Curtain Call: Magnolia Steele Mystery #4 Read online

  Curtain Call

  Magnolia Steele Mystery #4

  Denise Grover Swank

  Copyright © 2017 by Denise Grover Swank

  Developmental Editor: Angela Polidoro

  Copy Editor: Shannon Page

  Proofreader: Carolina Valdez-Schneider

  Cover design by James T. Egan, www.bookflydesign.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-939996-57-2

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Also by Denise Grover Swank

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Ms. Steele? I’m Detective Maria Martinez with the Franklin Police. I’m here to talk to you about what happened Saturday night at the Middle Tennessee Children’s Charity Masquerade Ball.”

  I stared at the woman on my mother’s doorstep, wondering why it had taken two days for the police to show up asking questions. I’d recognized Martinez before the reintroduction, of course. She’d interrogated me at the Franklin, Tennessee, police station a month ago, after I’d stumbled upon Max Goodwin’s body. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you could forget. Insults had been flung by both of us, and the small smile on her face told me she was eager for the chance to get another crack at me.

  “I’d be more than happy to talk to you, Detective,” I said, “but can we reschedule this for a later date? I’m currently hosting my mother’s wake.”

  She made an apologetic face but held firm. “It’s only a few questions. It won’t take long.” Then she gave me a smile that made her look constipated.

  She thought I was involved in the murders.

  She wasn’t wrong—not totally—but I couldn’t tell her the truth . . . and I didn’t know if I had the fortitude to hold myself together and convincingly lie. I’d buried my mother only hours ago, and a wave of people had descended upon her house and hadn’t left. My patience and emotional strength had been tested again and again by everything I’d endured over the past few days, let alone the last month, and from the look in Detective Martinez’s eyes, that was what she was counting on.

  I stepped out onto the porch, closing the front door and quieting the chatter of the mourners behind me. The air was cooling as the sun set, and the wind had picked up. I wrapped my arms across my chest to stay warm, and it occurred to me that I could use the chilly air and the people in my mother’s house as an excuse to get away, should the need arise.

  And knowing Detective Martinez’s tenacity and her fast and loose relationship with the truth when it didn’t fit her theories, I suspected the need would arise.

  I lifted my eyebrows and gave her a look that said, Go on.

  That little smile grew into a satisfied smirk, the kind that mean girls got when they thought they’d bested you.

  I tried to look bored. “Do you have any questions, Detective Martinez? Or do you just plan to stare at me? If you’re admiring my dress, it was a gift from a designer in New York,” I lied. “It’s one of a kind.” . . . the only one in the New York City vintage thrift store where I’d bought it two years ago.

  Anger filled her eyes. “Did you attend the ball this past Saturday night?”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Don’t you talk to your partner? Brady saw me there. This question seems like a waste of my time and yours.” It was stupid to goad her. I knew it. But I still held a grudge for the way she’d treated me in connection with the Goodwin case. How she’d attacked my character. While some part of me knew she had been doing her job, there was no denying she’d been overzealous with her interrogation and her insults.

  Her eyes went flat. “Detective Bennett has been reassigned, so I’m asking you, Magnolia Steele. Did you or did you not attend the masquerade ball at Savannah House last Saturday night?”

  Brady had been reassigned? What did that mean? Last I’d heard, he was working the murder of my attorney, Emily Johnson. He’d linked it to a serial killer—the same one who’d carved his mark onto my leg ten years ago. Only, no one else had made the connection, and Brady had asked me to keep it quiet. Not hard to do since only four people knew about my connection to the serial killer—Brady, my mother (who was now dead), my sister-in-law Belinda, and Colt Austin. And Colt had bigger secrets to keep.

  The look in Detective Martinez’s eyes told me she blamed me for her partner’s reassignment.

  There was no denying that I’d stayed with Brady for several days last week. After all, he’d told me that half the force knew, which was how he’d always seemed to know where I was and what I was doing. Apparently members of the Franklin PD had been giving him regular reports.

  I’d never intended to stay with Brady, but a week and a half ago, my apartment had become a crime scene after I’d been attacked and nearly killed by Geraldo Lopez, a Nashville dentist. He’d faked his own kidnapping and then shown up at my apartment looking for one million dollars’ worth of gold bullion. My father had stolen the gold and hidden it in a ceramic dog I’d given him when I was a kid, something I’d found by chance in my mother’s garage.

  After the attack, Brady had suggested that I stay with him for a while, and I’d folded like a paper towel. While he had made it clear he was interested in a romantic relationship, I’d held him off . . . at first. Being with him had felt wrong, though, like I was a problem for him to solve or a damsel for him to save, and I was far from sure that I could trust him. Not to mention that the serial killer, who’d been sending me threatening texts all month, had amped up his threats because of all the time I’d spent in the company of a member of Franklin law enforcement.

