All Eyes on Me (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 1)

by Linsey Lanier

  Instantly Miranda recognized her. Her brows shot up.

  “Miranda, what is it?”

  Star glanced around the area with quick, tentative motions, like a deer stepping into a clearing where there might be hunters.

  Miranda hid her head behind Parker. If she recognized them, they were done for. She spoke as softly as she could. “Scott just ducked into a side room. Blythe Star just came out of another one.”

  “Did she see us?”

  “Not yet.”

  Miranda risked another quick peek and caught Star crossing the floor with long, graceful strides. She stepped into the side room Scott had just entered.

  Blackjack. “She just scampered into the room where Scott is.” Instinct taking over, she released Parker’s hand and tiptoed across the hall to the door.

  Her blood surging with anticipation, she shot Parker a glance.

  He scowled at her. He thought it was too risky.

  She frowned back at him. Wasn’t she supposed to be in charge here? Turning away from Parker, she inched as close as she dared to the opening and listened hard. Soft moaning met her ears. Then kissy noises. Then stand-up bump-and-grind noises, accented with an occasional mumble.

  “Oh, baby…” “I missed you…” “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  First Suzie Chan, then Blythe Star? This guy really got around.

  An older couple passed by and strolled over to the theater to study the signs. Miranda glanced back at Parker. He was caught in front of the jewelry store, unable to leave without looking suspicious. He pointed to his ear.

  Miranda lifted her hands and shook her head, indicating she couldn’t hear much.

  He gave her another scowl, this one sterner.

  He had a point. It was getting really dicey to stand here. And she wasn’t going to get any more information.

  He nodded down the hall, opposite direction.

  She nodded back and while the couple was absorbed in the marquee, they made a break for it. They met in the middle of the hall, locked hands again, and as if they were going to collect on a lottery ticket, hurried back down the rustic fake medieval street to the opening where they had come in.

  Back in the main area, they ducked into the first spot they found, a coffee shop.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At a plush booth overlooking the walkway, Miranda and Parker sipped iced tea lemonades and mulled over what they’d discovered.

  “I think we found ole Scottie’s sugar mama,” Miranda muttered under her breath.

  “Perhaps.” Parker swirled the Styrofoam cup in his hand, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “What do you mean, perhaps? Jealous sister. Ladies man. Makes sense.” She was fired up now. They could be close. Real close.

  “That they’re having an affair is plain.”

  She raised her forefinger. “Not long after Scott broke up with Suzie Chan.”

  “Which Chan insisted was a casual relationship.”

  Miranda squinted an eye at him. “Are you saying that’s what this is, too?”

  He took a swallow of lemonade. “It seems likely.”

  With someone as emotional as Blythe Star? Miranda didn’t think so. But it really didn’t make much difference. “Blythe says she and Ambrosia were close. She had to know about her nightly tea ritual.”

  “Scott might have learned about that from Chan.”

  “So maybe he mentions it to Blythe during one of their secrets meetings.”

  “Assuming this afternoon wasn’t their first rendezvous.”

  Miranda pursed her lips. “Didn’t sound like it from what I heard.”

  Parker watched the people strolling by the window. “Ms. Star undoubtedly had access to Ambrosia’s home.”

  “Probably has her own key. And if she didn’t go straight home the night of the last rehearsal, like she told us, she could have gone over to her sister’s. Heck, they live down the street from each other. Maybe the diva’s hissy fit wasn’t just about the melon balls. Blythe said the rehearsal hadn’t gone well. Maybe ole Abbey blamed Blythe and lashed out at her. Maybe she found out about Blythe and Scott.”

  “The murder was premeditated. Not an act of passion.”

  Had to be with a hard-to-get poison like abrin. “Maybe Abbey had a habit of picking on little sis. Maybe little sis has been planning to get back at big sis for a long time.”

  Slowly Parker nodded. “That is a plausible explanation.”

