Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [55]
“Thank you, Louie.” Travis smiled, flicked the ashes from his cigar, and placed it, still smoking, in an ashtray on the glass and steel coffee table. “Please, you two come in. Come in and take a seat.”
Maleah noticed the half-empty glass of liquor—her guess would be whiskey—on a tile coaster beside the ashtray. When a guy was dying, she supposed it didn’t matter how much he drank and smoked.
She and Derek sat on the white sofa across from the identical one on which Dillard sat.
“You’re from some private detective agency, right?” Dillard asked.
“The Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency,” Maleah replied.
“Hmm…that’s the one headed up by that famous guy—what’s-his-name Powell, the billionaire.”
“That’s correct. Griffin Powell,” Derek said. “And the agency has been hired by the families of Hilary Finch Chambless and Dean Wilson to do a private investigation into Mrs. Chambless’s and Mr. Wilson’s deaths.”
“Damn shame about Hilary and Dean. And Charlie, too. I was just saying that to Louie”—he tossed up his hand and pointed at his servant still standing at attention halfway across the room—“earlier today. Good people, all three of them.”
Maleah supposed that in Travis Dillard’s world the three victims had been good people. But not in the real world, the one inhabited by the vast majority.
“Oh, yeah, either of you care for something to drink? Louie can make tea or coffee or mix up a cocktail or—”
“Nothing, thank you,” Maleah said, her voice a bit sterner than she had intended.
Dillard dismissed his servant with a quick glance before he focused on Maleah, studying her for a couple of seconds. “You got the looks, honey. How old are you? Twenty-eight? Thirty? They prefer ’em younger and younger these days, but there’s a market for older chicks like you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Maleah glared at the old man. Had he actually told her that she had what it took to be a porno star? When she heard an odd sound coming from Derek’s direction, she snapped her head around and glared at him. Noting that he was on the verge of laughing out loud, she gritted her teeth to keep from losing her temper.
“Don’t take offense, honey,” Dillard said. “I just paid you a compliment.” He glanced at Derek. “What is it with smart, professional women that they can’t take a compliment from a man when they hear one?”
I can take a compliment when I actually hear one. The comment was on the tip of Maleah’s tongue, but she managed, with great difficulty, to refrain from saying it aloud.
Derek shrugged. Damn the man! He winked at her, then grinned at Dillard before asking, “Do you have any idea who killed three of your former stars?”
“Don’t have the foggiest.” He shook his head.
“How long has it been since you last saw each of them?” Maleah asked.
“Years.”
“So you’ve had no communication with any of them recently.”
“Nope.”
“Do you keep in touch with any of the people—actors and others—who were associated with Midnight Masquerade?” Derek asked.
Dillard reached out and picked up a red binder from the sofa cushion beside him. After flipping through several pages, he paused, pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, and put them on. He skimmed the information and then glanced from Derek to Maleah.
“I got Louie to compile some info for me on all the people involved in the making of that particular movie. It was a good ten years ago. I’ve made quite a few movies since then, a few well-received independent artsy productions, with real actors.” He tapped the folder with his skeletal index finger. “I read over the names of everybody who had anything to do with Midnight Masquerade and I have to admit that there are a few I don’t even remember. Not my stars, mind you, but some of the others.” He grimaced as if hating the fact that his memory failed him. “To answer your question, yes, sure, I’ve kept in touch with a few of the people. Not many. Some are actually still in the business.”
“Really,” Maleah said. “Who’s still in the business? And who are you still in touch with?”
“Well, Laura Lou Roberts, one of