Читать книгу Time of Death - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 7

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.”

Lorie opened the front door and then paused for a moment. “The real thing being someone who is going to kill me.”

“Someone who plans to kill you,” Maleah corrected. “We won’t let that happen—you and me, the Powell Agency, and the sheriff’s department.”

After Sunday evening church services, Mike sent his kids to take their baths and get ready for bed. Tomorrow was a school day, the first day back following their spring break, which had come early this year. He’d probably have a couple of hours of alone time after he tucked his kids in, time to kick back and watch a little TV or read a few chapters in the latest David Baldacci novel. For now, he needed to load the dishwasher and set it to start in the middle of the night. Later, he’d put out plates, bowls, cups, and silverware on the kitchen table for breakfast and afterward he’d gather the clothes he needed to drop off at the cleaners in the morning.

Just as he headed for the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Who the hell? It was nearly nine o’clock. When he opened the front door, he was surprised to find Jack’s kid sister, Maleah, standing on his porch.

“Hi, Mike. Got a few minutes?” she asked.

“Sure, come on in.”

He escorted her to the living room. “Is there a problem? Something with Seth or—”

“Nothing personal. I’m fine. My nephew is fine,” Maleah told him. “I’m here on business.”

Frowning in confusion, Mike stared at her. “Explain.”

“May I sit down?”

“Sure. Please sit. Believe me, my mama taught me good manners. I just forget them sometimes.”

Maleah sat on the sofa. Mike eased down onto the wingback chair directly across from her.

“You know Lorie Hammonds, I believe,” Maleah said.

Mike nodded. His gut tightened.

“She has hired me, as a representative of the Powell Agency, to investigate two threats made on her life.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m quite serious.”

“Don’t tell me the Women for Christian Morality folks are after her again. Believe me, those ladies are harmless.”

“I’m not familiar with that group, but I doubt they’re involved in this situation. Lorie has received two letters, one a month ago and a second this weekend. Both letters were identical, both were death threats.”

“Did you see the letters?”

Maleah nodded. “Yes, one of them, the most recent. Unfortunately, she threw the first one away thinking it was a crank letter.”

“Hmm … I wouldn’t take anything Ms. Hammonds says too seriously. She tends to be melodramatic sometimes. Actually, I wouldn’t put it past her to have written the letter herself in order to get attention.”

“To get whose attention—yours, Mike?”

His gut knotted painfully. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Do you think she’s that desperate to have you pay attention to her that she’d fake death threats?”

Would she? Did he really believe she would go to that extreme just to draw him into her life? “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Hey, I realize you two were an item when you were teenagers and she broke your heart when she went off to Hollywood hoping to become a movie star. But that was a long time ago. Don’t you think it’s way past time to let bygones be bygones? I don’t know Lorie all that well, but then neither do you. You knew the teenage Lorie. She’s not the same person.”

“You can say that again.”

“I’m really not concerned about your personal issues with her. But I do need to know that, as the county sheriff, you will treat these death threats as seriously as you would if any other woman in your jurisdiction had received them.”

“You have my word on it. Ask Ms. Hammonds to come to the office tomorrow and give a statement. I’ll assign one of our deputies to question her.”

“Thanks, Mike. I knew I could count on you.” Maleah stood.

“Daddy,” Hannah called out from down the hall. “I’m ready for my good-night kiss.”

“Go on,” Maleah told him. “I’ll see myself out.”

Lorie sat alone in her semi-dark bedroom, the only light coming from the adjustable floor lamp behind her lounge chair. Oddly enough, the silence was comforting, the familiar a safe haven. The security system was armed. Her handgun was nearby in the nightstand. She was safe, at least for now. And it was possible that she wasn’t in any real danger, that whoever had written the two threatening letters would not follow through and actually try to kill her.

She had halfway expected to hear from Mike. Perhaps Maleah hadn’t contacted him; perhaps she was waiting until morning. But Lorie knew that eventually, Mike would confront her. He wasn’t likely to take the situation seriously. He’d think she concocted the whole thing in order to get his attention.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

It had taken her nearly four years—ever since Molly Birkett had died and Lorie had hoped Mike would turn to her for comfort—to accept that Mike truly hated her and would never forgive her.

Lorie gently ran her fingertips over the open book in her lap—the Dunmore High yearbook from Mike’s senior year. She had been a sophomore, only sixteen, and madly in love with Mike. Their first date had been for his senior prom.

She slammed the yearbook closed and dropped it to the floor beside the cream and gold damask chaise longue.

An odd idea came to mind. The corners of her mouth lifted into a sarcastic smile. The only person she could think of who might want to kill her was Mike. Of course, not literally kill her. But he would like nothing better than to make her disappear, to erase her and pretend she’d never existed.

As she considered possible suspects from her life, past and present, she couldn’t think of anyone who had ever truly hated her except Mike.

Her parents disapproved of her and were disappointed in her. Her father still wouldn’t speak to her and although her mother would talk to her briefly over the phone, she refused to see her.

When she had lived in California and had been trying to break into show business, she had made a few friends and possibly a few enemies. But no one who would want to kill her, certainly not after all these years.

What about Dean?

She hadn’t thought about Dean Wilson in ages. The last time she saw him was the day she’d caught a bus home to Alabama. He had followed her to the terminal and pleaded with her not to leave him. He’d been high as a kite. She supposed that, in a way, she had loved Dean. He’d been good-looking and exciting and charming. But in the end, he had been her undoing. And for that, she could thank him. After all, if he hadn’t gotten her a small part in one of his movies, it might have taken her longer to realize how close she had come to hitting rock bottom. That final degradation had forced her to admit the truth to herself. She had failed miserably. She might have been pretty, had a small amount of talent and a great deal of ambition, but after nearly six years of trying to get a big break, she had gone from starry-eyed beauty pageant winner to a bit player in a porno movie.

Was it possible that Dean had sent the letters? The last thing he’d said to her had been a threat.

“Go ahead and leave me, bitch. But one of these days when you least expect it, I’ll show up and make you sorry you were ever born.”

At the time, she hadn’t paid much attention to his drug-induced ravings. But … What if …

Damn it, Lorie, why would Dean send you death threats now?