  “Or maybe it was Scott who came up with the idea. Maybe he sweet-talked Blythe into it. If he was involved, he had to provide the muscle.”

  “True. Hopefully we’ll find more substantiation of your theory when we question the people Ambrosia worked with.”

  Or they might disprove it altogether and be even farther behind. She looked at her watch. Two-thirty. “Wasn’t Sid supposed to call by now?”

  Parker uttered a low groan. “You would think so if we’re to be at the theater by three.”

  Miranda put her chin in her hand and stared out the window. “And here I thought he’d turned around last night.”

  Parker wondered if his former trainee was capable of turning around. He hadn’t put as much hope into the man’s behavior last night as Miranda had. The man had personal problems. Sid had told him about them after he’d been at the Agency a few months. Parker had tried to help the young man, but Sid had rejected Parker’s advice. Evidently, he hadn’t done anything about his problems since he’d left.

  His gaze went to Miranda, staring out the window, and he drank in her profile. Those angular lines were lovelier than the finest sculpture. He watched the concentration on her face. She was absorbed in this case, just as he knew she’d be. If she hadn’t been so insistent last night, Sid might have put away an innocent woman. Though her lawyer would have no doubt gotten any charges dropped.

  Still he had hoped for better for their first case. Working with Sid O’Toole could end up in disaster. Or worse yet, the case could go cold. Sid had enough pressure from his boss to ensure he’d keep working the case for a while, though. It was possible to leave it in his hands.

  He thought of that moment in the hospital eight months ago when Miranda told him her work was her destiny. That destiny had to be more than finding a shallow, self-centered entertainer’s killer. Especially if the case went cold because a slothful sergeant let clues slip out of his hands by not acting immediately. There would be other cases. Cases more worthy of her.

  He wrestled with his thoughts.

  The more they dug, the closer they’d come to the real killer. And the more nervous that killer would become. If they had no real idea who he or she was, they’d be vulnerable. Miranda would be vulnerable. Especially if the killer sensed how intent she was on discovering his or her identity.

  He flashed back to the hospital room where he’d waited for her to come out of a coma, unsure if she ever would. He would never risk her life again.

  He felt an odd, sinking sensation in his gut as he realized he was starting to second guess this consulting idea.

  Miranda startled out of her thoughts when she felt Parker’s hand slip around hers. He had a funny expression on his face. “What?”

  “I was just wondering. Have you heard from the girls?”

  Frowning at him, she pulled out her phone and checked her message. Nada. She’d be whooping out loud if Mackenzie and Wendy had contacted her. He knew that. What was he up to? She just shook her head. “Nope.”

  “I’m so sorry. Children at that age can be so fickle.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Miranda.”

  “What?”

  “If you’d like…if you feel…if at any point in this investigation…”

  She tensed. “What are you trying to say, Parker?”

  His grip on her hand tightened. “If at some point in this investigation you feel there’s no need to pursue it any longer. For any reason.”

  She pulled her hand out of his. “That will be when we have the killer in jail. T
he real killer.”

  He nodded. He knew she felt that way. What had he expected her to say? “If at any time, you should change your mind…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t hesitate to say so. There’s no shame in cutting one’s losses.”

  Miranda couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Wasn’t he always the one who said her passion for crime solving matched his? This wasn’t like him at all. It was O’Toole, wasn’t it? The fact that someone who came from the Agency had turned out to be such a dud must be hard on his ego. She could understand that. But that was all the more reason for not giving up.

  She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  They sipped their drinks in silence and waited for O’Toole to call. Three o’clock came and went.

  Miranda drummed her fingers on the table, nerves eating her stomach lining. They had fresh clues they needed to go over with the sergeant. They needed a game plan. There’d be over fifty people to interview. Did he expect her and Parker to do it all themselves?

  She gritted her teeth and hissed. “Where the fuck is he?”

