Murder at Castle Rock Read online

  As Bronwyn fixed him with her most convincing puppy dog eyes, the sergeant's face softened. She'd laid it on thick, and he ate it right up. The sarge folded his arms across his broad chest and turned to face me. "Fine," he said, defeated. "I still stand by my orders that the second floor and rear tower are to be sealed off—as well as the loading dock and Parker's office." I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand to stop me. "All of those areas will be strictly off limits to the staff and the public. However," he added with a glance at Bronwyn, "I will allow the downstairs stage to remain open for business. My forensics team will be in and out of the closed-off areas as they investigate further, and I will assign a couple of officers to patrol those areas as I see fit. If so much as a speck of dust is moved up there by someone other than a member of the APD, I will shut this place down so fast it'll make your head spin. Do we have a deal?"

  I nodded hastily and shook his hand before he had a change of heart. My own mind was racing, mapping out the logistics of moving Bobby's second show—and possibly the third—down to the Dungeon. The downstairs setup mirrored the stage and seating of High Court, and it held the same capacity. The acoustics weren't quite as great, but we could get by. There was just one thing…"Sergeant Sinclair, I think we can make that work—but I've got one more quick issue to settle. All of the band's instruments and the crew's video equipment are still in High Court. Since my staff and I are barred from the area, how do you propose we get it moved downstairs?"

  Bronwyn shot me a warning look. "Quit while you're ahead," she mouthed from behind her father's back.

  Sure enough, Sergeant Sinclair barked out a laugh. "What?" he scoffed. "Do you expect my men to move your equipment around? What do you take us for, a bunch of wannabe roadies?" He shook his head. "I've done all I can for you by letting you keep the downstairs open—but I can't allow you to contaminate our crime scene by going up there and moving things around. You're a bright woman, Amelia. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Twenty minutes later, I was finally free to go. The cops had run off the gaggle of reporters waiting to harass us, and Bobby and his crew had been escorted safely to their hotel. The rest of the Castle Rock staff was released while Bronwyn and I were negotiating with the sarge in my office.

  Kat left before I could see how she was doing. I would call and check on her when I got home. I'd been so focused on trying to earn a promotion that I'd failed to be there for my best friend.

  While the thought of walking to my car alone made me a little uneasy, I declined Sinclair's offer to escort me. I glanced over at Bronwyn, slumped down and already drooling on the seat belt in the passenger side of his patrol car, and something told me it'd be best if he went ahead and got her home before Mrs. Sinclair went mad with worry. The sergeant didn't argue. "Detective Dixon will be in touch tomorrow, Amelia," he said as he eased into the driver's seat and closed the door behind him. I waved goodbye and began my trek to the employee parking lot behind the courtyard out back.

  As I rounded the corner of the building, my gaze traveled up to the rear tower. Until now, I'd always considered the structure to be one of my favorite spots at Castle Rock. Kat, Reese, Laura, and I had hung out up there lots of times, knocking back beers and sharing the occasional joint. The tower had a perfect view of the fireworks displays held at Turner Field after Friday night Braves games and on the Fourth of July. I had a lot of fond memories up there. Now, after Parker's tragic death just hours before, the majestic structure loomed dark and formidable against the night sky. I shuddered, remembering the ghastly silhouette of my boss's body in the moonlight as he plummeted toward the loading dock. I would never look at that tower the same way again.

  The night seemed eerily calm, with no sound aside from the whispering of the breeze through the trees just inside the fence—not even the occasional car horn or siren. It was rare to experience such quiet in the heart of a city like Atlanta, and it unnerved me. I shivered in the chilly November wind and pulled my coat more tightly around me, quickening my pace. I could just make out the dim lights of the employee parking lot beyond the fence. Rounding the corner, I spotted my grey Jetta, the lone car left in the lot. I found myself regretting the decision to walk out here alone at three in the morning. Don't worry, I reassured myself. Almost there.

  I was about to sprint the last few yards when a bright light shone in my face, blinding me. Squinting, I saw the outline of a figure in front of me. I screamed bloody murder and tried to run past, but I couldn't see where I was going. A cracked section of pavement tripped me up, and I went sprawling across the sidewalk. Ouch!

