Murder at Castle Rock (4 page)

"Really?" Kat snatched up the bag and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. "You're the best!" She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and ran her fingers through the strands to pump up the volume. "Wish me luck!" She winked and then bounded out of the office.

I closed the door and quickly tugged off my blazer so I could pull the tiny shirt over my head. It had been tighter than a corset, and I sighed with relief that I could finally breathe normally again. Parker would just have to understand that I couldn't run his venue for him if I suffocated.

After changing back into my crimson shirt and grey blazer, I printed the will call list and gathered several bundles of tickets to take to the box office out front.

I headed toward Parker's office first to see if the coast was clear to sneak in and snag the box of T-shirts. I was just in time to see Shawn Stone step into Parker's office. The door closed behind him.

I cringed. I wasn't about to barge into Parker's office while he was speaking with a client. Grabbing the shirts would have to wait. Instead, I headed toward the box office to find our intern, Bronwyn Sinclair.

Bron sat at the box office window, smacking her gum and twirling a teeny strand of her hot pink hair around her finger as she flipped through the latest issue of
Cosmo.
"Hey!" she protested when I slid the will call list over the page she was reading.

I glanced down at the magazine. "That article on '9 Ways to Please Your Man in the Bedroom' can wait, honey. You're on the clock."

"Fine," the nineteen year-old grumbled. She rolled her heavily made-up eyes and slid the magazine back into her purse.

I sat the ticket bundles on the counter and gestured to the papers I'd given her. "There's a separate list for each night—this one is for tonight only. If you can't find a name under the Will Call section, check Bobby's guest list on the last page."

"Got it, boss lady. This ain't my first rodeo," Bron griped. She seemed extra moody today. I started to ask what was bothering her when something behind me caught her attention. Bronwyn's face lit up. "Sweet! 95Rox is here!"

I turned and shielded my eyes against the setting sun. A cargo van displaying the logo of our local rock station, 95Rox, was pulling to a stop in front of the gravel walkway. A man in a 95Rox baseball cap climbed out of the driver's seat and began unloading equipment from the back of the vehicle. Another man with a silver ponytail and goatee hopped out of the passenger side and approached us, waving. His torn jeans and faded 95Rox shirt made him look like a roadie.

Bronwyn groaned in disgust at the sight of him. "Ugh, seriously? Tim Scott is here? That dude is so lame. I was hoping they'd sent Charlie Chill instead."

Tim Scott was somewhat of a regional celebrity. Having spent the past thirty or so years in music journalism and radio, he'd had his fair share of breaking news reports—from an eye witness account of the fire at the Calexico Theater to an exclusive interview with Silver Echoes when they announced their reunion tour.

More recently, Tim spent most of his time in the studio hosting a syndicated music news show called
Tune Talks
.
His show was widely popular across the southeast region—though he was based out of Atlanta, people tuned in from three states over to hear his up-to-the-minute news briefs on today's rock gods and their antics. He would also occasionally regale his audience with stories and anecdotes from his heyday interviewing and partying with the bands like The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. It was rare now for Tim to leave the studio—he preferred that the rock stars come to him.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said as he reached us. "I," he paused for dramatic effect, "am Tim Scott. It's a pleasure to meet you both." Tim took my hand in his and pumped it up and down enthusiastically as Bronwyn groaned behind me. Tim didn't seem to notice.

My stomach fluttered. Tim Scott certainly wasn't the type of man to get my heart pounding, but his appearance at Castle Rock meant my little pet project of the last few months was a big deal. Tonight was the official return of the Pop Rock Prince himself—and the media was paying attention. Good publicity for Castle Rock was just what I needed to butter Parker up for that promotion next week.
Not too shabby, Ame.
I gave myself a mental high five.

"It's nice to meet you." I released his hand. "I'm Amelia Grace, and this is our promotions and booking intern, Bronwyn Sinclair." I inclined my head toward the narrow-eyed, pink-haired teen peering at him disdainfully from behind me. "She's a
huge
fan," I added with a wicked grin.

Bron wasn't amused. She let me know it by connecting her elbow to my rib with surprising force as she grudgingly stepped forward to shake Tim's hand.
Oof!
I grimaced and gingerly rubbed my ribcage. For a sprite of a girl, she packed some power.

