“Good call.” He gave me a gentle push toward the sidewalk, then bent over and felt for a pulse.
“Are more police coming?”
“Yeah. I called them as I pulled up. They’ll be here in a few minutes.” He looked down at the body, then over at the patch of grass. “Are you buying real estate?” he asked as he straightened.
It took me a moment to get the gist of his question. “Uh . . . no. He was my father’s client. I saw him at Mellow Mushroom at lunch this afternoon and asked him to meet me here.”
He swung his head around to study me, his questions obvious yet unasked.
I might as well tell him everything I could. “My father disappeared when I was fourteen. He had a meeting with Walter Frey the night of his disappearance. Daddy left for the meeting but never came home.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Was he ever found?”
“No. But I was never satisfied with Mr. Frey’s answers to the police, so when I saw him today, I asked him to meet me and tell me his version of events.”
Brady started to ask me another question, but the wail of approaching sirens cut him off. “Why don’t you wait inside? I’ll be in to ask you more questions in a bit.”
I nodded, a lump filling my throat. “I didn’t do it, Brady. I didn’t kill him.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “I never said you did.”
“I know how it looks . . .” I waved toward poor Mr. Frey. “How many people stumble onto two murder scenes in less than a month?”
The sirens grew closer.
“Despite how things went with the first case, I promise you’ll be treated fairly this time. Besides, Amy Danvers confessed to the murders at the Powell estate before killing herself.”
Red lights from the approaching police cars bounced off the pavement on the side parking lot.
Brady moved closer to me and put a hand on my upper arm, searching my eyes. “Magnolia, if you didn’t do anything, you have nothing to worry about, no matter how it looks.”
I told myself this was how it happened on all those documentaries. The detective lulls you into a false sense of security so you’ll let your guard down and spill your secrets. While I had nothing to hide—other than what had happened the night of my high school graduation—I was still nervous. “So it looks bad?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the two police cars that had pulled up behind his sedan. “Just go inside and wait for me, okay? Don’t talk to anyone else. Tell them you’re waiting for me.”
Nausea churned in my stomach as I watched several uniformed policemen heading toward us.
“Maggie.”
I glanced back up at him, his dark brown eyes intense as they held mine. “Trust me.”
Tears filled my eyes and my voice hardened. “I did that before, Brady. Look how that turned out.”
He paused. “That night when we went out for coffee, you asked me if I was fair when I looked at evidence, and I assured you that I am. I’m not Detective Holden. Believe me. I want to find the real perpetrator.” He paused and the side of his mouth tipped up into a small smile. “You must trust me a little if you called me instead of 911.”
“How do you know I’m not taking advantage of you?” Oh, God. Why had I blurted that out? But as bad as it sounded, I needed to know if this semi-trust went both ways.
His smile reached his eyes. “Because I always follow my instincts.” He put an arm around my back and ushered me to the back door, which Chuck had left propped open. “Now go order some coffee or tea to warm up and wait for me to take your statement.”
Call me a fool, but I believed him, which made me equally frightened and furious with myself. He opened the door and waited for me to walk inside, but I slipped off his jacket and handed it to him. “I think you need this more than I do.”
As soon as he took the jacket from me, he turned to face two of the policemen who now stood behind him. “We need to set up a perimeter past the strip of grass,” he said, his voice now professional and in charge. “Block off the rear parking lot for now.”
His voice faded as I let the door close behind me. I went into the bathroom and pressed my back to the wall for a couple of minutes while I tried to get control of myself. Now that Brady had taken over, I felt lightheaded and nauseated.
What had I done?
When I felt a little more composed, I checked my appearance in the mirror. My hair was covered in tiny rain droplets, but my mascara was only slightly smudged. My cheeks and nose were red from the cold, and now that I didn’t have Brady’s jacket around me, I couldn’t stop shivering.
Deciding I didn’t look so bad, considering, I swiped away the smudges under my eyes and headed back to the bar.
Chuck made a beeline for me as I approached my previous seat. “The police have already been inside asking everyone to stay put.”
I nodded and grabbed my jacket from the stool and slipped it on before sitting down. “I don’t suppose you make expresso drinks here?”
He quirked a half-smile. “You’re lucky to get decent coffee here.”
“Then I’ll try my luck. Cream and sugar, please.”
He gave me a nod before he walked over to an ancient-looking coffee pot.
“Magnolia?”
Stunned at the familiar voice, I spun around in my seat. “Colt?”
“What the hell are you doin’ here, Maggie?” he asked with worry in his eyes.
“I guess you’ve heard the news.”
“That there’s a dead man lying on a patch of grass behind the building? Yeah, Chuck was quick to tell me.” He hefted the weight of the guitar case in his hand.
“I told him not to tell anyone.”
His eyes widened with realization. “Oh, my God. You’re the one who found him.”
I leaned forward and grabbed his arm. “Shh! Don’t shout it!”
Colt moved closer. “What the hell, Maggie?”
“I didn’t kill him!” I whisper-shouted.
“I didn’t say you did.”
I glanced around the room to see if anyone was paying attention to us, but everyone seemed lost in their own worlds. “What are you doing here?”
