Act Two

by Denise Grover Swank

  I looked back at her, and her eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place.

  “Magnolia.” She grabbed my arm. “Please tell me you’re not here to question Karen.”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. I had no idea Karen would be here.” But it was certainly odd that Karen Merritt was at Walter Frey’s funeral. Then again, maybe Walter and Chris had done other business together.

  “You’re not here to question Walter’s wife either, are you?”

  “No,” I said without sounding defensive. I could see why she might think that, but even I had my limits. “I’m here to pay my respects.”

  And to look for anything suspicious that I could follow up on later. But Belinda didn’t need to know that part. Nevertheless, it felt like a long shot.

  Several minutes later, the pianist began to play “How Great Thou Art” as the family walked down the aisle to their seats in the front row. A middle-aged woman with a teenage boy and a twenty-something couple—Mr. Frey’s daughter and son-in-law?—entered first, followed by an elderly couple and two more middle-aged couples with their children. Once they took their seats and the service started, it occurred to me that the woman sitting in the front row wasn’t the woman Walter Frey had met at Mellow Mushroom. Had she been a client? I couldn’t ignore the way she’d studied me as she walked up that afternoon—as if I was some kind of threat.

  Was she Walter Frey’s lover?

  I dwelled on it for a few more moments, but an unexpected swell of emotion overcame me. Walter Frey was most likely dead because of me—I’d known that before now, of course, but it suddenly felt more real. He hadn’t wanted to meet me that night. I’d insisted.

  I’d killed Walter Frey.

  The proof of my destruction sat three rows in front of me as his widow leaned her head on the shoulder of her son. As her daughter’s back shook with her sobs.

  I had done this.

  A pressure built in my chest and the walls felt like they were closing in. My breath came in quick pants, and Belinda turned to me in concern.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I forced out, trying not to panic even more as I felt a massive anxiety attack brewing. “I need to go to the restroom.”

  Worry in her eyes, she swung her legs to the side so I could make my escape. I forced myself to walk as slowly as possible to keep from causing a scene, but as soon as I was free of the room, I bolted across the large entryway toward the bathroom.

  Once inside, I placed my hands on the counter and leaned my head against the mirror as I concentrated on my breathing, slow deep breaths in and out. I centered my whirling emotions on my happy place—the same memory I’d used to center myself in New York whenever panic and fear had threatened to consume me.

  I focused on my father. Or, more specifically, a warm summer night when I was nine. We had reclined on a blanket in the backyard, looking up at the stars. Roy had been there too, but even then he hadn’t wanted to be with us—Daddy had insisted. So we all lay on our backs, listening to the locusts in the trees, the warm summer night’s breeze rustling our hair. Daddy pointed out several constellations, and then, as we lay there in silence, I reached out my hand to his. He laced our fingers and squeezed tight. In that moment, I had felt like nothing could hurt me. That Daddy would protect me from everything.

  Deep down I knew it wasn’t true. Would he have protected me the night I’d been held hostage, beaten, branded with the killer’s knife, and forced to listen to that poor woman’s screams as she was murdered?

  Because the sad truth was that Daddy hadn’t even been able to protect himself.

  After several minutes, I began to calm down and my face stopped tingling. I was grateful I hadn’t burst into tears, because I definitely didn’t have the makeup in my purse to fix a hot mess. When I felt more in control, I studied my face in the mirror and created a character to play. I was a woman accompanying her friend to a family friend’s funeral. I was the pillar for my friend to lean against. I was not a helpless victim.

  I took a deep breath, assumed my role, and walked out the door, already feeling stronger.

  When I returned to the service, everyone was standing, singing, “It Is Well with My Soul,” so my entrance went unnoticed by most people, except for a woman toward the back. She was standing in front of one of the hastily added folding chairs, and her eyes met mine as I passed her. It was the woman who Walter Frey had met for lunch.

  I recovered from my shock and slipped past Belinda to take my seat.

