Time of Death

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 and 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?”

“I don’t want to leave you with the dirty dishes and pots and pans.”

“Go on,” Derek told her. “I’ll help Perdue clean up the kitchen.”

Maleah groaned, making her displeasure known to anyone within earshot.

Charles Wong roused slowly, at first uncertain what had awakened him. And then the doorbell rang again and again, loud enough to be heard over the racket coming from the television. Someone was at his front door. But who the hell could it be? He glanced around the room and realized that he had fallen asleep in the living room, on the sofa, while watching the late-night newscast. With Lily and the girls gone on the overnight Brownies camping trip, he had snacked for supper, then fixed himself a bowl of popcorn and settled in to watch TV. He missed his wife and stepdaughters. Being with them reminded him of how lucky he was and that working at being a better human every day had its rewards.

The doorbell kept ringing.

“All right, I’m coming,” he called loudly. “Be right there.”

Barefoot and wearing a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a T-shirt, he got up, glanced at the time on the DVD player—11:52—and padded across the room. When he reached the front door, he paused before opening it.

“Yeah, who’s there?” he asked.

“Hey, man, it’s me. Let me in. I got a six-pack and some of the good stuff.”

Charlie didn’t recognize the man’s voice. He probably had the wrong house. Charlie unlocked the door and, leaving the chain latch on, eased the door open a couple of inches.

“Come on, man, let me in. I need to pee real bad.”

The guy didn’t look familiar. Black hair, black mustache, dressed in cheap leather and sporting a sizable tattoo on his neck, he looked like some of the guys Charlie had known in his past.

“Look, buddy, I think you’ve got the wrong house.”

“You’re Charles Wong, right? You’re married to my cousin Lily, right? Didn’t she tell you I was in town and she offered to put me up a couple of nights?”