The Devil Died at Midnight

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  In Elias’s letters to both women, he was kind and apologetic. I wish I could say that’s all they were, but they were much more. Elias told Paula that Alexandra was pregnant with his baby. He asked Paula to kill Alexandra after the baby was born, and raise the baby as her own. He told her where he’d hidden all the items he’d stolen from all the robberies and said she’d have enough money to take the baby and run away.

  So many years had come and gone, I didn’t think it would matter whether I gave the letter to Paula anymore. Chelsea’s a grown woman. She wouldn’t get taken now. Paula has moved on with her life. As for his request to end Alexandra’s life, I figured Paula would have a good laugh at Elias’s expense for even thinking she’d consider it.

  As I write this now, I have to wonder whether I was wrong. As for what Elias said to Sandra, well, I suggest you talk to her about that yourself. You seem like a good person, Miss Jax. In light of recent events, I’d encourage you to take precautions and not to see either woman alone. Take that beautiful boy with you.

  Good luck.

  Loretta Pratt

  CHAPTER 50

  Two hours later, I sat in the lobby of my hotel across from two disgruntled women.

  “Thank you both for meeting me tonight,” I said.

  Paula looked at Sandra then at me. “You never said she’d be here. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

  “You agreed because I told you I knew about the letters Elias wrote you,” I said. “I wasn’t aware you two had a problem with each other.”

  Dressed in a loose-fitting tank top in the middle of winter, jeans, and a cheap pair of flip-flops, Sandra looked like she could be bought for a dollar and change if the right guy was interested. She slouched in her seat, kicked her feet over the top of the table, and said, “We don’t have a problem with each other. Why would we?”

  Paula rolled her eyes. Clearly one of them didn’t agree. “Why are we here? What do you want?”

  “I’ll get straight to it. Which one of you killed Alexandra Weston and Barbara Berry?”

  Paula shot out of her chair, stuck a flattened hand in my direction. “Whoa, wait a minute. I didn’t come here to be accused of anything, especially something I didn’t do.”

  Finch, who was sitting two tables away, leaned around the book he was pretending to read and said, “Sit down, Paula.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Do what he says,” I said.

  She remained standing, defiant, glancing around, assessing all possible exits.

  “Now,” I said.

  Sandra laughed in amusement, remained seated.

  Paula lowered herself back into her seat. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I know what was in your letter,” I said.

  “You’re full of it. You couldn’t possibly know. Elias is dead, and the letter was sealed when it was given to me.”

  “What if I told you the letter was read and put into a different envelope before it was delivered to you, so it appeared like it hadn’t been opened?”

  “I still say you’re bluffing. If you knew what it said, you wouldn’t play games. You’d just tell me.”

  Sandra perked up, curious to hear my answer.

  “For starters, Elias’s mother was supposed to give you the letter right after Elias died, and she didn’t,” I said.

  “She said she only recently went through the box,” Paula said.

  “Don’t you find it a little too convenient that right after Alexandra Weston told Loretta she was writing a memoir that included a chapter on her son that Loretta finally decided to deliver the letters?”

  “What are you saying—the three of us conspired to kill Alexandra to keep her from releasing the book?”

  “It’s possible,” I said.

  “I don’t know Loretta, and I don’t know Sandra either. We didn’t meet up together, and we didn’t make any plans. There’s nothing going on here. Nothing, mmm ... kay?”

  “On the other hand, Alexandra was poisoned,” I said, “which could have easily been a one-person job.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it,” Paula said.

  “I didn’t do it either,” Sandra said. “Can’t say I’m sorry she’s dead though.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “She tried to scare me, told me she was writing about my family in her memoir.”

  “And it didn’t upset you?”

  Sandra brushed a hand through the air. “I mean, yeah, I guess. It doesn’t affect me though. I don’t care what other people think. I am who I am. Period.”

  I shifted the focus back to Paula. “Elias asked you to kill Alexandra in his letter. He wanted you to kidnap the baby, his baby, and raise her yourself.”

  Sandra sat straight up in her chair, grinning like she was witnessing a riveting scene in a movie. “He wanted you to kill Alexandra Weston and take her baby? Wow. That’s messed up.”

  “Not now,” Paula said. “Twenty-five years ago.”

  “Were you surprised when you read what he wanted you to do?” I asked.

  “He was crazy to think I’d do it,” Paula said. “But then, this is Elias we’re talking about. He was crazy. And I was too stupid to notice. I thought I knew him. I worshipped him. The guy I fell in love with wasn’t real, just a man I created in my mind.”

  “He created what he wanted you to see. He did the same thing to Alexandra, and as smart as she was, she fell for it too.”

  “Why take her baby though?” Paula asked. “And why ask me to keep it? I don’t get it.”

  “He must have asked you because he thought you would do it. What I don’t understand is ... why?”

  “Because I—” Paula stopped and her eyes flitted around the room.

  “Because you what?” Sandra asked. “What’s your deal? Just say what you need to say.”

