In the background three young women—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—held hands and danced in a circle, the long, colorful ribbons on their masks floating around their shoulders and caressing their naked breasts.
Puff Raven, the tall, elegant brunette.
Cherry Sweets, the exotically beautiful redhead.
And Candy Ruff, the sex-kitten blonde.
Their stage names were ridiculous, of course, but the suggestive pseudonyms were simply part of the fantasy. Other movies produced by the one and only Travis Dillard had starred some of these same actors, and in each film the credits had read like a who’s who of stupid suggestive names.
He had lost count of how many times he had watched Midnight Masquerade. Hundreds of times. Maybe thousands of times.
He knew the dialogue—what little there was—by heart. And he could mimic every grunt, groan, moan, and scream of delight.
He saw the women’s faces—and God help him, their naked bodies, too—in his dreams. One particular face in particular. The woman he loved. The woman he hated. The woman who had ruined his life. The woman who had made him the man he was today.
As much as Lorie appreciated being guarded by Maleah and Derek, she resented the fact that some lunatic’s actions had run her out of her own home. Whoever this guy was, she hoped the police caught him before he killed again.
For the life of her, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d ever known who might want to kill her.
She placed her suitcase at the foot of the ebonized Federal-style double bed that dominated this guest room on the second floor of Jack and Cathy’s home. Crisp, black-edged, white Schweitzer linens lent a modern elegance to a room filled with antiques. The Bijou linens were handmade in Italy from pure Egyptian cotton. Lorie and Cathy used this type of luxury linens when decorating the homes of clients who didn’t mind paying a little more for the very best. On occasion, she had personally splurged on less expensive items, things like Chanel perfume and a thirty-fifth birthday present for herself—a little white Brahman shoulder bag she had eyed at Belk department store for weeks. These were the only types of luxuries she could afford on her income. And oddly enough, the girl who had once thought fame and fortune would make her happy was perfectly content being an antique shop owner in a small town and living on a modest budget.
“Hey, there,” Maleah said as she walked up to the open door and stopped. “Sorry I had to send Derek to meet you and show you to your room. I was on the phone with Powell headquarters.” Maleah’s gaze surveyed the exquisitely decorated bedroom. “I hope this room is okay. You can take a look at the other two guest bedrooms and use either of them, if you prefer.”
“This room is fine. As a matter of fact, this is the bedroom that I helped Cathy design and decorate.”
“Is it really?” Maleah laughed. “I suppose I should confess that I told Derek to show you upstairs to one of the rooms. I didn’t specify which one. He chose this room for you.”
“Mr. Lawrence is a former FBI profiler, isn’t he? That probably means he has a certain sixth sense when it comes to people.”
Maleah snorted. “Don’t tell him that. His ego is oversized as it is. The last thing he needs is flattery from a pretty woman.”
Lorie saw Derek Lawrence approaching about the same time Maleah apparently heard him. Groaning, Maleah made a snarling face, letting Lorie know how she felt about Derek.
“Perdue, did you say something about a certain part of me being oversized?” Derek winked at Lorie.
Smiling, Lorie winked back at him just as Maleah turned around and said, “I was referring to your ego.” When he opened his mouth, no doubt with a stinging retort on the tip of his tongue, Maleah warned him, “Do not say another word. I’m in no mood for it. Do you hear me?”
Clicking his heels together in military fashion, he saluted her. “Yes, sir. Uh, I mean ma’am.”
Turning back to Lorie after effectively silencing Derek, at least temporarily, Maleah said, “I had requested a list of everyone associated with the movie you made, Midnight Masquerade, the actors, writers, director, producer, et cetera. The office e-mailed me the list of the credits and I just got off the phone with my boss’s former associate, FBI Special Agent Josh Freidman. I wanted to fill him in on what we think we’re dealing with to see if he thinks the situation warrants FBI involvement. It’s quite possible that you’re not the only other person associated with that movie who has received threatening letters.”