  “Late. He never was a model of punctuality at the Agency.” Just as the words came out of Parker’s mouth, his cell rang. He answered. It was O’Toole. Finally

  The sergeant and his team were waiting for them at the theater entrance.

  “Let’s go, then.” Miranda shot to her feet, tossed her empty cup in the trash. As she headed out the door with Parker, she stole a glance at his face and felt a wave of relief.

  That hard look of determination she knew so well was back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They found O’Toole, Ralston, and nine armed uniforms in front of The Diva Theater, just across from where Sean Scott and Blythe Star had had their love fest an hour or so earlier.

  Parker stepped up to the sergeant and didn’t bother to lower his voice. “You’re late, Sid. That meeting started forty minutes ago.”

  O’Toole scowled and waved a hand in the air. “Things don’t start on time in this town. Especially when performers are involved. Besides I wanted them to get started. It will be more of a surprise if we catch them in the middle of the meeting.”

  “You might have informed us of your plans.”

  O’Toole raised his palms. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  Parker looked like he might sock the guy but Miranda had had enough. “Are we going to get started? Or are we going to jaw out here until everyone’s gone.”

  O’Toole narrowed his eyes at her and pulled up his belt. “Nobody’s going anywhere.” He turned to his officers. “Williams, Young, Green. You enter at the door on the left. King, Hill, Adams, Ralston, you on the right. Mr. Parker, Ms. Steele, and I will head down the middle. The rest of you stand guard and make sure nobody leaves. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said almost in unison and Miranda thought they might salute.

  But there was no time to think about the organizational politics of the group. The three guards opened the doors and she and Parker followed O’Toole inside and down the center aisle.

  The place was huge, which she should have expected given the hugeness of everything in the casino. The floors were carpeted in baby blue. Red teardrop shaped panels lined the walls for acoustics. A golden dome stretched overhead and an immense golden curtain had been pulled across a circular stage.

  Only a top performer could fill this place night after night.

  This afternoon, only the front rows were occupied by members of Ambrosia Dawn’s staff. As they neared, she hunted for Scott but didn’t see him in the crowd.

  Elvis Cameron Forest stood center stage, a microphone in hand. He was dressed all in black with lots of gold chains around his neck and a big gold belt buckle. The collar of his tight, tailored shirt was pulled up, and with his pompadour and sideburns, he looked like any minute now he might be ready to break into a rendition of “Burnin’ Love.”

  But he wasn’t singing. He was speaking to his employees. And there was an ocean of pain on his face.

  “So that’s our plan going forward. Are there any—” He stopped short and peered down the center aisle. Then he looked at the right aisle and the left aisle. Alarm peppered his face. “What is this?”

  “Sorry to disturb your meeting, Mr. Forest,” O’Toole said in a loud cop voice. “But we have some police business to conduct.”

  The color drained from Forest’s face. “What sort of business?”

  O’Toole came to a halt at the foot of the stage and looked up at the man, who seemed even bigger than he was, mostly because he was elevated five feet in the air. Or maybe she hadn’t realized how tall Forest was. She’d only seen him sitting down.

  “We need to question your staff in the matter of your wife’s death.”

  Forest blinked. He tensed a moment, defensive, as if he was about to argue. Then he seemed to think better of it. He nodded his consent. “Whatever we can do for you, Detective.”

  “It’s Sergeant. Sergeant O’Toole.”

  “Well then, Sergeant O’Toole.” Forest made a grand gesture toward the group gathered below, who were all looking a bit nervous. “Which members of my staff do you need to speak to?”

  “All of them.”

  Once more, Forest’s head bobbed up and down, slowly, thoughtfully, as if he were coming up with how to soothe the ruffled feathers this would cause on the spot.

  “Very well,” he said and lifted his microphone. “People, this is Sergeant O’Toole of the Las Vegas Metro Police. As you just heard, he’s investigating my wife’s…what happened to Abbey.” His voice broke and he put his hand to his lips.