Tim's face lit up. "Always nice to meet a fan." Before Bronwyn could protest, he launched into a story about one of his more "hip"
Tune Talks
installments. Bron glowered at me, but I ignored her and surveyed the gear being unloaded from the 95Rox van. It looked like Tim was planning to run a live broadcast—there was a 95Rox pop-up tent, a PA system with speakers, a microphone and headset—and super sexy radio guy!

My gaze landed on Tim's assistant, the tall man that had set up the broadcast equipment.
Hot damn!
He was lean and ruggedly handsome, with shaggy brown hair that curled up from under his black 95Rox baseball cap. Despite his slender build, I could see the muscles in his arms ripple as they flexed under the weight of the speakers he carried. He returned my stare, his grey eyes burning into me. I felt my cheeks grow warm and averted my gaze.

When I looked up again, he was smiling at me. Disguising a quick breath check under a cough, I walked steadily toward him. After all, as the manager of Castle Rock, I should introduce myself—especially to hot man candy working radio promotions in front of my venue. Right?

I opened my mouth to greet him as I drew near but cried out instead as I tripped over a speaker cord. The setting sun was suddenly blocked from view by a dark shape speeding through the air. Terror seized me. The cord I'd tripped on had yanked itself free from a speaker with such force that it pulled the speaker off of its stand. The huge black box was now hurtling straight for me.

With a shriek, I squeezed my eyes shut and raised my arms above my head. It was a last-ditch effort to shield myself from the falling equipment. I inhaled sharply and braced myself for the painful impact. It never came. The radio employee I'd been ogling leaped forward just in time to catch the speaker mere inches above me.

"Close call!" he exclaimed, dropping to one knee beside me to offer his hand. "Are you hurt?"

"Just my pride," I muttered as I took his outstretched hand and let him pull me to my feet. Conflicting feelings of gratitude and anger swirled through me. On the one hand, this handsome stranger had just saved me from getting creamed by the falling speaker. On the other, I wouldn't have tripped if he had taped the cords down like all the other station employees did. I was almost glad it was I who fell—the last thing I needed during Bobby Glitter Week was a lawsuit from an injured concertgoer because some idiot hadn't taped down the cords.

The man studied me as I dusted the gravel off my jeans. "This is the part where most people would say 'thank you,'" he said, a look of amusement on his tanned face.

"Thank you for what?" I narrowed my eyes at him. "For your lack of safety precautions? Or for almost squashing me with a giant speaker?" The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them. I couldn't help it. I was embarrassed from my epic spill, and my temper was flaring.

"Whoa, hold on there, cupcake." The man backed away from me with his hands out in front of him. "It was an accident."

"Cupcake?" I was seething. "Where is Roddy Jones?" I demanded. "The 95Rox van had parked in front of Castle Rock for broadcasts lots of times in the past, and Roddy, the usual radio tech, was never this sloppy.

"This is actually my first gig with the station. Roddy quit last week." The man wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of one hand. "Look, I'm really sorry." He offered me a bashful smile. "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

Technically, I'd been off of
both
feet, thanks to him. I exhaled a slow, calming breath. "It's okay. Sorry I overreacted."

"No sweat, sweetness." He offered me his hand again. "I'm Tony Spencer."

Bronwyn sprinted up to us, her face alight with absurd amusement. "You're such a klutz, Ame!" She smirked. "I can't wait to tell Kat!"

"Go ahead. Then I can have a talk with Reese about the fact that you have 'Bronwyn Sinclair Martin' scribbled all over the inside of your calculus book." Two could play that game.

Bronwyn gulped. "Fine," she huffed. "I promise I won't say anything…but I can't promise these guys won't." Her smirk returned.

"Sorry, half-pint." Tony shook his head. "If the lady wants it secret, my lips are sealed. A gentleman never tells." He winked at me.

Bronwyn shot him a withering look. "Don't call me half-pint," she growled.

"You got it, short-stack."

Bron's face reddened. I was pretty sure her head was going to explode.

"Are you alright there, Miss Grace?" Tim panted as he reached us. "That was quite a spill! It's a good thing Tony was here, or my next story might have been about scraping you off the pavement."
Ew
.
Thanks for that mental image.

Tony gave a little bow. "Glad I could help. It's not every day I get to rescue a beautiful woman on the job."