  “Are you okay?” she mouthed.

  I nodded and looked down at her hymnal and began to sing, resisting the urge to look back to see if the woman was watching. I hadn’t seen her when I’d made my escape, but I’d been too focused on reaching the bathroom door to notice.

  The service ended soon after that, and we watched as the casket was wheeled out the side door, with the pallbearers walking beside it. I glanced back to catch a glimpse of the woman, but she was gone. I wasn’t sure I could go to the graveside, but Belinda looped her arm through mine and tugged me along with the other mourners.

  Clouds from an imminent storm were brewing to the west, kicking up a breeze and a chill. Although the coffin was brought to the gravesite in a hearse, most of us traveled on foot behind.

  I only had on a light sweater, so I shivered from the cold and nerves as I kept my eyes on Walter Frey’s son. His face was stoic as he helped pull the coffin from the hearse. His mother and sister held hands as they watched, tears glittering in their red eyes.

  Belinda gave my arm a squeeze. As if reading my mind, she said, “It’s not your fault, Magnolia.”

  I gave her a tight smile and lied. “I know.”

  We stood toward the back of the crowd of fifty or so people—some had left after the ceremony—and I realized I’d never gotten this closure with my father. Sure, I’d used it as an excuse to get the report from Brady, but standing here now, the truth of my supposed lie really sunk in. Daddy had simply disappeared, and I’d lived with the uncertainty ever since.

  Karen Merritt stood behind Mrs. Frey, her hand on the new widow’s shoulder. Mrs. Merritt hadn’t gotten her closure either.

  I zoned out for the rest of the short graveside service, only realizing it was over when I heard Belinda telling an older woman that we wouldn’t be going to the church for the potluck early dinner afterward.

  As the woman wandered off, Belinda turned to me. “I need to talk to Mrs. Ramey about something related to the Arts Council fundraiser tomorrow night. Will you be okay if I leave you for a minute?”

  “Of course. I’m fine.”

  She gave me a wary look before she moved closer to a woman on the other side of the group.

  “She’s wrong, you know,” I heard a woman with a raspy voice say from behind me.

  I spun around to face Walter Frey’s lunch date, my heart lodging in my throat.

  “It was your fault.”

  Find a role. Find a role, a voice chanted in my head. I quickly settled on a woman accused of a crime she didn’t commit, an easy role to assume since I’d played it so recently. I gave her a haughty look. “I’m sorry . . . have we met?”

  She assessed me, and the look in her eyes seemed to say, Okay, if that’s how you want to play it. “We inadvertently met last Tuesday at the restaurant, although we were never introduced. You’re Magnolia Steele.”

  I titled my head slightly, giving her a bitchy look. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Unimportant. I know why you were meeting Walter that night.”

  I cocked an eyebrow and asked with a smirk, “Why would you think we were meeting? I was just saying hello to him at the restaurant.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes, and she grabbed my arm and dragged me several feet away from the group. “Don’t play dumb with me, little girl. You have no idea what you’ve stirred up.”

  I tried to jerk loose from her hold, but I didn’t want to cause a scene.

>   “Walter Frey was murdered in a robbery,” I said, proud of myself for maintaining my role. “I have no idea why you’d try to pin that on me. I doubt my presence in Franklin has inspired robbers to start murdering people.”

  Her face leaned closer to mine, and her fingers pinched deep. “Stay out of this, Magnolia. Let sleeping dogs lie. Before you get someone else killed.” Then she released me as if it offended her to touch me and turned and walked away.

  “Oh, my word,” Belinda gasped beside me, sounding out of breath. “What just happened?”

  Had she run over to intervene? Thankfully, no one else seemed to have noticed the woman’s verbal assault.

  I brushed my arm, plastering a distasteful look on my face. “Apparently she wasn’t a fan of my YouTube videos.”

  Belinda’s eyes narrowed. It was clear she didn’t believe me, but she didn’t question me either.