  Once again Miranda’s heart went out to him. He was going through such an ordeal. She almost wished she wasn’t here to witness it. She glanced over at Parker. He was watching her. That was why he wanted to let O’Toole take over the case and go home. He was concerned for her emotional health, just as he’d been for her physical health. Overly concerned.

  He was the first man who’d ever cared about what she felt or what condition her body was in. The first and only man who’d ever truly loved her. It had taken her a long time to get used to that, but she had. And it was nice. And she loved him, too, after all. What was not to love about a man like Wade Parker?

  Still, he could be overprotective at times. She decided she’d let it go and turned back to Forest.

  “I trust,” he said to his audience with the earnestness of a dying man, “I trust for the love we all had for my Abbey, you’ll give the sergeant and his men complete cooperation.” Then he set the mic down and left the stage.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ralston and O’Toole divided up the staff while two of the officers scoped out the backstage. They discovered several dressing rooms and a few areas they could block off for privacy.

  Each of them would get five people to interview, unless some took longer than others. Everyone would wait where they were seated until they were called.

  Miranda jotted down the names of her five on her notepad. She had to suppress a smile when Sean Scott was assigned to her. She’d make him wait until last. Let him sweat a little.

  Miranda was lucky. She got one of the private dressing rooms with a door.

  The first interviewee she called was Giselle DuChamp, who, according to Blythe Star, had been one of Ambrosia Dawn’s maids.

  “Have a seat, Ms. DuChamp.” Miranda gestured toward an armchair she’d pulled up near the corner.

  The petite woman nodded shyly and carefully settled herself into it while Miranda took a seat on a stool at the dressing table near the large mirror and the rows and rows of lotions and makeup.

  Her interviewee sat very straight, feet together, hands clasped in her lap, waiting. Her features were delicate, her dark hair was fine and she wore it cut to just under her chin. Her eyes were large and doe-like. She had on a dark blouse, dark skirt, dark hose and shoes. Mourning clothes, Miranda thought, turning a page
in her notepad.

  “How long have you worked for Ambrosia Dawn, Ms. DuChamp?”

  “How long?” the woman repeated, pushing her hair behind an ear. Nervously, she glanced around at the rack of costumes, the lights along the mirror, the ceiling. “Oh, a long time. Fifteen years.” She had a slight French accent. Miranda wondered if it was fake.

  “That is a long time. Tell me about when you were hired.”

  She frowned as if thinking back. “Miss Abbey was touring Europe. In Paris, her hairdresser fell ill so I was called in at the last minute to replace her. She liked my work and kept me on.”

  Miss Abbey, huh? “As a hair dresser?”

  “As a lady’s maid. I assisted her in dressing and getting ready for her appearances or whenever she went out.”

  “Was that all?”

  “I sometimes served light meals when she ate in her room.”

  Miranda’s ears perked up. “You live on Ambrosia’s estate.”

  She gave her an efficient, professional nod. “Yes.” Miranda almost thought she was going to say “Oui.” “And I accompanied Miss Abbey on all her tours. Her life was so exciting. I love to travel. She took out a hanky and held it to her nose. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

  “Were you close?”

  She blinked as if the question was improper. “As close as an employee can be to her employer.”

  Miranda sat back, waited a beat, and wondered how often old Abbey chewed this lady out. Then she pounced. Casually. “Did you know about the tea?”

  The woman’s thin brows drew together. “The tea?”

  “Didn’t Ambrosia Dawn drink tea every night?”

  Her lips formed an O. “Oh, yes. The tea Miss Chan made for her. Yes, of course I knew about it. Why?”

  Miranda shifted her weight on the uncomfortable stool. “Ms. DuChamp, were you with Ambrosia Dawn Tuesday night? The night of the last rehearsal?”

  “You mean was I at the rehearsal?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She brushed at her skirt as if to straighten it and frowned again, her expression confused. “Yes, of course. I always accompany her to rehearsals.”