  Brady had never known the truth about the gold, only that Geraldo Lopez thought I had something of my father’s. The only person who knew about it was the aforementioned Colt Austin, part-time employee at my mother’s catering business and aspiring country singer.

  And now my sort-of boyfriend. (It was complicated . . . but I felt like myself when I was with him, and that was something.)

  Except two bad people had also figured out that I had the gold . . . but they were the two who had been killed in front of me on Saturday night. Rowena Rogers and her lackey.

  And that was why Detective Martinez was standing on my mother’s front porch right now.

  “Detective,” I said in a tone that suggested we should try to reach a truce. Pissing her off wasn’t the smartest thing to do. “As you undoubtedly know, I was there, but only for a very short time before I was called to the hospital. That was the night my mother died.”

  She gave me an expectant look. “She died from . . . ?”

  I gasped. “Are you seriously
asking about my mother’s cause of death?”

  “You have to admit that a significant number of people around you have died since you came back to Franklin a month ago.”

  While what she said was true, I couldn’t handle that she was treating my mother’s death so impersonally, not when we’d just buried her. “You’re talking about my mother, Detective Martinez. Please show a little more respect.”

  The woman had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed.

  “My mother had cancer. Something to do with her blood. She’d kept it a secret for several years.”

  “Is that why you came back to Franklin?” she asked, the snide tone back.

  “You know perfectly well why I came back to Franklin.” I was starting to get pissed. “The detective in charge of Max Goodwin’s murder case made it very clear the whole department knew why I’d returned to Franklin. He’d watched the videos. But then,” I said with cool disdain, “I suspect you’ve watched them too.”

  Her smirk was back. “There’s much better porn out there.” She leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, “I’d suggest a boob job if you decide to continue down that career path.”

  I gasped again, beyond outraged. The YouTube videos of my stage oops in my first (and only) performance as the lead in Broadway’s hottest new musical, Fireflies at Dawn, hardly qualified as porn.

  I was just about to tell her off when the front door opened and my sister-in-law, Belinda, poked her face out. “Magnolia, I wondered where you’d got off to.”

  “Belinda,” I said, my anger simmering. “This is Detective Martinez, and she’s inquiring about Momma’s cause of death.”

  Belinda flicked on the porch light, then stepped outside and shut the door behind her. She glanced at both of us with a confused expression. “What does that mean?” Then her eyes widened and she turned a furious glare on the detective. “Are you insinuating her death was foul play? Did Roy put you up to this?”

  I nearly groaned. I was sure the detective’s question had only been intended to shake me up so I’d be more likely to tell her everything I knew about the murders at the ball. But she was bound to latch on to Momma’s death now. Maybe that was a good thing. When it came to this, I didn’t have anything to hide.

  “Roy?” the detective asked, cocking her head to the side. She did a poor job of hiding her excitement, and it was equally obvious that she didn’t need us to ID him for her.

  Belinda looked even more confused. “My husband. Magnolia’s brother.”

  “Belinda.” I drew out her name. “Detective Martinez came here to ask if I was at the masquerade ball on Saturday night. Then she decided to ignore that we’re grieving and callously suggested Momma died due to nefarious circumstances.”

  “Why in the world would she do that?” Belinda asked.

  “Because she thinks it’s curious that a few people around me have died.”

  “A few?” Martinez released a snort and started ticking off with her fingers. “Max Goodwin, Neil Fulton—”

  “I didn’t personally know Neil Fulton,” I interjected, but I had known Max Goodwin. The sleazy talent agent had propositioned me a couple of years before, which was how I’d become a suspect in his death after finding his body.

  Her eyebrows rose. “But your father sure did.” She lifted another finger. “Amy Danvers. Walter Frey, Steve Morrissey—”

  I started to protest that one. Amy had been Belinda’s friend, and I was the person who’d discovered Walter Frey’s body, but the only encounter I’d had with Steve Morrissey was at the fundraiser the night of his death. It hadn’t gone well, sure, but I had an alibi for the rest of that evening.

  The detective lifted her other hand. “Geraldo Lopez, Emily Johnson, and now your mother.” She held up both hands. “That’s eight people. All with ties to you. All dead within a month.”

  Little did she know there were more.

  Belinda lifted her chin and gave Detective Martinez her best glare, a difficult feat given how sweet my sister-in-law was. “Magnolia had nothing to do with her mother’s death. The chemo weakened Lila’s immune system, and she died from an infection.”

  “Then why would you think Roy sent me?” the detective asked.

