Dead By Midnight (15 page)

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he said. “I keep hurting you even though I don’t mean to…not anymore. I—I guess if I’m completely honest, I have to admit that I’m confused, too. I’ve hated you for such a long time. Now…”

“Now?”

“Now I don’t know for sure, except I know I want to keep you safe. I want to protect you from the person who’s threatened to kill you, from guys like Ryan Bonner, from the censor of every narrow-minded prude in Dunmore.”

She sat there staring at him, her eyes wide with wonder, her mouth slightly parted. “You have a hero complex, you know that, don’t you?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I do. I used to be your hero, didn’t I?”

When he squeezed her shoulder, she scooted closer and reached up to lay her hand over his.

“Once upon a time…” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. “You were everything to me, my hero, my lover…my life.”

“My mother told me that the reason I hated you so much was because a part of me still loved you,” Mike admitted.

Lorie remained completely silent.

“I think Molly agreed with Mom.”

“Oh, Mike.”

“Molly knew I loved her, that I’d never betray her. We had a good life together. She gave me two fantastic kids. If she were still alive…I wish you could have known her. You two would have liked each other. It’s my fault that you never got the chance to…” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Lorie, sorry for so much.”

She brought his hand to her lips, turned it palm side up, and kissed the center of his open hand. Her kiss burned like fire. He closed his eyes for a second and prayed for strength.

Easing his hand from her gentle grasp, he said, “No more mixed signals, no more confusion.”

She looked at him with hope in her eyes. His next words erased that hope.

“A part of me does still care,” he admitted. “And I’d be lying if I said that as a normal, red-blooded man, I didn’t want you. But…we can’t…I can’t…I have to think about Hannah and M.J. and what’s best for them. They have to come first.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“My sordid past makes me unsuitable stepmother material.”

“God, Lorie, I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

She pulled away from him, opened the door, and jumped out of the truck. He sat there and watched her hurry up the sidewalk and back into her house.

“Damn, damn!” He beat his clenched fists against the steering wheel.

After the unsettling night before, Lorie had decided not to open the shop until eleven, so she was still at home when the phone rang at ten fifteen that morning. She looked down at the portable phone on the kitchen counter and checked the caller ID. She didn’t recognize the caller’s name. Anthony Johnson.

Shelley glanced at her and then at the phone.

“Let the answering machine get it,” Lorie said.

After the fourth ring, the answering machine clicked on, with Lorie’s voice reciting her number and asking the caller to leave a message.

“Lorie, if you’re there, please pick up,” a female voice said. “It’s Shontee, Shontee Thomas.”

Lorie grabbed the phone off the base. “Shontee?”

“Thank the Good Lord you’re there. I can’t tell you how much I need to talk to you. I’m about half out of my mind and know you must be, too. Somebody from the Powell Agency called me this morning, asking me if I’d gotten any threatening letters, telling me that somebody sent Dean, Hilary, and Charlie letters and then killed them.”

Lorie remembered Shontee as a bubbly, fun-loving girl with huge brown eyes and an infectious laugh. They hadn’t known each other very long—they met during the filming of the one movie they’d made together.

“Then you’ve received the letters, too?” Lorie asked.

“Yeah, four of them,” Shontee replied. “My fiancé hid them and didn’t show them to me until yesterday. Good thing he did or when the Powell Agency called this morning, I wouldn’t have known what they were talking about. They said that they’re contacting everyone who was involved with
Midnight Masquerade
.”

“Did whoever you spoke to tell you that I’ve hired the Powell Agency and so have Dean’s brother and Hilary’s husband? We’ve hired them to do an independent investigation to find out who sent the letters and killed Dean, Hilary, and Charlie.”

“That’s one of the reasons I’m calling—Tony, my fiancé, wants us to be part of this deal. He says we need to be in the loop on all the info.”

“I agree with your Tony. The more we all know, the better off we are. It’s too late to save Dean and Hilary and Charlie, but the rest of us can band together and help one another. The Powell Agency should be working for all of us.”

“Do you have a bodyguard?” Shontee asked.

“Yes, I have someone from the agency with me twenty-four/seven. I’m sure they can provide a bodyguard for you.”

“Tony’s already taken care of that. He keeps several bodyguards on his payroll. He’s a nightclub owner, and rich men like him need protection. Oh, Lorie, I wish you could meet my Tony. He’s a great guy and I’m crazy about him.”

“It sounds like you’ve really turned your life around. I’m happy that you found someone special. You deserve to be happy.”

“So do you. Whatever happened with that old boyfriend? Did you two get back together? I figured you were married by now and had a couple of kids.”

“It didn’t happen,” Lorie said. “I’m still single.”

“What about the guy?”

“He married someone else.”

“Ah, that’s too bad.”

“Shontee, be careful, will you? The letter writer has killed three people already. The FBI will probably become involved. They’re looking at this guy as a serial killer.”

