Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2)

by Anne Marie Stoddard

  "Sounds good to me." Bronwyn rose to her feet and grabbed the front of her black Paramore T-shirt, twisting it to wring out the rain water. I did the same with my own purple and cream-striped top. We'd just turned to make our way back down the sidewalk when a figure leaped out from behind the cement wall of the overpass. Bronwyn and I both shrieked and scrambled backward, Bron clinging to me like a scared toddler.

  "Trolls!" Boomed the scraggly man standing in our way. He stared at us with bulging, blood-shot eyes. "Stupid trolls. This is my bridge." He was skeleton-thin and covered in leaves and dirt, with ratty blond dreadlocks down to his shoulders.

  "Trolls?" Bronwyn hissed, still gripping my arm. "He'd better mean those cute ones from the nineties with the rhinestone belly buttons." She reached up a hand and fluffed her hot pink pixie cut. "I've got the hair for it," she added.

  "I think he means the hairy-toed, goat-eating, fairy-tale variety," I whispered back.

  "Seriously? Us? He must be tripping balls—he's the one who smells like he crawled out of the sewer," Bronwyn huffed. She let go of me and sniffed the air. "And Jäger. Maybe he's just wasted."

  I glanced at the red marks in his scrawny arms and thought of the needle I'd seen in the bushes. I was willing to bet it was his. "I think he lives here," I said. "We didn't mean to trespass under your bridge," I told the drug-addled homeless man. "We were just leaving."

  The man stomped his foot and waved his arms, his eyes still wide. "Get out, both of you!" he ranted. "And tell your friend not to come back either. The bridge and bushes are my kingdom."

  Our friend? Could this crazy person have seen whoever retrieved the cup and Mickey's knife? "Er, pardon us, your highness," I said, giving a curtsy. Bronwyn stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "Just do it," I mouthed. She rolled her eyes but bent low, bowing her soggy pink head.

  I reached into my pocket, pulling out the few bills I'd gotten as change during my trip to the donut shop that morning. "Here." I stepped forward and held out the money to the squirrelly man. "A toll for passing under your bridge," I offered.

  The bum eyed me but seemed pacified. "Thank you, troll," he muttered, snatching the money from my grasp before I could change my mind.

  "Can I ask you a question before we go?" I asked.

  The man nodded absently, his focus on counting the five one-dollar bills I'd just given him.

  I stepped closer to the man and spoke softly so that I wouldn't scare him off. "The friend you mentioned," I began, waiting to continue until I had his full attention. "Was it a man or a woman?"

  "Not sure," he admitted, sounding more lucid. Maybe the crazy drug addict routine was an act. He eyed my pockets. "More money for booze might help my memory." Yep, definitely an act.

  Aside from my car keys, my pockets were empty, and my purse was still on the front floorboard of my Jetta. I looked at Bronwyn. "Fine," she said, scowling. She pulled five dollars out of her pocket and handed it to me. I offered it to the man, who grabbed it and then took a step back.

  "I think it was a woman," the bum said, wadding up the cash and stuffing it into his pocket. "Hard to tell. It was dark—late last night when I saw her—and she was wearing a hoodie. Walked right into my bedroom," he said, gesturing to the bushes. "Claimed to be looking for a missing earring." That comment won a surprised look from both Bronwyn and me. Apparently the old I lost my earring in the bushes excuse was more common than we'd realized.

  "Anyway," the man continued, "she rifled around in my shrubs for a bit and then took off. Didn't see her again after that."

  "Could you tell what she looked like?" I asked. "How tall? What color was her hair?"

  "Jeez, lady," the man cut me off. "If I'd have known you were gonna be this chatty, I'd have stayed put in my hidey hole. I said I didn't get a good look at her." He scratched his arm and looked at me, his expression impatient. "What else you wanna know? Her bra size?"

  "No, that's all." I struggled to keep a polite tone.

  "Then be gone, troll women!" the man cried, waving his arms at us and reverting back to crazy mode. "Go back from whence ye came!" He growled at us as we skittered past him and sprinted through the still-drizzling rain.

  "That was insane," I said breathlessly as we climbed into the Jetta. I quickly locked the doors behind us.

  "No kidding," Bronwyn agreed. She turned to look at me and let out a whooping laugh.

