Murder at Castle Rock

by Anne Marie Stoddard

  My next call was to Shawn Stone. The concierge at the front desk of the W Hotel patched me through to his room, and Stone answered on the second ring. "Stop calling here!" he grumbled.

  "Er, hi, Mr. Stone," I said, startled. "It's Amelia—from Castle Rock."

  "Oh." The other end of the line went silent for a few moments, and I thought he might've hung up. "Sorry," he said finally, his tone sheepish. "I, er, though you were someone else. I've been getting crank calls this morning. "

  Something told me he wasn't being entirely honest with me. I shook off the thought and apologized that he and the band had been held back by the police while they were taking statements the night before. "Of course none of you could've seen anything since you were backstage the whole time. I imagine it's just policy for them to question everyone who was behind the scenes, just in case," I said.

  Stone sighed audibly. "It's quite alright, Miss Grace. This isn't the first encounter I've had with the cops while on the job. As Bobby's manager, it pretty much comes with the territory."

  I supposed he had a point. I'd come across plenty of tabloid articles with Bobby's face plastered all over the pages, along with a description of his latest publicity stunts. I once read about how, after trashing his hotel room, he drunkenly stole a motorcycle and ran it through the lobby and up the handicap ramp before crashing into a large aquarium in one of the dining halls. I cringed, wondering what havoc he could be wreaking at that moment on the room we rented for him. I suddenly wished I'd booked the band's rooms somewhere a little less expensive.

  "I am sorry for your loss last night," Shawn continued, an undertone of discomfort in his polite words. "It is always a tragedy when one takes his own life." He fell quiet, and I felt an odd tension growing in the moments of silence. I thought of the argument he'd had with Parker the night before about Bobby's contract. Perhaps he just feels guilty about their disagreement now that Parker is gone. Something about that bothered me, but I was too distracted to give it more thought.

  "I've got some news about the show tomorrow night," I said, breaking the silence that stretched between us. I explained my discussion with Sergeant Sinclair about moving Show Two to the Dungeon. Then, cringing in anticipation of his anger, I broke the news that we couldn't access the band's equipment upstairs. "I'll need a list of everything Bobby and the boys will need for the next show—I'm renting replacements on Castle Rock's tab. I'd be happy to tell Bobby for you, if you'd like," I offered. I paced back and forth on my balcony and crossed my fingers that he'd decline.

  Stone grumbled bitterly under his breath. "Leave Glitter to me," he said gruffly. Phew! He grudgingly promised to fax a list of the required equipment to my office by that afternoon and then ended the call rather abruptly, saying that he had other important business to attend to.

  I hung up feeling a little better. While Shawn had been in a grumpy mood, he was willing to accommodate our last-minute changes—and to my immense relief, he'd agreed to break the bad news to Bobby. I only hoped that the pompous rock star didn't throw too big of a hissy fit when Shawn told him that he'd have to film the rest of his DVD with a rental guitar instead of Whiskey, his beloved cherry-red Gibson SG Special. I'd have to ask Becky if Rockin' Rentals carried any red Gibson electric guitars. Maybe Bobby would stay so strung out he wouldn't know the difference.

  After my call with Stone, I pulled up the Internet on my laptop. Various concert blogs and radio jocks were speculating that Bobby's shows would be moved to the Beat Barn since Castle Rock was going to shut down. I gritted my teeth. The Beat Barn was our biggest competitor. The owner, Owen Jefferson, had hired his hellspawn daughter, Stacy, to book shows for the venue. Kat and I had known Stacy since college. She'd made my life a living hell in our Music Business classes, criticizing all of my projects and always trying to one-up me. I'd been her biggest competition for top honors in the class, and Stacy wasn't used to not getting her way.

  While I'd hoped I had seen the last of Stacy after graduation, she was now the bane of my career life as well. She constantly battled me to book the same acts when they came through town. Beating her out for Bobby's shows had been a huge victory for me both personally and professionally. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she had started this piece of gossip herself as a way to get Shows Two and Three.

