Authors: Beverly Barton

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense

Dead by Morning (16 page)

BOOK: Dead by Morning

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As they sat at one of the tables for two, each on their second cup of coffee, Derek reached over and flicked something off the side of Maleah’s mouth. Momentarily surprised, she stared at him.

“Biscuit crumbs,” he told her.

“Oh.”

“Ready?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Have you finished eating? Are you ready to go to our rooms and get a few hours of sleep?”

“Yes, I’ve finished eating. I’m stuffed.” She had eaten far more than she should have, more than she normally did. As a general rule, she watched her diet and avoided big breakfasts, but this morning, she had indulged. Actually, she had overindulged. “And yes, I’m more than ready to go to bed.”

Realizing that her comment could be misconstrued, she looked at Derek. He smiled and winked at her. Damn him. She felt a warm flush creep up her neck and color her cheeks. Crap. She wasn’t the type who blushed, never had been, didn’t want to be. But for some stupid reason, Derek had the ability to say or do things that caused her to feel slightly embarrassed.

“Your bed or mine?” His smile widened.

“Me in my bed and you in yours.”

“Ah, shucks, Blondie, you’re no fun.”

“Shut up, will you? I’m too tired for your particular brand of humor.”

He laid his hand over his heart. “You wound me, my darling.”

Maleah groaned. “Damn it, Derek, grow up, will you?”

She scooted back her chair, gathered up her plate, cup and other items, and left him sitting there. After clearing the rest of the table and leaving a generous tip, he caught up with her at the garbage bin.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, I’m sorry,” she told him. “I know you were just trying to lighten the mood a little. I shouldn’t let you irritate me.”

“I shouldn’t kid around so much.”

Maleah offered him a halfhearted smile as he picked up their bags and headed toward the elevator. She punched the Up button for the second floor and when the door immediately opened, she entered.

As the elevator ascended, she felt Derek staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Ever ask yourself why we seem to irritate each other so much?”

The doors opened. They got off the elevator.

“Because we’re oil and water,” she said. “If I say it’s black, you say it’s white. We’re very different. And when you try to run roughshod over me, it irritates me.”

“And do you think that I do that a lot, run roughshod over you?”

“Maybe.” She paused outside her room, turned to him, gave him his key, and held out her hand for her bag. “This is my room. You’re next door.”

“I’ll take your bag in for you.”

She was too tired to argue, so when Derek took the key card from her, she didn’t protest. He inserted the card into the lock and the instant the green light appeared, he turned the knob and opened the door for her. After entering, she flipped on the light. Derek followed her into the room and placed her bag on the floor.

“Sometimes you do run roughshod over me,” Maleah said, finally admitting the truth. “I know you don’t mean to and that you’re usually unaware that you’re doing it, but . . . Look, let’s just drop it, okay?”

Derek set his bag on the floor beside hers. Instinctively, she stood her ground and watched him as he moved toward her. He came right up to her, looked down at her and grasped her chin. She struggled for half a second when he tried to lift her chin so that she had to face him, but quickly looked him right in the eye. If he thought he could intimidate her, he’d better think again.

He examined her face as if she were a bug under a microscope, studying each feature, searching for something behind her confrontational expression. The way he looked at her unnerved her.

“Well?” she said.

He reached out and caressed her cheek, his touch gentle and soothing. “Get some rest, Blondie. We can do battle another day.”

She hesitated. Fraught with uncertainty, she waited. A moment passed, followed by another and then another, each one becoming tenser than the previous. Neither of them moved or spoke or even blinked.

He slipped his hand beneath her hair at the nape of her neck. Her breath caught in her throat. And then Derek broke eye contact and released her. She swayed, slightly unsteady on her feet, dazed by what had just happened.

But exactly what had happened ?

She waited for Derek to say something, but he didn’t. He gave her a quick nod, and as if he was slightly dazed himself, he turned and left the room. She didn’t actually breathe again until she heard the door close; then she slumped down on the edge of the bed and sucked in huge gasps of air.

Luke Sentell sat at a sidewalk table in front of Le Bristrot du Peintre on avenue Ledru Rollin. The bistro, located in the heart of the 11
^tharrondissement between Bastille and Nation squares, was a ten-minute walk from the heart of downtown Paris. Dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton polo shirt, he nursed a glass of Bordeaux, Cote de Bourg, as did his companion, an elderly French gentleman who called himself Henri Fortier. Luke neither knew nor cared what the man’s real name was. They were not friends, not even friendly acquaintances or business associates.