“If I know Freidman and his superiors, they aren’t going to jump in with both feet until they’re sure there’s a serial killer on the loose.” Derek slipped around Maleah’s left side and entered the bedroom so that he stood between Lorie and her.
Maleah shot him a disapproving glare, but other than that, pretty much ignored him. “I thought that after dinner this evening, we might go over the list and see if you recall anything that sends up a red flag. A disgruntled coworker. Any affairs gone wrong. Disputes, arguments, fights. Someone who for any reason might still hold a grudge.”
“All right,” Lorie said. “I can’t think of anything right offhand, but once we start talking more about the film, I might remember something. To be honest, I’ve spent the past ten years doing my level best to forget I ever did something so monumentally stupid.”
“We all make mistakes,” Derek said. “Especially when we’re very young and eager to make our mark on the world.”
Lorie heaved a deep, regretful sigh. “Some mark on the world, huh? Parading around buck naked and having sex on film.”
Silence. No one said another word for at least a full minute.
“Sandwiches for supper in about fifteen minutes,” Maleah said. “Why don’t you settle in and come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”
“All right.” Lorie plastered a phony half smile on her face. “If you’d like, I can help you with dinner, and not just tonight. I’m actually a fairly decent cook.”
“Thank goodness.” Derek chuckled. “I was afraid that during my stay here, I’d wind up eating cereal and sandwiches seven days a week.”
“Oh, cry me a river.” Maleah rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong with your doing the cooking or your picking up take-out? It’s bad enough that I have to put up with your staying here. I certainly don’t intend to go out of my way to pamper your spoiled ass.”
“I’ll have you know that my ass is not spoiled.”
Maleah grabbed his arm by the shirtsleeve and dragged him out of Lorie’s room. As they walked down the hall toward the staircase, Lorie could hear them continuing their verbal sparring match. She couldn’t help wondering what the problem was between those two.
Putting everything else from her mind, including her curiosity about Maleah and Derek, as well as her past misdemeanors and her present predicament, Lorie opened her suitcase. She had brought only two changes of clothes and underwear and the bare necessities, including a condensed version of her usual toiletry items. When she needed more clothes, she’d simply go home and pick them up. The best-case scenario would be the police catching the killer before he struck again; then she’d be able to go home before Cathy and Jack returned from their honeymoon. The worst-case scenario—the killer would come after her before he was apprehended.
Thank God she had gone to Maleah with the second letter instead of tossing it in the trash as she had the first one. And thank God Maleah had taken her seriously and had believed her immediately.
Mike believes you now.
She placed her underwear in an empty top drawer of the mahogany highboy, positioned as if it were a three-sided piece, in the corner near the adjoining bathroom.
Mike had been civil to her this evening. Actually, he’d been more than civil. He had been almost kind to her. She had seen a fleeting glimpse of the old Mike, the man who had once loved her.
She removed two outfits encased in clear plastic garment bags from her suitcase and hung them in the Habersham armoire. Her fingertips caressed the armoire’s distressed wood, a
part of the item’s fine craftsmanship, and lingered over the delicate artwork that decorated the surface.
Mike was simply doing his job. She shouldn’t read more into him apologizing to her for not believing her life was in danger than what it was—a simple apology. Nothing more. Nothing less.
She couldn’t allow herself to continue hoping for the impossible. She doubted that Mike would ever be willing to be friends again, let alone lovers.
The full-face joker mask—constructed of papier-mâché, glue, floated whitening and acrylic colors—lay on the motel room bed staring up at him, mocking him, reminding him of her degradation. Charlie Hung had worn this mask in every scene in which he had ravaged the female actors. It was only fitting that it would be his death mask.
He carefully slipped the mask into the black plastic bag and then turned his attention to the Beretta, an Italian import, 9mm with a ten-shot magazine. When he had purchased the pistol, he had made sure it could never be traced back to him. For the right price, a guy could buy just about anything and remain anonymous.
