The Virgin Mistress (6 page)

 

With so many of Joe's friends and family pointing the finger at everyone else, Austin decided the best way to discover the truth about what really happened the night of the party was to talk to the non-guests that had been hired for the evening—caterers, decorators, entertainers, security personnel. As disinterested third parties, they inevitably blended into the woodwork at such a large affair, and in the process, usually saw and heard much more than the guests realized.

Armed with a list of everyone who had access to the estate that night, Austin paid a visit to John Roberts, the caterer, and wasn't surprised when no one wanted to talk to him. In a business that catered in many cases to the rich and famous, a caterer's reputation often depended not
only on the food he served, but his discretion. If word got out that he was talking about his clients and their private lives to a private investigator, he could kiss his business goodbye.

And no one, apparently, knew that better than John Roberts. When Austin told him what he wanted, John just looked at him. “The police have already questioned me and my staff. We didn't see anything.”

“I understand,” Austin said easily. “But I'd still like to talk to everyone that worked the party that night. Someone may have seen more than they realized.”

“They don't get paid to watch the guests, only the food,” he retorted. “You're wasting your time.”

Starting to get irritated, Austin shot him a narrow-eyed look that warned him he was pushing his luck. “No, you're wasting my time. Have you got something to hide? Is that why you don't want me to talk to your employees? Are you afraid the word will get out that you were somehow involved?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then there's no reason why your people can't talk to me, is there?”

Neatly cornered, there was nothing John could do but look down his thin nose at him and seethe. “You're welcome to talk to anyone you like, but my staff is small. Most of the wait staff hired for the party was contract labor.”

“But they're people you've worked with before?”

“Most of them, yes. For a party the size of the Colton affair, you take what you can get.”

“You have their names and addresses?”

“Naturally.”

Turning to the file cabinet behind his desk, he dug out a list and stiffly handed it over. “Everyone was questioned directly after the shooting.”

That was standard procedure, but Austin doubted anyone at the police department had yet done any follow-up interviews after the shock of the shooting had worn off.
That
was when people remembered vital tidbits of information that might not seem important to them.

Pocketing the list, he said, “That's okay. I'd still like to talk to them. What do you remember about the party? Did you notice anyone acting suspicious? You must have slipped in and out of the crowd. I'm sure you saw things the family didn't.”

If he did, he wasn't admitting it. “It was my duty to make sure that the food stayed hot and never ran out and the champagne flowed freely. When I wasn't in the kitchen, I was making sure my people were doing their job—and trying to satisfy Mrs. Colton. I didn't have time to notice anything else.”

Usually a sharp judge of people, Austin wasn't surprised by his response. The man was so caught up in his work that he probably wouldn't have seen the shooter if he'd tripped over him…unless he'd had an empty champagne glass in his hand. “Then I guess we have nothing else to talk about,” he replied. “Thanks for your help.”

From the caterers, he checked out the list of waiters and servers and cleanup crew and soon found himself driving all over Prosperino. He ran out nearly a full tank of gas, but had little to show for it. The catering staff that did intermingle with the crowd only knew the more famous guests. Most of the family were strangers to them and they could offer little information.

Still, Austin had no intention of giving up so easily. There was still security to check, as well as the band. Someone must have seen something!

“The band was about to break into ‘For He's a Jolly
Good Fellow,' weren't you?” he asked Ramon, the band's drummer, when he finally tracked him down at Tucker's Grocery, where he worked as a stock boy during the day. “You were just waiting for everyone to finish the toasts. Right?”

“No!” The long-haired drummer frowned. “Mrs. Colton had told us she'd warn us when the toasts were going to start, but she didn't, and we'd taken a break. Suddenly, the toasts were starting, and we were all over the place. I'd just rushed up on stage when Mr. Colton lifted his glass for the toast. The next thing I knew, a shot rang out and everybody was screaming.”

“Did you see where the shot came from?”

“Are you kidding? I was looking for my drumsticks!”

“And your buddies? Where were they?”

“Grabbing something to eat and drink,” he answered promptly. “Or in the bathroom. I went for a smoke. I don't know what the others did.”

“Then I guess I'll have to check with them.” Pulling out the list Joe had given him his first day in town, Austin quickly checked to make sure he had the rest of the band members' names and addresses, then offered his hand. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he said with a shrug. “I didn't do anything.”

He had to get back to work or Austin would have told him that every person he eliminated from the list of possible suspects led him that much closer to the shooter. It was part of the job, and, unfortunately, the most tedious part. Still, it had to be done. Resigned, he checked the list again and headed for the opposite side of town.

 

The address was classy. There was no other way to describe the gated condominium on the beach where
Chester Phillips lived. Conservative and sophisticated, in an area of town that appealed to old money, it wasn't the kind of place Austin had expected the bass player of a rock band to be living.

“I'm looking for Chester Phillips,” he told the security guard at the gate. “I need to talk to him about a party he worked last weekend.”

“He's not home.”

“I could wait.”

When the guard just looked at him, Austin sighed. He should have known it wasn't going to be that easy. “Never mind. I'll come back later.”

Disgusted, he went looking for Luke and Greg, the two other band members, but he didn't get very far there, either. It took most of the afternoon to track down Luke on the golf course at a nearby country club. Unfortunately, he didn't have much to offer about the night of the shooting. He was inside at the buffet line when the shot rang out. By the time he made his way outside, all he saw was most of the crowd on the ground with their heads covered.

And Greg didn't see much, either. He'd been taking a glass of champagne from one of the waiters when a gray-haired man brushed past him and knocked him into the waiter, whose tray of filled champagne glasses went flying onto the other guests. He was still apologizing when Joe was nearly killed. Like everyone else, he'd hit the ground when he heard the shot.