Luke’s French, although not flawless, was more than adequate, but Henri’s command of English was excellent. Wishing to appear as nothing more than customers wanting a good meal, they each ordered. Luke chose the rib steak in cream sauce.

“When you return to America, you will please tell my old friend, Inspector Richter, that I send him my best,” Henri said.

“Yes, of course.”

Henri sipped his wine, all the while studying Luke, his gaze lazily inspecting his dinner companion. “Have you ever visited St. Jakob? It’s a charming little village in the state of Carinthia, Austria.”

“No, I’ve never been there. Do you recommend I visit sometime in the near future?”

“Yes, I highly recommend that while you’re traveling in Europe, you add St. Jakob to your itinerary.”

Luke nodded. “Could you suggest a hotel and perhaps a tour guide while I’m there?”

“Indeed. You must stay at the Inn Steinhof.”

When the waiter brought their orders, Henri smiled at the young man, thanked him, and looked at his meal, eggplant lasagna with parmesan cheese.

As soon as they were alone again, Henri tasted a bite of the delicious concoction, sighed with satisfaction and then returned his attention to Luke.

“You must ask for Jurgen Hirsch. He will know where you need to go, what you will need to see.”

Luke repeated the name quietly.

He would make reservations for the first flight from Paris to Carinthia tomorrow.

“And just where can I find Jurgen Hirsch?”

“When you arrive at the Inn Steinhof, leave a message for another guest, a gentleman named Aldo Finster. Simply state in your message that you are a friend of Henri Fortier and are looking for a reliable tour guide.”

Luke nodded.

Henri smiled. “I think I shall order the orange tart for dessert.”

Following his informant’s lead, Luke, too, ordered dessert, but he ate only a few bites before saying goodnight. He had plans to make, a flight to book, and a report to send to Powell headquarters.

Chapter 16

The ringing telephone woke Derek from a sound sleep. He rolled over, kicked back the sheet, and noted the time on the digital bedside clock as he reached for his phone. 2:15
P.M.
He had slept longer than he’d intended. Instantly recognizing the caller ID, he swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sat up as he answered.

“Derek Lawrence,” he said, holding the phone with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other.

“We think we have found Albert Durham.” Sanders’s voice seldom denoted emotion of any kind, always calm and even, regardless of the circumstances.

“Alive?” Derek said the first thing that popped into his mind.

“Yes, we assume he is alive,” Sanders replied. “Of course, if you find him dead, then we will know he is not the Copycat Carver.”

“Right. So, where is he?”

“He owns a home in Cleveland, Tennessee, but apparently he does not live there. There are renters residing there at present. He has an apartment in New York City, but it has been subleased for the next six months. And he has a condo in Aspen that he rents when he is not in residence.”

“You’ve told me everywhere he’s not,” Derek said. “Do you know where he is right now?”

“Yes, of course. Otherwise, I would not have called you.”

“So where can we find the guy?”

“He has rented a house on St. Simons Island, off the coast of Brunswick, Georgia.”

“I’m familiar with St. Simons Island.” Derek had spent many summers of his childhood vacationing there at the beach house owned by his family for several generations. The house had been built by his great-grandmother’s uncle.

“I assume you and Maleah are no longer in Apple Orchard,” Sanders said.

“We’re in Aiken.” Derek stood up and headed for the bathroom. “We’re at the Holiday Inn Express.”

“Hmm . . .” Sanders remained silent for a full minute, then said, “This puts you approximately two hundred miles from St. Simons. The quickest route should get you there in four hours. If you and Maleah leave within the next fifteen minutes, you could be there no later than seven this evening.”

“Doesn’t the agency have anyone closer who could check things out while we’re en route?” Derek asked.

“We have already sent someone up from Jacksonville to keep an eye on Mr. Durham until you arrive.”

“That’s great. Give me the address and—”

“Barbara Jean has sent you the information you need. Check your e-mail.”

“Right. Okay. Maleah and I will be on our way in a few minutes.”