“I will, and you take care, too, you hear me? And when this is all over and they’ve put him behind bars, you’ll get an invite to my wedding. We’re based in Atlanta, so we’re not that far from you there in Alabama, a five-hour drive at most.”

“I’ll be there,” Lorie said. “Nothing will keep me away.”

After her conversation with Shontee ended, she turned to Shelley. “Have you heard anything from Maleah and Derek? Maleah promised to keep me updated, but I haven’t heard from her yet.”

“I haven’t heard from her personally. But then they wouldn’t call me directly with any information they uncover. They would contact the agency and probably speak to Mr. or Mrs. Powell.”

“Did you know that the agency is getting in touch with everyone connected to
Midnight Masquerade
? That was Shontee Thomas. She got a call this morning.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” Shelley said. “Yes, I knew Powell’s intended to try to contact everyone involved with the movie. I believe they’re starting with the actors, since so far the ones killed were actors.”

“So they think all the actors may have received letters and are in danger?”

“That’s what we need to know.”

“Why would the killer warn us? It doesn’t make sense.”

“The killer warning his victims in advance shows a great deal of either stupidity or monumental ego or possibly both.”

Suddenly a thought occurred to Lorie, a reason why the killer might forewarn them. “He wants to frighten us, doesn’t he?”

“Most definitely. He probably derives a great deal of satisfaction from knowing everyone will now take his threats seriously.”

“He’s killed one person each month this year, in January, February, and March. It’s April now, so that means he’ll kill again, doesn’t it?”

“Unless he’s found and stopped, yes, he’ll kill again.”

Maleah and Derek crossed the border into Mexico a little after noon that Wednesday. They had flown into Laredo, grabbed a quick bite of lunch, and rented a Jeep. An hour later, they entered the town of San Pedro, little more than a large village rich in colonial character. The town square consisted of a fountain and a statue of what appeared to be a Catholic priest wearing a hooded robe. A block off the main street that ran through town east to west, they saw men hawking hats and trinkets and boys offering to shine shoes.

“In a town this size, finding the hotel where Kyle Richey works shouldn’t be a problem,” Maleah said as she maneuvered their rental onto a back street.

“You’re right. That’s it up ahead. The yellow building on the right.”

A large, faded sign hanging over the entrance read
HOTEL GARCIA
. The colonial era structure, painted a cheerful sunshine yellow, possessed a welcoming façade. A couple of young boys, probably no older than twelve, rushed toward the Jeep the moment Maleah parked in front of the hotel. Both began jabbering quickly, too quickly for Maleah to understand much of what they said. Her Spanish was so-so at best, and local dialects left her baffled.

Derek got out of the Jeep, pulled two five-dollar bills from his pocket, and handed one to each of the boys. Maleah understood that he had paid them to keep an eye on the Jeep and figured that had been his way of getting the pesky kids to leave them alone.

The interior of Hotel Garcia surprised her. The lobby floors were a colorful terra-cotta tile and the wooden staircase boasted an elaborately carved balustrade. The very pregnant clerk behind the check-in desk rose from the chair where she was sitting and flipping through a magazine. She looked up and offered them a wide, welcoming smile.

“Welcome to Hotel Garcia,” the woman said in heavily accented English.

“We’re looking for a man who works here,” Maleah said. “Kyle Richey.”

“Is he here now?” Derek asked.

“
Sí, sí.
Kyle is here.” She turned and looked at the closed door directly behind her. “In his office.”

Maleah and Derek exchanged glances. “Please tell Mr. Richey that we would like to speak to him.”

She nodded.
“Sí.”
She knocked on the door, called out “Kyle,” and opened the door.

A tall, slender man with shoulder-length brown hair secured in a ponytail rose from behind an old wooden desk and spoke to the woman in Spanish. They conversed briefly and the man, whom Maleah recognized from old photos, came out into the lobby.

“I’m Kyle Richey,” he said. “I’m the manager here at Hotel Garcia. How may I help you?”

“Mr. Richey, I’m Maleah Perdue and this”—she nodded to Derek—“is my associate, Derek Lawrence. We work for the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency based in Knoxville, Tennessee.”

Richey grunted. “Did one of my ex-wives hire you to track me down?”

“No, sir,” Maleah replied. “We’re here concerning the recent murders of three actors you worked with when you were a cameraman for Starlight Productions.”

Richey frowned. “Who was murdered? Dare I hope it was that bastard Sonny Deguzman?”

“Mr. Deguzman was not one of the victims,” Derek said, “but considering your past history, I can see why you might want the man dead.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t shed a tear if someone had bumped him off.”

“The victims were Dean Wilson, Hilary Finch, and Charles Wong.” Maleah studied him closely, examining his response.

