Curtain Call: Magnolia Steele Mystery #4

by Denise Grover Swank

  I cocked my head. “What do you mean by either?”

  “In addition to talking to Clint Duncan, I talked to Uncle Gordon about the officer who arrested the musician.”

  “You mean Colt?”

  He curled his lip. “Yeah. Him. Uncle Gordon said Mahoney, the arresting officer, was in thick with Martinez. If Mahoney was dirty, what if she is too?”

  Dread doused over me like a cold shower. “And she’s the one I told everything to . . .”

  “She might use it all, or she might suppress some of it.” An earnest look filled his eyes. “If she’s dirty, I want to nail her too.”

  “Too? Did you have anything to do with Mahoney’s hit-and-run?”

  His eyes flew wide in shock. “I can’t believe you asked me that question.”

  “And yet, it’s still sitting between us like a stinky turd—did you have anything to do with it?”

  His face hardened. “No. And if you distrust me that much, maybe we should end this joint effort right now. I was talking about your father.”

  He’d talked to Clint Duncan, and I wanted information—especially if he was right and there was a chance the guy was going to bolt. I backed up and stepped into the entryway, giving him room to pass me.

  He walked in and glanced around as he headed toward the living room. “What were you doing with the hammer?”

  I shut the door behind him and turned on the alarm system. “Trying to find a camera.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and gave me a blank stare.

  “I’ve got a lot to fill you in on, but first I want to hear about Clint Duncan.”

  He sat down in a chair while I sat on the sofa, sitting sideways and crossing my legs in front of me.

  “Duncan was a suspect in Tiffany Kessler’s murder, but he had an alibi, albeit a flimsy one. He and a friend were at a bar the night of her disappearance, but no one else could corroborate their story, and there was nothing tying him to the case. This morning I pinned him down, and he confessed he hadn’t gone out to the bar.”

  My mouth dropped open. “How did you get him to admit that?”

  “Probably by catching him by surprise years later. He swore up and down that he had nothing to do with her murder, but he was nervous.”

  “I’d probably be nervous if Martinez showed up on my doorstep seventeen years from now, asking me questions about my alibi the night Max Goodwin was murdered. And we both know I didn’t do it.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Fair.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “I asked him where he was ten years ago at the end of May, and he fumbled with an answer. It seemed like a better idea to focus on the more recent murders.”

  “Again . . . if someone asked me . . .”

  “Agreed, but his nervousness was suspicious.”

  “What was his answer?”

  “He said he didn’t know for certain, that he often goes to his Alabama lake house over Memorial Day weekend, so he might have been there.”

  “And what about Amy’s and Emily’s murders?”

  “No alibi. He said he was likely at home, writing music.” When I gave him a questioning look, he added, “He’s a songwriter. A pretty good one from what I hear. He might not be performing them anymore, but others are. He’s still making good money.”

  “So why would he screw that up by murdering women who had connections to the Jackson Project partners?” I asked.

  “What connections?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Finish your story first.”

  Owen narrowed his eyes at that, but he continued. “He claims he doesn’t hold a grudge against your father. He says he let it go years ago, but his body language said differently. I can guarantee he hates Brian Steele.” He paused, then said in a softer voice, “And he has no great fondness for you.”

  “Me?”

  “He didn’t come right out and say it, but when I asked him if he knew you, his body stiffened and he gave a flat answer that he didn’t know you. It definitely suggested he didn’t like you.”

  I resisted the urge to react, but it was strange to hear a man I didn’t remember, one I hadn’t seen since I was a kid, hated me for no good reason. “Anything else?”

  “No, and there’s nothing to hold him or charge him, but he’s suspicious as hell. If I were working this case, I’d be asking all of his old friends about Tiffany Kessler’s murder. I’d definitely be digging deeper.”

  “Why her case?”

  “Because her cuts were more random and deeper than in the other cases. Her death was personal.”

  “In that case, it sounds more like Tripp would be a suspect,” I said, shivering. I’d been alone with him the night before.

  Owen shook his head. “Tripp had an alibi. He was on a radio show later that night, and the next morning he left for a business trip. But Clint spent a lot of time with Tripp and Tiffany, and the original report says he admitted to being in love with her.”

  “So if he hated my father and found out she’d slept with him . . .”

  “The original report also says Tripp called Clint and told him about Tiffany’s affair, then asked if he knew where she was. He denied seeing or talking to her.” A cold look filled his eyes. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet the serial killer is Clint Duncan.”

  “I might be able to help confirm it,” I said softly.

  “What?” Then understanding filled his eyes. “You mentioned a camera.”

  First I told him what I’d learned from Miss Ava and Brady. Then I told him everything I knew about what my brother had seen and done that night. About the pictures on the camera, and how he’d bricked the camera up into the fireplace.

  “Why would he do that?” Owen asked, puzzled.

  “To hide it,” I said. “He says he kept it as insurance, but it’s odd that he put it someplace practically irretrievable.”

  “Agreed.” He stood and looked at the fireplace. “Is this the fireplace? I can help dig it out.”

  “No, it’s in the basement.” I pointed to the hammer on the coffee table. “But that’s pretty worthless.”