Money talked.
Hell, money screamed.
He placed the gun in the bottom of the small tote, then wrapped the mask in tissue paper and laid it over the pistol before zipping up the 14" x 16" black vinyl bag. After checking the time on the digital bedside clock—6:08 P.M.—he carried the tote to the closet and set it on the floor.
He went back to the bed, pulled two pillows from beneath the comforter, and stacked one on top of the other. Then he lay down, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Step by step, he went over his plan. Parking the rental car a couple of blocks away and walking to Charles Wong’s home. Ringing the doorbell. Introducing himself. The disguise he’d be wearing would prevent anyone who might see him entering or leaving the Wong house from giving the police an accurate ID. Tonight, he would wear a black wig and mustache, a gold earring and a wash-off neck tattoo, along with fake leather pants and jacket. A costume that could be easily disposed of in the motel’s Dumpster.
In less than six hours, he would kill Charlie Hung and leave Mrs. Charles Wong a grieving widow.
Payback could be deadly!
Lorie carried her glass of wine from the kitchen into the adjoining family room, which boasted a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and two sets of French doors that led outside onto the old-fashioned screened porch. She loved everything that Cathy had done when she decorated this house, although she would have preferred dark wood in the kitchen. Cathy preferred white cabinets and appliances, and had accented the clean, bright white with touches of a dark-stained wood in the flooring, the island top, and an overlay on the massive range hood. Both the kitchen and family room combined elements of the old with the new, retaining the integrity of the Victorian with the convenience of the modern.
While Lorie chose one of the two gold chenille armchairs separated by a walnut Sheraton table, Derek sat across from her on the moss green, camelback sofa. He smiled at her before taking another sip of his wine. During dinner, she had found herself liking Derek Lawrence more and more and was puzzled as to why Maleah seemed to dislike him so intensely. He had been charming and funny, and had put her at ease. Although she didn’t really know him, she sensed that he was the type of man who didn’t judge others harshly or by standards few people could live up to. Not the way Mike did.
Damn it, she had to stop comparing every man she met to Michael Birkett.
“So, how long have your worked for Powell’s?” Lorie asked.
“Hmm…almost five years. I was sort of at loose ends when I left the Bureau, and as luck would have it, Griff called and offered me a consulting job and put me on a retainer I could hardly refuse.”
Maleah snorted as she joined them. They glanced up at her. She shrugged. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
“Something tells me that Perdue doesn’t approve of independently wealthy men actually working for a living,” Derek said.
“Oh, are you independently wealthy, Mr. Lawrence?” Maleah asked mockingly. “Then the rumors about the men in your family having squandered most of their fortunes on wine, women, and song must have been vastly exaggerated.”
A quick flash of annoyance passed over Derek’s handsome face before he grinned and then laughed. “That was hitting below the belt. Keep that up and Lorie will think you don’t like me.”
“I don’t like you,” Maleah told him and returned his insincere smile.
Lorie cleared her throat. “I thought that after dinner, we were going to discuss the cast members of Midnight Masquerade.”
“We were,” Maleah said. “We are. I’ve got the file folder with the computer printouts on the kitchen counter.” She set her glass on a decorative coaster on the table between the armchairs and hurried back into the kitchen.
“Let me clear up the matter of my economic status, not that it’s anyone’s business,” Derek said, his voice loud enough for Maleah to hear him in the adjoining room. “Although there’s a great deal of truth to the rumors about the men in my family, they didn’t actually squander the entire fortune. And my very wise and very frugal paternal grandmother set up sizable trust funds for each of her three grandchildren.”
Before Lorie could think of a proper response, Maleah sailed back into the room, the file folder in her hand. She completely ignored both Derek and his confirmation of being a trust-fund baby.
