Curtain Call: Magnolia Steele Mystery #4

by Denise Grover Swank

  “Like I said, we were going to be a lot more conniving.” She cast a glance at Miss Ava, who kept her eyes down.

  The fact that she wouldn’t look at me was freaking me out. “You wanted your money, and you also wanted to make him pay. So you were planning on blackmailing him by using me, but how?”

  Ava looked up. “What does it matter now?”

  “It matters a whole helluva lot. I want to know how far you were willing to go.”

  The defiance in her eyes told me she’d planned to go pretty far.

  “Why’s this so personal for you?” I asked.

  Ava continued to hold my gaze and said, “Jackie. Georgine. The meeting’s over. Leave.”

  They both blustered about the injustice of it all, but in the end, both of them got up and left.

  Miss Ava continued her staring contest with me, and once it was just the two of us, she said, “Oh, Magnolia. You’ve been more fun than I expected.”

  “Yeah, I hear that a lot,” I said in a flippant tone. “Now, why is it personal to you?”

  “I don’t have to tell you a thing,” she said, lifting her chin.

  I stood. “You don’t, but I bet I can figure it out.” I was certain this involved a someone—not a something—and I was willing to bet there was evidence of him or her somewhere in this house. I knew I wouldn’t find it on the first floor. I’d spent enough time dusting her knickknacks and artwork to know it was all impersonal. That meant the information I needed was upstairs, so I headed for the staircase.

  Miss Ava got to her feet. “And where do you think you’re going?”

  “Finding answers.”

  I expected her to follow me; instead, she headed toward the kitchen. I took that as a bad sign and pulled my phone out of my pocket to call Colt.

  “Are you done?” he asked. “You ready for me to pick you up?”

  “Not quite. I might need you to pick me up from the Franklin police station.”

  “Did Detective Martinez call you back in for more questions?”

  “No, I might get arrested for trespassing. At least I think that would be the charge,” I said as I reached the top of the stairs.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, sounding anxious.

  “Miss Ava won’t give me the answers I need, so I’m searching for them myself.” I cracked the first door on my right, revealing a generic bed, nightstand, and dresser. Guest room.

  “What are you doing, Maggie?” He sounded even more nervous.

  “She was going to use me to get back at my father,” I said, “not just to find information. I think she was going to do something drastic, like hold me for ransom.”

  “She told you that?”

  “No, she didn’t have to. I could see it on her face. I called her on it, and she definitely didn’t deny it.”

  “That sounds pretty extreme. Even for Ava.”

  “I know, which means my father must have hurt her really bad.” I poked my head into the next room. This one looked like her bedroom. Jackpot. There were photographs spread all across the room. “If I can find out how he hurt her, maybe I can help make it right.”

  “It’s not your job to right his wrongs, Mags.”

  “I know, but part of me feels like I have to do it anyway . . . if nothing else, to keep her from having me kidnapped and held hostage.”

  “Don’t joke about that.”

  “I’m not joking. I have to go. I’ll tell you what I find.” Then I hung up so I could focus on snooping.

  Three photographs in elaborate filigree frames sat on her dresser. One was a black and white wedding photograph of an ecstatic young bride and groom. I didn’t have to look very hard to see that the bride was Miss Ava, even though the genuine smile almost threw me off. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. The next photo was of a young girl. Based on her dated clothes and her facial features, I placed her as Miss Ava’s daughter. The third photo was of a young family—a couple and their daughter, who looked like she was around ten years old.

  “My granddaughter,” Miss Ava said behind me. Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat before she said, “She was twenty-one when she died seven years ago.”

  A heaviness settled on my shoulders. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “She was murdered.”

  My heart skipped a beat as I spun around to face her. “How?”

  “She was going to school out on the West Coast. She went out to a bar with friends and told them she was leaving with a man she’d just met. Said she’d get a ride home.”

  “She never came home,” I finished, staring at the happy girl in the photo.

  “No.”

  “She had multiple cuts,” I said in a dull voice.

  “The police kept that part quiet. They told the public she died of stab wounds.”

  My breath stuck in my chest as grief and guilt washed over me. “Did she?”

  “You tell me,” she said, her words laced with anger.

  I set the photo on her dresser and took a step toward her. “This is not my fault.” But as soon as the words left my mouth, I couldn’t help wondering if that was a lie. What if I’d been brave enough to stay and go to the police ten years ago? What if I could have prevented her senseless death as well as the others’?

  “But it is your father’s.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because after her funeral, Steve Morrissey received a single white flower in the mail. Do you know what that flower was?”

  I swallowed the terror rising in my throat. “No.”

  “A magnolia blossom. Only, the stupid fool didn’t realize what it was. My granddaughter was killed to send him a message, and he didn’t even understand it.”

  I felt light-headed, so I grabbed the edge of the dresser. “Oh God . . .” I waited a moment for my faded peripheral vision to return before I asked, “Why your granddaughter? Why send the flower to Steve Morrissey?”

  “My son-in-law was Steve Morrissey’s brother.”