“Damn! Wilson was okay, I guess, even if he was every bit as much a prima donna as Hilary. Those two were a match made in hell.” He chuckled. “And everybody liked Charlie. What the hell happened to them?”

“I believe I told you that they were murdered,” Maleah said.

“Who killed them?”

“We don’t know. We were hoping you might be able to help us with our investigation.”

“Hey now, you don’t suspect me, do you? The only body I had anything against was Sonny. And he isn’t dead, is he?”

“What about your ex-wife, Charlene Strickland? Considering the fact that you nearly killed her when you discovered she was having an affair with Sonny and wound up spending several years in prison for assault, I would imagine you still harbor some ill will toward her.”

Richey’s face flushed. He glanced at the hotel clerk. She came to him and slipped her arm around his waist.

“Luisa knows about my past.” Richey placed his hand over the woman’s protruding belly. “I’ve made a new life for myself since my release from prison four years ago. Luisa and I got married and we’re expecting our first child in about three weeks. I’ve put the past in the past. I have no reason to want to harm anybody connected to my days as a cameraman with Starlight Productions.”

“I’d like to believe you,” Maleah said. “Can you account for your whereabouts since the first of the year? Have you made any trips across the border, say to Tennessee or Arizona?”

Luisa began speaking rapidly in Spanish. Richey hugged her to him and whispered softly. She stopped talking immediately and smiled at him.

“I haven’t left Mexico in well over a year. Hell, I haven’t left San Pedro since before Christmas when I took Luisa to Mexico City to visit her folks.”

“Let’s say that we believe you.” Derek looked directly at Richey. “We can eliminate you as a suspect, but not necessarily as a potential victim. Have you received any threatening letters recently?”

“Threatening letters?” Richey looked genuinely puzzled by the question.

“Our three victims all received letters telling them that they were going to die,” Maleah said. “As have other actors who were in
Midnight Masquerade
.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. No, I haven’t gotten any threatening letters. Maybe whoever is doing the killing is just after the actors.”

“Possibly,” Derek said. “Any chance you’d know someone from your past who would have a reason to want to kill the actors from that particular movie?”

Richey shook his head. “Not really. Unless, of course, Travis Dillard actually followed through with some threats that I heard he made.”

“Explain,” Maleah said.

Richey shrugged. “It was years ago. But word was that when Hilary quit the business, Dillard threatened her. She was his biggest star and everybody knew he was hung up on her. He would have married her in a heartbeat, if she’d have had him. Could be he finally made good with his threat and he killed the other two to make it look like Hilary was just one of several victims.”

“Interesting theory,” Derek said. “You know Dillard’s dying, don’t you? Stage four pancreatic cancer.”

“Wish I could say I was sorry, but what goes around comes around. Dillard treated me okay, I guess, but the man was a real SOB.”

Maleah couldn’t agree with Richey more. Dillard was a real SOB. But he had no history of violence, where on the other hand, Kyle Richey did. He had almost killed his ex-wife, Charlene Strickland, another
Midnight Masquerade
alumna. Was it possible that his theory of killing several people to cover up the motive for a single murder was his idea and that Charlene was his real target?

Mike could have sent one of his deputies to inform Lorie that Hicks Wainwright had recommended to his superiors that an FBI task force be formed ASAP. And it was possible that the Powell Agency already knew and had informed Shelley Gilbert.

As he stood on the sidewalk outside of Treasures of the Past, he tried to rationalize his reasons for being here. He was just doing his duty as the county sheriff. Jack and Cathy would appreciate him taking a personal interest in Lorie’s case.

Yeah, sure, whatever you have to tell yourself.

Just as he reached to open the door, a customer came out of the shop, someone he recognized, but he couldn’t recall her name. The woman paused, smiled at him, and said, “Afternoon, Sheriff.”

“Afternoon,” he replied, still unable to remember exactly who the middle-aged woman was.

Glancing inside, he noticed Shelley busily running a feather duster over a section of china and glassware that occupied several antique cabinets arranged in the left back corner on a raised platform. From that vantage point, she could see just about every square foot of the shop, including the checkout counter. He suspected that whoever had leaked the info about Lorie being under twenty-four/seven protection hadn’t realized the trouble they had caused. He figured that at least half of the small crowd milling around inside the shop were curiosity seekers and not customers. Gossip traveled fast in these parts. It was only a matter of time before the entire town knew. And if—make that when—Ryan Bonner convinced his boss at the
Huntsville Times
to run the exposé on Lorie that he had planned, everyone in north Alabama would follow the story of the former
Playboy
centerfold whose life was being threatened by someone from her sordid past.

Mike walked over to the checkout counter where Lorie was busy wrapping a silver tea service in bubble wrap.

“Busy afternoon,” he said.

“You should have been here earlier,” she told him. “When Shelley and I arrived at eleven, we had a block-long line waiting to get in.”