Center Stage: Magnolia Steele Mystery #1

by Denise Grover Swank

  He groaned and his arms tightened around me as he took over the kiss, showing me how much he really did want me.

  He lifted his head and looked at me with eyes full of raw hunger. “You are a very difficult woman to walk away from.”

  I gave him a sad smile. “Good, then maybe you’ll remember me.” Although I wasn’t sure that was a good idea.

  “I can pretty much guarantee I won’t forget you.” He kissed me again, and when he stopped, I was breathless and unsure of whether my legs would hold me up.

  His phone rang again, and he closed his eyes for a second. “Dammit.”

  I gave him a little push, and he dropped his hold and glanced down at his phone screen.

  “You need to get to the Powell estate,” I said. “It sounds like things are getting crazy. So go.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized my mistake.

  Oh, shit.

  He frowned as if he knew something was off, but he answered the phone before he could say anything to me.

  I took several steps backward as he gave his attention to whoever was on the other line, growling something about reporters and someone doing his job. I saw the moment when he registered my slip, watched as realization washed over his face, but I was already at the corner.

  He covered his phone with his hand and called after me, “I never told you it was the Powell estate.”

  I grimaced and then turned and hurried across the street until I was in the middle of the crowd emerging from the Franklin Theater. I ran under the overhang at the theater entrance and pushed my back against a shadowed wall, hoping I was hidden enough.

  I watched as Brady jogged past me on the other side of the street, my sweater in his hand.

  Shit. I must have dropped it when I kissed him.

  He stopped and looked around, his free hand running through his hair.

  My heart raced. What would he do if he found me? Was he too personally involved in the situation to arrest me?

  He dropped his hand and swung it in a gesture of frustration before continuing toward the police station.

  Nausea roiled through my gut when I thought about where he was going. Someone else had been murdered at the Powell estate. Who was it? Luke? Oh, God. What if it was Amy?

  Bolting from the theater, I found a flowerpot around the corner and threw up into the purple and yellow pansies. Several people walked past me, making snide comments about me being drunk in public.

  The good news was that I had a solid alibi from the time my mother woke me up in the morning until now, with the exception of about an hour this evening. Maybe it would be enough to clear my name.

  The thought made me want to throw up again. If that was true, someone had paid the price of my freedom with their life tonight. I wasn’t sure I could live with that.

  Chapter 20

  I’d missed six calls from my mother and one from Jody since I’d left for the police station. Jody wouldn’t care if I took a while to call her back, but I knew my mother would be terrified. I had only thought to check my phone after getting back to the kitchen, and when I saw the notification, I called her back immediately.

  “Magnolia Mae Steele!” she shouted in my ear. “You’ve aged me ten years!”

  “I’m sorry, Momma. I fell asleep.”

  “You’re not in bed with Colt Austin, are you? He’s not answering his phone either.”

  “What? No! God, no. He dropped me off at the catering business and then left.”

  “I told that boy to stay with you.”

  “It’s not his fault. I got a migraine, and the only thing that ever makes me feel better when I have a headache is a nap. So I made him drop me off here since I didn’t have a house key. That’s why I missed your calls.” I hated myself for lying, but there was no way I was going to tell her about my trip to the police station. And I sure wasn’t telling her about Brady either.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked, catching me by surprise. She wasn’t usually known for offering sympathy.

  “A little. I think a good night’s sleep will help.” Although that was unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future. I was too anxious to sleep.

  “I was calling earlier to tell you we got tied up. But we’re about five minutes out. See you soon.”

  I hurried to put Tilly’s key back on her ring and then looked around the kitchen to make sure nothing looked amiss from my earlier meltdown.

  But I mustn’t have done a very good job. Tilly took one look at me when she walked in the door and shook her head. “Lila, get this girl home. I’ll haul in all the pans.”

  “Do you know where Colt went?” my mother grumbled to me. “He was supposed to help us unload.”

  “No. He just told me to call if I needed him.” I wanted to tell her about the new murder, but I didn’t know how to do that without tipping her off to my unsanctioned outing with a policeman. I forced a smile. “I can help.”

  “You look like a cat that’s been left out in the rain, then tossed under a hand dryer in a Quickie Mart restroom.”

  “Thanks.” I sighed. “You always did know how to give a compliment.”

  “I’m just saying you look like you don’t have any business working.”

  I grabbed my apron off the hook. “I need to work every chance I can get if I’m going to pay my rent.”

  “Rent?” Tilly asked. “You moving out of your momma’s house?”

  “No,” I said, tying the apron strings. “Momma’s rent. For staying in her house.”

  Tilly crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Lila Steele, don’t you dare tell me that you are charging that girl rent to stay in that house where you live all by yourself.”

  Momma flung up her hands. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m not really charging her.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  Tilly didn’t look one bit appeased. “Then why on earth does she think you are?”

  A guilty look crossed over my mother’s face. If only I’d had my phone out to take a photo. I could count on one hand how many times I’d seen that look before.