  Hoping to quash the rumor before it spread too far, I quickly downloaded the database of ticket purchasers from our site and sent out an email to let them know that the shows would still take place at Castle Rock. I also blasted alerts about the change to the press and all of my media contacts. Take that, Stacy. Next, I posted updates about the change on our various social media accounts. I reluctantly headed each announcement with the tragic news of Parker's passing.

  Having completed so much of my morning's to-do list in such a short time, I took a break to scour the local news sites for other updates and articles about the previous night. I was relieved to see neither Tony's nor my face on the homepage for Five Alive News, the local station that had ambushed me earlier that morning. The reporter, Mark Travis, thankfully hadn't posted the clip of Tony coming to my rescue while I cowered on the ground. It had been replaced by footage from earlier in the evening that panned across the perimeter of Castle Rock, focusing on the caution tape and police vehicles. Mark's pompous voice filled my computer speakers. "Castle Rock employees remain tight-lipped about the death of venue owner Parker Deering in a mysterious fall from the venue's rear tower last night…"

  Frustrated, I hit the Back button and returned to my search results. A link with Tim Scott's name caught my eye, and I clicked on it. An image of Tim appeared on the page next to a headline that read "Tune Talks Radio Jockey's Exclusive Details on the Castle Rock Tragedy." I could feel the veins bulge in my temples, and I shook with anger. My orange and white tabby, Uno, had slunk onto the balcony to wind affectionately around my leg, but he darted back to the safety of the living room as I angrily kicked my other lounge chair. It rocked violently and came back down to rest right side up. Jaw clenched, I scrolled down the page and clicked the Play button to hear the recording of Tim's broadcast.

  "That's right, folks," Tim's voice boomed from my speakers. "Yours truly was there in the wings backstage at the same time that poor Mr. Deering was taking his fatal tumble. While I don't know all of the specifics—and I can't name any names just yet—I will say that something fishy was going on behind the scenes at Castle Rock last night."

  I sat there, stunned, as Tim claimed that he'd obtained some haunting details from the sole eyewitness—me. He didn't mention me by name, but it was obvious where he'd gotten his intel—he was quoting from our conversation from the parking lot almost verbatim. How could he do this? He played me! He'd pretended to come to my rescue when Mark Travis and his cameraman ambushed me, but he was really just chasing away the competition so he could save the story for his own broadcast. What a creep!

  I jumped up from my lounge chair and stormed inside. The cats dove for cover as I stomped through the living room and back to my bedroom, huffing and puffing. I grabbed the Tune Talks business card from my bedside table and dialed Tim's number, swearing under my breath all the while.

  "Good afternoon! You've reached Tune Talks! Brandy speaking," said a sultry female voice. She sounded like an operator for one of those late-night 1-900 numbers. Why was I not surprised?

  "Put Tim Scott on the phone now!" I demanded. "Tell him it's Amelia Grace."

  Miss Late Night was taken aback by my anger. "Er, hold please," she sputtered, then dropped the phone on her desk. "Tim!" I heard her yell. "Some chick named Grace is on the line for you, and she sounds pissed!"

  There was a shuffling of feet, and then Tim came on the line. "Good morning, Amelia. I take it you've heard my broadcast. What did you think?" I thought that if I could, I would shove my hand through the phone and wring his neck.

  "How could you do that?" I cried. "I trusted you, asshole!"

  Tim cleared his throat. "Look, Amelia," he said cal
mly. "I'm sorry if my story upset you, but I was just doing my job—reporting the news. I am first and foremost a radio journalist. I didn't manage to get my interview with Bobby last night, but I did get an exclusive story. The public has a right to know what happened—and who better to tell them than someone who was actually there, like me? That's much better than having that jackoff from Five Alive giving the scoop, don't you think? Face it, my dear—I'm a necessary evil."

  He got the 'evil' part right. I gritted my teeth and considered his words. His smug tone of voice pissed me off. It was tactless and disrespectful to run immediately to his newsroom when Parker wasn't even in the ground yet. Still, he did have a point. Reporters were going to keep pushing for details, and he'd at least had the sense to leave out the names of the people involved, something I'm not so sure Mark Travis would have done.

