Act Two

by Denise Grover Swank

But to my surprise, Momma’s face softened. “We’ll work something out. I’d let Colt go replace the spark plugs now, but we’re running late as it is.”

  “She can borrow my car,” Tilly said. “Lila, you can take me home tonight. We don’t have any catering jobs tomorrow, and I was fixing to clean my house. I don’t need my car.”

  “Thank you, Tilly,” I said, giving her a warm smile.

  “Think nothing of it. Maybe Colt can have your car running by the time you get back from your appointment.”

  When we had everything loaded, Momma said, “Magnolia, I’d like you to ride with me.”

  Colt and Tilly shot me looks of surprise and worry, but I steeled my back and said in a breezy tone, “Of course.”

  I slid into the passenger seat of her car and tried to hide my anxiety, which increased tenfold every second my mother held her tongue. We rode in silence for a good minute. This was going to be bad if it was taking her this long to get to it.

  Finally, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “I was very harsh yesterday morning, but . . .” She paused and seemed to weigh her words. “You need to let the past go, Magnolia. No good will come from digging up graves.”

  Even though she was adamant I give up my search, I took it as a good sign that she was discussing it at all. I turned in my seat to face her. “Momma, a man died two days ago, and you can’t deny it had something to do with Daddy.”

  “I can and will deny it had anything to do with your father if it means protecting you.”

  “But Momma—”

  “Magnolia. Your father is gone. That is the plain and simple truth. No one looks at us and whispers behind our backs anymore. They’ve moved on. And so should you.”

  “They’re just whispering for different reasons now,” I mumbled.

  “That may be true, but things are different now. People forget faster. You’ll be yesterday’s news next week.” She cast me a glance. “But I’m scared to death you’ll be in tomorrow’s obituaries if you don’t let this go. I didn’t just get you back to lose you.”

  I leaned forward and studied her intently. “I need to know what you know.”

  “I don’t know a blessed thing.”

  “Momma,” I groaned.

  Her face set in a fierce expression. “That’s the God’s honest truth.” She paused. “I knew something was goin’ on, but your father refused to tell me what. He said it was better if I didn’t know . . . plausible deniability.”

  “Did it have something to do with his work?”

  “What else could it be?” Her voice broke. “But I’ve wondered over the years if maybe he did run off. Maybe he got tired of me and my sharp tongue.”

  “Momma.” My heart was breaking. “Daddy loved you. I know it.”

  “I used to know it too.” She sniffed and wiped at the corner of her eye, her fierceness returning. “Now, no more givin’ the police ideas about digging into the past. You hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I sure wasn’t going to disagree with her when she was in this state.

  “Now we need to talk about your car.”

  That surprised me. “I know we moved things around trying to get it out of the garage, but we’ll put it all back. I swear.”

  “That’s not what I mean. That garage has been an eyesore since your brother moved all of that crap into it two years ago. I’m talking about getting your car running.” She cast me a glance. “I should have suggested we get it running sooner, but I’ve been tired.”

  “Momma, I don’t expect you to do anything for me.”

  “I know.” She picked up my hand from the seat and squeezed. “And that’s why I want to do it. Now, I’ve been paying the insurance on the thing, and its tags are current, but if Colt can’t get it running with the new spark plugs, have it towed to the shop I use, and I’ll pay for the repairs.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Momma.”

  “I know. But I want to.” She paused. “But that car’s fifteen years old, so when I die, I want you to have mine.”

  I sucked in a breath. “I don’t want to talk about you dyin’.”

  “And yet, it’s still gonna happen.” She released my hand and sighed. “But we can talk about practical things another day.”

  Then she turned up the music on the radio, and we were silent the rest of the way to the banquet hall.

  Colt and Tilly waited expectantly at the back of the open van when we pulled up, but my mother began barking orders as soon as she got out of the car.

  “What’s everyone standing around for? That food’s not going to carry itself in.” She grabbed a pan and headed inside, leaving the three of us behind.

  Tilly turned to me. “Well?”

  I threw my arms around her neck and fought to hold back my tears. My mother was dying, and soon there would be no hiding from it anymore.

  Chapter 14

  “Are you sure you’ve got it?” I asked, climbing the stairs to my apartment with my keys in hand.

  “Yeah,” Colt grunted. “Who knew a damn plaster dog could be so damn heavy.” He shifted the statue in his arms.

  I’d driven Tilly’s car home, and Colt had followed me in his truck. I’d offered to transfer it to my borrowed car, but he’d insisted on bringing it himself. Now I was grateful I’d let him. “I think it’s just awkward,” I said as I shoved the key into the lock and hurried to get the door open. “It’s tall and narrow, and there’s nothing to hold onto.”

  “Thanks for the analysis,” he said sarcastically as he walked through the front door, hefting the dog again. “Where the hell do you want it? Because once I put it down, it’s staying there.”

  The apartment was decorated Southern Living-style, while the Dalmatian was more garage-sale treasure, but this wasn’t about how it looked. Daddy used to keep plenty of personal objects from me in his office—photos, pictures I’d drawn, and notes—but he’d seemed to love the ceramic dog the most. Colt was undoubtedly humoring me, but I still wanted the statue. The police had held most of the things in Daddy’s office hostage while conducting their investigation into his alleged embezzlement. The photos had eventually been returned, but when I’d asked about the rest, Momma told me that Daddy’s boss had thrown everything else out.

