The Virgin Mistress

It wasn’t until he gave her a pointed look that Rebecca realized they weren’t alone. Standing to the right of Richard’s massive oak desk was a tall blond man who was glaring at her with intense dislike. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize I was interrupting.”

She would have excused herself, but the principal stopped her in her tracks. “This is Mr. Bishop, Rebecca,” he said coldly, introducing her to the other man. “His son, Hughie, is in your fifth period class.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she replied. “I’ve talked to your wife several times at our parent-teacher conferences. It’s nice to meet you.”

She would have held out her hand, but nothing in Mr. Bishop’s hostile demeanor encouraged that kind of courtesy. When both men just glared at her, she looked at Richard Foster hesitantly. “I presume this is about Hughie. Is something wrong?”

“You tell us,” the principal retorted. “Did you take a slingshot away from Hughie yesterday?”

Until that moment, Rebecca had completely forgotten about it. “As a matter of fact, I did. It was a carved wooden gun, and he was threatening Tabitha Long with it. I took it away and put it in my desk. I know I should have turned it in to the office, Mr. Foster, but yesterday was so hectic, I forgot.”

Not the least impressed with her explanation, Hugh Bishop snapped, “Go get it. I want it back.”

Confiscated weapons were never returned to the students or their families. That was standard school policy, and Rebecca expected Richard to tell Mr. Bishop that. Instead, he just looked at her with steely blue eyes and said, “You heard the man. Go get it.”

Rebecca couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d slapped her. “But that’s against school policy—”

“When I want your advice on how to run this school, Ms. Powell, I’ll ask for it. In the meantime, I suggest you do as you’re told.”

If you value your job. The words weren’t spoken, but Rebecca heard them, nonetheless, and had never felt more like a chastised schoolgirl. And it hurt. She was a good teacher and she’d done the right thing by taking that gun away from Hughie. And Richard knew that. Aside from the fact that it was school policy, it was her duty as a teacher to take away anything from a student that could be used to hurt or intimidate someone. So why hadn’t he backed her up? Didn’t he realize that he could get in trouble with the school board for not carrying out his duty as a principal? What was going on here?

She wanted to ask, but he had that look on his face, the one that he always wore whenever he was thinking of his impending divorce, the one that she and the other teachers had learned to avoid like the plague. There was no point in arguing further.

“I’ll be right back,” she said stiffly, and turned and marched out of the office without saying another word.

Later, she didn’t know how she did it. She’d never been so humiliated in all her life, but she walked down the hall to her classroom with her head held high and even managed a smile for Mildred Henderson when she quietly stepped into the classroom to find her reading to the class. “If you could stay just a little longer, Mrs. Henderson, I’d appreciate it. The meeting with Mr. Foster isn’t quite over.”

“Of course,” the older woman replied easily. “Take as long as you need.”

Rebecca would have loved to make both men wait the rest of the afternoon, but she’d never blatantly defied an authority figure. And in spite of the fact that she considered Richard a friend, he was, first and foremost, her boss. Insubordination of any kind wasn’t tolerated, so she was left with no choice but to hurry back to the office once she retrieved the slingshot from her drawer.

Even then, she hadn’t moved fast enough for Hugh Bishop. The second she stepped into the office, he growled, “You took your time getting back here, didn’t you? Are you always this slow? No wonder Junior’s having trouble in school.”

Outraged, Rebecca almost told him off, but she bit the words back just in time. No, she thought, dragging in a calming breath. She wouldn’t stoop to Hugh Bishop’s behavior. And surely this time Richard would defend her. After all, as the principal, any slander of the teachers was a direct reflection on him and the school.

She looked at him expectantly, only to drop her jaw when he said, “I’m sorry for this unfortunate incident, Hugh. I promise you it won’t happen again.”

Far from satisfied, the obnoxious man said, “See that it doesn’t.” And with one last look of dislike for Rebecca, he stormed out, making sure he slammed the door behind him.

He’d actually apologized for her behavior! Furious, Rebecca hardly noticed the silence left by Hugh Bishop’s leavetaking. How dare he! she fumed. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and she damn sure intended to tell him that.

But before she could even open her mouth, he turned to her with the same degree of hostility Mr. Bishop had and coldly lifted a dark brow at her. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Taken aback, she couldn’t believe he was serious. At the very least, he owed her an explanation! “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” he retorted. “Why did you blatantly ignore the school weapons policy?”

“Me?” she gasped. “I didn’t ignore anything. I took the weapon away from Hughie, just as I was supposed to. You’re the one who gave it back to that awful man just so he can bring it right back to school!”

“Because you didn’t do what you were supposed to do!” Enraged, he glared at her with intense dislike. “You did this! You didn’t do your job. You didn’t turn that weapon in, so I was left with no choice but to take Mr. Bishop’s 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.