn’t sure what Dandridge wanted him to say. Did the man honestly think he could come up with a profile of the killer with no more information than that?

“Oh God, who invited him?” Alexa asked with utter disdain in her voice.

“Who?” Dandridge inquired as he glanced right and left.

Derek followed his cousin’s cold glare, which was aimed directly at a man Derek knew, liked, and respected.

“Camden Hendrix.” Alexa spoke his name as if she were saying Attila the Hun. “The man is a barbarian.”

Derek grinned when Cam looked his way and immediately came over to speak to him.

To break the sudden uneasy silence, Derek introduced the two men, who apparently knew each other by reputation. “And of course, you know Cam, don’t you, Alexa.”

“We’ve met.” Icicles hung on her words.

“Looking as lovely as ever,” Cam said, but did little more than glance briefly at Alexa before he turned back to Derek. “Good to see a friendly face. I thought maybe Nic and Griff would be here. I haven’t seen them in a couple of months.”

“I believe they’re off on a second honeymoon,” Derek said. “Something spur of the moment.” As a Powell Agency employee, he had received the text message sent out that morning to inform everyone that Sanders was in charge while the agency’s owners were away.

“Is that how you finagled an invitation to Aunt Happy’s birthday party—because you’re Griffin Powell’s lawyer?” Alexa asked, knowing full well how rude her question was.

Cam chuckled. “Actually, your cousin Diana invited me. My firm is representing her husband’s brother in his divorce case.”

“I say, Hendrix, have you heard about Tagg Chambless’s wife’s murder over in Memphis?” Ward Dandridge asked, apparently interested in little else. “I had just cornered Derek to get his opinion about her unsolved murder.”

Cam’s mouth tilted in a smirking grin and it was obvious that he had barely managed not to laugh.

“We’ll talk later,” Derek said as he pulled away from the group. “I want to check with Mother and make sure she received her present yesterday.” He glanced from Dandridge to Cam. “Why don’t you tell Cam about the case? After all, he’s famous for defending accused murderers.” Derek kissed Alexa on the cheek and whispered, “Behave yourself, cousin.”

Several minutes later, he found his mother surrounded by her country club girlfriends, women in her age group whose husbands’ wealth afforded them a lifestyle only dreamed about by most.

Happy Lawrence Vickers Adams—married three times, widowed once and divorced twice—was still an attractive woman, thanks to great genes and a talented cosmetic surgeon. Tall, slender, elegant. No one would ever guess that Happy wasn’t “to the manor born.”

Their gazes met as he approached her and she quickly plastered a fake smile on her unwrinkled face. Derek couldn’t remember the last time his mother had been genuinely glad to see him. When he reached her, she leaned close, offering him her cheek to kiss. He did as he was expected to do.

“Happy birthday, Mother.”

“Thank you, dear. And thank you for the lovely jade bracelet. I’m sure I will enjoy wearing it occasionally.”

With the necessary pleasantries out of the way, Happy turned her full attention back to her friends. Derek walked away, went through the kitchen and out the back door without searching for his sister to say hello or good-bye. He motioned for the valet to bring around his car, and within five minutes, he sped off down the long, winding drive and out onto the highway.

If he was lucky, he shouldn’t have to make a command appearance again until Happy’s seventieth birthday.

Lorie answered, as truthfully as she could, all of Maleah’s questions about her past and present boyfriends and other relationships.

“I honestly can’t think of anyone who would want to kill me,” Lorie said, feeling more frustrated by the minute. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I live as low-key a life as possible. I haven’t had a date in months. I do my level best not to piss off anybody here in Dunmore. I just want to live my life without any major complications.”

“A death threat is a major complication.” Maleah shifted on the sofa, turning halfway to directly face Lorie. “You haven’t noticed anyone following you or skulking around your house or your antique shop?”

“No. Not really. I mean, men sometimes look at me and I know they’re mentally undressing me. Occasionally someone makes a crude comment. And at odd times, I feel like somebody’s watching me, but I’ve never actually seen anyone, so I assumed it was just my imagination.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Maleah said. “Have you recently received any peculiar phone calls?”

“Are you talking about heavy breathing? Then no. And no one has called to talk dirty to me since the first year I moved back to Dunmore.”

“What about online—any weird e-mails?”

“Nope. And I don’t have a blog or anything like that. Just a Web site for Treasures. And I don’t Twitter.”

Maleah shook her head, the action inadvertently bouncing her long, blond ponytail. Today, with no makeup on and wearing jeans and an oversized cotton sweater, she looked more like a fresh-faced teenager than an experienced bodyguard and investigator.

“I wish you had kept that first letter,” Maleah said. “We have no proof you actually received the letter, only your word that you got it.”

“Are you saying you don’t believe me, that you think I’m lying?”

“No, of course not. I believe you, but when we go to the sheriff, he’ll want proof.”

“I told you that I prefer not to involve local law enforcement, not until we know for sure this isn’t someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

“Look, I’m ninety percent sure that when I contact the Powell Agency for an okay to take your case, I’m going to be told that although we’ll do an independent investigation, the sheriff needs to be notified.”

Lorie groaned.

“Do I need to know more about you and Mike Birkett?” Maleah asked. “I was just a kid, twelve or thirteen, when you two dated and that’s all I remember—that you two dated, were sort of pre-engaged and you broke it off and left town. But that was what—sixteen or seventeen years ago? Is there something going on with the two of you now?”

“God, no!”
Only in my dreams.
“You know the rest of my story, don’t you? Everybody in town knows about how I disgraced my family, ruined my reputation, and made a complete and utter fool of myself after I left Dunmore. I jilted Mike and broke his heart. Now he can’t stand the sight of me.”

Maleah glanced away as if it bothered her to see the sadness that Lorie knew she couldn’t hide. Her feelings were written plainly on her face.

“I’ll have to talk to Mike,” Maleah told her. “But I’ll ask him to assign one of his deputies to your case. That’s what he’d do anyway.”

Lorie nodded, reluctantly agreeing. “So, what do I do now?”

“Do you have a security system at home?”

“Yes.”

“Use it. Be aware of your surroundings at all times and take no chances with your personal safety. Do you carry a gun or Mace or—?”

“I have a small pistol that I keep in my nightstand,” Lorie said. “And I carry Mace in my purse and I’ve taken a couple of self-defense classes.”

“Put my number into your home phone speed dial and your cell phone so you can contact me instantly if you need me. At this point, I think providing twenty-four/seven private security would be premature.”

“Yeah, I think it would be.”

“If you get another letter, a phone call, sense someone following you or anything that raises a red flag in your mind, get in touch with me immediately,” Maleah told her. “In the meantime, I’ll ask for an okay from Powell’s to work on your case and then I’ll call Mike.”

Lorie stood. “Thanks, Maleah. I appreciate your doing this for me. I guess I’m lucky that you decided to stay in Dunmore for a while.”

Maleah got up and walked Lorie to the front door. She patted Lorie on the back. “Be careful, okay? But don’t worry any more than you can help. At this point we have no idea what we’re dealing with, whether the person who sent you the letters is some goofball who thinks this is funny or some nut job who gets his cookies off scaring women with threats or if we have the real thing on our hands.”