“I was thinking we could arrange a barter,” I said, taking the cup. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of cream.
She frowned. “I’m listening.”
I poured cream into my coffee and put the carton back into the fridge. “I talked to Rowena on Saturday morning.”
“Does that mean you’re a suspect in Rowena’s murder?”
“No.” Not technically. “Have you heard who is?”
She smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “Is that the information you want to barter for?”
“No,” I said. “Consider this part a friendly exchange.”
Miss Ava snorted. “So you and I are friendly now?”
I sat down at her kitchen table and took a sip of my coffee. “We’ve had our moments.”
“You’re far too presumptuous, Magnolia Steele. Far too confident.”
“And maybe that will be my downfall,” I said in a dry tone, “but at least I’ll fall informed. I’m sure you’ve told yourself the same thing many times over.”
Ava stared at me with steely gray eyes that were still sharp and observant despite her age—sixties, on the low end, but I’d begun to suspect she was in her seventies. “Why are you still digging?” she asked, tilting her head slightly as she watched me. “Surely you have your answers by now.”
I’d thought so too. Now I wasn’t so sure.
While I was desperate for information on my brother, I knew I needed to butter her up first. Besides, there were plenty of other things I wanted to know.
Brady had been assigned to Emily’s murder, so he was officially working the serial killer case—whether the department knew there was one or not—but I was more likely to get information from Ava Milton than he was, not to mention I didn’t quite trust him. I needed to use it to my advantage, especially since the whole thing was like a giant spider web, and at the moment, I was the only one standing in the center.
I gave Ava a cold, hard stare. “Miss Ava, I’ve only just begun digging.”
To my surprise, she broke out into a full-on belly laugh. When she finally settled down, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes and sat down across from me. “There’s never a dull moment with you, Magnolia.”
“I suppose life is pretty dull when you know everything,” I said. “And I suspect it’s been a long time since someone surprised you.”
Her grin was genuine. “Maybe not as long as you think.”
“What do you know about Eric Duncan?”
She tried to hide her reaction, but I’d caught her off guard. “He was a partner of your father’s . . . back in the day. One of his first partners.”
“And do you know why he left?”
“Eric Duncan had a serious case of wanderlust—with his eyes and his hands. I wasn’t surprised when he left your father’s partnership, but I was surprised when his son became your father’s client.”
I couldn’t hide my reaction. “What?”
She grinned and her eyes lit up with victory. “You didn’t know?”
“Obviously not. Why would Eric Duncan’s son choose Daddy as his financial planner?”
“Because Clint Duncan was an up-and-coming singer. His first big hit earned him a large royalty check. Max Goodwin coerced Clint into hiring your father.”
Clint Duncan. His name struck a chord. I remembered one of his huge hits from when I was a kid—“Baby, You’re Mine”—but I’d also seen his name in one of Miss Ava’s newspaper clippings. There’d been a photo of Clint and Daddy at a fundraiser. But it made no sense that Clint would hire Daddy when his own father was a financial planner, especially since the rival planners were likely enemies. “I bet that didn’t go over too well with Eric.”
Her grin spread and her eyes sparkled with mischief. She loved this. She took a sip of her coffee, her pinky extending from the cup. “It seems to me that I’m the only one doling out information here. When are you going to start dishing it?”
What to tell her? I should have come up with a better plan before I started this game. “Rowena admitted to having an affair with my father. She said he took off with a one-million-dollar investment. She put cameras up in my apartment in an attempt to get it back.”
Miss Ava released a harsh laugh. “If you’re going to feed me false information, then this deal is pointless.”
“And what part of that is false?” I asked defiantly.
“Rowena didn’t put those cameras in your apartment, Magnolia, though it doesn’t surprise me that she tried to take credit for it.” She tutted, as if chastening a naughty toddler. “And after I was kind enough to grant her access to them . . .”
She was admitting that she had done it. Only, she wouldn’t have done it herself, would she? My blood turned icy. Had Colt installed the cameras? I knew he’d installed security cameras before, and he’d done all kinds of odd jobs for Rowena. But why would he point the cameras out if he’d been the one to install them? It didn’t make any sense. I needed to let it go for now. I had more important issues to deal with. “Why would you put cameras in my apartment?”
“Why not? I knew you were full of information, and I wanted it.”
“You wanted the gold.”
Her answer was a wide grin.
“You put the cameras in after Geraldo Lopez was killed,” I said, reassuring myself that she hadn’t spied on me for long.
Her eyebrows rose playfully, or as playfully as Miss Ava could achieve.
She could be trying to psych me out. Maybe I could flush out the truth. “Rowena thought I had the gold, but if you installed the cameras before Geraldo Lopez broke in, you must have known better. He stole it from me.”
“Not all of it. There was another bag.”
There it was—confirmation that she’d watched me pull the remaining bag of gold out of the wipes container hidden under the kitchen sink. I needed to pull myself together. I should have known by now that Ava Milton was ruthless. “That bag was stolen too. From my car.” No need to tell her about the one Colt’d had evaluated. After all, we no longer had any of it.