  “Did you recognize her?” I asked, glancing over at the woman. She had reached the asphalt path and was walking toward the parking lot.

  “No.”

  “I thought you knew everyone,” I teased, forcing myself to laugh.

  She turned her concerned gaze on me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Of course,” I said, still reeling from the woman’s accusation. This man’s death was on my shoulders, and I had no idea how to atone for it. Should I tell his widow that I wasn’t sure I believed the robbery story?

  If I did that, I’d be stealing closure from her and her children, not to mention possibly putting them in danger. She wasn’t the person I needed to talk to.

  No. That person was standing on the opposite side of the crowd, his eyes firmly glued to me.

  Brady Bennett.

  What the heck was he doing here?

  Belinda realized I was watching him and gave me a questioning look.

  “Come on, let’s go.” I didn’t want to talk to him within earshot of Belinda.

  “Do you know him?”

  I started walking, and thankfully she followed. “That’s Brady.”

  Belinda gave me a sly smile. “Brady?”

  Crap. I needed to set her straight. “Detective Brady Bennett.”

  That caught her off guard, but she didn’t look all that alarmed. “You’re on a first-name basis with a police detective?”

  “I do seem to be hanging out with a lot of them lately.”

  “Not funny.” She cringed. “I saw the way he was looking at you. I need more of an explanation than that.”

  How was he looking at me? With the concern he’d shown earlier or the naked interest with which he’d watched me sing? I didn’t dare ask. “I met him a few weeks ago. During the last investigation.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but a grin tugged her lips. “You never told me about Detective Brady Bennett.”

  He must have given me the hungry man in front of a buffet look. “That’s because it was . . .” How did I describe what happened between us? “Neither of us knew who the other was the first time we met. Then the second time . . . let’s just say while there was chemistry, the fact that he works for the Franklin police put a damper on anything happening.”

  “And this time?”

  “I called him when I found Walter Frey.” When she gasped, I added, “Brady had saved his number to my phone, so when I found Walter Frey, I called him. He was the first person on the scene, and he called it in.”

  “You found Mr. Frey’s body?”

  I cringed. “I didn’t tell you that part?”

  She took a second to process, then asked, “So he’s investigating the murder?”

  “Not exactly.” I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder to see if he was following us. “He wasn’t on duty, so he handed it off to his friend. But Brady took my statement and has kept me informed.”

  She eyed me for a moment. “Why do I think there’s a whole lot you’re not telling me?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Because Alvin called to ask me what I knew about you and Franklin’s most attractive police detective.”

  “Belinda!” Then I lowered my voice in case Brady was close enough to hear. “You knew?”

  “I was waiting for you to tell me yourself. I hear he asked you to dinner. Why won’t you go out with him?”

  Crap. How did I get out of this one?

  “Because he hurt me, Belinda.”

  I quickly explained his betrayal over the Goodwin case.

  Belinda stopped in her tracks. “Magnolia! Why didn’t you tell me?” Then she looked back toward the grave, obviously searching for Brady. My gaze followed hers; he was talking to someone in the crowd, although I had no idea who the man was.

  I shrugged and started walking again. “There was a lot going on. I never told anyone. Except for Colt.”

  She scowled. Obviously her opinion of him hadn’t changed in the last couple of hours. “I heard you two are playing at the Kincaid tonight.”

  “How’d you hear that?”

  “Tilly. She got pretty excited when I told her what a big deal it was.”

  It was my turn to stop. “Whoa. Why would you tell her that?”

  “Because it is a big deal.”

  I gave her a blank stare.

  “Are you serious? You really don’t know? Magnolia! It’s where a lot of artists get discovered. I would have given anything to play there.”

  I’d almost forgotten that Belinda had come to Nashville to become a country music star. I still had to wonder how she had handed in that lifestyle to be my brother’s Stepford wife. I knew she couldn’t be happy. The question was why she stayed.

