All the Pretty Faces (9 page)

Cautious though, he watched through the doorway as they crossed the parking lot in case the killer was lurking around.

“No chance the sister did it?” Sheriff Kimball asked.

Dane shook his head no. “She was the only family Bailey had left. Besides, they seemed tight. She’s pretty distraught.”

Kimball jammed his hands in his pockets, sympathy on his face. “Was there a boyfriend?”

“No.” Dane’s pulse hammered. “I need to check out the photographer, Eddie Easton, who took headshots for both girls.”

Kimball perked up. “I heard Easton’s name, too. One of the women I talked with said she saw Charity at a barbecue with him.”

So the sheriff was on his toes. Maybe he would be more helpful than Dane had first thought. He gestured toward the community room. “Take your deputy and canvass everyone here. Maybe we’ll get a break and someone saw something the night Charity died.”

Meanwhile, he’d track down Easton. If Easton was a predator of young women, this film had given him a perfect hunting ground.

Dane’s thoughts turned back to his sister’s case, and hope surfaced. Easton could have pulled the same kind of stunt at the college—played photographer to lure women to trust him. Maybe he’d tried it with Betsy and it hadn’t worked.

Dane would get the truth out of him one way or another. If Easton had killed Betsy, he would make the bastard suffer.

He stood at the edge of the main community room and watched the ripple effect as the local sheriff wove through the lines of young women and men who’d gathered, vying for a part in this local murder mystery about to be filmed.

Laughter bubbled in his throat. Little did they know that they were mired in a real-life murder mystery of their own.

The women were all fakes. Gorgeous girls on the outside with smiling faces, gleaming white-capped teeth, Botox, implants, and whatever other plastic surgery it took to mold them into a pretty face.

Who would play the next victim in this game?

Soft gasps of shock and whispers floated from one person to the next as that local sheriff and his deputy questioned the actors. Eyes that had been laughing a minute ago now peered at the others in the room with guarded expressions and suspicion.

It would take forever for the sheriff and the Feds to question everyone.

Josie DuKane walked back inside with that pretty blonde, Charity’s sister. He didn’t care about Bailey.

He had his eyes on Josie.

In spite of the attention she’d garnered from the true crime book she’d written, she was humble.

With those sparkling green eyes, Josie was attractive, too. Not beautiful like the models and actresses or the high-class women who paid to perfect their faces to magazine quality.

Pretty in a natural way. She mesmerized him because she was real, not superficial. She was also smart and used her brain, not just her looks, to get ahead in life.

Yes, Josie was the perfect one to tell his story.

The others, though—they were simply pretty faces waiting to be carved by his hands.

Pretty faces that would look even more beautiful in death.

He lifted his phone and smiled at the photograph he’d taken of the woman, then traced his finger over her face. His pulse pounded as he studied the claw marks. So fitting that she be marked by claws when she’d tried to sink hers into men to get what she wanted.

Josie turned and glanced across the room as if she sensed someone was watching her.

She was looking for him.

He smiled, blending into the shadows.

“This is just the beginning of our friendship and our fun in Graveyard Falls, Josie,” he murmured.
“Just the beginning.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Josie stayed close to Bailey as they left the steps of the community center and headed across the quadrangle.

After the Bride Killer had been caught, the town had built the center hoping to create a more positive spirit in the town and bring people closer together as they struggled through their grief.

The center had been designed for a variety of community events with special recreational areas for children and teens, along with rooms inside for classes, arts and crafts, and an auditorium with a stage for community theater.

“I can’t believe this,” Bailey said in a shaky voice. “What am I going to do without Charity?”

Josie squeezed her arm. “You’ll grieve, Bailey, but you have to go on for your sister’s sake.”

Bailey’s face crumpled. “I don’t know if I can.”

Josie drew Bailey into a hug. “Yes, you can. I understand that you’re hurting, and I’m so sorry about your sister. It might not be a bad idea to leave town.”

After all, who knew if this killer would strike again?

She stroked Bailey’s hair. “Don’t give up on your dreams. Charity wouldn’t want that.”

Bailey nodded against her, although she was trembling when she pulled away.

For a brief second, she considered offering Bailey a place to stay with her, but a small picket line at the corner of the street near the parking lot made her rethink the suggestion. Several individuals waved signs protesting the filming of the movie as they chanted for the outsiders to leave the town alone.

With sentiment against her, her close call in the street, and the fact that the killer had sent her a photo of Charity, having Bailey stay with her might endanger the young woman.