Did he just call me beautiful?
I blushed.
Cute—and he knows his way around a compliment.
Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

I glanced at my watch. "I've got to get back inside." I turned to Tim. "Bobby should be back in the green room. I'll take you there."

"See you around," Tony called after us. I glanced back to find him securing the speaker cords with a strip of electrical tape. He flashed me a toothy grin and a thumbs-up. He was charming in a kind of goofy way, and I felt bad for yelling at him before.

Bronwyn sidled back over to the will call booth and took her place inside, ready to check off the names of patrons picking up their tickets. In the fading sunlight, I could make out small groups of concertgoers beginning to make their way from the huge parking lots across the street.

Reese, our bouncer, had also arrived and was posted at the door, ready to check IDs. "Hey, Ame," he said as he waved Tim and me through the door. Though he smiled, it didn't reach his eyes. "Have you seen Laura tonight?" he asked.

"She stopped by the green room earlier to bring Bobby and his crew some drinks." I eyed him. "Everything okay?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Don't worry about it." He turned his attention to the first few people walking up with their IDs and tickets in hand. I glanced at Tim, who pretended not to notice our exchange.

Once inside, we passed Kat in the downstairs hallway. She was signing a delivery slip for the pizza we'd ordered for Bobby and his crew. I introduced her to Tim, who seemed more preoccupied with readjusting his earpiece than with making conversation. While he stopped and fiddled with the wiring, I thanked Kat for covering for me at the band's sound check.

"Don't mention it, chick," she responded, looking up from the clipboard and receipt. She leaned in closer. "You were right, though," she whispered. "Bobby definitely didn't age well." She chewed her lip. "Kinda ruins the whole fantasy for me."

"No kidding." I nodded, grinning. "The bass guitarist was hot though, right?"

Parker brushed past us then. His usual laid-back demeanor was gone, and his face was pale. Shawn Stone appeared behind him, giving a mumbled "excuse me" as he pushed by to follow after Parker.

Kat frowned as she stared after them. "Ya know, the bass player didn't really do it for me either," she said absently.

"What?" I raised a brow. "That's bull. He was tall, dark, and damn good-looking—last I checked that was just as much your type as it is mine. Your new mystery man must have you whipped!"

Kat shrugged and didn't comment further. Handing the delivery boy the signed receipt, she gestured toward me. "Cody, you can follow Amelia to the green room." The freckle-faced teen turned and obediently followed me down the hall. His arms were wrapped around a large stack of pizza boxes. It looked like the restaurant sent over way more than I had ordered. I smiled, knowing I had my favorite redheaded waitress to thank for the extra pies.

I led Cody and Tim down the employee hallway behind our downstairs stage, the Dungeon. Cody's eyes were wide as saucers as he peered around the stack of pizza boxes at the various frames lining the walls. There were autographed pictures from previous performers, a few newspaper clippings of articles and interviews—and even a frame containing the first ticket stub ever collected at the venue. It was from a show during Jackson Deering's reign of Castle Rock: one of the first-ever performances by Van Halen. A man of tradition, Parker had hung a frame next to it that held the first ticket stub collected at his own first show as the venue's owner: a Van Halen tribute band. Like father, like son.

At the end of the hall, we climbed the employee-only stairwell to the green room and backstage area of High Court. I motioned for Tim and Cody to hang back as I knocked on the door. It was best not to just barge in on a temperamental rocker like Bobby. He was probably in the middle of some bizarre pre-show ritual, and the odds were good that it was something young Cody shouldn't see.

Sure enough, there was a loud snorting sound, followed a sputtering cough. "Bobby," I called through the door. "Your pizza is here." There was a scraping noise and another snort, and then someone shuffled hastily toward the door.

Bobby flung open the door and glared at me from the threshold. "I'm not hungry," he snapped.

The aging rocker's face was caked with a thick layer of stage makeup, though no amount of concealer could hide his wrinkles. Dark eyeliner drew even more attention to the crow's feet developing at the corners of his eyes, and the smudged lip liner on his mouth was several shades too bright. His outfit was even more ridiculous. Bobby wore a velour lime green tracksuit with glittery black lining stitched down the side. A pair of shiny, black vinyl boots completed the ensemble.