  But it could be no coincidence that I’d found an exact replica of the Dalmatian in the garage. Especially since my brother, who worked for Daddy’s old boss, had put it there.

  “Maggie!”

  “Uh . . .” I shook myself out of my musings. “In the corner.” I pointed to the wall and the edge of the bookcase.

  He dropped it with a thud, then rose, rubbing his lower back. “So this is what happens when you try to be a nice guy.” He shot me a sardonic grin. “Next time I suggest doing something nice, remind me it’s only good for getting laid.”

  I crossed my arms and gave him a mock stern look. “You’re not getting laid.”

  “Dammit.” But he was smiling.

  I kept staring at the dog, realizing that it wasn’t going to work in its current location. I couldn’t get the lower cabinet door open if we left it there.

  “What?” Colt asked, hesitation in his voice.

  He’d said he was only putting it down once. I’d just move it after he left.

  “What?” he asked again with a little more force.

  “Thanks for bringing it up here, Colt.”

  “You want to move it somewhere else.”

  I grimaced. “Maybe . . .”

  He released a loud groan. “Where?”

  “Um . . .” I spun around in a circle as I scouted out the small space. “Between the chair and the sofa.”

  He squatted and picked it up, shuffled around the chair, and then started to lower it.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Not there. Next to the refrigerator.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked, giving me the evil eye.

  “Yeah.”

/>   “Sound more sure, Maggie Mae.”

  “Yes.”

  He dropped it with a loud thud next to the fridge, and the dog’s front paw fell off in one big chunk. “Oh shit,” Colt said as he stood upright. “Sorry.”

  I leaned over for a closer look. “It’s a cheesy ceramic dog. It’s no big deal. I’ll just glue it back on.” But just when I was about to stand back up, I noticed the corner of a piece of paper.

  He rubbed a hand over his head. “Sorry.”

  “You already said that.” I got down on my knees to get a closer look.

  “Before you start thinking I’m not strong enough to carry that thing, you should know it’s freakishly heavy.”

  I grinned up at him. “I never questioned your masculine strength.”

  “I could carry you up and down the stairs ten times without getting winded.” He thumbed toward the door. “I’ll demonstrate now if you want.”

  I laughed as I pulled out my cell phone to turn on the flashlight and get a better look inside the dog.

  “I’ll take a raincheck, but I think you just insinuated I weigh less than this ceramic dog. So thanks for that.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked, squatting behind me.

  “I see something.”

  “Inside the dog? Is it literally full of bricks?”

  “No,” I said. “I see paper.”

  “It’s stuffed with paper?”

  Upon closer inspection, I realized that the piece of foot that had fallen off had been previously glued. “Someone’s hidden something in here.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. The previously glued crack extended around the entire base of the statue. I glanced up at him. “We need a hammer.”

  “A hammer?” He sat back on his heels. “I just lugged that thing around trying to keep it in one piece. Now you want me to smash it?”

  “Colt, look!” I pointed to the crack. “The entire base was removed and reattached.”

  “Maybe someone dropped the two-hundred-pound statue and the base broke off; then for whatever unconceivable reason, they liked it enough to reattach it.”

  “I saw something inside there!”

  The look he gave me told me that he was worried for my mental health.

  I got to my feet. “Fine. I’ll do it.” I started to walk around him. “I wonder if there’s a hammer somewhere in here.”

  He released a long, pained groan. “You’re a total pain in the ass. You know that, right?”

  I batted my eyelashes. “It’s a good thing you love me.”

  “If I crack this open, I doubt there’s any chance of putting it back together.”

  “But the foot broke off—”

  “I’m not going to be delicate with this thing, Mags. Either you let me open it my way, or you do it on your own.”

  I gave the dog a long look. I wanted the dog because it felt like a connection to my father, but that was stupid. The statue wasn’t going to bring him back, and I was genuinely curious about what was inside. What if it really was the statue I’d given him? What if my father had hidden something inside?

  “Smash it.”

  His eyes lit up with mischief. “Get a towel. We can use it to collect the pieces.”

  When I returned from the bathroom, Colt was gone, but the front door was cracked open.

  He returned a minute later with a tire iron in his hand. “Now we’re cooking.”

  We laid the towel on the floor and set the statue on top. Then Colt wrapped it up and smashed it in multiple places with the tire iron. When he unwrapped it, we both gasped.

  “What the hell?” he asked breathlessly. The tire iron was still in his hand, and one end of it was resting on his shoulder.

  Several small white bags cinched with draw strings lay among the broken pieces.

  “What’s in the bags?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Could be drugs. Where the hell did Roy get this?”

  I squatted down and moved several pieces out of the way to pick up the papers.

  “Seriously?” Colt asked in disgust. “You go for the papers?” He laid down the tire iron and reached for one of the white canvas bags, which was stuck to a piece of plaster with brittle-looking duct tape. As he lifted it, the bag released a metallic clinking sound.