“Here we are.” Maleah plopped down on the huge mushroom-shaped ottoman draped in a green and gold silk material. She opened the folder and handed several printouts to Lorie. “This is a list of actors who starred in the movie, along with the names of the producer, writers, director, and so on.”
Lorie clutched the papers in her hand and focused on the top sheet, reading over the names slowly, doing her best to remember each person and anything of importance she could recall about them.
“Just take your time,” Maleah said. “If it’ll help, I’ll go over each name with you.”
In her peripheral vision, Lorie noticed that Derek had relaxed as he sipped on the wine and had closed his eyes. Was he napping? Or just thinking?
“Let’s start with Hilary Finch and Dean Wilson,” Maleah suggested. “What do you remember about them?”
“Not much about Hilary. I didn’t really know her. She wasn’t overly friendly with her female costars. Not hateful to us or condescending. She mostly ignored us. What I do remember is that she looked like a Barbie doll, all plastic perfection. And at the time, rumor had it that she and Travis Dillard were having a hot affair.”
“And Travis Dillard was the producer, right?”
“Uh-huh. The producer of Midnight Masquerade and quite a few other porno movies. And he was also an agent for numerous wannabe stars, most of whom wound up in his movies. Me included.”
“Dillard was your agent?”
“That’s right.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Well enough not to like him or trust him,” Lorie said. “But I learned that lesson the hard way.”
“I hate to ask this, but did you ever have a sexual relationship with Dillard?”
“No, but not for his lack of trying. He had a reputation for having laid every single one of his female clients. I figure that sooner or later, he would’ve cut me loose if I hadn’t put out, but at the time, I was living with his major star—Dean Wilson—and he didn’t want to do anything to antagonize Dean.”
“You and Dean Wilson lived together?”
“Yes. For nearly a year. I thought I loved him and I believed he loved me. It was one of the most miserable years of my life. I finally realized that my big dreams of fame and fortune would never come true. I was living in a seedy apartment with a guy who was addicted to drugs and alcohol and who had introduced me to a life I hated. Dean’s the one who talked me into doing a bit part in Midnight Masquerade.”
“When was the last time you saw Dean Wilson?” Derek’s question momentarily startled her.
Lorie’s gaze connected with Derek’s a
nd she saw only kindness and compassion in his dark brown eyes. “Nine years ago when I left LA to come back home to Dunmore. He followed me to the bus station and tried to stop me from leaving. He actually threatened me.”
“But he didn’t follow through with his threats, did he?” Derek asked.
“No, he didn’t.”
“And you never saw him again?” Maleah asked. “Or heard from him? No phone calls? Letters? E-mails?”
“No. We had no communication whatsoever. Not since the day I left him and that god-awful life behind me.”
“Have you seen or heard from anyone connected to the movie since your return to Dunmore?” Derek set his empty glass on the sharp-edged 1940s-era coffee table, the top shining with a high-gloss black lacquer finish.
“No,” Lorie replied. “But other than Dean, I really didn’t know anyone else. We were just acquaintances, not friends.”
“Did you have a problem with anyone, other than Travis Dillard?” Derek inquired.
“By problem, do you mean did any of the other men hit on me?”
“That, or did you know if any of the women didn’t especially like you or didn’t like one another?”
“Grant Leroy, the director, propositioned me, but didn’t seem offended when I turned him down. I think he and Terri Owens, aka Candy Ruff, wound up having a short-lived affair. And several of the other guys made passes at me, but that’s as far as it went.
“Like I said, Hilary Finch pretty much ignored all her female costars. The rest of us got along okay. Outside of work, I seldom saw any of them.”
“Why don’t you keep the list,” Maleah said. “Think about what went on during the filming of that particular movie and if anything, even something you think is insignificant, comes to mind, let me know.”
“Let us know,” Derek added.
Maleah shot him an are-you-still-here? glare and then turned back to Lorie. “You look beat. Why don’t you go on up to bed?”
Beverly Barton Bundle Page 9
