Dead by Midnight

Book 5: Griffin Powell

by Beverly Barton

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Sagas; Thrillers

Synopsis

In murder...

The last sounds Dean Wilson hears are a clock striking twelve and a killer’s taunting words. And his death is just the first. One by one, victims are stalked and shot at close range. Only the killer knows their sins, and who will be the next to die at midnight?

And in life...

In the ten years since her Hollywood career imploded, Lorie Hammonds has built a good life in her Alabama hometown. When the first death threat arrives, she assumes it’s a joke. Then she gets a second. Sheriff Mike Birkett, her high school sweetheart, has avoided Lorie since she returned to Dunmore, but when investigators uncover her connection to a string of recent murders, he’s drawn into a case that’s terrifyingly personal.

Timing is everything.

With every murder, the killer edges closer. Soon Lorie’s will be the last name left on his list. Her only hope is to unearth a deadly secret—before the clock runs out for good.

A Blackstone Audio production.

Release date: February 1, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 448

Sample

There it was again, that odd sound. It must be the wind. What else could it be? Possibly a wild animal, a raccoon or possum or even a stray dog. Bears are in hibernation this time of year.

Get hold of yourself. You’re imagining things. Nobody’s out there. Nobody is going to show up here in the middle of the woods in the dead of winter just to frighten you.

Dean’s bone-thin hands trembled as he pulled back the gingham curtain from the dirty window and peered out into the darkness. The quarter-moon winked mockingly at him through a thin veil of clouds, as if it knew something he didn’t. The cold wind whispered menacingly. Was it issuing him a warning?

Releasing the curtain, he rubbed his hands together, as much to warm them as to control the quivering. He sure as hell could use a drink about now. Or something stronger, quicker. But he had learned to settle for strong coffee. A caffeine fix was better than no fix at all. He had been clean and sober for three years and he had no intention of allowing a few stupid letters to destroy his hard-won freedom from drugs and alcohol.

Forget the damn letters. They’re just somebody’s idea of a sick joke.

There were things he should be doing—stoking the fire he’d built in the fireplace, checking supplies, preparing the coffeemaker for morning coffee, bringing in more firewood, putting fresh linens on the twin beds. Dean wanted everything to be in order before his brother got here. Jared, who was driving in from Knoxville where he taught biology at the University of Tennessee, would arrive sometime in the morning, and if all went as planned, they’d spend the weekend here. This was the first time they’d been together at their family’s cabin in the Smoky Mountains since they were teenagers.

God, that had been a lifetime ago. Jared was forty-eight now, widowed, the father to two adult sons. His brother was successful in a way he would never be. Jared lived a normal life, always had and always would. Dean was a failure. Always had been and probably always would be. He’d been married and divorced four times. But he’d done one thing right—to his knowledge he had never fathered a child.

As he lifted the poker from where it was propped against the rock wall surrounding the fireplace, he glanced at the old mantel clock that had belonged to his grandparents. Eleven forty-seven. He should be sleepy, but he wasn’t. He had flown in from LA earlier today and had rented a car at the airport.

Jared had sent him the airline ticket. His brother didn’t trust him enough to send him the money. In the past, he would have used the money to buy drugs. He couldn’t blame Jared. Dean had done nothing to earn anybody’s trust. He might be clean and sober, but even he knew that it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. If something happened, something he couldn’t handle, he just might take the easy way out. He always had in the past.

Was receiving death threats something he couldn’t handle?

Dean stoked the fire and replaced the poker, then headed toward the kitchen to prepare the coffeemaker. Halfway across the cabin’s great room, he heard that pesky noise again. It sounded like footsteps crunching over dried leaves. He stopped dead still and listened.

Silence.

With his heart racing, his palms perspiration-damp and a shiver of uncertainty rippling along his nerve endings, he wondered if he should get his granddad’s shotgun out of the closet. His dad had always kept a box of shells on the overhead shelf in the closet, well out of reach, when he and Jared had been kids. But what were the odds that he’d actually find an old box of shells?

