BEVERLY BARTON - Time of Death

When she walked into the sheriff’s department, all eyes turned toward her. What was wrong with these people? But she knew that, to a person, all of Mike’s employees either knew firsthand or had heard through local gossip about Mike and her, about their past relationship and the fact that Mike now despised her.

Her heart raced and moisture coated the palms of her hands. She was so nervous that you’d think she was a criminal who had been caught red-handed. Instead, she was the victim or at the very least, the potential victim.

A middle-aged female deputy, her brown hair cut short and styled in choppy disarray, approached Lorie, a noncommittal expression on her face, neither smiling nor frowning.

“Good morning, Ms. Hammonds. I’m Deputy Ladner. The sheriff has assigned me to take your statement.”

Lorie nodded and offered the woman a hesitant smile, which was not reciprocated. Instead the deputy said, “Come with me, please.”

As instructed, Lorie followed the woman to what she assumed was the deputy’s workstation. She pulled out a chair for Lorie and motioned for her to sit. Deputy Ladner sat behind her metal desk, picked up a pen and paper, and interrogated Lorie. Or at least that was how Lorie felt, as if she were being given the third degree. Five minutes later, apparently finished, the deputy handed the pen and file form to Lorie.

“If you’ll sign”—she tapped her finger on the dotted line—“right here, please.”

Lorie hurriedly read over the form, then signed it and laid it and the pen on the desk. She looked directly at the deputy. “Thank you.”

When she rose to her feet, the deputy did the same. “You’ll let us know if you receive another letter or a phone call or—”

“Yes, of course,” Lorie said. For all the good it will do me. This woman doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. She thinks I made the whole thing up. No doubt Mike told her to do her duty, but warned her not to take me seriously.

“Is Sheriff Birkett in his office?” Lorie asked.

“Uh … yes, I believe he is,” Deputy Ladner replied, “but … er … I’m sure he’s busy. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Hammonds?”

Without replying, Lorie turned and walked away hurriedly, every step taking her closer to Mike’s closed office door. Just as she reached the half-glass door and could plainly see Mike sitting behind his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, Deputy Ladner grasped Lorie’s arm.

She turned and glared at the other woman, who loosened her hold and then dropped her hand away.

“You can’t see the sheriff right now,” the deputy said.

Lorie glanced around the room and noted that to a person, everyone in the sheriff’s department was staring at the two of them. She smiled. “Why not? It’s obvious he isn’t busy.”

Before Deputy Ladner could do little more than clear her throat, Lorie watched while Mike put down his cup, stood up, and walked to the door.

When he opened the door, the deputy jumped back. “Sir, I told Ms. Hammonds that you were unavailable.”

“It’s all right, Lana. Ms. Hammonds doesn’t like to follow the rules. You may go now. I’ll handle this.”

Lana Ladner? The name certainly didn’t suit the plump, plain female deputy. The name was far too fancy for such an ordinary-looking woman.

When Lana walked away, Lorie flashed Mike with a lavish smile. Totally fake, of course.

“I take it that I’m what you intend to handle,” Lorie said.

Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her into his office, then closed the door behind him. “You wanted to see me. Here I am.”

“You’re really pissed about this, aren’t you?” When he cocked an eyebrow as if saying I-don’t-know-what-you-mean, she elaborated. “You don’t like my invading your territory, even with a valid complaint.”

Mike snorted.

“I know you don’t believe that I’m in any danger. You think I concocted those two death threats, don’t you?”

“One letter,” Mike corrected. “Maleah explained that you threw the first one away … if there was a first one.”

“You egotistical son of a bitch. You actually think that I’m so determined to get back into your life that I’d fake death threats.” She punched her index fingertip into his chest. “Get this straight.” She repeated the punching motion again and again as she said, “I got the message loud and clear. You don’t want me. You wish I had never come back to Dunmore. You think I’m poison. Fine. Now, listen up—I’m over you. Finally. I wouldn’t have you if you were served to me on a silver platter with a gold apple in your mouth.”

He stood there and stared at her, his blue-black eyes wide with surprise.

She lifted her finger from his chest and balled her hand into a tight fist. “Someone has sent me two letters telling me that I’m going to die. It may be somebody’s idea of a sick joke or it could be that out there somewhere there’s a crazy person who intends to kill me. So, do your job, Sheriff. I’m a tax-paying citizen of your county.”

Lorie turned and left his office, ignored the wide-eyed department personnel, and marched straight out the front door.

He exited the small commuter airplane, hoisted his vinyl carryall over his shoulder, and went directly to the car rental kiosk. If anyone remembered seeing him, they would describe him as a gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. They might add that he wore sunglasses and dressed in wrinkled khakis and a plaid shirt. And if the airline passenger list were ever checked, his real name wouldn’t appear, only the name on his phony ID.

He was a smart man. He had covered all his bases.

Within twenty minutes, he was behind the wheel of a low-mileage Ford Taurus and halfway across town. Charles Wong, aka Charlie Hung, lived in a duplex on Rider Avenue. The adjoining apartment had been recently vacated and was For Rent. Charlie now had a wife and a couple of stepkids, and was presently unemployed. It was amazing how much you could find out about a person by simply using the Internet.

He turned off the main street that went straight through Blythe, Arizona, population ten thousand, a quiet little border town southeast of Yuma. From what he could tell, the town was overrun with Mexicans and he figured half of them were illegals.

He slowed down as he drove past Charlie’s apartment, but he didn’t see anybody, not even a stray dog. His first stop would be at the Blythe City Diner, where Charlie’s wife was employed. He had called earlier and found out she was working the evening shift. If he was lucky, she’d be the talkative type. All he needed to know was what night he could kill Charlie, a night when neither she nor her daughters would be at home. If necessary, he could wait for just the right moment, and in the meantime, he’d simply choose the next person on his list and come back for Charlie later.

Tagg Chambless stared at the two envelopes he held in his hand, both neatly sliced open, probably with Hilary’s pearl-handled letter opener. He held them up, showing them to the Powell agent who had accompanied him home to Memphis a few days ago.

“I found these this morning,” Tagg said. “In one of her lingerie drawers. They were hidden beneath the scented lining. I guess when the police searched our bedroom, they somehow overlooked these.”

Holt Keinan glanced from Tagg’s haggard face to the nondescript white envelopes he clutched tightly in his closed fist. “What are they?” He sure as hell hoped they weren’t love letters some other guy had written to the man’s now deceased wife.

“Death threats,” Tagg replied, a catch in his deep voice.

Holt focused on the envelopes. “Mind if I take a look?”