  He grinned. “I know better than to suggest that it’s your lack of upper body strength. Maybe a flathead screwdriver would help chisel it out. Do you have one?”

  “Yeah, in the garage.”

  I headed toward the door in the kitchen, and he called out, “A flathead is the one with the straight end, not the prong-looking one.”

  “I know what a flathead screwdriver is,” I called back sarcastically as I grabbed one out of the toolbox. “I know a thing or two about tools.”

  Owen stood in the open doorway, watching me with a smart-ass grin and holding the hammer in his hand.

  I gave him a sassy look. “I’ve dated a tool or two.”

  “It’s no wonder Brady likes you,” he said. “You’re not his usual type.”

  My heart nearly stopped. “And what type is that?” I asked carefully.

  “I don’t know . . . easygoing, go with the flow. He calls the shots and they go along.” He noticed my subdued expression. “Are you thinking he dated you because of this case?”

  I didn’t answer, but I held his gaze in a challenge.

  “I can assure you that Brady lost his usual chill when he met you. He did not want to date you because of this case. It may have complicated things and made him more intense, but Brady is totally into you.” He scowled. “Even with the musician in the picture. I think he’s waiting for that guy to dump you.”

  “Wow. That’s lovely,” I said, walking back into the kitchen.

  I started to close the door, but Owen grabbed the edge and stopped the swing. “Are these really Christopher Merritt Jr.’s things?” His interest seemed piqued.

  I scanned the contents of the garage and pushed out a sigh. “They are. If you want to take a stab at finding something, go for it. Apparently my brother has already looked for the elusive evidence Chris supposedly found.”

  He looked lik
e he’d rather head out into the garage than rip apart my fireplace, but to his credit, he shut the garage door.

  Maybe I could trust him yet.

  Chapter 27

  We tromped downstairs, and I showed him the few chips I’d dented into the bricks and handed him the screwdriver. Owen had just begun chiseling the mortar between bricks with the screwdriver and hammer when my phone rang with a call from Detective Martinez.

  “Magnolia,” she said when I answered, “I wanted to let you know that we brought Clint Duncan in for questioning, and we found some incriminating evidence in his home.”

  “What kind of incriminating evidence?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but since you were the one who tipped us off . . . He had photos of several of the murdered women as well as a map of Tennessee that had pins in the locations where their bodies were found.” She paused. “Thank you for your help.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to let the news sink in. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “Good news,” I said to Owen as I set the phone down. “Martinez said they have Clint Duncan in custody. He had incriminating evidence in his house.” I filled him in on the details.

  Squatting in front of the fireplace, he sank back on his heels. “Well, I’ll be damned.” The look of relief and satisfaction on his face was contagious.

  “Is it over?” I asked as tears sprang to my eyes.

  “If he hasn’t confessed, no. But if he’s the killer, they’ll find a way to make it stick. That victim board is pretty damn incriminating, so yeah, I think it’s over, Magnolia.” The compassion in his voice caught me off guard, but then again, he’d been a lot kinder and gentler after we’d made our truce yesterday.

  No more looking over my shoulder. What would it be like to not live my life in fear?

  “What do you want to do about the camera?” Owen asked after a few seconds, and I opened my eyes to face him. “If your brother took photos and got a good one of his face, it could help firm up the evidence against him.”

  “I want to get it out,” I said. “Roy was so freaked out over it being found, I’ve been driving myself crazy wondering what’s on there.” But if we were going to submit it as evidence, I had to accept the possibility that my brother would get in trouble for having hidden it.

  He got back to work, and after he had the third brick chiseled out, he said, “I think I see something.”

  I leaned forward, and sure enough, I could see the edge of something silver. “I think that’s it.”

  He whistled. “It’s a good hiding place. No one would have found it without knowing it was there.”

  “Good thing Roy told me.” But now that I thought about it, I was surprised that he’d said anything. Why not keep the secret forever? Was he as ready to put this to bed as I was?

  “No kidding.”

  It only took two more swings of the hammer on the angled screwdriver before the camera was fully exposed. Owen pried it out, then handed it to me. I glanced up at him in surprise, and he shrugged. “It’s technically yours.”

  I took the camera and tried to turn it on, but it was hardly surprising when nothing happened. “It’s been buried for ten years,” I said. “The battery’s dead. But I have another idea.”

  I hopped up and headed up the stairs. I tried to call Colt as I climbed, but his phone went straight to voicemail. I left a message, telling him that I had good news and he should call me back, and left it at that. This was too important to leave in a voicemail.

  Owen followed, and I led him into the kitchen, grabbing my laptop on the way. I set it down on the counter and popped the memory card out of the camera and into the slot in my computer while he stood quietly to one side.

  My hand shook so badly I had a hard time opening the icon for the camera. A folder full of mini photos filled my screen. I held my breath as I clicked on the first photo and started the slideshow. There was no preparing myself for what I was about to see, so I might as well jump in.

  The first photos were of graduation, my friends and me still in our graduation gowns. We were smiling and so happy, and part of me wished I could go back and tell me not to follow Maddie’s boyfriend into the woods that night.