Bailey sighed wearily, and they finished crossing the quadrangle, then the parking lot, until they reached a beat-up VW Beetle. Bailey unlocked the trunk, retrieved a computer bag, and threw it over her shoulder.

“What do you think that agent will find on here?” Bailey asked.

“I don’t know,” Josie said. “Maybe a clue as to whom your sister might have met up with at that party. Someone other than the photographer.”

Bailey nodded. “He has to find the bastard who killed her.”

“He will,” Josie said with conviction.

Bailey leaned against her car. “I can’t go back in there today. I need to be alone.”

“I understand.” Josie reached for the bag. “I’ll give this to Agent Hamrick.” She brushed Bailey’s sandy blonde hair over her shoulders. Then she slipped a business card from her pocket and slid it into Bailey’s hand. “Call me if you need anything, Bailey. Even if it’s just to talk.”

Bailey nodded, although fresh tears filled her eyes. She swiped at them, then crawled in the driver’s seat and started the engine. Josie’s heart lurched to her throat as Bailey drove away.

Maybe she should have told Bailey about receiving that picture from the killer. But she didn’t want to spook the young girl.

Still, the killer knew her, had chosen her for a reason.

That worried her. She’d barely survived one maniac. She didn’t know if she could survive if another one came after her.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she scanned the parking lot and quadrangle.

Was the killer here? Was he watching her?

Small clusters of actors gathered across the lawn, and others were scattered on the steps. Josie shivered as a gust of wind ruffled her hair, and then she hurried toward the building.

Before she reached the steps, a man’s voice called her name. She spun around and gasped.

The man in front of her looked exactly like the man who haunted her nightmares—Billy Linder.

Dane passed a line of teenagers as he headed toward Easton’s makeshift studio. The man had contracted to do headshots for new actresses and also still shots for promotional purposes for the film.

If he was a parent, Dane wouldn’t want his daughter to play the role of one of the teens in this film, especially since three of them had been pushed to death off a cliff.

As he walked down the hall, Dane noticed several rooms were marked for auditions, and voices echoed from inside. A room at the end of the hall bore a sign for Easton’s Photography. Three young women waited outside the door. Hoping they had answers, he flashed his ID along with a photo of Charity and asked if they knew the woman.

“I’ve seen her around but haven’t talked to her,” one girl said.

“Same here,” another girl added.

The third girl brushed on lip gloss. “Why, did she get one of the parts?”

Dane shook his head. “No, I’m afraid she was killed after the barbecue. Did anyone see her or talk to her that day?”

Mortification darkened their smiles, but they shook their heads no.

“What happened?” one girl asked.

“She was stabbed to death,” Dane said, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

Eyes widened, and shocked gasps followed.

A brunette in the group glanced nervously around the hallway. “Do you think whoever killed her is here?”

“I don’t know.” Dane hated the fear rippling between the women. Unfortunately, that couldn’t be helped. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Were any of you at the barbecue?”

Sheepish, wary looks passed between the group.

“Listen, I don’t care what any of you do in your personal life,” Dane said, although he hoped to hell they were being careful and traveling in pairs. If only Betsy had stayed with a friend, she might still be alive. “All I want to know is if you saw Charity Snow at the party, and who she was with.”

The brunette leaned close to him. “Okay, I did go, but I don’t remember her. I got a little too drunk and passed out in one of the bedrooms.”

The big brother/detective in him fought a chastising lecture about the dangers of alcohol and parties. Too many ended in sexual assault.

He gestured toward the other two girls. “How about either of you?”

The athletic one of the group shook her head. “I didn’t go. I went for a run that night and crashed early.”

The redhead fiddled with her hair. “I saw her at the party, but just for a moment. She was talking with Eddie Easton. They seemed kind of cozy.”

His adrenaline kicked in. Could he be closing in on the killer? And Betsy’s?

Dammit, he was afraid to hope.

“Did they leave together?” he asked.

The redhead shrugged. “I don’t know. They went outside, but the dancing started, and I joined in. I didn’t see her afterward.”

He was afraid of that. “If you think of anything else, let me know.” Dane rapped his knuckles on the door and peeked in. Eddie Easton was well dressed with his black hair slicked back.

A pretty brunette was stretched out on a red leather sofa wearing a skimpy bikini.

This appeared to be more than a headshot.

Easton draped a black boa around her neck. “That’s great. Tilt your head a little more to the left. Think of something sexy and give me a look that says
I want you
.”

Dane stepped inside, watching as the man fluffed the girl’s long brown hair and turned a fan so the strands blew gently over her shoulders. “You look beautiful, doll,” he said. “Perfect.”

