Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [62]
“You aren’t allowing your prejudice against Dillard to form your opinion of him, are you?” Derek asked.
“Maybe,” Perdue admitted. “But I say we cross Hines off our suspects list or at the very least move him to the bottom. And for now at least, we put Dillard at the top of that list.”
“I agree,” Derek said. “For now. But I figure Dillard’s physical condition would make it difficult for him to carry out the murders.”
“Difficult, but not impossible. Besides, he has enough money to hire a professional.”
“We agree again.” Derek grinned. “Amazing, isn’t it, how much we’re beginning to think alike. We may wind up being best buddies after this case ends.”
Keeping her eyes glued to the road ahead, she replied, “No way in hell.”
Lorie lifted her gaze from the article in Tea Time, a magazine for tea party enthusiasts, and glanced across the room to where Shelley Gilbert sat immersed in a paperback novel. She had taken off her jacket before dinner, but she still wore her shoulder holster.
Lorie folded a page in the magazine—an advertisement for a teapot vendor—and laid the magazine aside. At the beginning of the year, Lorie and Cathy had decided to branch out at Treasures and include tea party items and perhaps even in the future rent the empty store next door to their antique shop, renovate it, and use it as a tearoom.
She missed Cathy and would be glad when she returned from her honeymoon. Four more days. But she dreaded having to tell her best friend what was happening in her life. In less than two weeks, her whole world had been turned upside down. Because her life had been threatened, she now had a 24/7 bodyguard.
As if sensing Lorie was looking at her, Shelley glanced her way and smiled. Lorie returned her smile and said, “I’m thinking about fixing myself a root beer float before bedtime. Want one?”
“Make that a Seven-Up float for me, if you have Seven-Up. I’m not a big root beer fan.”
“One Seven-Up float and one root beer float it is.”
Shelley got up, laid her book in the chair, and followed Lorie into the kitchen. Lorie entered first, stopped dead still and gasped. She hadn’t yet turned on the overhead light and the only illumination came from the dim hallway sconces and the three-quarter moon shining through the kitchen window.
“What is it?” Shelley asked quietly as she paused behind Lorie.
“I could’ve sworn I saw someone outside peeking in the kitchen window.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. It could have been my imagination. I’ve been pretty jumpy lately, but—”
“You stay here,” Shelley told her. “I’m going out the back door and I want you to lock it behind me.”
“Be careful,” Lorie said.
Shelley pulled the 9mm from her shoulder holster, eased open the door, and walked onto the back porch. Doing as she’d been instructed, Lorie locked the door. But she pulled up the Roman shade covering the glass top half of the door and peered out into the darkness. Shelley left the porch and entered the yard. Lorie held her breath.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Shelley called loud and clear.
Oh God! What if Shelley had caught the killer? She checked her watch. Nine fifty-eight. Nowhere close to midnight. But maybe he’d been casing her house, checking out her comings and goings, and ascertaining the danger in trying to get past her bodyguard.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Shelley reappeared, a man about five-ten walking slowly in front of her, his hands held high above his head in an I-surrender-don’t-shoot gesture.
“Call nine-one-one,” Shelley shouted. “I’ve caught our intruder.”
After she sent a patrol car to Lorie’s house, the dispatcher had called Mike. He had contacted his mother, asked her to come over and spend the night to look after Hannah and M.J., and then he had broken the speed limit from his house to Lorie’s. When he arrived, Deputy Buddy Pounders opened the door for him.
“What have we got here?” Mike asked.
“Ms. Gilbert caught the guy red-handed,” Buddy said. “He was snooping around outside the house.”
“Was he armed?”
“No, sir, not unless you consider a camera a weapon.