“You should have gotten a safety deposit box. Or buried it in my backyard.”
“Why would you want one million in gold?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.
That made no sense. Robbery seemed beneath her. Why would she give Rowena access to the cameras if Miss Ava wanted the gold for herself? Then it hit me—she was trying to flush out my father too. “Now neither of us has it.”
“That’s because Bill James does,” she said.
“And why do you think he has it?”
“He confronted Rowena in that basement. He shot her, and I know you witnessed it.”
How did she know we were down there? “And now you’re feeding me erroneous information,” I said. “Bill James didn’t kill Rowena, and he definitely doesn’t have the gold.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes. “You have it?”
I laughed. “You’re more concerned with who has the gold than with who killed Rowena?”
“Why would I care who killed Rowena?”
I lifted my eyebrows.
“So who has the gold?”
“I think you know.” I held her gaze. “My father.”
She sat back in her chair, and her gaze turned cloudy. “So he’s really back? You’ve seen him?”
Not in the basement, but I had no doubt he’d been there. “I saw him two days ago.”
A knowing look washed over her face. “He stayed for your mother’s funeral.” She pushed out a breath wearily. “He really did love her, in spite of his philandering.”
I had serious doubts about that, but I kept my thoughts to myself. I decided to throw her off again. “What do you know about the serial killer?”
Her reaction lasted no longer than a blink, so quick that someone who didn’t know her wouldn’t have noticed. “What serial killer?”
“The man who killed Emily Johnson. And Amy Danvers.” My gaze focused on her. “And Melanie Se
aborn.”
Her face slightly paled. “Amy Danvers killed herself.”
“Did she?”
Miss Ava paled even more.
“There were more,” I said. “Unfortunate women whose names I don’t know, but they’re still just as dead. All starting twenty years ago.”
She didn’t respond.
“It has something to do with Daddy, but I can’t find the connection.”
“You think I know it?” she asked, sounding belligerent.
“Why did you hire Colt?” I asked.
“You think I’m sharing the terms of my employment of Colt Austin with you?”
“I think you’re scared of the serial killer.”
She didn’t answer.
“What do you know about my brother?” I asked.
She looked startled. “A woman could get whiplash talking to you.”
“What do you know about my brother?” I repeated.
“He’s working for Bill James. He married Belinda Germaine last year. He’s an alcoholic and an abuser.”
“What else?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Is there something else I should know?”
Was she bluffing? I looked at her for a long moment, weighing her sincerity, before deciding that she seemed genuine.
“Who do you think the serial killer is?” I asked.
“If I knew, he would already be arrested.” She took a sip of her coffee, but her hand shook slightly.
“The serial killer has something to do with my father.”
“Maybe Brian Steele is the killer. He was accused of murder before,” she said, some of her attitude returning.
“A drifter was arrested for Tiffany Kessler’s murder.” Seventeen years ago.
“But did the drifter really commit the murder?” she asked. It was a good question. What if Tiffany Kessler’s photo had been in Brady’s envelope? Aside from Melanie, I hadn’t looked at the names. Couldn’t bring myself to.
On the surface, it didn’t look good for my father, but I would have recognized Daddy’s voice in that basement, and as much as Roy seemed to hate Daddy, I doubt my brother would have kept that a secret.
And yet there was no denying the murders had taken place at weirdly specific intervals, ones that matched up with major events in Daddy’s life.
“I have reason to believe he didn’t do it,” I finally said, “but someone who knows him has been killing those women. It started twenty years ago, around the time the Jackson Project imploded. There was another murder seventeen years ago, after Tripp sued Daddy, and fourteen years ago, when Daddy disappeared. Then ten years ago . . .”
What had happened ten years ago?
I’d graduated high school.
Daddy must have come back for my graduation. The revelation was enough to almost tip me over in a dead faint.
“. . . and this last month,” I finished, my voice softer.
“And three years ago,” Miss Ava said in a strained voice.
“Three years ago?” I asked, jerking my gaze to hers. Brady hadn’t mentioned a murder three years ago, but if there had been one, it might have coincided with Chris Merritt’s disappearance. “What murder?”
She drew in a deep breath before a grim smile lifted her lips. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think.” Before I could say anything, she asked, “Do you think your father has been in town for the last month?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
She remained silent, and I stood and took my coffee cup to the sink.
“Are you ready to get to work?” Miss Ava asked.
“Yes. I definitely am.” I rinsed out the cup, then walked out the back door.
Chapter 11
I knew I should clean my things out of my apartment, but it was hard to care about a couple of suitcases full of belongings. I headed straight to Belinda’s office instead. I was worried about her, but I was also hurt.
I found her in her reception area, creating a new display table with gold-rimmed china plates and crystal goblets.
She looked up at me as I walked in the door. Setting the goblet in her hand on the table, she said, “Magnolia, are you okay?”