He should have known that Sanders would be one step ahead of him. The man had an uncanny sixth sense. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Sanders had some psychic abilities of his own. In the past, Derek had often wondered why, if Dr. Meng possessed the empathic psychic talent Griff believed she did, Griff didn’t put her gift to good use for the Powell Agency. When he had finally posed the question to his boss, Griff had explained:

“Yvette was once forced, by a madman, to use her special talents completely against her will. I would never use her in that way. I have rarely asked her to help me. How and when she uses her empathic abilities is her choice.”

Derek used the bathroom, washed his hands and splashed cold water in his face. He had shaved and showered before lying down for a nap. His slacks and shirt had been wrinkled, so he’d folded them and placed them in a plastic bag. He put on a pair of jeans and a clean cotton shirt that he’d taken from his vinyl suitcase. Then he stuffed the bag containing his dirty clothes inside the suitcase and zipped it closed. He picked up the holster containing his personal weapon—an 8-shot 45 Colt XSE. He seldom carried a weapon, but considering what had happened in Apple Orchard, he had decided to take his pistol out of his suitcase. After strapping on his holster and lifting his jacket from the back of the desk chair, he felt inside the coat pocket. He hadn’t realized until he had removed his jacket before taking a shower that, after he had opened Maleah’s door for her, he had slipped her key back into his pocket.

He put a tip for the maid on the bed, left his room, vinyl carryall in hand, and walked the few feet to Maleah’s door. He knocked softly. When she didn’t respond, he inserted the key and unlocked her door. Damn it, she hadn’t put on the latch or double bolted the door. He entered, intending to remind her that she had neglected to take the proper safety precautions, but stopped immediately when he noticed the room was semidark. He set his bag on the floor, walked quietly over to the bed and looked down at a sleeping Maleah. She wore only her panties and bra, her hair was still partially damp, and she lay sprawled in the middle of the bed, the sheet covering one leg and hip.

He shouldn’t be standing there looking at her. If she knew how much he was enjoying seeing her like this, she’d chew him out big time. But what man in his right mind wouldn’t take advantage of the moment? After all, Maleah was a gorgeous woman, even if she seemed oblivious to the fact. Or maybe she was in denial. Most women wanted men to find them attractive. Not Maleah. For the most part, she wanted men to leave her alone. He didn’t suspect sexual assault in her past as the reason. No, she wasn’t afraid of men and didn’t seem to dislike men in general. But she carried a major chip on her shoulder when it came to taking orders from a man, sometimes even Griff.

“Maleah,” he called to her. “Hey, wake up, Blondie.”

She stretched languidly, the movement shoving the sheet off her completely. When she turned flat on her back, Derek swallowed hard. Her breasts were high and round and full, straining against the pink lace bra. And beneath the sheer pink bikini panties, dark blond curls created a triangular patch.

“Maleah . . .”

She opened her eyes, looked up at him and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself.” He realized she was still half asleep.

Suddenly, as if just realizing Derek actually was standing there looking down at her and that she was half naked, she grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her chin. Glaring at him, she asked, “How did you get in here?”

He held up the key card. “I accidentally put it in my pocket after I unlocked your door earlier.”

“You should have knocked.”

“I did. You were sleeping like the dead and didn’t hear me.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

He tried not to grin, but couldn’t keep his mouth from curving into a closed-mouth smile. “Uh . . . not long.”

“I assume you have a reason for invading my privacy this way.” She jerked the sheet off the bed as she stood and wrapped it around her.

“Sanders called. Albert Durham is in St. Simons Island, Georgia.”

“Is he alive?”

Derek chuckled.

“What so funny?”

“I asked Sanders the same thing.”

“And his answer?” she asked.

“As far as we know Durham’s alive. Sanders sent a Powell contact up from Jacksonville to keep an eye on Durham until we can get there.”

“Give me ten minutes.” Maleah disappeared into the bathroom, clutching the sheet just above her breasts as she dragged it with her.

Derek turned on a couple of lights, pulled a fivedollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the bed for the maid. He glanced around the room, checking for any personal items, and found none. Apparently, Maleah had left her suitcase in the bathroom after her shower.

Seven and a half minutes later, she emerged, completely dressed, her hair dry and swirled up into a loose bun, flyaway tendrils framing her face. She’d even put on some blush and lip gloss.

“How do you do it?” Derek asked

She stared at him. “How do I do what?”

“Manage to always look so beautiful?”

At first, she glared daggers at him, but then, as if unable to stop herself, she smiled and finally laughed. “I’ve learned not to take anything you say seriously. You get too much pleasure out of yanking my chain, don’t you?”