  "What?" I blinked at her.

  "You do look like a bridge troll," she said, snickering.

  I pulled down the sun visor above my seat and peered at my reflection in the mirror, cringing at my soggy hair and runny makeup. "Oh yeah?" I chuckled. "You're not exactly winning any beauty contests, either. You look like something that crawled out of one of Tim Burton's nightmares."

  Bronwyn checked her own reflection, taking in her twig-filled pink hair, bleeding mascara and eyeliner, and the one skull earring dangling from her right earlobe. "Good point." She did her best impression of a witch's cackle. "I'm melting! Melting!" she cried. We both dissolved into a fit of giggles.

  When our laughing died down, Bronwyn turned in her seat to look at me. "What now?" she asked.

  A yawned escaped my throat. "Well," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I'm soaking wet, freezing, and exhausted, which means I'm pretty much useless until I've had a shower and a nap." I turned my key in the ignition and backed my Jetta out onto North Avenue. "Why don't we take it easy tonight and start fresh tomorrow?"

  Bron nodded. "I'm overdue for a little one-on-one time with Reese," she admitted. We were silent for the short drive to my apartment where her new lime green Ford Fiesta was parked in the visitor's garage. "I'll call you tomorrow," she said before hopping into her car and taking off.

  As soon as I was back in my apartment, I stripped off my wet clothes and threw on a pair of sweats. A shower would have to wait; I was scraping at the bottom of my energy reserves just to keep my eyes open. Instead, I curled up on the couch with my favorite purple throw and snuggled with Dos, listening to the rumble of his purrs as I drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Bronwyn didn't call until nearly one in the afternoon on Tuesday, but she had big news. "They're going to release Mickey today!" she blurted as soon as I picked up.

  "What?" My face went slack. They were letting Mickey go? Had Dixon found the mysterious woman who'd taken his pocketknife? I worked my jaw up and down and swallowed a few times, trying to get my mouth working again. "What?" I repeated, as it seemed to be the only word left in my vocabulary at the moment.

  "I, er, overheard Dad on the phone this morning after breakfast," Bronwyn said. Overheard…eavesdropped. To Bron, they pretty much meant the same thing. "They could technically hold him until tomorrow, but with the media knocking down their door twenty-four seven trying to get a scoop, poor Daddy wants this off his plate as soon as possible. So, Mickey's getting out a little early."

  "That's great," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "But why do I get the feeling there's a catch?" I wanted to be excited that Mickey was going to be a free man by happy hour, but something in Bronwyn's tone told me that he wasn't out of the woods just yet.

  "There is, sort of. It's kind of a lot to explain—mind if I come over now? I also found something you'll want to see."

  Okay. Color me intrigued. "Yeah, sure," I said, rising from the couch and stretching. I glanced down at my laptop, which had several contract files open in different tabs on the screen. Just because Castle Rock couldn't open for business again until tomorrow didn't mean there wasn't work that needed to be done in the meantime. I'd spent the bulk of the morning mainlining a pot of coffee and cranking through a month's worth of agreements for shows between now and September. "I'm almost at a stopping point on paperwork," I said. "Why don't you drop by in an hour and fill me in?" That'd give me time to take that long overdue shower.

  "Sure thing, boss lady," Bron chirped. "See ya soon!"

  I quickly reviewed the contract I'd been working on for next month's performance from
Panda Coven (a Chinese Wiccan Metal band—another one of Bronwyn's eclectic booking choices) and saved the file before closing my laptop. After plugging my phone into its dock to charge the ever-draining battery, I shuffled into my bedroom to pick out some clean clothes. I eyed the pair of faded jeans and Jimmy Eat World T-shirt lying on the top of my dresser. Should I wear something nicer today? After all, Mickey is getting out of jail, which totally counts as a special occasion. I cast a quick glance toward my open closet door, my gaze landing on a purple-and-white halter-top dress. Remember your boyfriend? asked the tiny voice that was lodged in the back of my mind like a splinter. My eyes snapped guiltily back to the jeans and tee. Whatever. When it came down to it, I'd rather be comfortable than cute anyway. I snatched up the outfit from my dresser and carried it into the bathroom, once again feeling bothered that seeing my ex had any influence over my wardrobe choices.

