Today was March thirty-first. The end of the month, the end of the week. And the Beauty Queen Killer had struck four times in the past sixteen days. Sara Ann Stewart in Memphis, Tennessee. A blonde. Beaten to death with a baton. Audrey Smallwood, Macon, Georgia. Hacked to death as brutally as Sandi Ford had been. A brunette. Kalindy Naramore, Columbus, Mississippi. Hands cut off. Another brunette. Whitney Webster, Bowling Green, Kentucky. A blonde. Doused with kerosene and set afire.
Every other murder gruesome to the extreme.
How many points had each woman been worth to him?
“He’s on a killing spree,” Griff had said. “It’s as if he’s gone into a murderous frenzy right before April first.”
Derek Lawrence had advised Griff that it was highly possible that the killer planned to end his game on April first and knowing the end was near, he was murdering as many women as he possibly could, as quickly as he could.
Why hasn’t he come after me? After Paige Allgood? Lindsay had been living the other woman’s life for a couple of weeks now, wearing a platinum, shoulder-length wig, contact lenses, and expensive designer clothes she hated. However, it was the jewelry that created the biggest problem for her. In every photograph of the wealthy former Miss UT, she was wearing several bracelets, heavy gold necklaces, a broach on her lapel or collar, and two sets of earrings dangled from the twin holes in each ear.
For a woman whose idea of jewelry was diamond studs and a wristwatch, being decked out in gold and jewels on a daily basis irritated the hell out of Lindsay. How did anyone function weighed down by so much clutter?
But for now, Lindsay sat, completely uncluttered, wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized cotton sweater, on the sofa in Paige Allgood’s den. Since Paige was notorious for sleeping until noon every day, Lindsay had her mornings free. Her afternoons were spent at the downtown building the real Paige planned to convert into a theater—the old Woodruff Building. Powell agents posed as contractors, designers, and investors, assisting her in bringing her role as Paige Allgood to life. The only question was did they have an audience? An audience of one.
Was the BQ Killer out there, watching and waiting? Or had he not even noticed a high profile, young, attractive, blond, former beauty queen who was ripe for the picking?
Deep in thought, Lindsay jumped when the phone rang. God, she hadn’t realized how jittery she was. Day after day of playacting while they waited and waited and waited was beginning to take a toll on her nerves.
Maleah, sans the black wig and glasses she wore in her disguise as the maid, came into the den, the portable phone in her hand. “Ms. Allgood, there’s a gentleman who’d like to speak to you.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “No name on the caller ID, just a number. But he said his name is Allen Posey. He’s interested in supporting local actors with a sizable donation to the little theater group you’re founding.”
Lindsay nodded. “Call Powell’s and run a check on this guy, then grab the other phone and listen in.”
“Will do.” Maleah handed Lindsay the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Posey, this is Paige Allgood.”
“Ms. Allgood, this is such an honor,” the distinctively Southern voice said. “I’ve been reading all about you recently, and I must say that I’m simply dying to get in on the ground floor of your little endeavor.”
“Are you really? Well, color me delighted. As you know, I don’t really need investors, but I don’t want to be selfish and not share with other like-minded philanthropists.”
“Then you’re not adverse to my making a sizable donation, are you?”
“My goodness, no.”
“I do have one small request.” He chuckled softly. “Well, actually two. First, my daughter, Cynthia, is a very talented girl. I’d like to see her cast in the first play you produce.”
“I … uh … I believe that could be arranged, especially if she’s very talented.”
“And my second request is that I’d like a private tour of the building you’re converting into a theater.”
“Oh, well … uh … certainly. That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have my assistant meet you at your convenience—”
“No, no, my dear. You don’t understand. I’d like for you personally to give me a tour.”
A red warning signal popped up in Lindsay’s mind. “Uh … I believe that can be arranged.”
“Splendid. Shall we make it for tomorrow evening. Around six?” he asked, absolute glee in his voice.
A voice that sparked shivers along Lindsay’s nerves.
“Six tomorrow evening at the front entrance. Let me give you the address and directions on how to—”
“No need. I’m familiar with the area.”
“Then you’re from Knoxville?”
“Yes, of course. I thought surely you’d heard of me.” He sighed dramatically. “Would I be presumptuous in asking you to have dinner with me tomorrow evening, after the tour?”
Dinner? Hmm … Either this guy was on the up-and-up or he was giving a great performance. Lindsay wasn’t sure which, but her instincts told her it was the latter. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about Mr. Posey, but there was definitely something “off ” about him.
“Dinner? Well, all right. That sounds nice.”
“Until six tomorrow.”