The lecherous way Easton grinned at the girl made Dane’s skin crawl.

Instantly disliking him, he cleared his throat.

Easton froze, one hand on his camera as he angled his head toward Dane.

“Excuse me, but we’re working,” Easton said. “This is a private session.”

Dane flashed his ID. “Special Agent Dane Hamrick, Mr. Easton. You’re going to have to cut this session short. I need to question you about a murder.”

The woman in front of the camera vaulted up from the red leather sofa where she was sprawled. “Murder? Who was killed?”

“One of the actresses.” Dane flipped his phone around to display Charity’s photo. “Her name was Charity Snow. Did you know her?”

Her face paled. “No. I just arrived this morning. I haven’t met any of the others.”

Dane narrowed his eyes at Easton. “You knew her, didn’t you, Mr. Easton?”

The man opened his mouth as if to argue, but Dane dared him to deny it.

“Don’t bother to lie. I talked to her sister. She said you took headshots of the two of them back in their hometown. Someone else saw you with her at the party.”

Easton motioned to the girl. “Why don’t we pick back up later?”

“Sure, Eddie.” She pulled on a robe, then hurried from the room as if grateful to escape.

Dane folded his arms, sizing up Easton. Expensive clothes, preppy looking, slicked-back hair. Smile a little too flashy.

Definitely a predator type.

Was his photography business a way to lure unsuspecting women into his trap?

He guessed his age to be around thirty, maybe thirty-one or thirty-two, a little older than Betsy would be if she’d lived. Had he been near the college ten years ago when she visited?

Would she have been swayed by his charm? Maybe. Maybe not.

Dane folded his arms and stepped closer, using his size to intimidate the man. “You were the last one to see Charity alive. What happened?” He snapped his fingers. “Or let me guess. You drugged her and slept with her, then when she woke up and realized what happened she got upset and you killed her.”

Josie broke out in a cold sweat. Had Billy Linder escaped from the psychiatric ward? “Billy?”

“I’ve been looking for you, Josie.”

Josie clenched her hands into fists. His voice sounded different, more high-pitched. On closer examination, his hair was slightly wavier and a lighter shade of brown.

Was this man playing a sick joke on her? Maybe he’d intentionally imitated Linder to frighten her.

She swallowed hard, silently ordering herself not to react. She refused to give him the pleasure of showing her fear.

“Who are you?” Josie asked.

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “You thought I was him, didn’t you? The Bride Killer?”

Josie inhaled sharply. “You look like him.”

Except there were no scars on his hands. He was slightly shorter than Linder, too.

His eyes were menacing, though, sinister, as if he was looking right through her.

“Who
are
you?” she asked again.

“My name is Porter McCray. I’m auditioning for the part of Billy Linder.” A twisted smile lit his eyes. “I visited Billy and studied his movements, how he talks, everything about him, so I can land that part.”

A shudder rippled through Josie. The taxidermy tool protruding from the front pocket of his flannel shirt reminded her of the dead animals Billy had on his wall. “You talked to Billy?”

“Yes, he’s intriguing,” McCray said. “A little subdued, but I suppose that’s from medication or being locked up.”

Yes, he had been subdued and quiet. Defeated. The nurse had also commented that he was on antipsychotics.

She didn’t intend to discuss her feelings with this man, though.

“I want to work with you,” he said. “Since you spent time with Linder, you could give me some pointers so I can portray him more accurately.” He crept closer. “Maybe we could run through a scene or two from the story.”

Josie shook her head as she inched backward.

Images of Billy Linder zapping her with that stun gun then throwing her in his vehicle haunted her.

Then another image—she’d regained consciousness and discovered her hands and feet were bound. Billy’s dying mother sat hunched in her wheelchair, her skin a sallow color, her bones poking through weathered skin.

“Mama is dying and I don’t want to be alone,” Billy had said. To be his wife, she’d had to pass his tests.

She
had
tried. She’d made biscuits and fried chicken and gravy, biding her time until the right moment.

Then she’d flung hot gravy on Billy and run for the door.

He was fast, though, and he’d caught her.

“How about it, Josie? I know you want this movie to be authentic.” Her skin prickled as he touched her arm. “Will you show me how he tied you up and what he said so I can do it just like he did?”

Revulsion mushroomed inside Josie. Either the man was the most insensitive person she’d ever met, or he was crazy himself.

It didn’t matter, though. She wasn’t about to let a Linder wannabe add to her nightmares.