side.”
“But that makes no sense—”
That was the wrong thing to say. If he’d been angry before, he was absolutely livid now. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Ms. Powell. Do you understand that? I’m in charge around here, and I can do whatever I damn well please. You, on the other hand, are on very thin ice. One more episode like this and you may find yourself looking for another job. Do I make myself clear?”
She wanted to tell him no. She didn’t understand why she was the bad guy for taking the weapon away when he’d been the one who’d given it back! But she knew he was looking for someone to blame, and she was obviously it.
“Perfectly,” she said coolly. “This is an argument I can’t win. If we’re finished here, I need to get back to my classroom.”
His curt nod was her dismissal, and with a sigh of relief, Rebecca hurried out of the office and down the hall, her cheeks stinging with embarrassment and her eyes hot with tears she refused to shed. She would not take this personally, she told herself fiercely. He was just going through a rough time. He needed her understanding now, not her anger. With time, he’d be back to his old, likable self. She just had to be patient…and pray that it would be soon.
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