  My unknown assailant rushed to my side, and the light followed. Between the sounds of my own cries, I could make out the words "reporter," "eyewitness," and "death." As my eyes adjusted, I could see the blinking red recording light of a video camera, held by a tall cameraman in faded jeans and a green hoodie. The reporter spouting questions at me was a middle-aged man with greying hair and a dark blue suit. I recognized him from one of the local news shows. 'Mark' something.

  "Can you tell us about the death here tonight? Our sources say the body belonged to the owner of this establishment, that he jumped from the tower. Is this true? Was it a suicide? " The reporter loomed close to my face and rattled off questions in a rapid-fire manner, not allowing me room to so much as catch my breath, let alone answer.

  "Get away from me!" I shrieked, struggling to pull myself off the ground. For the record, neither the reporter nor the cameraman made any attempt to help me up. Rude!

  "Leave her alone!" someone called. Rapid footfalls grew louder behind me. I whipped my head around to see Tony Spencer, the hot radio guy, jogging yet again to my rescue. Tim Scott was on his heels.

  "Where do you get off, man?" Tony snapped at the reporter. He held up one arm to shield us both from the camera and shoved the cameraman with the other, nearly causing the man's equipment to topple off of his shoulder. The man managed to maintain his balance and fired an angry glare at Tony. Still, much to my relief, he clicked off his camera and lowered it.

  Tony was still furious. "A man died tonight, and this woman has been through enough," he barked. "Go find your story someplace else."

  The reporter wasn't giving up so easily. Glaring at his cameraman, he hastily pulled a voice recorder from his pocket and switched it on. "What is your name, sir?" He switched his focus to Tony and thrust the recorder in his face. "Did you witness any of the events that transpired here tonight? What else can you tell us?"

  "I can tell you to back off before things get ugly." Tony spoke through clenched teeth. His hands were now balled into fists at his side.

  "Jackass," the reporter muttered, putting away his recorder. He turned to his cameraman. "Come on, Pete, let's get out of here." The duo trotted off to their news van, which was half-hidden in the shadows in the farthest corner of the parking lot. I'd been so focused on getting to my car that I hadn't noticed it before.

  Tony turned back to face me and held out his hand. "So we meet again." He helped me up. "I usually prefer to sweep girls off their feet, but you just keep doing the sweeping yourself."

  Thankfully, it was too dark for him to see me blush. "Thanks again," I said, dusting myself off. "They came out of nowhere." I frowned. "What are you still doing here, anyway? Sinclair said that everyone was gone."

  "Actually, we left half an hour ago." It was Tim who answered. "We gave our statements and then headed to the Waffle House down the street for a cup o' joe. Who knew that WaHo would be so busy at two-thirty on a Tuesday morning? Dozens of people were there grabbing post-concert grub. We actually had to wait in line twenty minutes just for two cups of coffee." He held up his Styrofoam cup with the yellow and black Waffle House block logo etched across it. "If it had been any other night, we would have passed back by here at least ten minutes ago."

  "We saw their van pull in to park," Tony cut in, grinning. "Figured you could probably use a hand running them off." I met his g
aze, feeling my cheeks burn hotter.

  Tim put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Amelia. You've had quite an awful night."

  A chill spread through me as the weariness and grief began to take over again. "Thanks," I said tearfully. "I'm sorry you guys got roped into giving statements." Tim had been backstage at the time of Parker's fall, so the police held him behind for questioning along with the rest of the crew.

  "It certainly wasn't how I saw my evening going," Tim admitted. "I'm used to being the one asking the questions, not answering them."

  I glanced at Tony. "Did they question you too, then?"

  "Yeah." He rubbed his hand over his face and stifled a yawn. "I packed up our equipment once Tim was through recording sound-bytes. All I had to do was wait until the crowd came out after the show and then stand out by the van and pass out some station stickers and T-shirts. I had a little bit of downtime before the show was over, so I came inside and caught a couple of tunes from Bobby's set. Then I went down the hall to take a leak. When I came out, I saw your friend Kat and that bouncer guy running down the hallway. I headed back to the van to lock up. Then the police showed up and started herding people out. One officer came up and said the bouncer had seen me in the hallway, so he asked where I'd been all night. So I told him." He shrugged.