  “I only told her that to see how serious she was about staying.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You made me work Luke Powell’s party. You said I had to work to pay off my rent.”

  She flung out her hands in frustration. “I needed help, and I knew that was the only way you’d agree to go.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. While I hadn’t wanted to do it, I liked to think I would have done it when push came to shove. But if I hadn’t gone that night, I never would have been accused of Max’s murder.

  I pushed out a groan of frustration and shook my head. “It’s water under the bridge now, but for the record, I’m going to help you cart those stupid pans inside whether you want me to or not. Only they better be a lot less heavy coming in than they were going out.”

  My mother looked suspicious. “Why are you helping us?”

  “You want me to give you a list of reasons?” I asked, incredulous. “How about you’re my mother, Tilly’s damn near close to being a second one, and you both need my help?”

  “Huh,” Momma mumbled.

  “Oh, my God. Do you really think I’m that much of a bitch?”

  “Well, no . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know. You always complained about helping before you left.”

  “I was a teenager! It’s like a requirement to complain!”

  Tilly shook her head, still fuming. “I swear to God, Lila, I love you like a sister, but some days I want to wring your neck.”

  I was too damn tired and worn out to deal with this nonsense. “Momma, if you need help, just ask me for it. You’re letting me stay with you, and believe it or not, I really do want to help you.”

  “Fine,” she grumped. “I’ll ask you. Now both of you get off my back and start carrying in pans.”

  It took us ten minutes to get everything unloaded and the truck cleaned out. Momma rinsed all the dishes and started the loads of pots and pans in the comm
ercial-sized dishwashers. Once all of the preliminary cleanup was finished, she turned to me and said, “We’ll clean up the rest tomorrow. Let’s go home.”

  We drove home in silence, partly because my headache story was no longer a lie. My pulse pounded in my temples as I stared out the car window.

  “You haven’t heard from Emily, have you?” I asked, leaning my head against the seat.

  “No. Not since this morning. Why?”

  Would Emily even be aware of the other murder? How would I manage to get details without attracting the wrong sort of attention? “Just curious.”

  “I never asked how your meeting went with Amy.”

  “Great,” I said absently, trying not to worry about her. It was Saturday night. She probably wasn’t even there. “She was really helpful. She gave us a couple of leads to track down. I eliminated one as a suspect, and Emily eliminated the VP. Belinda and I talked to Paul Locke, the country artist, but he wasn’t very forthcoming, so we’ll need to figure out another way to talk to him. Belinda needed to get back so she could get ready to meet Roy for drinks.”

  I studied my mother’s face as I mentioned my brother’s name. She had to know what an asshole he’d become. My mother was a lot of things, but she’d never been blind to her children’s idiocy.

  It didn’t surprise me one bit when she tensed. “I didn’t know they were going out.”

  “I knew Roy didn’t want to talk to me, but why didn’t you tell me that he actually hates me?”

  She swung her gaze to me, her eyes wide. “Did Belinda tell you that?”

  “No, it was pretty obvious from the way he told me to leave Franklin and never come back.”

  Her mouth dropped open in confusion. “When . . . how did . . .”

  “I saw them tonight. Colt and I went to a bar after we left Hendersonville, and Roy and Belinda showed up.”

  “Oh.”

  “You never told me Roy had changed careers. Or that he was working for Bill James.”

  “I didn’t see the point.”

  “You didn’t see the point in telling me my brother works for the one person who knows what happened to Daddy yet refuses to tell us?”

  “Magnolia,” my mother groaned. “We don’t know any such thing.”

  This was a pointless discussion. My mother had never taken me seriously as a teenager, and it looked like that hadn’t changed. At least where this was concerned. “Do you think Belinda’s happy?’

  My mother gave me a confused look. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Roy seemed kind of mean to her.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s never been anything but sweet to Belinda.” She paused. “You must have misunderstood what you saw. You’ll see for yourself how he treats her tomorrow.”

  “What are you talking about? Why do you assume I’m going to see them tomorrow?”

  “We’re goin’ out to lunch with them after church.”

  “What?” I shook my head. “I really don’t feel like going to church tomorrow.” I didn’t feel like seeing Roy either, so this would take care of two birds with one stone.

  “A little church will be good for your soul. When was the last time you went?”

  “Momma. I don’t want to go. I can’t face all those people.”

  “We don’t hide from our problems, Magnolia. We take—”

  “Take them head on. Yeah. I know,” I said in defeat. “Look how well that turned out at Luke Powell’s party.”

  “That was a fluke. This isn’t New York. Murders don’t happen every day in Franklin.”

  No. Just every other day or so. But I couldn’t tell her that. “I don’t feel up to it.”

  “Are you sick?”

  I considered lying, but I couldn’t even count the number of times she’d caught me lying about being sick when I was a kid. If I wanted to convince her I’d grown up, matured, that wasn’t the way. “I still have a killer headache.”