  Tim took advantage of my silence to drive one more nail in the coffin. "You really should've made it clear that you didn't want any of our discussion repeated. Since you didn't, it was all on the record."

  That struck a nerve. "Oh, yeah? Well, here's something else that's on the record—screw you!" I threw my phone across my couch. Tim had enough sense not to call back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After getting dressed, I spent the rest of my morning trying to cool my temper by relaxing in front of the TV with a Diet Coke and reruns of How I Met Your Mother. I needed to stop thinking for a couple of hours. Easier said than done. After several episodes, I gave up and tried calling Kat again. Still no answer. I hoped she was coping alright and that I'd find her in the office later that afternoon. I kept thinking back to the tears in her eyes even before Parker's fall. Could she really have been that upset at Reese and Parker? Kat and I had always told each other everything, and now she was keeping secrets and avoiding my calls.

  My phone rang a few minutes later, and I jumped to answer it, hoping Kat was finally calling me back. I was surprised to see Bronwyn's name pop up on my phone screen. "Ame! How's it goin' girl?" Bronwyn cooed into the phone like we were the best of friends.

  "I've been better, Bron." I sighed wearily. "How are you holding up?"

  Bronwyn cut the cheerful act. "Same here," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Listen, can you meet me for lunch today? There's something I think you should know."

  I checked my watch. "Yeah, sure. It's eleven-forty right now—can you meet me around twelve-thirty at the Crazy Cantina on Piedmont? "

  "Totally," Bronwyn said. "I'm gonna tell the parentals that you asked me to come into work early to do some filing. The sarge grounded me last night after I dropped in on your conversation with him and Detective Dixon. Now I'm only supposed to go straight to and from work and then straight home." I could practically hear her scowling. "I'll catch a bus and see you soon."

  Forty-five minutes later, Bronwyn and I were seated in a corner booth at Crazy Cantina, a taco joint across the street from my apartment. They had great weekly specials, and Kat and I grabbed lunch there sometimes. This week's special was chicken verde tacos—my favorite. Too bad I didn't have much of an appetite. I somberly poked at some chips and queso dip while the waitress took our drink orders.

  "I'll have a margarita," Bronwyn chirped. She blushed when she caught my disapproving look. "Um, a virgin margarita, I mean." Good. I was sure she'd have produced a fake ID from her purse if I hadn't been at the table. Bronwyn always seemed like she was in a big hurry to grow up.

  Once the waitress was out of earshot, Bronwyn leaned across the table, her expression serious. "Parker was sleeping with Laura," she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  "Is that right?" I frowned at her. "Come on, Bron—what makes you think Laura would have had anything to do with Parker?" Having a not-so-secret crush on Reese, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd cooked this up to break up his relationship with Laura.

  Bronwyn darted a glance to either side, cautiously surveying the tables around us. Satisfied that we had total privacy, she turned back to face me and leaned in even closer. "I saw them. Yesterday afternoon." Her green eyes were wide. "I mean, I had my suspicions before—I've seen the way Laura looks at other guys when Reese isn't around." She frowned. "He deserves better."

  I made a gesture for her to get to the point. "So anyway," she continued, "I got to work early yesterday because Kat wanted me to run by Kinkos and print some extra posters for the Carolina Sounds show next month. Kat's office was locked when I got back, so I slipped the posters under her door. I was going to sneak over to the green room and see if I could meet Bobby and get an autograph for my mom—she's as big a fan of his. From the end of the hall, I saw Laura leaving the green room. Parker came around the corner and put his hand on her shoulder. He was all like, 'I need to see you in my office,'—the way he said it made it sound like he was trying to seduce her or something. Then he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. I didn't hear what it was, but she giggled and grabbed his hand. They took off down the stairs." Her cheeks flushed. "I know it was nosy of me to follow them, but I was just looking out for Reese. I saw them go into Parker's office and close the door. I didn't want them to catch me spying, so I went back downstairs and set up camp in the box office a little early. Still, with the way they were all over each other, you can imagine what was going on in Parker's office." She gave me a dark look.

