Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
Austin waited until he and Nora were near her car before turning toward her. “I’m headed to Southern Heritage Records now.”
Her gaze locked on his. “Let me come with you.”
Austin lowered the phone. “You don’t need to.”
“I know. But I’ve been in their same circles, musically speaking.” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind one ear. “These people know my family, so they’ll be more likely to talk to me than some FBI agent from Baltimore.”
“I’m not going as FBI,” he reminded her. “I’m not officially working this case.”
“It doesn’t matter. You still look like FBI.” She looked him up and down, her gaze skeptical.
Austin glanced down at his jeans and black henley. “What exactly does FBI look like?”
“Like you.”
“That clears it up.” He tilted his head and gave her a wry look.
For the first time since Preston disappeared, a hint of a smile touched her face. Then, just as quickly, the look vanished.
Austin glanced at Shelby’s house again. Amy was inside with her now, and Sheriff Wilder had deputies canvassing the area. There was nothing Nora could do here, not until they had more answers.
And, irritatingly, she probably did have a point. The Southern Gospel world was small.
“And what about your job?”
“My supervisor is covering the rest of my patients today.” Nora crossed to her car, stowed her nursing bag in the trunk, and locked it. “I can come back for my car later.”
She returned, tugging her jacket more securely over her navy scrubs.
He blew out a breath before conceding. “Okay, but if you come, you let me ask the questions.”
Her eyebrows rose. “That defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”
He gave her a look.
“Okay,” she conceded. “I get it. You’re the investigator.”
Austin opened the passenger door of his SUV. “Get in.”
Nora’s smile returned, brief but real. “That sounds like agreement.”
“More like surrender.”
She climbed inside, and Austin rounded the hood. Before getting behind the wheel, he glanced once more at Shelby’s house.
He hoped Luke Wilder was right. He hoped Preston Dawson was with an angry father who’d made a terrible decision and who would come to his senses before the day was over. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case.
For now, Austin got into his SUV and started the engine.
Nora buckled her seat belt. “Where exactly is this place?”
“Outside Knoxville. Industrial park off I-40.”
“That sounds glamorous.”
“Apparently the music business isn’t all sequins and tour buses.”
She gave him a sideways look. “You know absolutely nothing about Southern Gospel, do you?”
“I know enough to recognize a quartet when I see one.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.” Despite that, she couldn’t help but chuckle.
Austin pulled onto the road, and for the next several miles, they drove in silence.
What had Dad discovered?
Whatever it was, it had killed him.
Austin intended to find out what had happened.
Southern Heritage Records was exactly what Nora had expected.
The building sat at the far end of a small industrial complex wedged between an HVAC company and a place that sold commercial flooring. A faded sign above the door featured a mountain, a microphone, and enough gold lettering to make up for the location.
Austin parked, and Nora stared at the building. “I take back what I said about glamorous.”
“Too late.”
Inside, things improved—though barely. The lobby walls were covered with framed album covers, publicity photos, concert posters, and gold records that Nora suspected weren’t actually gold. A glass display case held CDs, old cassette tapes, and what appeared to be a bedazzled microphone.
A man emerged through a door behind the reception desk carrying an oversized steel mug. He was somewhere in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, with silver hair brushed straight back and a pair of red cowboy boots.
He stopped when he saw her. “Well, I’ll be. Look who just walked in.”
Nora knew that tone. It meant someone recognized her, though she didn’t recognize them.
“If it isn’t Nora Loveless,” he added.
“That’s me.” She smiled politely, bracing herself for wherever the conversation would go.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
She frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded. Just kidding, sweetheart. I’m Roscoe Pritchard. I used to engineer sessions over at Mountain Sound back when you and your sisters were still singing and traveling.”
Vague memories of recording sessions clicked into place. Roscoe had been thinner then, with dark hair and an equally dramatic personality.
“Roscoe. Yes. I remember now.” In fact, she was nearly certain he’d been at their album release party the night Christian disappeared.
That wasn’t unusual. It seemed like half the town had been there.
“Thank goodness.” He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “I was about to rethink my entire career.”
Nora laughed despite herself. The man had charisma. She’d give him that.
Roscoe beamed. “You still singing, sweetheart?”
“No, I’m not.” She hadn’t really sung since Christian disappeared. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.
He shook his head. “That’s tragic. You sounded like an angel. And your mother always said you had the best ear of the trio.”
Nora tilted her head. “She told all three of us that.”
“Smart woman.” Roscoe motioned toward the hallway. “Come on back. Let’s talk.”
They followed him into a surprisingly polished studio lined with acoustic panels. An old upright piano stood against one wall, and a soundboard filled most of another.
Roscoe dropped into a rolling chair and waved them toward a sofa. Nora sat at one end while Austin took the other, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his knees.
“So.” Roscoe rested his mug against his stomach. “You’re here about Jeff Donnelly.”
“I heard you spoke with him Tuesday,” Austin said.
“Sure did. Nice guy. Persistent.” Roscoe’s eyebrows lifted. “He wanted to know about some old touring groups. The Renshaws. The Loveless Sisters. The Daltons.”
The Daltons.
Nora hadn’t heard that name in years. They’d been another family group, out of Mississippi if she remembered correctly. Their oldest son had supposedly run away.
“Why those groups?” Austin asked.
“Because somebody kept paying their expenses.” Roscoe looked at Nora. “Your family received higher guarantees sometimes, didn’t you? Hotel rooms covered without anybody admitting who paid?”
Nora nodded. “My father thought Roy might have been taking kickbacks.”
“That’s what everybody assumed.” Roscoe rolled toward a cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer. “But your dad had it wrong.”
That matched what Nora’s father remembered Roy trying to tell him.
But what exactly did that mean?