  “Then I’ll see you at the front door ready to go at 10:15.”

  Oddly enough, it was good to see some things hadn’t changed.

  I took a long shower after we got home. Then, against my better judgment, I texted Emily to see if she’d heard anything. I knew it was too late to be texting—it was close to midnight—but I was desperate to know what had happened.

  I half expected to receive one of my mysterious texts—especially after my stroll down Main Street with Detective Brady Bennett—but it didn’t happen. Emily didn’t reply either.

  I drifted off to sleep, thinking about Brady and wondering who had been murdered and how long it would take before he put two and two together. I suspected the next time I saw him would be fraught with a different kind of tension.

  Chapter 21

  My mother showed up in my doorway the next morning and banged on the wall. “Time to get up, Magnolia.” She sounded annoyed as she moved closer to the bed. “How did you ever get anything done up in New York without me waking you up every morning?”

  I pried my swollen eyes open to look at her, and her brows lifted with surprise.

  “You really are sick.”

  “No,” I said, my voice groggy. “I’m not. I just have an annoying headache.” I’d spent half the night haunted by dreams of what I’d seen in the basement of that abandoned house.

  Momma sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over and reaching for the back of my neck. She began to massage my stiff neck muscles, and I closed my eyes and moaned.

  “I used to do this when you were a little girl,” she murmured. “Remember? You’d wake up from a nightmare and have trouble going back to sleep, so I’d rub your neck and you’d drift off after a while.”

  “I wished it worked that way now,” I said softly.

  “I know I haven’t told you this, but I’m glad you’re back, Magnolia. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  She was silent, but her fingers continued to dig into my neck, coaxing the muscles to relax.

  “When this is all settled, we need to talk.” Her tone was so soft, more so than it had been since Daddy left.

  Did she plan to press me for the real reason I’d left? What would I tell her? I gave a vague murmur that I hoped she took as agreement.

  I drifted off as her fingers worked their magic, and I woke to her hand stroking back my hair.

  “Why don’t you skip church and sleep?” she asked. “I’ll call you later, and we can meet for lunch.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” She got up and I rolled over to look at her. “I love you, Momma.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I love you too.”

  * * *

  I awoke to the sound of rain beating against the window. My body froze, but I reassured myself I was safe. I was in my mother’s house. I was in my own bed. I was behind my mother’s magical door.

  I reached for my phone, shocked to see it was almost eleven. I hadn’t slept this late in years. But I also saw I had several missed calls. Three from Belinda, and two from Emily. One voice mail.

  I decided to try calling them before listening to the message. Emily’s phone went to voice mail after one ring. Seconds later, I saw a message pop up.

  I’m in church. I’ll call you when I get out. Then, seconds later: I hope you’re feeling better.

  How did she know I’d been feeling poorly?

  I tried calling Belinda next, but when she didn’t answer, I decided to check my own messages.

  “Magnolia,” Belinda’s tearful voice said. “I don’t know where to begin. I guess I’ll start off by saying that I understand why you didn’t answer. I’m so sorry.” She choked up a little, and I closed my eyes. “We can talk about last night later, if you’re still willing to talk to me. But we really need to talk to Amy . . .” Her voice broke again. “Promise me you’ll be careful.” Then the message cut off. Closing my eyes, I fought off a wave of vertigo.

  At least that meant Amy was alive. Hopefully they had a suspect this time and my name would be cleared soon
. But if they had a suspect, then why would we need to talk to Amy?

  Unless Luke was the murder victim.

  I dragged myself out of bed and into my bathroom. I sat on the toilet, leaning forward as I tried to wrest myself out of the haze that had descended on me. I still had vertigo and a throbbing head. I needed ibuprofen, which I found downstairs in the kitchen. Momma had made a pot of coffee, so I warmed up a cup and stood by the breakfast room window, nursing it as I waited for the drugs to take effect.

  I grabbed my laptop and sat at the table, then Googled Luke Powell’s name and the word murder. The page was full of news about Max’s death, but at the top was an article about the murder last night. The only two helpful pieces of information it offered were that one, the murder victim was a man and his identity would be revealed after his family had been contacted. And two, Luke Powell was not available for comment. While he technically wouldn’t have been available for comment if he were the victim, his name would have been released by now.

  Belinda was right. We needed to talk to Amy.

  My fingers hovered over the keys. Part of me wanted to Google my name and find out what everyone was saying, but the sane part of me closed the lid. My fragile psyche couldn’t take any more criticism. I wasn’t sure I could even handle it if my name had been officially linked to Max’s murder.

  In this particular instance, ignorance was bliss.

  I still had to deal with my memories of that night. Maybe I should have told Brady like I’d intended, but any guilt I felt was outweighed by relief. He would have thought I was a crazy person. Who comes forward as a witness to a murder ten years after the fact—and while under investigation for a different murder?

  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t do a little digging on my own.