  I was still towel drying my hair when Bronwyn knocked on my apartment door twenty minutes later. "You're early," I said as I let her in.

  "I was already in the neighborhood. I stayed at Reese's last night." She blushed. "Though, if the Sarge asks, I crashed with you."

  I smirked. "Fine, but if he pulls me into an interrogation room, I'm blowing your cover," I teased.

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes and stepped past me into the living room. I wrapped my towel in a turban around my wet hair and then grabbed two cans of Diet Coke from the refrigerator before joining her on the couch. "All right," I said, handing her a soda. "Spill."

  Bron cocked an eyebrow. "You sure?" she asked with a wry grin, opening her can and tilting it slightly toward the floor. "Because it's gonna be hard to get this outta your carpet."

  "I meant about Mickey." I cut her an impatient look. "Give me the full scoop."

  "Okay." Bron squared her shoulders and took a deep breath then launched into her report. "From what I could hear of Daddy's end of the conversation, the toxicology reports came back, and it looks like Mickey was drugged. Rohypnol."

  I gaped at her. "The date rape drug? Someone roofied him?" No wonder he couldn't remember what happened on the bus.

  "Seems like." Bronwyn nodded. "And it gets weirder. The same drug was in Sid's bloodstream. So, either Mickey or Sid dosed the other and accidentally drugged himself in the process or—"

  "Or someone else slipped it to them both," I finished for her, thinking of the plastic Royal Flush cup with the lipstick stains. "So the woman who the homeless man saw could have rendered them both unconscious and then taken Mickey's knife to stab Sid…" I swallowed. "He really could have been framed." I pictured my ex and the soon-to-be-dead bass guitarist passing Sid's flask of bourbon back and forth until they both slumped over. The mystery woman had probably watched, sipping her own untainted drink and biding her time until she could carry out her sinister plan. But why? What reason could one of Sid's scorned groupies have for dragging Mickey into the mix?

  "You said there was more to the story," I reminded her. "If Detective Dixon knows that Mickey was drugged, what's the catch?"

  "The Sarge said that's not enough to completely clear all suspicion of Mickey's involvement. For one, he was caught red-sneakered at the scene of the crime. The blood on his shoes is pretty hard to ignore." Bron took a sip of her soda and leaned down to stroke Uno behind the ears as he slunk past the couch. "He said that dosing himself could have been part of Mickey's cover—that he could've killed Sid and gulped down enough of the drugged drink to have it show up in his screening, making him also look like a victim of foul play. Still, there's not enough to pin Mickey to the murder yet, so they have to cut him loose for now. He's not allowed to leave town until the investigation is complete." She looked up at me. "So it sounds like he'll be in Atlanta for a while. Silver lining for you, right?"

  I frowned at her. "Uh, remember Emmett?"

  She shrugged. "Yeah, I know. But I'm still on Team Mickey."

  "Well, how I feel—or don't feel—about him romantically isn't important right now," I said, crossing my arms. "What was the other thing you wanted to show me?"

  "Oh!" Bronwyn's green eyes lit up. She set her drink on my coffee table and picked up my laptop. "I think I found a potential suspect," she said, opening the internet browser. The homepage for ATL Night Beat filled the screen. The popular local gossip blog reported the latest in celebrity scandals and sightings around Atlanta. Bronwyn clicked on the site's most recent photo gallery and tapped her finger to one of the small thumbnail-sized images in the photo grid. "Look who it is."

  I followed her finger with my gaze and felt my pulse quicken. "Sid!" I cried, staring down at the bass player's pale face on the screen. "Open the full image." Bronwyn clicked on the little square, and the full image popped up on the computer monitor. My blood iced in my veins.

  The caption above the photo read:

  Ordering a lap dance to go? Royal Flush rocker, Sid Malone, takes the talent home with him from the Saucy Minx on Saturday night.

  The image itself showed Sid dressed in the same dark pants and light blue shirt he'd been wearing the night he died. He had one hand raised in a half-hearted attempt to block his face from the camera, but his wolfish grin told me he really loved the attention. What made my blood run cold was the person in the photo with Sid. His other hand was firmly gripping the wrist of a familiar woman with shiny golden hair. Her heavily made-up face was twisted in an ugly expression, and her hazel eyes squinted daggers at the back of Sid's head as he pulled her along behind him.