  “How did this come about?” she asked.

  “Colt and I sang at the Embassy. Then he told me he was playing at the Kincaid and asked me to sing with him.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “You two sang together?”

  “How else would he know if I was any good or not?”

  “How about the fact you were a Broadway star?”

  “I was a Broadway star for about two seconds. And while we did sound great, I have no desire to be a country music artist.”

  “Then why did you agree to sing with him?”

  I shrugged again. “I don’t know. I guess because I love being onstage. I know it’s only been a few weeks, but I miss it. And sure, singing is performing, but all the touring and sleeping in a different bed every night? No, thanks.”

  She gave me a look of stern reprimand. “Then you better tell Colt, because most musicians play there for a reason. I’m sure he thinks he has a better shot of getting a record deal if you’re with him.”

  “You mean because of my name,” I suggested dryly.

  “Oh, honey. I didn’t mean it that way. I just worry about you. I would hate for someone to use you. And while Colt is a charmer, he’s most definitely a user.”

  Her concern was almost humorous. Belinda was one of the most genuinely sweet people I knew. I was usually the more jaded one.

  “Trust me, Belinda. I know exactly what I’m getting when it comes to Colt, his criminal past aside.”

  “Are you sure of that?” she asked with worry in her eyes. “He pulled one over on you with the Kincaid.”

  Dammit. She had a point.

  The wind picked up, and the air felt heavy with impending rain. I saw a flash of lightning and started hurrying. “Let’s get to the car before it starts raining.”

  “I need to get back anyway,” she said. “We got a new shipment of wedding dresses that I left for my assistant to steam.” She gave me a sly look. “You should come try some on.”

  “I’m off on Monday morning. Besides, it’s about time I went to see your shop.”

  “Really? I expected you to say no.”

  “Why? Just about every girl likes to dress up like a princess, and isn’t a wedding dress like the ultimate princess gown?”

  “Are you a secret romantic, Magnolia?”

  I laughed. “Hardly. But what’s not to love about a dress tha
t makes you look and feel like royalty? I might as well wear one when I can.”

  “But someday you’ll get married. You’ll wear one then.”

  I snorted. “I’m never getting married.”

  She turned back to me, her eyes wide. “Why?”

  I couldn’t tell her the real reason—that I could never let anyone get close enough to get married. I had too many secrets that I could never, ever share. But thankfully I already had a pat answer. “Too selfish,” I said with a snooty air. “The theatre is too demanding for me to have enough energy left over to devote to making a marriage work.”

  “But you’re not acting now. Don’t you wish you had someone to share your life with? Don’t you get lonely?”

  “No.”

  “Not even just a little? When was the last time you had a serious boyfriend?” she asked, watching me like I was a goldfish in a bowl. “And don’t tell me Griff, because from what you’ve told me, he doesn’t count.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, starting to get irritated. “Can we stop psychoanalyzing my life? Tell me about the dresses you got in.”

  She seemed to give it serious thought before she said, “I’m really good at helping my brides pick their dresses. I bet I can pick the perfect dress for you.”

  We reached the car, and I opened the passenger door. “I can tell you right now that I’ve watched so many episodes of Say Yes to the Dress that I know I wouldn’t want a mermaid style.”

  She got in on the driver’s side, then said, “See, most people think that it’s all about body type, but there’s so much more to it than that. It’s also the person’s personality. The essence of them, if you will.”

  It seemed like a new age philosophy, which surprised me. I would have pegged Belinda as a staunch conservative.

  “Let me give this some thought,” she said, her brows furrowed with concentration as she started the car.

  It seemed so wrong to be discussing a wedding dress for a wedding I’d never have as I walked away from the grave of the man I’d gotten killed. But the funeral had left me shaken, and it felt good to have a harmless distraction.

  Belinda was quiet long enough that I was sure she’d dropped the subject, but as she pulled onto the road, she added, “You’re classical, but you like attention.”