  I dropped the chip I'd been nibbling and gaped at her. I didn't need to imagine what had happened in Parker's office—I'd heard it myself. It was Laura that was with Parker when Shawn and I came downstairs to his office. Reese's threat to Parker suddenly made a lot more sense. "Who else knows about this, Bron?" I asked quietly, though I already knew the answer.

  Bronwyn hung her pink head guiltily. "I might have let it slip to Reese. And Kat." She looked up at me with pleading green eyes through lids heavy from too much mascara. "I wasn't trying to start any trouble, Ame. I swear! I just thought he had a right to know what was going on, ya know? We were talking once the lines outside died down, and he confided that he thought she might be seeing someone else. When I saw how upset he was, I just couldn't help myself. I had to tell him."

  She shook her head stubbornly, trying to ward off tears. A few still slipped down her cheek. "He said Parker was going to get what was coming to him and then stormed off. Kat came outside, and I had to tell her so she could stop him. I didn't mean for anything bad to happen." She dabbed at her running mascara. Bronwyn was normally a tough cookie—I had never ever seen her cry before. I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her.

  Our waitress reappeared at that moment and sat our drinks down on the table. I hastily ordered a sampler plate of tacos for us to split so that I could send on her way before she noticed Bron's distraught state. When she was gone, I reached across the table and patted Bronwyn's hand. "It's okay. It's not your fault." I tried to sound reassuring.

  Sergeant Sinclair said there had been no signs of a struggle. When I'd last seen Reese, he was ready to mop the floor with Parker. If he'd really wanted to hurt him, he'd have definitely left a mess behind. Something didn't add up. "I'm not so sure Reese had anything to do with it," I admitted.

  "That's not what my dad thinks," Bronwyn sobbed. She attracted the attention of several other diners, who turned to stare at us. Bron quickly reined in her hysterics. Once she had her emotions in check, she lowered her voice and continued. "I heard the sarge on the phone this morning with Detective Dixon. I wasn't eavesdropping again," she added before I could scold her. "He was in the hallway by the kitchen while I was heating up a couple of Pop-Tarts for breakfast. I could only hear Daddy's side of the conversation, but it sounded like they haven't ruled out foul play." She gave me a desperate look. "Reese's name came up. Dixon must have told him about their fight, and now Daddy thinks that he may have had something to do with Parker's fall."

  A wave of guilt crashed over me. I was the one who told Dixon about the fight. This is my fault.

  "I heard him say they were taking Laura to get her full statement toda
y. If she tells them she was with Parker yesterday, it'll give them a motive to pin on Reese." Bronwyn wiped away another tear. "We can't let them arrest him, Ame. He didn't do it. I know it!"

  I took a long pull from my strawberry margarita. What a mess. I needed to talk to Reese before the police came back with more questions. At least then I could get his side of the story and know for sure that he was innocent. "Don't worry, Bron," I said as our tacos were brought out to the table. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

  * * *

  On the short drive to Castle Rock, I'd tried Reese's cell phone. No answer. His truck wasn't parked in the employee lot, but I was happy to see Kat's Honda Civic—that is, until I spotted the two police cars parked alongside it. There were several cops standing around the back exit and loading dock. Sergeant Sinclair had assigned officers to guard the sealed off areas of Castle Rock, and his forensics team would be in and out of those areas as they continued their investigation.

  As we rounded the corner to the venue's entrance, we found another vehicle parked in the gravelly front area, a black Jeep Liberty. Detective Ben Dixon was leaning against the Jeep, arms folded across his chest. His expression was unreadable behind a pair of mirrored aviators.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Grace, Bronwyn." He gave us a curt nod. He turned to me. "Might I have a word with you in your office? I have a few more questions about last night." Great, just what I need—a surprise inquisition.

  "Sure, come on in." I opened the employee entrance and made an "after you" gesture with my arm. Bronwyn walked in after him, giving me a nervous glance. "Be cool," I mouthed. I sent Bron to the break room to fetch some coffee as I escorted Dixon to my office. Once inside, I offered the detective a chair and took a seat behind my desk, clasping my hands in front of me on its ledge. "What more would you like to know?" I asked, getting straight to the point.