  My mouth dropped open. “And the death in Florida? She was Walter Frey’s niece?”

  “There were rumors about him and her,” she said.

  Rowena Rogers had said the same thing, only she’d been a lot blunter. Incest.

  Ava frowned. “I didn’t put it together at first. I didn’t even know about Steve Morrissey receiving that flower until his wife told me a few years later. And then Walter’s niece was killed, and the warning he was given . . .”

  “You put it together.”

  I sat down on the edge of her bed, my head still fuzzy. “You think my father did this. To what purpose?”

  “Every single death is tied to seven of the nine original partners.” She narrowed her eyes. “Everyone but your father and Bill James.”

  I blinked hard, trying to keep myself together. “What?”

  “I looked into the murders you told me about. Every single victim has some tie to one of the nine original partners of the Jackson Project. A niece. An old—but significant—girlfriend. An old neighbor. Someone whose death would hit hard, yet a connection distant enough to evade the attention of the police. Only the people involved would understand.”

  I tried to catch my breath. So much premeditation . . . yet why was I surprised? I’d known there was a link. I just hadn’t put it together on my own.

  “What about Amy and Emily?”

  “Amy was the daughter of a woman Max Goodwin actually fell in love with years ago, then lost to his philandering.” The look in her eyes was full of both fear and pride. “She may have even been his secret daughter.”

  “You told her.”

  Her eyebrows raised slightly. “Excuse me?”

  “You were the one who told Max Goodwin’s girlfriend that he was cheating on her.”

  She lifted her chin, but she looked smug, not remorseful. “That’s neither here nor there.”

  “How much do you actually know about people in this town?” I asked in disgust. “And who ma
de you important enough to destroy people’s lives?”

  “I save them as well, you insolent girl. I do what is best for everyone.”

  “According to you and your rules,” I countered. “What about Emily? What was her connection?”

  “Emily . . . as far as I can tell, she wasn’t related to anyone.”

  Then why was she killed? Because she got too close to the truth?

  “So you’re telling me that you think my father had something directly to do with their deaths?”

  “Why would the killer send Walter a text saying he hoped he liked his warning and Steve a magnolia flower if it wasn’t tied to your father?”

  She had a point, but he’d seemed so surprised at the suggestion of a serial killer. And he wasn’t the one who’d hurt Melanie. I’d been there, and apparently Roy had witnessed it too. So what was the serial killer’s aim?

  More to the point, who was he?

  Chapter 25

  My phone rang and I pulled it out of my pocket, cringing when I saw Brady’s name on the screen. I knew I should share Miss Ava’s information with him, but I suspected he was calling about my chat with his partner. In fact, it was nearly noon. I was surprised it had taken him this long to call.

  Against my better judgment, I answered. “Hey, Brady.”

  “Magnolia, where are you?” His tone was short.

  “I’m at Miss Ava’s.”

  “Again?”

  “It’s Thursday. Bible study.”

  Miss Ava snorted.

  “I need to talk to you ASAP.”

  “I’m not sure when I’ll be done here. Can’t you tell me over the phone?”

  “You’re done now. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I hung up, feeling anxious about Brady’s insistence as well as how short he’d been. He had undoubtedly heard about the statement I’d made to his partner the night before. My trust in him was plummeting by the second, and I really wasn’t sure getting into a car with him was a good idea. As I dropped my phone back into my pocket, Miss Ava looked pissed.

  “You and I are not done,” Miss Ava said. “We are far from done.”

  She must have heard Brady’s side of the call. “Then you have ten minutes to finish it.” Or less if I decided to bolt before Brady showed up.

  She walked toward her door. “We’re not having this discussion in my bedroom.”

  I followed her out of the room, then turned back and gave her photos one last glance before going downstairs. I was scared, and more than tempted to call Colt and beg him to run away with me and never come back. The revelations Miss Ava had shared with me were just so . . . heavy. So terrifying. But that smiling face of Miss Ava’s granddaughter kept me rooted to this mess. She might not have died if I hadn’t run before. No one else was dying because of me.

  My phone rang again, and I recognized the number as the one Detective Martinez had used to call me the other day. I answered her call too.

  “Magnolia Steele,” she said in an icy tone. “We need to chat.”

  “I feel so popular today,” I said in a fake-sweet voice as I descended the stairs.

  “I’m not calling to bolster your ego. I need to talk to you more about the murders.”

  “Which murders?” I asked, feigning innocence.

  “Just get your ass down here.”

  “Well, it just so happens Brady’s on his way to pick me up. I’ll have him drop me off at the station.”

  “Brady Bennett is picking you up?” Her tone suggested this was not something that should be happening.

  “Do we have a bad connection? Is that why you’re asking me to repeat myself?”

  “You get down here by yourself. Or, better yet,” she said, sounding a little flustered, “let me send a squad car.”

  My heart stuttered and I stopped at the bottom step. “Am I being arrested for something?”

  “No, but do not get into a car with Detective Bennett. He has been instructed to have no contact with you.”