  I cast the bag a curious glance as I unfolded the first paper and saw a list of numbers and letters, like serial numbers. But it was the second paper that caught my attention. The handwriting was familiar, and I almost dropped the note before reading the top line.

  Magnolia, if you found this paper, then something has happened to me. Trust no one.

  Oh, my God. The note was from my father?

  “Holy shit!” Colt shouted. “It’s gold.”

  “What?” I managed to drag myself out of my shocked stupor enough to look at him. He’d upended the bag on the kitchen island—revealing multiple small gold rectangles.

  Though my heart was beating in double time, and every bit of me longed to finish the letter, I wanted to read these last words from my daddy alone. I folded the letter and stuffed it into my pocket, leaving the other paper out.

  His mouth gaping open, Colt picked up something that looked like a slightly oversized bar of Hershey’s chocolate. “This is a hundred-gram gold bar, Magnolia,” he said in awe.

  Why would my father have hidden gold bars?

  “How many are in there?” I asked in a strangled voice.

  He looked over the pieces. “There are ten in this bag.”

  I shook my head. “How much is that worth?”

  “Thousands of dollars. Thousands.”

  I sucked in a breath and reached for one. The bar was heavier than I’d expected. The word Suisse was embedded on the side, along with 100 g, 999.9, and a series of numbers at the bottom that looked like a serial number.

  The serial numbers seemed to match the numbers on the other paper.

  “That’s a hundred-gram bar, Maggie. There’s over two pounds of gold in this bag. No wonder that damn dog was so heavy. Whoever hid the bags taped them to the inside of the statue.”

  I knew the answer to the whoever question. I couldn’t imagine that Roy would leave gold bars inside a statue and stuff it into Momma’s garage. Daddy had hidden them. But why?

  “What did those papers say?” Colt asked.

  I handed him the paper with the numbers. “I think someone listed the serial numbers.”

  “Shit,” he mumbled, looking it over. “I think you’re right. What did the other one say?”

  Trust no one. The Franklin police were already in question because of Walter Frey’s missing cell phone. Now I wondered if I should have given the list to Colt. But he was already handling the coins. What difference did it make if he saw the serial numbers all listed out? But I wasn’t going to share my father’s note. At least not yet. “Nothing. I think it was there as filler, probably in case one of the bags fell.”

  Colt gave me an odd look, but if he didn’t believe me, he also didn’t call me on it. “I counted nine more bags. Let’s check them out.”

  We separated the other bags from the pieces of the statue and spilled their contents onto the counter. Most were more Suisse 100-gram bars, but three bags held two 250-gram bars in addition to the smaller ones, and one held fifteen U.S. twenty-five-dollar gold coins stamped with 1992–1998 and an image of the Statue of Liberty. And sure enough, the serial numbers were listed on the paper.

  When we finished, Colt let out a long, low whistle. “There could be a hundred thousand dollars in gold here. What do you want to do with all of this, Maggie Mae?”

  “I don’t even know.” I had to figure out what the treasure had to do with my dad.

  “It could be the answer to your money problem.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” I said, thinking about the still partially read note in my pocket. Had my father left the gold for me? Did he want me to turn it in to the police?

  “Why don’t you think about i
t?” he asked, stuffing the bars and coins back into their bags. He left one small bar out. “Let me take this one with me to see if I can find out anything about them. Like how much they’re worth.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Isn’t gold’s worth determined by weight? Shouldn’t it be worth however much it weighs?”

  “In theory. But we have no idea how these gold bars found their way into that ugly dog statue. The how is easy enough—they were hidden.” He tapped the bottom of the bar. “This is a serial number. This might tell us why they were hidden.”

  “You think they were stolen.”

  “It crossed my mind. Why else would they be hidden like this? I can’t have you trying to sell stolen gold. We need to know if these serial numbers are hot.”

  “If I decide to sell it at all.”

  “You’re a little young to be saving for retirement. Especially when you’re so broke and working four jobs.”

  “Four?” I asked. “Momma, the shop, and Miss Ava.”

  “And singing with me. We have our set tomorrow night.”

  Crap. In the chaos of my life, I’d forgotten. “I’ve added more songs, so we need extra rehearsal time.” It was the least of my concerns right now, but the note was burning a hole in my pocket. If I tried to cancel on him, it would lead to a longer conversation. Colt was sharp; he might figure out that I was up to something—or a whole lot of somethings . . .

  “I can’t meet you until late afternoon tomorrow, but I think we’ll be fine,” Colt said. “Maybe we can rehearse in the catering kitchen. The acoustics are amazing, and the Belles don’t have any functions tomorrow night.”

  “Do you think you’ll get my car running tomorrow?” I asked.

  He cringed. “I’ll go by first thing in the morning and send you a text when I know something.”

  He reached for the list of serial numbers, but I held on. “Let’s just stick to the one bar for now.” I’d keep the list in my purse for now.

  I expected him to look offended, but he gave me a look that I took as respect.

  I followed him to the door. “Thanks, Colt.”

  He grinned as he tucked the gold bar into his jeans pocket. “That’s what friends are for.”