“If you say so.”

He opened the door and held it for her. Each carrying their own bag, neither in a talkative mood, they took the elevator down and quickly checked out.

By 2:40
P.M
., they were headed for US-278 E.

Poppy loved her grandmother, the one constant in her life, the one person who never changed and seemed to love Poppy unconditionally. It wasn’t that her mother didn’t love her. She did. But she had other priorities. At forty, Vickie looked thirty, thanks to strict dieting, strenuous exercise and a little Botox here and there in strategic spots. Why her mom hadn’t handed her over to Grandmother years ago, she’d never understand. Maybe as revenge against her husband’s family, the people who had never approved of her as proper wife material for a Chappelle. Poppy did know that Grandmother had taken Vickie to court and an ugly legal battle had dragged on for nearly a year. But in the end, the court had awarded custody to Vickie, with generous visitation privileges for her grandmother. So, she had spent a couple of months every summer since then in Savannah, as well as every other Christmas, Thanksgiving, and birthday.

Sometimes, she dreamed of coming here to live permanently, but that wouldn’t happen. When she graduated from high school, she would go off to college and be in charge of her own life. It would be her choice when to visit her mother and when to visit her grandmother. Her trust fund would pay for her college education, but the bulk of that small fortune would not be hers to do with as she chose until she turned twenty-five.

“Why such a sad face?” Grandmother asked.

“Ma’am?”

“Are you worried about something?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, just thinking about when I’m older and I go off to college.”

“That’s a couple of years from now,” Grandmother reminded her. “I much prefer to concentrate on the here and now, on today. Our guests will be arriving at seven. You should go upstairs soon. A lady should take all the time necessary to make herself presentable.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You are going to wear that lovely blue chiffon dress, aren’t you? I asked Heloise to lay it out for you and . . .” Grandmother Chappelle smiled as if she had a delicious secret to share. “I took my sapphire earrings from the safe. They’re in your room, on your dressing table. I would very much like for you to wear them this evening.”

“Oh, Grandmother, the sapphire earrings. I couldn’t. I mean they were an anniversary gift from Grandfather.”

“I’m not giving them to you, Poppy. I’m only loaning them to you.” Grandmother smiled. “But one day they will be yours . . . when I’m gone.”

Poppy threw her arms around her grandmother and gave her a big hug. “I love you so much.”

Staunch, prim and proper, stiff-upper-lip Carolyn Chappelle hugged Poppy, then shoved her away and cleared her throat. She turned around, but not before Poppy saw the tears in her grandmother’s eyes.

“I’ll wear the blue chiffon,” she said. She had seen the new dress Grandmother had bought for her and she hated it. It looked like something that girls wore forty years ago.

“And you’ll wear the sapphire earrings.”

“Of course I will.”

Poppy rushed through the house and up the back stairs, taking them two at a time. She needed plenty of time to prepare for this evening, to psych herself up to “party” with the Chappelle family’s friends. When in Savannah, her goal was always to make Grandmother proud of her.

For most of the four-hour trip, Maleah had concentrated on driving while Derek went over the reports from the agency, with updated information on Albert Durham, that included a recent publicity photo. The guy fit the general description of the man who had visited Browning at the Georgia State Prison. Derek shared the info with Maleah, giving her the condensed version, which left her too much time to think about other things. She couldn’t forget the way Derek had looked at her that morning just before he left her alone in her hotel room. For half a second, she had thought he was going to kiss her. And she kept replaying in her mind the moment that afternoon when she had awakened to find Derek staring at her almost naked body. But what bothered her the most was that she kept hearing Derek ask, “How do you do it? Manage to always look so beautiful?”

Thankfully, those introspective moments didn’t last long. Powell Agency business kept them both occupied. Barbara Jean and Sanders had also sent updates on the Wyman Scudder and Cindy Dobbins murder investigations. The Macon PD weren’t giving out any pertinent information, but the Powell Agency not only had been able to discover the secretary interviewee’s name, but had already sent an agent to Macon to question her about discovering Scudder’s body. The info on Cindy’s murder had come straight from Sheriff Lockhart. As they had expected, no arrest had been made, and the killer was still at large.

So, where was the Copycat Carver right now? And who would be his next victim?

Derek had received several text messages from the agency’s contact who had driven up from Jacksonville to keep an eye on Durham.

BOOK: Dead by Morning

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