Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [38]
“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