He should have gone to the police after he received that first letter, but he’d waited, telling himself that each letter would be the last one. Over the past few months, he had received a total of four succinct typed notes. Each one had begun the same way.

Midnight is coming.

What the hell did that mean? Midnight came every twenty-four hours, didn’t it?

Dean went into the larger of the two bedrooms, the room his parents had shared on their visits here, turned on the overhead light, and opened the closet door. The closet was empty except for a few wire clothes hangers; and there in the very far left corner was his granddad’s shotgun. He reached out and grabbed it. Just holding the weapon made him feel safe.

Idiot. The thing’s not loaded.

To make sure, he snapped it open and checked. Empty. No shells. He raked his hand across the narrow shelf at the top of the closet and found nothing except dust. Had he really expected to find a box of shells?

Dean sighed. But he took the shotgun with him when he returned to the great room and laid it on the kitchen table. He rinsed out the coffeepot, filled it with fresh water, and emptied the water into the reservoir. After measuring the ground coffee into the filter, he set the timer for seven o’clock.

He still needed to bring in more firewood and put clean sheets on the beds. When he’d set his suitcase down on the floor in the second bedroom, the one he and Jared had always shared, he had noticed that the mattresses were bare. He had found the pillows and blankets in the hall linen closet, along with a stack of bed linens. He dreaded the thought of going outside, of getting chilled to the bone and facing his own fears. What if it wasn’t an animal walking around out there?

Wait until morning to bring in the firewood.

But was there enough wood to keep the fire going all night?

“There are a couple of kerosene heaters in the shed out back,” Jared had told him. “Just don’t use them at night. It’s safer to keep a fire going in the fireplace.”

“Why haven’t you put in some other kind of heat?” Dean had asked him.

“Because we hardly ever use the place in the winter. Besides, the boys and I enjoy roughing it, just like you and I did with Dad.”

Dad.

Dean didn’t think about his father all that often. Remembering how completely he had disappointed his father wasn’t a pleasant memory. His parents had loved him, had given him every advantage, and he had screwed up time and time again.


Dean put on his heavy winter coat—the one he had bought for a little of nothing at the Salvation Army thrift store. It was foolish of him to be afraid of the dark, scared to face a raccoon or a possum, or to think that whoever had written those crazy letters had actually followed him from California to Tennessee and was waiting outside the cabin to kill him.

Dean grunted.

Don’t be such a wuss.

He flipped on the porch light and grasped the doorknob. The moment he opened the cabin door, the frigid wind hit him in the face and sent a shiver through his body. He closed the door behind him and headed toward the firewood stacked neatly on the north side of the front porch. Working quickly, he filled his arms to overflowing.

Dean turned and headed for the front door, then realized he’d have to shuffle his load in order to open the door. But before he could accomplish the task, he heard what sounded a lot like footsteps. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heartbeat accelerated. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Get a grip, man!

Just as he managed to free one hand and grab hold of the doorknob, he heard the sound again. Closer. As if someone was walking in the leaves that covered the rock walkway from the gravel drive to the porch.

Dean took a deep breath, garnered his courage, and turned all the way around to confront the intruder. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. A possum scurried across the dead leaves not more than a foot from the porch steps.

“Son of a bitch,” he said aloud as relief flooded his senses.

Still chuckling to himself, he turned back around, opened the front door, and carried the firewood into the cabin, leaving the front door open behind him. He dumped the firewood into the wood box on the hearth and stood up straight. Feeling the cold air sweeping into the house through the open door, he faced forward, intending to walk across the room and close the door. Instead, he froze to the spot. There, standing just inside the doorway, was someone—male or female, he couldn’t tell—wearing a heavy winter coat, boots, gloves, and an oddly familiar mask.

“What the hell! Who are you?”

Dean tried to rationalize what he saw, but as fast as his mind was working, it didn’t work fast enough to make sense of the bizarre sight. Before he could say or do anything else, the person in the mask pulled something from his—or her—coat pocket and aimed it at Dean.

A gun?