  “Because Lila refused antibiotics at first and Roy wanted to hire an attorney to try to get the hospital to disregard Lila’s DNR directives. He was looking for someone to blame, and since he has . . . issues with his sister, she’s an easy target.”

  “Your brother,” Detective Martinez said with a frown. “The one who hurt you?”

  I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that she remembered that. My brother had pinched me hard enough to leave bruises, which Detective Martinez had been all too eager to link to her theory that I’d killed Neil Fulton. I’d set her straight.

  I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. “Yes.”

  She turned to Belinda and lifted an eyebrow as though waiting for confirmation.

  Belinda glanced down at the porch and remained silent.

  Detective Martinez shifted her weight. “I think I’m going to need you to come down to the station.”

  I gasped. “Now?”

  She shot a glance through the window behind me. “No,” she said regretfully. “I’m sure I’d get an earful if I took you down now.” Her gaze swung between the two of us. “And I want you to come too.”

  Belinda’s eyes flew open. “Me?”

  “I think we need to dig deeper into your mother-in-law’s death.”

  Belinda stiffened. “We’ll be bringing our attorney.”

  The detective bobbed her head around and said in an accusing tone, “Well, if you think you need one . . .” She grinned and started for the steps before she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, and it’s not a wake.”

  I gave a tiny shake of my head. “What?”

  She turned her whole body around to face me. “You said you were at your mother’s wake. She was buried this afternoon. Wakes are the vigil before a funeral, but then your mother didn’t want one.”

  My head swam. “How do you know what my mother wanted?”

  Her eyes lit up. “You just have to know who to ask. And my apologies, I was at the funeral, but thought it best to not go through the receiving line.”

  I stared at her in horror. “You didn’t even know my mother. Why would you come?”

  “Funerals are interesting. You can learn all sorts of things.” A mischievous look filled her eyes. “Lots of family secrets.”

  I tried to hide my reaction, but it wasn’t one of my most convincing performances. Belinda put her arm around my back.

  Detective Martinez gave us a mock salute. “I’ll see you both at one tomorrow.”

  Chapter 2

  As Detective Martinez sauntered down the porch steps with a happy little skip, Belinda grabbed my elbow and tugged me inside.

  My nerves had been plenty frazzled before Detective Martinez showed up, and our encounter had nearly pushed me over the edge.

  What had she meant about family secrets?

  Ignoring the twenty-five or so people who were still mingling on the first floor of my mother’s house, Belinda dragged me into my mother’s home office and shut the curtained French doors. “What did you tell her?”

  “Me?” I nearly screeched. “You’re the one who told her about Roy. Now she’s jumped down a completely different rabbit hole.”

  “Sit,” she said. My thoughts were so garbled that I thought she’d uttered an uncharacteristic curse word until she pushed me down into one of two wingback chairs in the office. Once I was settled, she walked out without another word, shutting the door behind her.

  I wondered if she’d given me an adult time-out, but less than a minute later, she was back with Colt in tow. My stomach fluttered when I saw him—something I tried to ignore.

  Colt Austin was a very fine-looking man who was very aware of his looks. He was tall and built enough to strain the shoulders of his department store dress shirt. His dar
k blond hair was styled, giving him a movie star look, and his bright blue eyes drew you in, but when he sang . . . well, he was like a male version of a siren. Women loved Colt Austin, and for a long time, Colt Austin had loved them back. But he’d told me last week that things had changed for him. He didn’t want anyone else—just me.

  He held an unopened bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and Belinda was carrying a tumbler of her own.

  “It’s that bad?” I asked as he shut the door with his butt.

  He shot me a grim look. “I was saving this for later, to toast to your mother, but I thought it might come in handy now.” He handed me both glasses, then nudged Momma’s rolling desk chair closer to mine while Belinda sat next to me in the other wingback chair.

  “We need to get our story straight,” Belinda said, staring down at the glass she was cupping with both hands.

  “There’s no story to get straight,” I said. “Momma refused antibiotics and then changed her mind. Nothing sinister about that.”

  “Not that story,” Belinda said.

  Colt had already unscrewed the whiskey and poured a generous amount into both glasses, so he turned to Belinda and poured a small amount into her glass. She downed it, then grabbed the bottle from Colt and poured until the tumbler was half full.

  I stared in shock at my prim and proper sister-in-law. Dressed in a tasteful black dress and three-inch black patent leather pumps, her hair perfectly coifed and makeup understated, she looked like she should be nursing a glass of white wine, not tossing back whiskey.

  “I’m not surprised she came by,” Colt said, then took a sip of his drink. “But I thought your mother’s death would buy you more time.”