Free Murder at Castle Rock by Anne Marie Stoddard Page B

eagerly digging in. I sauntered through the living room and pulled back the curtains to the glass sliding doors of my balcony. I blinked into the sunlight that shone down on my view of Piedmont Park.
    I live in a one-bedroom high-rise apartment next to the park, only a five-minute drive from Castle Rock. The view from my balcony is gorgeous, and Kat and I have spent many afternoons soaking up the sun and sipping on one of our three essential "M's"—mimosas, margaritas, and mojitos.
    Kat! I meant to call her when I got in last night. I retrieved my phone and sunglasses from my bedroom and stepped back out onto the balcony to place the call. After just one ring, I got voicemail. "It's Kat. I'm not here. Leave a message."
    I frowned. Just one ring meant she'd ignored my call. "Hey K, it's Ame—look, we need to talk about…about what happened. Call me when you can, okay? I'll be heading into the office after lunch." As long as the downstairs could be opened, I could reach my office—and there was a lot of work to do. "Kat…hang in there," I added.
    Feel weary, I headed back inside and turned on the shower and began stripping out of last night's clothes—I'd been so exhausted that I'd crashed in my jeans. Something white flitted from my pocket as I shimmied out of the pants. My gaze trailed it to the floor. Tim Scott's card. I stooped to retrieve it and flipped it over, smiling at Tony's number scribbled on the back. I found myself excited at the possibility of seeing him again. Later , I thought, setting the card on my bedside table.
    A half-hour later, I was as rejuvenated as I could be on such little sleep. I slid into my bathrobe and slippers and wrapped my wet hair in a towel before padding into the kitchen. I flipped through the mail I'd left on the counter the previous morning. Two bills, some junk mail, a magazine, and a flyer for a party my building was throwing on Thursday for the grand opening of our fitness center—nothing that needed immediate attention. I cast the mail back onto the kitchen counter and poured myself a freshly brewed mug of coffee. After fixing a ham and cheese omelet and a bowl of mixed fruit for breakfast, I grabbed my laptop from the living room table and stepped back onto the balcony. The crisp morning air was invigorating as it chilled my damp hair and skin. I settled into a lounge chair and got down to business. Even with Parker gone, I had to keep the business running or I—and all my friends—would be out of a job.
    I spent almost two hours working on the logistics and press for moving Bobby's second show down to the Dungeon. I called my friend Becky down at Rockin' Rentals to see if she could cut me a deal on some loaner equipment for the band. "Sure!" she chirped. "I'll give you my employee discount—half-off our normal rate."
    I sagged with relief. "Thanks, Becks. You're the best!"
    "Anytime, hon. Glad I can help!" she lowered her voice. "I'm just so sorry to hear about Parker. If there's anything else I can do…" Her voice trailed off.
    "You've done more than enough," I said. "I owe you big time." I promised to save her a couple of tickets to next month's Carolina Sounds concert.
    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