The person fired.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Dean reeled as the first bullet pierced his shoulder, and then dropped to his knees when the second bullet ripped into his leg. When the third bullet entered his chest, he heard two things simultaneously—the clock on the mantel striking the hour and the sound of his killer’s voice.

“Dead by midnight,” the masked murderer said.

Those were the last words Dean Wilson ever heard.

Lorie Hammonds slept until nearly eleven and woke with a mild hangover from having drunk too much champagne at Cathy and Jack’s wedding. The moment her feet hit the wooden floor, she moaned. It was too damn cold for mid-March. As she reached down to the footboard of her bed to retrieve her robe, she danced her toes over the floor searching for her house shoes. Her big toe encountered one of the satin slippers. She slid her foot inside the soft warmth and glanced down to see if she could locate its mate. Only after getting out of bed and bending over to look under the bed did she find her other shoe. As she rounded the end of the bed, her hip accidentally made contact with the edge of the antique, gold metal storage bench.

Cursing softly under her breath, she realized this was probably not going to be a good day. After peeing, washing her hands, and splashing cool water on her face, she avoided glancing in the mirror and went straight down the hall to the kitchen. She checked the coffeemaker to see if she had remembered to prepare it last night. She hadn’t. Great. That meant she’d have to wait for her morning pick-me-up. Working hurriedly, she ground the coffee beans, ran tap water through the faucet filter, and got everything ready.

While the coffee brewed, she tried to focus on her usual Sunday-morning routine. Not being a churchgoer, she saved the first day of the week for leisure. Reading the morning newspaper from cover to cover, giving herself a manicure and a pedicure, spending the afternoon lounging in her easy chair with a good book, going to the movies, having dinner out with a friend.

But her best friend—her only true friend in Dunmore—was off on her honeymoon and would be gone two weeks. She didn’t begrudge Cathy her happiness, her fourteen glorious days of uninterrupted lovemaking with her new husband. But Cathy’s romantic dreams finally coming true only reminded Lorie of the impossibility of that ever happening for her.

Padding through the house to the front door of her 1920s clapboard bungalow located just outside the city limits of downtown Dunmore, Lorie sighed. Romantic dreams didn’t come true for women like her. She’d had her one chance at happily ever after and she’d blown it big-time. Just because Cathy had gotten a second chance didn’t mean she would.

She opened the front door, scanned the porch, sidewalk, and front yard, and located the Sunday paper hanging precariously between two small azalea bushes. Damn! It was raining like crazy, had probably set in for the day, and the cold March breeze felt more like a February wind. She shivered as she rushed down the steps, grasped the cellophane-wrapped paper, and ran back into the house.

She could smell the delicious coffee brewing. By the time she peeled off her wet housecoat and gown and put on something warm and dry, the coffee would be ready. After taking a couple of tentative steps down the hall, she stopped, said damn, and then turned and went back to the front door. She had forgotten to get Saturday’s mail out of the box at the end of her driveway. She might as well do that now while she was already soaked.

After retrieving the mail and getting drenched to the skin, Lorie tossed the small stack of envelopes and the Sunday newspaper down on the half-moon table in her tiny foyer before she headed for the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, drinking her first cup of morning coffee, dressed in lightweight fleece lounge pants and a matching pullover, Lorie slipped the newspaper out of its protective cellophane sleeve and took the paper and her unopened mail into the living room. She relaxed in her plush easy chair, placed her feet on the matching ottoman, and scanned the morning headlines. The Life section of the paper was what interested her today. A color wedding photo of her best friend, Catherine Cantrell—no, she was Catherine Perdue now—stared up at her from the wedding announcements page. Cathy had never looked more beautiful.

Tears threatened, reaching Lorie’s throat and lodging there. She swallowed hard. Be happy, Cathy. Be happy. You so deserve it.

And maybe that was the reason she would never be truly happy. Lorie Hammonds didn’t deserve to be happy.