Lindsay hit the Off button, then tossed the phone down on the sofa. Maleah, who’d been standing by and listening to most of the conversation on the portable extension, lifted her brows in a wasn’t-that-interesting expression.
“What do you think?” Lindsay asked.
“Could be our guy.”
“We know he’s an expert at luring intelligent women into his web. Derek has told us that he probably creates a different scenario for each victim and invents a personality for himself that for some reason appeals to the victim.”
“Makes sense.” Still holding the extension phone in her hand, Maleah sat down on the sofa with Lindsay. “What would appeal more to Paige than a refined gentleman interested in local theater?”
“We have a little over twenty-four hours to set things up. But first we have to find out all we can about Allen Posey. If there really is an Allen Posey.”
As if on cue, Maleah’s cell phone rang. She removed it from her shirt pocket and flipped it open. “Yes. Uh-huh. I see. Okay, I’ll tell her.” She closed her phone and turned to Lindsay. “That was the office. They ran a quick check and found that there is an Allen Posey. He’s a rich old codger. A native of Knoxville. Old family. Old money. And he has two daughters: Cynthia and Tracy.”
Lindsay nibbled on her bottom lip. “Then either our caller is on the up-and-up or he’s assuming the real Allen Posey’s identity and is guessing that Paige Allgood wouldn’t know the difference.”
“I say we contact Mr. Powell right away.”
“I’ll handle contacting Griff.”
“All right.” Maleah got up. “I’m in the mood for a Caesar salad for lunch. How does that sound to you?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
As soon as Maleah exited the den, Lindsay put in a call to Griff—on his private cell number.
Judd hadn’t told Lindsay when they spoke this morning that he was being released from the clinic around noon today. Before he went to Griffin’s Rest tomorrow to surprise her, he wanted to go home to Chattanooga first, get a haircut and a manicure, then look through his closet and find some decent clothes. He had already contacted his housekeeper and told her to get his old rooms prepared and to have his Porsche serviced and ready for him to drive. The first step in reclaiming his life was to return to the life he’d known before Jennifer’s murder and go from there. Yvette had made him see that he’d find some things from the past comforting, just like stepping into a favorite pair of old shoes. And other things from his former life would no longer fit him and would need to be discarded.
“You’ll build a new life for yourself,” Yvette had told him. “It will take time and effort, and it won’t be easy. But the day will come when you’ll be glad that you’re alive.”
He didn’t kid himself. He knew he had some rough times ahead of him, that for every step he took forward, he might wind up taking two backward. But as long as he had Lindsay at his side, he’d make it. God, how he’d missed her. After more than two weeks of intensive rehab, including brutal sessions twice a day with Yvette, Judd was now clean and sober. And prepared to face months of continued grief-counseling.
“Are you ready to leave?”
Judd nodded to Yvette, who stood in the open doorway to his private room. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure you want me to drop you off in Chattanooga?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He picked up his duffel bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, and walked toward Yvette. “When you get to Griffin’s Rest, don’t tell Lindsay that I’ve been released. I want to surprise her tomorrow afternoon.”
“I won’t say a word,” Yvette promised.
Griff sat alone in his den that evening, a glass of bourbon resting on the desk blotter, and the sketches Wade Freeman had drawn of the possible BQ Killer lay side by side below his drink. As he studied the man’s face, he reached over and tapped the Play button on the mini-recorder.
“I’ve never chopped off a head before, but I decided that since time was running out and the game would soon end, that I should try it. On a human, that is. I’ve practiced numerous times on various animals. Cats and dogs mostly.”
Troubled by the fact that there was something oddly familiar about the faces in the sketches and the voice on the tape, Griff had spent the better part of the past two hours trying to figure out if he actually recognized either, or if his mind was playing tricks on him.
Did he know the BQ Killer? Was this monster someone in his social circle, someone he’d shaken hands with on various occasions? If so, why don’t I know who he is? Why can’t I make the connection?
Griff knew hundreds of people well enough to call them by name. If he were acquainted with the BQ Killer, then both the face in the sketches and the voice on the tape were somehow different than the man Griff knew. Disguised? The face, yes. But why would he have disguised his voice since he wouldn’t have known he was being recorded? Not disguised, just slightly different. Altered by excitement, by the mental and emotional thrill of the moment?
Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he reached out with the other and picked up his glass of bourbon. By this time tomorrow, it was possible that none of this would make any difference. Whoever had called Lindsay claiming to be Allen Posey was an imposter. Griff had telephoned and spoken to the real Allen Posey—at his villa in Italy where he’d been for the past three weeks.