  I kept clicking and a dark photo filled the screen. I knew what was coming next. I’d taken these photos and the flash hadn’t come on for the first one. Sure enough, the next photo was of Ashley Pincher giving Blake Green a blowjob. The next few photos were of the woods, photos I’d taken accidentally as I’d run from Blake that night.

  Owen stirred behind me. “You don’t have to look at these, Magnolia. Why don’t you let me look for you, and I’ll tell you what I find?”

  I shook my head, but my voice quavered as I said, “No. No more hiding.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “If you change your mind, let me know. There’s no shame in protecting yourself from this.”

  “Thanks.”

  The scene switched abruptly in the next photo—the basement of the abandoned house filled the screen. It was from the perspective of the stairs, where Roy had been hidden. A nearly naked woman was on the left side of the photo, wearing only her bra and panties. Her arms were raised over her head, but I couldn’t see her face. On the floor to the right of her, a small figure was huddled against a metal pole. Me. The man with the hoodie stood between us, his back to the camera.

  Owen drew a breath of shock as a shudder ran through my body. His hand tightened on my shoulder. “Magnolia, you don’t have to do this. Let me look at them. There’s no reason to torture yourself.”

  I was so tempted to take him up on his offer, but I had to do this myself. I shook my head. Tears burned my eyes, and I blinked to clear my vision.

  The screen changed to a similar photo. The next one showed the killer squatting on the floor in front of me with a knife in his hand.

  Several others showed the killer cutting my leg with my skirt up to my lap. I swallowed my nausea. My brother had not only sat there and watched the killer torture me and Melanie, he’d taken photos—one after another. Seeing them hammered that fact home.

  While none of the photos showed the killer’s face, I’d seen enough photos of Clint Duncan to imagine it. My chest constricted and I felt the beginnings of a panic attack stirring.

  A sharp knock landed on the door, and I jumped and slammed my laptop shut.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Owen asked, sounding on edge as he reached for the gun in his shoulder holster.

  “Maybe.” I was expecting Colt but not this soon.

  I heard the front door open, and Colt shouted in panic, “Maggie!”

  I stood and walked around the corner to face him.

  “Thank God,” he said, relief replacing the panic in his eyes. Then he got a better look at me, and the agitation returned. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded even though it wasn’t true.

  Colt’s attention turned to Owen, who now stood behind me. “Detective Frasier. I wondered whose car was out there.”

  From the look on Colt’s face, he hadn’t just wondered—he’d full-on panicked.

  “Austin,” Owen said with a sharp nod.

  The two men took each other’s measure for several seconds before the beeping of the alarm caught Colt’s attention. He finally caved, pivoting to punch in the code on the keypad and then shut the front door.

  “You’re home sooner than I expected,” I said.

  “Tilly cut me loose early. I wanted to get back to you. I saw I had a missed call from you,” Colt said. “But you didn’t answer when I called back, and I was worried. Especially when I saw the car.”

  “Sorry. I was . . . busy.”

  “With Frasier,” was his guarded response, but I knew it wasn’t aimed at me. “So what’s the good news?”

  “They have Clint Duncan in custody,” I said. “They found a bulletin board with a map in his possession. Photos of the women were pinned to the locations where the bodies were found.”

  A guarded lo
ok of elation spread over Colt’s face as he turned his gaze to Owen. “Does that mean Maggie’s safe?”

  Owen gave a slight nod. “He hasn’t confessed, but when I talked to him, he acted guilty as hell. I suspect he is.”

  Colt bounded for me and pulled me into a hug, holding me close for several seconds before he mumbled into my hair, “Thank God.”

  I clung to him, not quite believing it was true.

  “Did you come over to tell Maggie?” Colt asked, still holding me close as he looked over my head at Owen.

  “No.” Owen gave me a questioning look and didn’t say anything else. He was probably wondering how much Colt knew about our arrangement.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Colt knows I’ve talked to you.” Breaking free of his embrace, I gave him a reassuring smile. “Owen dropped by to fill me in on his interview with Clint Duncan. I was trying to get the camera out of the fireplace when he showed up. He helped.”

  I could see that Colt wanted to protest, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Turning toward Owen again, he asked, “Did you find it?”

  “We did,” Owen said cautiously. “In fact, we were looking at the memory card on Magnolia’s laptop when you walked in.”

  Colt’s worry was back and his eyes widened. “Maggie? Are you okay? What did you see?”

  Tears filled my eyes again and I started to shake.

  Owen’s phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket, frowning when he saw the screen. “Frasier,” he said as he answered. His eyes darkened as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. Finally, he said, “I’ll be right there.” As he stuffed his phone in his pocket, he held out his hand. “I’m going to need to take the SIM card with me.”

  Bewildered by the request, I glanced up at Colt, who looked furious. “Do you want to give it to him?”

  I shook my head, trying to hold myself together.

  Owen started to walk toward the laptop, but Colt stepped around me to intercept him.

  “Do you have a court order for that card?” Colt’s jaw tightened, and the cords in his neck strained. “Because I guarantee you that’s the only way you’re walking out of here with it.”

  Owen’s face reddened.