She folded back the page and laid the newspaper aside. She would cut out Cathy’s picture and then look through the rest of the paper later. As a general rule, Saturday’s mail was light, even at Treasures of the Past, the antique shop she co-owned with Cathy, but better to go through it now and toss out everything except the bills. She picked up one envelope after another, discarding half a dozen requests from various charities. If she regularly donated to each of these organizations, she would quickly give away her entire paycheck. She laid the one bill—her credit card statement—on the end table. She would write a check tomorrow and mail it off. Sooner or later, she would have to move into the twenty-first century and pay all her bills electronically.

One envelope remained in her lap. She picked it up and looked at it. Her breath caught in her throat.

No, it can’t be. Please, don’t let it be another one.

Don’t jump to conclusions. Just because it looks like the other one doesn’t mean it’s from the same person.

She flipped over the envelope a couple of times, studying both sides carefully. Her name and address had been printed on a white mailing label. No return name or address.

Just like the other letter.

And just like the first one, it had been mailed from Tennessee, but this one was postmarked Memphis instead of Knoxville.

Lorie ripped open one end of the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of white paper. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the letter. For a half second, her vision blurred as she looked down at the message. Her heartbeat accelerated.

Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?

Lorie sat there staring at the letter until the words on the page began to run together into an unfocused blur. Her fingers tightened, crunching the edge of the letter. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm her erratic heartbeat.

This letter was identical to the first one she had received a month ago. The original letter had worried her, but she’d been in the midst of preparing for Cathy’s bridal showers and upcoming wedding. She had decided it was nothing more than a crank letter from some nut who had nothing better to do with his time. After all, why would anyone want to kill her? It wasn’t as if she was rich or famous. And as far as she knew she didn’t have any enemies who would go so far as to threaten to kill her.

But here it was—a second letter. A second death threat. Could she simply ignore this one and toss it in the trash as she had the first one?

One really could have been a silly prank.

But two could mean that someone out there wanted, at the very least, to frighten her.

Or did they actually want to kill her?

 

Mike Birkett poured cereal into three bowls, added milk and blueberries, and set the bowls on the table. His nine-year-old daughter, Hannah, picked up her spoon and dug in while his eleven-year-old son, M.J., curled up his nose as he eyed the berries with disdain.

“Do I have to eat those?” M.J. asked, a slight whine in his voice.

“Yeah,” Mike told him. “At least some of them. Okay? Blueberries are good for you.”

“Who says?”

“I’ll bet it was Ms. Sherman,” Hannah said. “I’ve heard her talking about what she eats—stuff like protein shakes and tofu and soy milk and all kinds of yucky things like that.”

“Figures,” M.J. mumbled under his breath.

Mike knew that neither of his children especially liked Abby Sherman, the woman he’d been dating the past few months. And he really didn’t understand why. Abby had gone out of her way to try to make the kids like her, and she’d been very understanding when they had been rude to her on more than one occasion. What really puzzled him about their attitude was the fact that Abby actually reminded him of his late wife, Molly. It was one of the reasons he’d thought the kids would automatically accept her. Abby had the same cute look that Molly had, with her blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair. She was slender, athletic, and wholesome.

Abby was the sort of person he needed in his life, the type of woman who would make a good wife and mother.

Mike hurriedly wolfed down his cereal and forced himself to eat the blueberries he’d sprinkled on top. When he finished the last bite, he took a sip of his third cup of coffee and found it lukewarm.

“You two hurry up,” he told his children. “Sunday school starts in less than an hour. If we’re late again this Sunday, Grams will give us all a good scolding.”

Since Molly’s death nearly four years ago, his mother had stepped in and helped him. He didn’t know what he would have done without her. His kids lived with him and he usually managed to get them off to school every morning. But his mother picked them up in the afternoons and looked after them until he came home from work. And whenever his duties as the county sheriff called him away at odd hours, all he had to do was phone his mom. She’d been a lifesaver.

After being up late last night, dancing at his best friend’s wedding, he would have liked nothing better than to have slept in this morning and let his mom pick the kids up for Sunday school. But as a single parent, he always tried to set a good example for his son and daughter, going so far as to eat blueberries.

