Time of Death. BEVERLY BARTON

she’d be the talkative type. All he needed to know was what night he could kill Charlie, a night when neither she nor her daughters would be at home. If necessary, he could wait for just the right moment, and in the meantime, he’d simply choose the next person on his list and come back for Charlie later.

      Tagg Chambless stared at the two envelopes he held in his hand, both neatly sliced open, probably with Hilary’s pearl-handled letter opener. He held them up, showing them to the Powell agent who had accompanied him home to Memphis a few days ago.

      “I found these this morning,” Tagg said. “In one of her lingerie drawers. They were hidden beneath the scented lining. I guess when the police searched our bedroom, they somehow overlooked these.”

      Holt Keinan glanced from Tagg’s haggard face to the nondescript white envelopes he clutched tightly in his closed fist. “What are they?” He sure as hell hoped they weren’t love letters some other guy had written to the man’s now deceased wife.

      “Death threats,” Tagg replied, a catch in his deep voice.

      Holt focused on the envelopes. “Mind if I take a look?”

      Tagg handed the letters over to Holt, who laid one down on a nearby end table in the den and then slipped the single page from the other envelope, unfolded it, and read aloud. “‘Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?’”

      “Why didn’t she show me these letters?” Tagg asked. “Why did she hide them from me?”

      Holt inspected the envelopes. Typewritten. No return address. One was postmarked Knoxville, Tennessee, and the postmark on the other was smudged, making it illegible. The messages were identical.

      “Any idea who might have sent these to your wife?”

      Tagg shook his head. “I’m certain she didn’t know anybody from Knoxville.”

      “Where the letters were mailed may or may not be important. But the message is important. You’re right—these are definitely death threats.”

      “You think the person who murdered Hilary is the one who sent her these letters?”

      “I think it’s a good possibility.”

      “Is there any way to find out who—?”

      “Probably not,” Holt said. “But I’ll overnight these to our lab.”

      “Shouldn’t I show them to the police?”

      “Let me handle that. Our lab will get to the letters immediately. With the police, it could take weeks … or longer.”

      Tagg sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right. The police have gotten nowhere. I’m pretty sure they think that I’m involved with some unscrupulous business partners and one of them had my wife killed. They’re wrong. I’ve tried to tell them that, but they won’t believe me. I’m putting my trust in the Powell Agency. I expect you to uncover the truth and find out who killed Hilary.”

      “The only promise we can make is that we will use every resource available to us to find your wife’s killer and we won’t stop looking until we either find the person responsible or you tell us to stop.”

      “Understood.”

      Sanders sipped on the cup of hot tea that Barbara Jean had, only moments ago, brought to him there in Griffin’s study. During the past few years, he had come to rely on her as a friend, a lover, and an assistant. She meant more to him than she would ever know. His love for her was deep and sincere. He would willingly lay down his life and die for her. Barbara Jean possessed a sweet, gentle nature and a warm, friendly personality, where on the other hand, he was quiet, stern, and very much an introvert. He preferred his own company to the company of others.

      After his wife’s death so long ago, he had believed that he would never be able to love another woman. And there had been no one of importance in his life until Griffin brought Barbara Jean to Griffin’s Rest three years ago. She had been the only witness who could possibly identify her sister’s killer, and thus her life had been in danger. They had kept her under twenty-four-hour-a-day protection until the killer was finally caught. By that time, she had become a member of the household and had accepted a position with the Powell Agency. And little by little, as time had passed, he had grown to love her.

      As Sanders drank the tea, he thought about Holt Keinan’s recent phone call concerning the Hilary Chambless murder case. He had sent Holt to Memphis with Tagg Chambless on Monday to begin the private investigation, and this morning new evidence had shown up. Tagg had discovered two threatening letters that had been sent to his wife before her death. The question was—why had she hidden the letters instead of showing them to him?

      “I’m overnighting the letters to our lab,” Holt had said. “I doubt anything will show up that will help us, but it needs to be done and we can get to it a lot quicker than the police.”

      Sanders wished that Griffin was here. Griffin was much better at dealing with the authorities than he was. And someone would have to explain to the Memphis PD why those letters hadn’t been turned over to them immediately. Maybe the explanations could wait until Griffin returned from the island retreat where he’d taken Nicole for a second honeymoon.

      His years as a career soldier made it more difficult for Sanders to rebel against authority, to ignore rules and regulations. Even when he had lived under Malcolm York’s domination, little more than a slave, he had been a good soldier, obeying commands, always doing what he was told. Griffin was a different type, a rebel, a risk taker, a nonconformist. Griffin made his own rules. And Sanders would follow Griffin anywhere, even through the gates of hell.

      And why not? They had already been there and back together. And they had survived.

      Even if his wife and child had not.

      A soft rap on the outer door of Griffin’s private study alerted Sanders that Barbara Jean had returned, probably bringing him a second cup of tea and a snack. She had no doubt noticed how little he had eaten at lunch. The responsibility of being in charge of the Powell Agency weighed heavily on his shoulders.

      “Come in,” Sanders said.

      Barbara Jean eased open the door, but didn’t enter the study. “Mr. Wilson just arrived. He’s waiting in the living room.”

      “I am ready to see him.”

      “All right.” She looked directly at Sanders. “Promise me that after your meeting with Mr. Wilson, you will come to the kitchen for an afternoon snack.”

      The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He almost smiled. Sweet Barbara Jean. A mother hen if ever there was one. She was the type of woman who should have had half a dozen children to smother with love and attention. But she would never have a child. Nor would he.

      “I promise,” he replied. “Now, send in Mr. Wilson.”

      She nodded, then turned and wheeled down the hallway.

      Within minutes, a tall, slender man wearing a dark blue suit and a burgundy and blue striped tie stood in the open doorway. As Sanders came out from behind the desk, he inspected his visitor from the top of his gray streaked dark hair to his leather shoes. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties and from his demeanor, Sanders would have surmised that he was a confident, successful man. Of course, the background check on Mr. Wilson had given him that information. Jared Wilson was a professor at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. He and Griffin were both alumni of the school and had known each other for years, so when he had contacted the Powell Agency, he had immediately been given an appointment with Sanders.

      “I am sorry that Griffin is unavailable,” Sanders said as he held out his hand to his visitor. “He and Nicole are on a second honeymoon. But I can assure you that I and the Powell Agency will assist you in any way possible.”

      “Thank you,