Not surprised that the investigation was once again going in circles, Austin headed back to the high-dollar condominium where Chester lived. Only this time, he straightened his tie and put on his sport coat before approaching the guard again, this time on foot after parking next to the guard's serviceable Ford.

“Look,” he said, dragging out his ID to flash it at him. “I'm a private investigator. I need to talk to Mr. Phillips about a crime he may have witnessed. Do you know when he's expected home?”

“You'll have to talk to Mr. Phillips about that,” the other man said coolly.

“And how would I do that when I can't get past the front gate?” Austin tossed back.

“I wouldn't know, sir.”

Grinding his teeth on a curse, Austin struggled for patience. He really hated it when anyone called him sir in that particularly snotty tone of voice. “Let's try this again,” he suggested. “Would you have any idea where I might find Mr. Phillips? It's imperative I talk to him.”

“You're not going to get any information out of that stiff,” a gravelly voice drawled from the opposite side of the gate that barred his way. “What do you want with Chester?”

Startled, Austin turned just in time to see a tall, distinguished older woman walking her very fat bulldog. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” the old lady snapped. “Don't waste my time. I'm old—I may not have much left.”

Austin had to fight a smile at that. The lady might have gray hair, but she was a long way from having one foot in the grave. “I need to talk to Chester about a shooting he may have witnessed last weekend,” he said, deciding to trust her. “He's not a suspect. He just may have seen more than he realized.”

“So that's why the cops have been swarming around here all week,” the woman replied, amused. “Chester thinks they're after the marijuana he bought for his grandmother. She's got arthritis, and he takes care of her. She owns the condominium.”

That explained a lot. “I see. So how do I get in touch with Chester?”

For a moment, Austin didn't think she was going to tell him. She considered him, then nodded, satisfied. “He likes to sit in with the bands that play down out at the Silver Slipper, down on Fifth Street. A friend of his owns the place, so don't expect anyone there to point him out to you,” she warned. “You start asking around for him down there like you did here and all you'll get is the cold shoulder.”

Appreciating the warning, Austin said, “Thanks. I'll make a note of that.”

She turned toward her own condominium, leaving Austin alone with his thoughts and not sure how to proceed. Chester might not know anything and could just be hiding out because of the marijuana he bought for his grandmother. But what if he'd really seen something and he was afraid the shooter was coming after him next? He'd be suspicious of anyone who came sniffing around asking questions, and Austin couldn't say he blamed him. He'd have felt the same way.

Which meant Chester wasn't going to let a stranger anywhere near him. He had friends to protect him and conceal his identity, and that gave him the decided advantage. Austin didn't know him from Adam. Oh, he had a general description, but there would probably be any number of men in that club who could be described as a thirty-year-old white male with blue eyes and brown hair. Chester could stand right next to him, Austin thought with a scowl, and he'd never know it. So what the hell was he supposed to do now?

If you need any help, just call me.

With no effort whatsoever, Austin could see the shy smile Rebecca had given him when she'd offered to help
him the first night he was in town. She'd looked so sweet and innocent, and he had no business even thinking of bothering her again. Not after he'd had so much fun with her yesterday. She made him forget the past, what it was like to lose someone he loved, and that was a lesson he didn't dare let himself forget. He'd given his heart to one woman and lost her. He wouldn't risk that kind of heartache again with Rebecca or anyone else.

That decision made, he should have driven to the Silver Slipper and tried to track down Chester on his own, in spite of the old lady's words of caution. It would have been the wise thing to do. Instead, he found himself heading for Rebecca's, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. His rental car had developed a mind of its own.

 

He was the last person Rebecca expected to find on her doorstep—and the only person, she realized, she really wanted to see after the horrendous run-in she'd had with Richard Foster at work.

Flashing a happy smile at him, she pulled the door wider. “Hi! This is a nice surprise. C'mon in.”

“I should have called—”

“Don't be ridiculous. I was just about to have some cookies and a glass of milk. There's plenty for both of us.” And not waiting to see if he followed, she turned and headed for the kitchen. “How'd the investigation go today?” she asked over her shoulder. “Find out anything interesting?”

He hesitated at the front door, and for a moment, she thought he was going to make an excuse to leave, but he obviously thought better of it and stepped across the threshold. “Actually, I've run into a dead end unless I can
track down a guy who bought marijuana for his grandmother.”

Her lips twitching, she couldn't help but smile at his disgusted tone. “Well, that certainly sounds intriguing. What does that have to do with the shooting? Or did I miss something?”

“I've been trying to interview the band members at Joe's birthday party. I've talked to all of them but one. And he lives with his grandmother and buys marijuana for her.” Giving her a short rundown of what he'd discovered, he added, “I don't know if he thinks he's on the most-wanted list, or he really is just hanging out on Fifth Street to sit in with the band, but if I go in there and start asking for him, the jackass'll probably run.”

“I could go with you,” she offered. “I might recognize him.”

Even as she made the suggestion, Rebecca couldn't believe the words came out of her mouth. Fifth Street was lined with clubs and bars, not to mention an occasional tattoo parlor, and when she was a child, her mother had frequented the establishments there. She'd always hated it, and as an adult, she'd always avoided the place because it reminded her too much of her mother and her own unhappy childhood.

She readily admitted to herself that she didn't want to go there, didn't want to go anywhere near those memories, but there was just something about Austin that inspired trust. She knew she could go anywhere with him and he would get her there and back safely.

But while she had no doubts about going to Fifth Street or anywhere else with him, she'd apparently shocked him with her suggestion. “Oh, no,” he said with an immediate frown. “I couldn't ask you to go into that neighborhood, especially after dark.”