Mike dumped the remainder of his cool coffee into the sink, rinsed out the cup, and left it in the sink along with his bowl and spoon. Glancing out the window, he groaned quietly. He wished the rain had held off for another day. Not only did they have Sunday school and church services this morning, but they were taking Abby out to lunch and then to an afternoon matinee in Decatur.

“I ate all the cereal and some of the blueberries,” M.J. said as he dumped a few drops of leftover milk and three-fourths of the blueberries into the garbage.

Mike nodded and smiled. Whenever he looked at his son, he saw Molly. He had her red-blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Hannah, on the other hand, resembled him. Same wide mouth, square jaw, dark hair, and blue eyes. But Hannah had Molly’s sweet, easygoing disposition and his son definitely showed the potential to be the hell-raiser Mike had been as a teenager.

When Hannah placed her empty bowl in the sink, she looked at Mike and asked, “May I wear the dress I wore to Jack and Cathy’s wedding to church this morning?”

“It’s a little fancy for church, isn’t it?” Mike knew little to nothing about young girls’ clothes, but the floor-length green dress his mother had chosen for her to wear to the wedding wasn’t something he thought appropriate for Sunday school.

“I like it a lot, Daddy. It’s so pretty. It’s the same color as Miss Lorie’s maid of honor dress.”

Mike groaned again. Lorie Hammonds was the last woman on earth he wanted his daughter to emulate.

“Wear that little blue dress with the white collar,” Mike told Hannah.

“I wore that last Sunday.”

“Then pick out something else. But you cannot wear the green dress you wore to the wedding.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Go on now. Brush your teeth and get dressed.” Mike tapped the face of his wristwatch. “I want you two ready to go in twenty minutes. You can recite your Bible verses to me on the way there.”

Mike left the kitchen as it was. He could load the dishwasher and wipe off the table and countertops later. He needed a quick shower and a shave.

As he walked through the house, heading for his bathroom, he tried his damnedest not to think about Lorie. He had spent more time with her this past week than he had in all the years since she returned to Dunmore. Usually, he avoided her like the plague. But they had been thrown together constantly the past few days because he had been Jack’s best man and she had been Cathy’s maid of honor. Now that the wedding was over, there was no reason for him to see her again, which suited him just fine.

Mike turned on the shower, stripped out of his pajama bottoms and T-shirt, and stepped under the warm water. Okay, so he had a hard-on just thinking about Lorie. So what? She was a beautiful, desirable woman and he was a normal guy whose body reacted in a normal way when he thought about someone he found attractive. Lorie was extremely desirable, but she was all wrong for him and his kids. Thoughts of Abby Sherman might not cause an instant arousal, but Abby was a lady, someone he could be proud of, someone suitable as a stepmother for his children.

Lorie Hammonds was a slut!

 

The weather fit her mood to perfection. Dark, dreary, and dismal. Maleah Perdue stood at the kitchen window and watched the morning rainfall, the heavy downpour veiling the backyard in a watery mist. She had spent her first night alone in her childhood home, the place that held many happy memories from the first seven years of her life. And a place that inspired nightmares if she allowed herself to think of the other eleven years she had lived here. Eleven years under the tyrannical rule of her cruel, abusive stepfather.

Shaking her head slightly to dislodge the unpleasant memories, she turned away from the window and picked up her coffee mug from the counter. She wasn’t a breakfast eater. A piece of fruit or a glass of juice usually held her until midday, but she couldn’t make it without at least half a pot of coffee. She was addicted to caffeine.

Carrying the half-full mug with her as she wandered leisurely from the kitchen to the small den at the back of the house, she wondered if the newlyweds had arrived in the Bahamas yet. Her older brother, Jack, and his bride, Cathy, had gotten married yesterday. She had been a bridesmaid.

Maleah groaned. God, she hated weddings. But she loved Jack and thought the world of Cathy, so she had agreed to be in the wedding party. The idea of a happy marriage was an alien concept to her. Jack remembered her parents being happy, back when the four of them had been your normal, average American family. But she’d been in the first grade when her father had died in a car accident and her memories of him were at best sketchy. What she remembered was her mother’s marriage to Nolan Reaves.

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 ment. . .