He lifted the guitar case. “I thought this made it pretty obvious. I have the next set.”
“You play here?”
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers. I need the rehearsal time, and you never know who’s gonna be listening. The question is what are you doin’ here?”
I cringed. “I was supposed to meet the dead man out back.”
“Maggie.” There was worry and a hint of disappointment in his voice, although I had no idea why he would be disappointed with me. “Oh, God. You were meeting Elmer Fudd, weren’t you?”
Chuck banged on the bar. “Dude, we’re payin’ you to play, not to hit on the customers. Get up there and dedicate a song to her or somethin’. Everyone’s waitin’ on you.”
Colt shot him a glare, but I shook my head.
“We’ll talk later.” I gave him a tiny push. “Go do what you need to do. You literally have a captive audience.”
He put a hand on my arm. “Are you sure? I’ll blow them off if you want me to sit with you.” He ignored Chuck’s scowl.
I glanced toward the hall. “No, I’d like to hear you play.”
“I’m here for you, Maggie. I mean it.”
I felt my guard loosen as I looked up into his crystal blue eyes. Colt had declared himself to be my friend, but I’d always kind of assumed he was playing the long game to get into my pants, even after his rough encounter with my brother. Studying his face now, though, I finally believed he meant it. “Thanks.”
He nodded and walked over to the stage, which had indeed been vacated. The previous musician was nursing a beer in one of the booths, barely looking at the face of the woman sitting across from him as she leaned over the table to show him her sagging cleavage.
The life of a musician.
“Here’s your coffee,” Chuck said as he set the cup in front of me. “I
t looks remarkably similar to car oil, and there’s no guarantee it doesn’t taste the same.”
I grinned, even though I was sick with worry about how my questioning would go. “I guess I’ll take my chances.”
The coffee wasn’t as bad as Chuck had warned it would be. Colt pulled his guitar out of his case, then sat on the low stool and adjusted his microphone.
“This looks like a crowd who can appreciate the classics.” He broke out into a slightly updated version of Waylon Jennings’s “Good Hearted Woman.” While he was singing, he cast a glance at me and winked, and cheesy though it was, it filled me with reassurance.
Several uniformed police officers walked in and started talking to the patrons one-on-one, but Colt kept on singing. And he didn’t once shift his gaze off me.
I’d heard him sing the night of Max Goodwin’s murder, but this was the first time I’d heard him sing alone. He broke into a Vince Gill song next while the police continued to make their rounds. To my surprise, they steered clear of me, but Brady had promised to question me himself.
When Colt finished his song, he shifted his guitar. “I’d like to switch gears and ask my friend Maggie Mae to help me with this next one.” He smiled at me. “What do you say, Maggie?”
I cringed. I was waiting to be questioned in connection with a murder. This was most likely a very bad idea.
“I think she needs a little encouragement,” Colt said, facing the room with a grin. “Why don’t you all help her out?”
A lukewarm applause broke out, not that I was surprised. Colt wasn’t kidding about using this place as a rehearsal. But I hadn’t performed in weeks, and there was no denying I was itching for an excuse to sing somewhere other than in my shower. Besides, what better way to escape my fear and worry for a few minutes? I slid off my stool.
A look of triumph stole across Colt’s face. “And here she comes,” he said with his Southern drawl, reaching out his free hand and helping me up onto the foot-tall stage.
“Got anything in mind?” I asked away from the microphone. “My knowledge of country songs is limited to the top twenty hits.”
He winked again. “I think you’ll know this one. Lady Antebellum’s ‘Need You Now.’”
“Trying to tell me something?” I teased.
“Nothin’ you don’t already know,” he growled. Then he started strumming the intro on his guitar.
Tapping my hand on my leg to keep the beat, I leaned into the single microphone on the stand and started the female singer’s first verse. He leaned his face close to mine—wearing a huge grin—and joined me for the chorus.
“It’s a quarter after one, I’m all alone, and I need you now.”
Colt shot me an I told you so grin as we sang, and I couldn’t deny he was right—our voices blended well together. We were better than I’d expected, and it felt amazing to lose myself in the music.
After he sang the male singer’s second verse, I pulled out the mic and held it between us as we moved into the chorus again.
Somewhere in the middle of the song, a movement to my right caught my eye. Brady was standing in the dark hallway with his shoulder leaning against the wall. His gaze caught mine, and something inside me coiled tight as I held his gaze and continued to sing about needing a vague you.
I was a performer. Singing with other men—and women—was nothing new, and neither was singing to an audience, but something in Brady’s expression had me spellbound.
So much so that Colt noticed. He gave me a strange look, then tracked my gaze to Brady before turning back to me with a quizzical expression.
That was enough to snap me out of my daze, my face flushing with embarrassment. Why was I so attracted to Brady Bennett? I’d originally been fooled into thinking he was a genuinely nice guy, but I’d quickly realized he was just another good-looking charmer with an agenda. His particular agenda just happened to be finding out who’d killed Walter Frey. Which would probably put us at odds. Again.
So why was I still drawn to him?
Probably because he seemed like the exact opposite of every guy I’d been involved with in New York City.
