“Okay, so tell me who you think would send you the letter?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t have a lot of time, Ms. Hughes. Why don’t you give me your best guess.”
“I wish I could,” she snapped, unable to come up with anyone she thought might want to torment her. Then she gave him the names of the people she’d met since moving up here, most of whom Carter knew personally, none of whom he considered a nutcase who would send an obsessive letter like the one she’d received.
But then, no one knew what a person did privately.
He glanced down at the letter she’d found in her mailbox again. So meticulous, the text painstakingly placed so that the words didn’t mar her face nor detract from the sensual atmosphere of the photograph.
“Resurrection was the movie where you played a killer, right?”
Little lines framed her mouth. “A psychotic murderess.”
“Who was into sadomasochism.”
“Mainly sadism,” she corrected. “Anne Parks inflicted pain on her lovers, not herself.”
He remembered the film. Had seen it in the theater with Carolyn. Remembered talking during the long drive home about the level of eroticism versus violence in the thriller. “Doesn’t it seem odd that of all the publicity shots of you, he chose this one?” he said, and felt a real sense of foreboding. Gone were any of his thoughts that Jenna Hughes was just a Hollywood princess who was missing a few baubles she’d donated to the local theater.
“I don’t think it was random,” she admitted, and licked her lips nervously. “And that’s what’s scary.”
“But the music you heard was from another movie?”
“White Out. The song was a hit. The movie never came out.” She cleared her throat, then explained quickly about the accident that had closed production of the film. He remembered reading about the avalanche and tragedy. Looking at her now, he saw the pain in her eyes, noticed the slight droop of her shoulders and he realized she’d never gotten over the loss of her sister who had been killed during the filming. There had been a freak accident; explosives that were to be used in a later scene had inexplicably gone off, creating a killer avalanche. Jenna’s sister had been in the path of hundreds of tons of wildly rolling, roaring snow and ice. She’d never had a chance. Jenna, he guessed, somehow blamed herself for not being able to save her younger sister’s life.
He asked a few more questions, and they were just wrapping up the conversation when BJ knocked on the door. “When you’ve got a minute,” she said, poking her head into the room. Her usual smile was nonexistent.
“We’re about done here.”
Jenna stood. “Look, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“I’ll keep this, run it down to the lab,” he said, motioning to the plastic bag. “In the meantime, be vigilant. Lock your house and cars.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll get back to you. Let me know if you hear anything else, get any more disturbing mail or calls, or if you think of anything that might help.”
“I will.”
“You have a security system?”
“Yes.”
“Use it. You might consider a guard dog.”
“I have a dog.”
He remembered seeing the ancient mutt in the old truck and at the theater. For a second he considered telling her to upgrade to a younger, tougher animal that might at least be able to hear, but decided to hold his tongue. “Good.”
He stood and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Look, you take extra precautions, okay? For you and your kids. I’ll make sure that the road near your house is on the nightly surveillance for the county, but I have to tell you, my men are working overtime already. It’s up to you to be on guard and stay safe. You might consider hiring a bodyguard and getting a more…aggressive dog.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile as he held up the plastic bag. “I’ll have the lab check this out, see if we can get prints or other trace evidence or find out what kind of paper, ink, and printer we’re dealing with.”
“Thanks.”
She seemed sincere. Maybe he’d misjudged her by immediately tossing her into his mental bin of preconceived stereotypes that all Hollywood actresses were egomaniacs. “I’ll let you know what we find out.”
“Great.” She nodded curtly, then hurried out of his office. As he watched her go, he knew he hadn’t seen the last of her. Surprisingly, that wasn’t such a bad realization.