  "At least I got some great clips of tonight's show," Tim said. "And the promise of an interview with Bobby this week—assuming you'll still be going on with the other two shows." He said that last part as more of a question than a statement.

  "Are you going to have to cancel the shows or move them to another venue?" Tony asked.

  A weary sigh slipped from me. "High Court is sealed off as part of the investigation, but the police sergeant agreed to let us keep the Dungeon open. I'll have to make all of the necessary arrangements tomorrow and start spreading the word, but we should be good to go for Show Two downstairs on Wednesday night."

  Tim clapped his hands. "Great! I'll be back on Wednesday for my interview with Bobby, then." A little guiltily he added, "I mean, it's good that you're able to make the best of the situation." He glanced at his watch. "We should really get going, Tony. It's late, and we still have to get the van back to the station and unpack the equipment." He turned back to me, and his hand moved to his shirt pocket. "In the meantime, if there is any way I can be of service, please call." He pulled one of his Tune Talks business cards from the pocket and pressed it into my palm before walking back to the van.

  Tony grinned and snatched the card out of my hand. "Wait, I may need that!" I protested, reaching out to snatch it back from him.

  He playfully dodged my flailing arms and fished in his pocket to retrieve a pen. Tony scribbled something on the back of the card. "That's my number—you know, just in case you need more rescuing. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ame." His grey eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he slid the card into my hand, letting his fingers linger just a moment. This time when I shivered it wasn't from the cold.

  Tony turned and trotted to the van. He jumped into the driver's seat and waved as they pulled out of the parking lot. Realizing I was alone in the dark again, I made a mad dash for my car and locked the doors behind me. I let my breath out in a big whoosh—then inhaled again sharply when I saw the time on my dashboard clock. Three-thirty in the morning. It was time to get home and end this nightmare of a day.

  The rest of the night was spent tossing and turning. When sleep wouldn't come, I poured myself a glass of wine. I lay in bed, absentmindedly flipping through the channels on the television. After staring blankly at an elaborate ShamWow demonstration for half an hour (Apparently it removes anything from wine to pet stains.), I clicked off the television and flopped over on the bed with my head under my pillow.

  When I did finally fall asleep, the same nightmare played in my head over and over. Silver moonlight outlined a falling silhouette. The body hurtled toward the ground, his features slowly coming into focus. Now I could see his face. Parker's skin was a sickly green color, and his open eyes were glassy. I screamed as he plummeted toward me. Though my dream had no sound, I knew that Parker wasn't screaming back. Just before he hit the ground, I awoke, bolting upright in a cold sweat with a real shriek escaping my lips. It was just a dream, I told myself. Except it wasn't. Parker was really gone. My subconscious was telling me what I'd feared all along—he was dead before he hit the ground.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Good morning! La-la-la-la-la-la! Good morning!"

  I pushed the covers off my face and sat up too fast. Holy hangover, Batman. The dizziness from my late night wine crashed over me, and I had to lie back down. Rolling over on my side, I peered at my bedside table. The alarm on my phone was blaring its morning song at an ungodly eight a.m. on Tuesday morning. I'd only gotten two and a half hours of sleep.

  Groaning, I batted at my phone in a groggy attempt to end the horrible noise. I don't care who you are—nobody sounds that cheerful at this hour. I needed to seriously reconsider my ringtone choices.

  I rose from bed and stretched, mentally ticking off my to-do list for the day like usual. Tally receipts and check inventory at the bar. Update will call list with new ticket orders. Morning meeting with Parker and Kat….Oh God…Parker! The memory of the night before slammed into me, and I sat back down on the bed. Parker was dead.

  I gulped in mouthfuls of air as my chest tightened. Not now. Don't do this now. I didn't have time to panic. Parker would want me to keep Castle Rock up and running, no matter what. The staff was counting on me—their jobs, and mine, depended on it. Bobby Glitter Week depended on it. No pressure. Closing my eyes, I focused on steadying my breathing.