Ignoring Brady, I turned my attention to Colt, professing how much I needed him and putting a little acting into the performance. Colt put himself into it, selling his role as hard as I was selling mine.
We finished the song, and to my surprise, a respectable applause broke out. I smiled and gave a wave of thanks.
“That was Maggie Mae, everyone,” Colt said as I stepped off the stage. “I suspect we’ll be hearing a lot more of her.”
I looked over my shoulder, trying to figure out what he had meant by that, but he’d already launched into “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers. Talk about musical whiplash.
When I turned around, Brady was walking toward me.
A jolt of electricity shot through me as I watched him. He was definitely a very attractive man. He was tall, with thick, wavy brown hair, expressive deep brown eyes, and a broad chest that I knew from experience was firm and muscular. I’d been pressed against it outside the coffee shop.
When we’d kissed.
Looking back, I was still shocked I’d kissed him. I wasn’t prone to public displays of affection, let alone with a man I’d just met. Every relationship I’d had in New York had been superficial . . . initiated because I was lonely or wanted sex. I’d lived with Griff, but I’d never been in love with him or any man. Though my mind had protected me from the memories of graduation night, some part of me had internalized the murderer’s threat: don’t tell anyone, or else. I’d kept an emotional distance from people without realizing why.
Now that I remembered everything, I knew I couldn’t let people get close. If I did, the murderer would know, and they’d be in danger.
Which meant I needed to be on guard more than ever. And that definitely did not entail dating a police officer.
Yet there was no denying that there was something about Brady that drew me in like a moth to a flame, no matter how I tried to reason it away.
The kiss had been an indulgence, but it had seemed safe at the time. I’d never expected to see Brady again. I had planned to head back to New York to reprise my role as Scarlett in Fireflies at Dawn. My scandal had sold plenty of tickets, but the understudy/slut who had replaced me had sucked. The producers had tried everything they could think of to try to get me back, and truth be told, if Momma hadn’t told me about her terminal illness, I would have taken the job back in a heartbeat—especially since they had fired Griff and assured me I wouldn’t face any kind of sexual harassment and intimidation on set. My agent was beside himself when I at first kept turning down the producers’ offers, only to have him tell me what a “smart girl” I was when they then sent in higher counteroffers in response.
But I had stayed, and now Brady was standing right across from me.
It didn’t matter that there were sparks between us though. I needed to keep this professional.
Steeling my back, I said, “Where would you like—”
“How about we go—” he said at the same time. He smiled. “Ladies first.”
“I was going to ask you where you wanted to do this.”
He cast a glance at Colt, who was still singing about his poker hand, then returned his gaze to me. “How about we go somewhere quieter?”
The coil inside me tightened and my imagination ran wild as I considered where someplace quieter might be and what we might do there. I quickly tamped it down. Get control of yourself, Magnolia.
Brady sensed my hesitation and gave me a half-smile. “I’m starving. I was headed to a late dinner when you called. How about we head over to the Red Barn Café?”
I was torn. The side I’d let loose with him wanted to feel something again. But I knew better. I had to tell him no, but I couldn’t bear to do it.
To buy myself more time, I walked over to the bar to get my purse and then headed for the front door, turning back to give Colt a wave goodbye. His eyes penetrated mine, but I q
uickly turned and walked outside. I stopped on the sidewalk, under an overhang, as I tried to encourage myself to do the sensible thing.
Brady followed me and stopped a respectable distance away . . . far enough away to let me know he was still there but I was totally in charge of what happened next.
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “We don’t have to go to the café. We can sit in your car or mine if you prefer.”
“Don’t you need to stay?” I asked, gesturing toward the police cars in the parking lot.
“I wasn’t officially on duty when you called. I’ve handed the case over to another detective. I only stuck around long enough to make sure the transfer went smoothly.”
I gasped. “I’m sorry.” But that meant he wasn’t in charge. So maybe I would become a suspect.
He gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m not. You have no idea how relieved I was that you felt safe calling me. Especially after our last conversation.” As if sensing my hesitation, he added, “But this is a professional interview, Maggie. I don’t want you to feel intimidated in any way, and I definitely don’t want a repeat of what happened in the Goodwin murder case. So you tell me what will put you at ease.”
I looked down, unsure of what to say. Our last conversation had taken place on the sidewalk outside a restaurant downtown. He’d tried to convince me that what we’d shared had been too special to just throw away. He wanted to give a relationship between us a try. I’d told him that I didn’t trust him enough to start over, but apart from the look we exchanged while I was onstage, so far he’d come across as completely professional, if not overly compassionate. “If you passed off the case, why are you taking my statement?”
“I told Owen I’d handle it for him. You’re not a person of interest, Maggie. This is merely a witness statement. They already have a statement from the bartender that you were gone for only a minute or two before he came looking for you. The grass was trampled like there had been a confrontation, with large footprints leading away to the parking lot. And finally, there’s the fact that the victim was shot and you didn’t have a gun.”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
He gave me look that said please. “You weren’t wearing a coat, so the only place you could have hidden a gun was in the back waistband of your jeans, covered by your shirt.”
Act Two Page 4