I didn’t answer as I walked toward her, stopping only a few feet away.
“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” she said, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in her cream-colored linen pants.
“Is that what you want?” I asked. “Do you want him?”
She glanced down at her shoes. “It’s complicated, Magnolia.”
I tried to stuff down my pain. “I understand why you took him home—I do—but . . .” It was none of my business why she stayed with him. As hard as it was to accept, it was her choice. “I need to know what happened after you left.”
“I drove him home, Magnolia,” she said indignantly. “He didn’t drink and drive.”
I spun back around to face her. “I’m talking about after you took him home.”
“You’re upset with me for leaving you alone?”
“No . . . about the serial killer.”
She shook her head, slack-jawed. “What are you talking about?”
I hesitated. “Did Brady come to your house?”
“Yes, and he warned Roy to stay away from you.”
Was she lying to me? She looked genuinely confused.
“Belinda, I’m talking about the fact that Roy knows something about what happened to me ten years ago. He knows about the serial killer.”
“How would Roy know about the serial killer?”
“You heard what he said to me. He told me I was lucky and asked if I ever wondered how I got that way.”
“That could have meant anything,” Belinda said in frustration. “It’s a stretch to assume it had anything to do with the serial killer. Brady must be grasping at straws.”
“What did Brady say to Roy?”
“I told you. He warned Roy to stay away from you or he’d arrest him.”
“Were you with Roy the entire time he spoke with Brady?”
“No. Brady said he wanted to talk to him about something else. They exchanged looks and Roy told me to go inside.”
Brady claimed to have discussed everything in front of Belinda. One of them was lying, but which one? “How long were they outside alone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a couple of minutes? I barely had the alarm turned off and my purse put away before Roy came inside.”
I had no idea what to believe. I desperately wanted to believe Belinda, but things weren’t adding up with her or Brady.
“I think Roy knows something,” I said. “Momma told me Roy hid my bloody clothes.”
Her face paled. “What?”
“The day after my graduation . . . She said Roy hid my bloody skirt.”
“How did your skirt get bloody?” she asked. While Belinda knew I’d had an encounter with the serial killer, I hadn’t told her all the gory details.
I’d worn yoga pants to clean Miss Ava’s house, so I grabbed the waistband and jerked them down to mid-thigh, showing Belinda and anyone walking past her office my black panties.
“Magnolia!” she shouted, turning away. “What are you doing?”
“Look at it!” I pointed to the scar on my leg. “This was why my skirt was bloody.”
When she realized I wasn’t going to pull my pants up until she looked, she slowly turned around and then focused on my leg. “Is that a scar?”
“This is the scar I told you about Saturday night. The serial killer cut it into my skin to remind me to keep my mouth shut. Emily had one too. So did Amy.”
“Is that why they asked me if she was a cutter?” Belinda asked in bewilderment. Then things started falling into place. “The killer . . .”
I pulled my pants back up. “Roy knows something about the killer. Either he was there in that house, or he saw the killer dump me at the edge of the woods, but he knows something.”
She slowly shook her head. Her eyes were wild. “No, Magnolia. He doesn’t know any
thing.”
“Think about it, Belinda. I was in that basement and lived through that hell, and the only way my mind could handle it was to block it from my memory. What if Roy saw something? How did he process it? What if he’s abusive because of that night?”
“That’s crazy!” she shouted. “Roy doesn’t know anything about the serial killer!”
“Are you sure?” I asked quietly. “Are you willing to bet your life on it?”
She started to say something, only to close her mouth before a word came out.
“I think the killer has something to do with Daddy,” I said. “Last week, Brady said he thought there was some connection, and I think he’s right. As best as I can tell, this all started twenty years ago, when the Jackson Project failed. Three years later, Tripp Tucker’s fiancée was murdered.”
“You think it was Tripp Tucker?”
“What if he did it and blamed Daddy?”
“So he killed random women?” She sounded incredulous.
“Were they random?” I asked. “No one other than Brady has connected the deaths.” Hopefully the FBI would show up soon and help catch this guy.
She was quiet for several seconds. “So tell Brady what you’re thinking. Let him investigate it.”
Except one of them was clearly lying, and I didn’t know which one of them to trust. “Why didn’t you come back to Momma’s house last night?”
She looked surprised by the sudden change in topic. “Roy needed me.”
“He needed you,” I said in a flat voice.
She sighed. “I know when you look at Roy, all you see is an angry man who lashes out. But he wasn’t always like that, Magnolia. He used to be happy.”
“That’s his problem, Belinda. Not yours.”
“It is my problem. I’ve made him unhappy.”
That just pissed me off. Colt was right—we all needed to stop coddling Roy. “You are not responsible for my brother’s happiness. Roy is responsible for his own happiness.”
Belinda looked down at the floor. “I made him take that job, Magnolia,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”
She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “I made him take the job with Bill James.”
Curtain Call: Magnolia Steele Mystery #4 Page 10