  "Oh my God," I breathed.

  "What?" Bronwyn demanded, turning from the screen to look at me.

  "I know Sid's killer. I shared a jail cell with her."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Hold up." Bronwyn held her hand in front of her. "You shared a jail cell with a stripper, and you're just now telling me this?" An amused smile twitched her lips. "Seriously, Ame—when someone asks you if anything interesting happened while you were behind bars, that's the kind of thing you lead with."

  "I'll remember that next time," I said dryly.

  Bronwyn giggled. "Hmm. There's got to be a good pole-dancing joke I can use here." She screwed her eyes upward and tapped at her chin then snapped her fingers. "Something about a cage dancer, maybe?"

  "So not the point right now," I said, giving her a sharp look. I touched my finger to the image of Sid and—what was her name? I forgot. "This is a big deal, Bron. That picture might clear Mickey's name."

  "You're welcome." Bronwyn grinned. "Does this mean we'll be doing a strip club stakeout?"

  "I don't know what it means just yet." I frowned. "She was still in jail when I last saw her." I paused for a moment, trying to recall her stage name. "Coral," I said after a moment. "That's what she called herself."

  Bronwyn snickered. "Like the sea animal? Or that icky salmon color?"

  "You're one to be bashing shades of pink," I said sarcastically, eying her bubblegum hair. I turned my attention back to the photo. "Anyway, Coral told me she'd been picked up for alleged prostitution," I said. "So maybe she killed Sid and then went looking for some post-crime company." I studied the skinny young woman, wishing I could know what was going on behind her angry hazel eyes. It was clear from her expression of hatred and Sid's roughness why the dancer might want to hurt him—but what did Mickey have to do with any of it? "The cops haven't ruled Mickey out as a suspect, and there's been no mention of a female person of interest on the news. Either they're keeping her under wraps, or they aren't investigating her for the murder. She may already be back on the streets."

  "Which we could find out for sure by dropping by the Saucy Minx to see if she's working," Bron said. She glanced back down at the image on the screen, and her smirk evaporated. "Whoa. I didn't notice this before." She leaned toward the computer, squinting. "Look who's stalking. Isn't that Royal Flush's old bass player in the background?"

  I jerked my head toward the laptop. I'd been so fixated on Sid and the stripper that I hadn't paid much attention to the rest of the image. "Hol
y crap." Sure enough, a tall, skinny man stood several feet behind the pair. Though the left half of his face was cut off from the image, I instantly recognized his narrow chin and gray-and-brown-streaked hair. Dillon's jaw was clenched, and the one dark eye visible in the picture was staring intently at Sid.

  "Looks like we can't cross him off the suspect list just yet," Bron murmured. Her mouth twisted in a thoughtful expression. "Think they were working together?"

  "I don't know what to think," I said honestly.

  "Tell you what." Bronwyn's lips curled in a mischievous little smile. "Why don't you see if you can track down Dillon and leave finding Little Miss Strip n' Stab to me? I have a plan." Her eyes crinkled around the corners, sparkling with that devilish look that meant I probably wasn't going to like whatever she was thinking.

  "Do I even want to know?" I asked, eying her warily.

  "Probably not." Bronwyn rose from the couch and snatched up her purse. "But you'll find out soon enough." She winked then turned and skipped across my living room, whistling to herself as she disappeared through my apartment door.

  I heaved a tired sigh and turned my attention back to my laptop. After saving the image of Sid and Coral and sending it to my phone, I dialed Kat's number. I was startled by shouting voices on the other end of the line. "Kat?" I called into the phone, alarm tightening my chest. Kat's tinkling laughter cut through the noise, and my tension eased.

  "Hey," she breathed into the phone between giggles. "I was going to call you. Good news—the band is staying at my place now." Kat had recently moved into the three-bedroom bungalow in west Midtown that she'd inherited from Parker. "There's more privacy here. No more reporters and news crews circling the lobby beneath the hotel suite like a pit of sharks. The guys can come and go from here as they please. Plus I brought out my old gaming console. Right now I'm totally owning Chad and Zane at Mario Kart."