  I almost defended him, but I cut myself off. I needed to think this through a little bit more. “Thank you for the information.”

  “I’m serious, Magnolia Steele.”

  “And so am I, Detective Martinez.” I hung up and continued to follow Miss Ava into the dining room, where she had begun to dismantle the food display on the table.

  I could see why Brady wasn’t supposed to have contact with me—it was surely a conflict of interest at this point—but why hadn’t he told me to keep quiet about meeting him?

  “So chummy with so many police detectives,” Miss Ava muttered.

  I stopped several feet from the table. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s surprising is all.” She swung her head to glance at me. “But then everything about you has been a surprise.”

  I flashed her a smile. “You can’t help but love me.”

  Her gaze met mine for a long moment, and then she abruptly turned her back and carried two platters to the kitchen. “You remind me of her.”

  I grabbed a plate half-filled with mini quiches and a decanter of orange juice and followed her. “Your granddaughter?”

  She set the platters on the kitchen counter, and I did the same. “She was feisty. Not afraid of anything. At first, we figured that was why she was killed, because she had no fear.”

  “I have plenty of fear.”

  Her eyes lifted to mine. “Do you?” She turned away and headed back into the dining room. “The irony is that it wasn’t her lack of fear that got her killed. It was something she had no control over.”

  She picked up two more trays, and I grabbed the last two plates and followed her.

  “Would you really have used me to get back at my father?” I asked.

  “I thought we had already established that I would,” she barked, but the words sounded forced and full of false bravado.

  “Are you still going to try to get your revenge?”

  She studied me for several long seconds before she said, “You’ll be the weapon of our revenge, just how we planned.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your father still sees you as the teenage daughter who worships him. The fact that you’re bringing him down will be the best revenge of all.”

  I almost argued that he knew I didn’t still worship him, but he hadn’t seemed to accept that. “Who says I’m bringing him down?”

  “Going to the police station and telling Detective Martinez that your father confessed to killing three people is a great start to his downfall.”

  “I’m positive my father’s not the serial killer, Miss Ava. He was taken by surprise, so it has to be someone who has known him for at least twenty years.” I paused. “I need to know more about Eric Duncan.”

  “I don’t know what more there is to know.”

  “Come on, Miss Ava. When I asked you yesterday, you said his son had hired my father as his financial planner, but you changed the subject when I asked you how Eric took it.”

  “He didn’t handle it well at all. He vowed to get even with your father. He had a temper and he showed up at your father’s office once and your home twice. The police were called.” She paused. “One of the officers who showed up at your house was Gordon Frasier.”

  “The detective who handled Daddy’s disappearance . . .”

  “There are multiple connections to the Franklin Police Department,” she said. “You’re friendly with one of them.”

  “Brady?” When she nodded, I said, “How?”

  “Eric Duncan is his uncle.”

  The bottom fell out of my stomach. “This town is like the six degrees of Kevin Bacon, only there are only two degrees.”

  “Eric Duncan is the brother of Brady’s mother, Amanda. The families became somewhat estranged when Clint signed with your father. Clint’s father refused to see him, so Brian had him spend a lot of time at your house.”

  “Like Tripp Tucker.”

  “Both of them looked up to Brian. He replaced their ab
sent fathers.”

  “And after he lost all their money?”

  “Tripp never forgave him, especially after what happened with his fiancée. Clint, on the other hand, never blamed Brian. He was a staunch defender of your father until he disappeared. And after.”

  “He might have believed the partners wronged my father.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Clint Duncan was an adult when he came to my house, and I don’t remember him. Brady’s not much older than me . . .”

  “Clint was eighteen when he hired your father as a financial planner. His father, Eric, is a good ten or more years older than Amanda. They were never close, and Brady’s father couldn’t stand Eric. When Eric disowned Clint, Brady’s father tried to cut off all contact with him.”

  “Tried?”

  “Amanda and the kids still saw her brother and his family at their parents’ house on a few occasions. Brady knows both his uncle and his cousin.”

  There was no denying that Brady had a connection to the serial killer. He’d known about Melanie Seaborn’s murder before starting at the police academy. Had he suspected his uncle?

  The doorbell rang and I jumped. “That’s Brady.”

  “He’s here to take you to the police station?”

  I gave her a look of impatience. We both knew she’d overheard my phone calls. “Detective Martinez said he’s not supposed to have contact with me.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “And yet he’s still here. He must really want to see you.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “What are you going to do?” There was a challenge in her eyes.

  Ultimately, there wasn’t much of a choice at all. “I’ve got questions and he’s got answers.” I pushed the swinging door open and headed into the living room, pausing only to scoop my purse up off the chair I’d left it on earlier. I was almost to the door when I heard Brady pound on it and shout, “Magnolia!”

  I opened the door and relief filled his eyes.

  “Why are you so worried?” I asked.

  “There are a lot of people who don’t have your best interests in mind, and I’m concerned for your safety.”

  There were so many red flags where Brady was concerned, but I still believed he was genuinely worried about me. “Your partner says you’re not supposed to be talking to me.”