  Tiny sweat beads gathered in the creases on Paula’s forehead. She wiped her brow with her hand, tried to act normal. I looked at Finch. He saw it too. We all did.

  With all of us focusing on Paula, I asked the question that had been on my mind since I learned about her letter. “Why would he ask you to kill for him?”

  Instead of looking at me, she looked at Sandra. “I don’t know.”

  “He must have thought you were capable of it. What would make him think that?”

  She glanced at Sandra again.

  I was missing something. Something big.

  “Sandra,” I said. “What was in your letter?”

  “A bunch of bullshit.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He didn’t shoot me,” Sandra said.

  “What?”

  “He said the night my parents were killed, he didn’t shoot me.”

  “How’s that possible? If he didn’t shoot you, who did? And if someone else shot you, was he trying to say he had an accomplice?”

  “Who knows?”

  I turned again to Paula. “What do you know that you’re not saying?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You were his girlfriend, Paula. You know something. I can tell. We all can.”

  Paula gripped the corner of the side table next to her, like if she didn’t grab hold of something she’d slide off her chair. In a hushed voice, she said, “I’m sorry. It was a long time ago.”

  “Sorry for what?” I asked.

  She faced Sandra. “Sorry for shooting you, Sandra.”

  CHAPTER 51

  In hindsight, the lobby of my hotel may not have been the best place for me to meet Sandra and Paula, but it served a purpose I needed it to serve. Armed with the news Paula was responsible for shooting her the night her parents died, Sandra dove from her chair and went straight for the jugular, turning the hotel lobby into a boxing arena featuring one seriously furious, and possibly high, middle-aged chick. Sandra tackled Paula to the ground, knocking over Paula’s chair with Paula still in it, then straddling her on the floor. Hands gripped around Paula’s neck, Sandra made good use of every foul
word in her extensive arsenal.

  A curious crowd gathered, eyes wide, more interested in watching the girl-on-girl display than breaking it up. As Paula gasped for the smallest pocket of air, her face reddened to various shades. Finch reached down, grabbed a fistful of the back of Sandra’s shirt. He yanked her off Paula, pushing her back into a chair. He commanded she stay there.

  For the moment, she listened.

  “Catch your breath, and get a grip,” Finch said. “But your ass stays in that chair.” He turned to the growing crowd. “This is private business. Get lost.”

  I gazed across the mass of people still unwilling to separate, studying their faces before kneeling next to Paula. She was half-coughing, half-gagging, and one-hundred-percent struggling to breathe. Her neck was swollen and red with visible imprints of where Sandra’s fingers had just been. I did my best to calm her down, settle her breathing. When she’d swallowed enough air to form words again, she turned her head toward Sandra, and yelled, “I said I was sorry!”

  Sandra rolled her eyes. “Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it. You shot me! I could have died!”

  “You should have died, but you didn’t. Elias plugged the bullet hole in your chest. That’s why you’re still alive.”

  Sandra shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you remember? He took his mask off, and you looked at him right before you passed out.”

  “When I came to, it was all a blur. I remember seeing his hands when they cuffed him. They were red and bloody, and I didn’t know why.”

  “Now you know. He saved your life. A life you’ve wasted.”

  “What do you know about my life?”

  “A lot more than you think. One of my friends is a friend of yours. I hear things. Even when I don’t want to, and believe me, I don’t.”

  “What about my parents?” Sandra asked. “Did you shoot them too? Leave Elias to take the blame for two murders that weren’t his?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with your mother and your stepdad. He killed them. And you know why he did it.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Sure you do. Your mother knew your stepdad was sexually abusing you, and she did nothing to stop it.”

  Sandra’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

  “After I shot you, he told me.”

  The conversation had taken a personal turn, with both women speaking to each other like they’d forgotten they were in a public place. The way Sandra dressed, the way she talked, fast and loose—it all made sense now.

  “Elias didn’t even know me,” Sandra said. “Not really. Why would he risk everything for me? I don’t get it.”

  “He knew your story.”

  “How? I never even met the guy.”

  “You did. You just didn’t know it. Elias saw you out one night. He overheard you telling a friend all about your situation at home. You were crying to her, admitting what your stepdad had done. Your friend told you to tell your mom and you said you had. Your mom didn’t believe you. She chose to ignore your accusations and pretend it wasn’t happening.”

  “It still doesn’t explain why you shot me,” Sandra said.

  “We were going to run away and get married, and then he saw you. Sad, considering you never noticed him. Once he knew your story, he obsessed over you. I became nothing to him. I was jealous. I’m not a mean-spirited person.”

  Sandra snorted a laugh. “Yeah, uhh, right.”

  “I mean it. I’m really not. I was just young and stupid and in love with the wrong guy.”

  Sandra laughed. “Save it. I don’t need your excuses. I don’t care.”

  “If you don’t care, why choke me?”