  A chorus of frenzied mewing from the hallway provided the distraction I needed to pull myself out of the near panic attack I'd forgotten to feed the cats when I got home the night before. "Coming guys!" I called to the three calico-tabby mixes raising hell in my hallway. No, I'm not a crazy spinster cat-lady before thirty—I just have a soft spot for rescue kitties.

  I found them at an animal shelter two years ago. Kat was in the market for a new puppy to surprise her latest flavor of the month who loved dogs (And who unsurprisingly turned out to be quite the dog himself.). I tagged along and snuck over to take a peek at the Kitten Korner, where I was instantly smitten by three tiny fur balls. According to the information card on their pen, they were brothers named Uno, Dos, and Tres. Sadly, they were scheduled to be euthanized the following day. One look at Dos's wide eyes and the little brown patch under Tres's nose (that totally looked like a kitty mustache), and I just had to save them. The four of us had been living happily ever after (most of the time) in my one-bedroom apartment ever since.

  "You guys want breakfast?" I shuffled into the kitchen, where I poured cat food into the three empty bowls by the door. Uno, Dos, and Tres raced in and pounced on the bowls, eagerly digging in. I sauntered through the living room and pulled back the curtains to the glass sliding doors of my balcony. I blinked into the sunlight that shone down on my view of Piedmont Park.

  I live in a one-bedroom high-rise apartment next to the park, only a five-minute drive from Castle Rock. The view from my balcony is gorgeous, and Kat and I have spent many afternoons soaking up the sun and sipping on one of our three essential "M's"—mimosas, margaritas, and mojitos.

  Kat! I meant to call her when I got in last night. I retrieved my phone and sunglasses from my bedroom and stepped back out onto the balcony to place the call. After just one ring, I got voicemail. "It's Kat. I'm not here. Leave a message."

  I frowned. Just one ring meant she'd ignored my call. "Hey K, it's Ame—look, we need to talk about…about what happened. Call me when you can, okay? I'll be heading into the office after lunch." As long as the downstairs could be opened, I could reach my office—and there was a lot of work to do. "Kat…hang in there," I added.

  Feel weary, I headed back inside and turned on the shower and began stripping out of last night's clothes—I'd been so exhausted th
at I'd crashed in my jeans. Something white flitted from my pocket as I shimmied out of the pants. My gaze trailed it to the floor. Tim Scott's card. I stooped to retrieve it and flipped it over, smiling at Tony's number scribbled on the back. I found myself excited at the possibility of seeing him again. Later, I thought, setting the card on my bedside table.

  A half-hour later, I was as rejuvenated as I could be on such little sleep. I slid into my bathrobe and slippers and wrapped my wet hair in a towel before padding into the kitchen. I flipped through the mail I'd left on the counter the previous morning. Two bills, some junk mail, a magazine, and a flyer for a party my building was throwing on Thursday for the grand opening of our fitness center—nothing that needed immediate attention. I cast the mail back onto the kitchen counter and poured myself a freshly brewed mug of coffee. After fixing a ham and cheese omelet and a bowl of mixed fruit for breakfast, I grabbed my laptop from the living room table and stepped back onto the balcony. The crisp morning air was invigorating as it chilled my damp hair and skin. I settled into a lounge chair and got down to business. Even with Parker gone, I had to keep the business running or I—and all my friends—would be out of a job.

  I spent almost two hours working on the logistics and press for moving Bobby's second show down to the Dungeon. I called my friend Becky down at Rockin' Rentals to see if she could cut me a deal on some loaner equipment for the band. "Sure!" she chirped. "I'll give you my employee discount—half-off our normal rate."

  I sagged with relief. "Thanks, Becks. You're the best!"

  "Anytime, hon. Glad I can help!" she lowered her voice. "I'm just so sorry to hear about Parker. If there's anything else I can do…" Her voice trailed off.

  "You've done more than enough," I said. "I owe you big time." I promised to save her a couple of tickets to next month's Carolina Sounds concert.