  “You deserved it.” Sandra pulled her tank top down, exposing a faded scar on the front of her chest. “Every day for the last twenty-five years, I get out of the shower, see this scar, and am reminded of that night.”

  I crossed my arms in front of me, stepped forward. “You both have cleared up a lot of past history, but it still doesn’t solve Alexandra’s and Barbara’s murders.”

  “I already told you, I didn’t do it,” Paula said.

  Sandra looked at Finch like she didn’t dare make a move without his permission. “Same. Can we go now?”

  “Soon,” Finch said.

  “Alexandra was going to include a chapter about Elias in her memoir and, more than likely, expose both of your secrets,” I said. “Paula, my guess is Alexandra found out you shot Sandra somehow. What I don’t understand is why wouldn’t Alexandra put it in the original book she wrote about him then?”

  None of us had a good answer for this, and with Elias and Alexandra dead, odds were it wouldn’t change. “Paula, when did Alexandra tell you she knew you shot Sandra?”

  “A couple months back. She said she wanted to give me a chance to tell my side of the story. I refused. She was upset I didn’t give her what she wanted, and she left.”

  “And you didn’t have any contact with her again?”

  “Not until Elias’s mother showed up with the old letter Elias had written. I knew then I had a way to stop her. I knew her kid wasn’t her husband’s. I called Alexandra, threatened to expose her if she exposed me.”

  “She came to my house too,” Sandra said. “She told me she knew about my situation with my stepdad. I didn’t have the trump card Paula had. My letter from Elias was a simple apology. He was proud he’d killed my parents. He thought I’d be happy. Free. When I cried over them the night they were killed, he didn’t understand why. Were they bad parents? Maybe. But they were my only family.”

  Hearing her story, Paula’s eyes welled with tears.

  “Don’t get all weepy on me,” Sandra said. “I just tried to take you out.”

  “You were right though. I deserved it.”

  Paula stuck a hand out toward Sandra. “Truce?”

  Sandra smacked it away. “Get your truce the hell away from me. We’re not friends. We’ll never be friends.”

  “I asked both of you to bring the letters tonight,” I said. “I’d like to see them.”

  “What are you planning to do with them?” Paula asked.

  “I don’t know yet. For now, I’d just like to read them.”

  The letters were handed over. I read them, handed them to Finch to read too. I had a gift for forgetting things. Anything he read was committed to memory.

  The letters were just as Sandra and Paula said. Nothing more. I handed them back. “If you can agree not to attack each other, I have one final question for you, Paula, and then we’re done. What did you do with the leverage you had about Alexandra’s daughter?”

  “Nothing. I threatened her, said if she published the information about me, I’d destroy her life. And by destroy, I don’t mean kill. I’d tell everyone about the child she had with Elias, but first, I’d tell her daughter myself. Part of me thought I’d tell her anyway. The girl deserves to know the truth.”

  “How did she respond?” I asked.

  “Not in the way I expected. The only thing she said was, ‘You’ll never get anywhere near my daughter, and even if you do, by then it will be too late.’”

  CHAPTER 52

  Alexandra Weston

  December 5, 2015

  Alexandra sat on the sofa, jaw clenched, watching the tears flow down her daughter’s cheeks. It wasn’t easy telling Chelsea the man she’d called Dad all her life wasn’t really her father, but life wasn’t easy. Chelsea was getting married soon, moving out, living on her own. It was time she learned to deal with challenges like a grown-up.

  Though Alexandra had given up smoking a decade before, the past few weeks had been grueling. So now, as nothing she could say offered Chelsea the degree of solace she was looking for, Alexandra reached for the matte-black pack of Wills Insignia cigarettes beside her, ready to indulge in a few relaxing puffs. “Really, Chelsea, you need to calm down. It’s hard for me to talk to you when you’re like this.”

  “Calm down?
Are you kidding me? How am I going to tell my fiancé? How am I going to tell his parents? They’ll never understand. They’ll never allow him to marry me after they find out.”

  Alexandra leaned back, flicked the metal on the side of her lighter, and lit up. She took a long drag, tried to keep calm as Chelsea’s anger flared.

  “So what, you’re done talking to me now?” Chelsea asked. “You think you can tell me something like this, and then move on?”

  “I said what I had to say. I told you the truth. I’m not sure what else you need from me.”

  “I need answers! How’s it even possible that man ... that horrible, disgusting man was my real father?”

  The single infraction, the one, scandalous transgression between Alexandra and Elias, had lasted less than two minutes. Two short, premature ejaculatory minutes and poof, she was knocked up with his baby. Explaining how it came to occur or why it occurred was pointless. “What matters is it happened, and I felt you were old enough to hear it. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

  “Old enough? You’re lying. I know how you work, Mother. You never would have told me if you didn’t have to, so why are you?”

  Alexandra curved her body forward, dipping the cigarette into a square metal tray on the coffee table. “You’re right. I spent my life trying to forget it, trying to give you a good life, trying to keep it contained.”