Center Stage: Magnolia Steele Mystery #1 Read online

  “Magnolia!” my mother shouted up from downstairs.

  “Coming!” I grabbed my jacket off the bed and slipped it on as I headed down the staircase. I stopped halfway down to look at the photos on the wall. They were still the same ones that had hung there ten years ago. A family photo of Momma, Daddy, me, and Roy, taken back when we were happy and complete. School photos of my brother and I that spanned all the way from kindergarten to senior year. But there was a new photo I hadn’t seen before—one of Roy and a woman in a white dress. A photo from the wedding he hadn’t invited me to attend.

  My stomach cramped at the reminder that I didn’t belong here and hadn’t for a long time. My family had moved on without me.

  “Magnolia!”

  I met Momma at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing the same monochromatic outfit I had on, minus the tie.

  “Let me look at you.” She grabbed my shoulders and looked me up and down before her gaze rested at the base of my throat. “You put your tie on by yourself. And it’s straight.”

  “I worked at a restaurant where a tie was part of the uniform. I got tired of asking the waiters to knot it for me.”

  Thinly veiled annoyance covered her face. “You could always get the boys to do whatever you wanted.”

  I rolled my eyes and headed out the front door. “I couldn’t help that, Momma.”

  “You can’t rely on men to solve all your problems, Magnolia,” she said, following behind me.

  “The very fact that I’m here with you now is proof enough that I know that.” Anger simmered in my chest. Her statement was also proof that she didn’t know me. Not anymore. I’d spent two lonely years in a city of eight million people, living with a roommate who didn’t give a shit about me other than if I paid the rent on time. I’d lost track of how many nights I’d cried myself to sleep that first year, wishing I’d never seen Ashley Pincher giving Maddie’s boyfriend Blake a blowjob. Wishing I hadn’t run into the woods to get away from him. Wishing I could remember what had happened after that, but also wishing that I could forget anything had happened.

  But wishing never got you shit.

  We both got into her car and she backed out of the driveway, then took off down the street.

  “There’s no need to get snippy with me.” Her mouth pursed as she gripped the steering wheel, staring at the road like she thought it would get up and walk away. “I’m only pointing out the obvious.”

  I held my tongue.

  “What happened with your debut?”

  “Do you want to know so you can gloat?”

  “Was it that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Not really, but she was bound to find out, and I wanted her to hear my version first. “There was an . . . incident on stage. On opening night.”

  “What happened?”

  How much did I tell her? That I’d been living with the director for the past three months? That rumor had it I’d only gotten the part because I was screwing him? The thing that stung the most was that I’d really believed in the asshole. Griff had claimed to love me, and I’d hoped that I could learn to love him in return. That we could build something together. Griff, me, and the play. I had wanted that so much that I’d given him pretty much every penny I had for the sake of Fireflies at Dawn. Then, minutes before our opening performance, I’d caught him screwing my understudy.

  “I tripped on stage,” I said, opting to give my mother as little fodder for gloating as possible.

  “You lost your job because of a little trip?” she asked in disbelief.

  “It was more than just a little trip.” I’d knocked down part of the set when my understudy—who also filled the role of Girl on Train #3 in the sixth scene of Act One—had started taunting me on stage. I’d lost it and tackled her, knocking over a good bit of the backdrop. Of course my mic had picked up my expletive-laden rant. If my mother found out about that part, there was a good chance she would disown me.

  “Did you embarrass yourself?”

  “You could say that.” Scarlett’s costume was a short, tight, strapless dress, and the understudy had grabbed the front and ripped it down the middle. While topless scenes weren’t unheard of on Broadway, there definitely wasn’t one in the Fireflies at Dawn script. There were more photos and videos of me on the Internet than I could count.

  “Are you going to tell me anything, Magnolia?”

  I looked out the window, taking in the rolling green hills. It was springtime in middle Tennessee, and I’d forgotten how beautiful it was here. “I got fired, Momma. Is that what you wanted to hear? But I’m pretty sure I was going to get fired anyway. My director was about to replace me with his newest conquest.” He always used his muse, and apparently I no longer fit that role.

  “And who was his previous conquest? You?”

  My silence was answer enough.

  “Then I’m glad you didn’t go down without a fight,” she said with a hard edge in her voice.

  I whipped my head around in surprise.

  “Don’t look so shocked, Magnolia. It sounds like that man used you, then tossed you aside for another pretty bauble. I taught you to stand up for yourself. Good for you.”

  Had she known all of the details of the fight—Man on Train #2 and the Conductor in scene six had dragged us apart, but not before Man on Train #2 rounded to second base right in front of the one thousand two hundred six people in the audience—she probably wouldn’t have sounded so proud.

  She’d find out soon enough. Of that I was sure.

  “Have you catered a party since you left?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re to remain in the background, Magnolia. No looking for the spotlight. You’re not center stage at this event.”

  “Momma,” I sighed. “Trust me. That last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself.”

  “You can’t help yourself, darlin’. It’s in your blood . . . your father’s influence.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not that again.”

  “Which part?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes. “That you can’t help yourself or that your father always demanded to be the center of attention? Both are true, but for the moment, let’s focus on your need for attention.”

  I turned in my seat, my irritation growing. “Need for attention? I told you that I wanted to hide in my room. Does that sound like someone who wants attention?”

  “Like I said, you can’t help yourself, Magnolia.” She waved her hand in my direction. “It just oozes out of you. Like sap from a tree. Or oil from a sausage on the grill.”

  “I could do without the mental image.” I cringed. “Besides, you’ve barely seen me in the past ten years.”

  “And whose fault is that? You refused to even come home for a visit. I have a business to run. I can’t just traipse off to New York whenever I feel like it.” She wrinkled her nose. “All that’s beside the point. Your need for attention is innate and you know it. It’s like breathing to you.”

  One thing I’d learned very early in life was that once my mother made up her mind, no amount of talking would change her opinion. Yet fool that I was, I wasn’t about to let it go. “You name one instance of me seeking attention.”

  “One?” Her eyebrows shot up so high they touched her bangs. “I’ve got more than I can count. How about Roy’s eighth-grade graduation party? Or my Bunco night.”

  “Which Bunco night?”

  “All of them.” She shook her head as she turned on a street headed downtown. “When you were a cheerleader, you were in the middle—”

  “What?” I protested. “My cheer coach put me there!”

  “You were still front and center.”

  “This is ridiculous.” I shook my head. “I’m not having this conversation.”

  “Because you know I’m right.”

  “Because there’s no talking sense to you when you’ve made up your mind about something.” She pulled up behind a building on M
ain Street, and I sat up straighter in my seat. “Your kitchen is downtown?”

  “Yep. Has been for about seven years.”

  I knew she’d kept a lot of her life from me as punishment for running away, but it had never occurred to me she’d keep something this big secret. “Isn’t the rent expensive?”

  A grin lit up her face. “We can afford it.”

  Franklin, Tennessee, had a picturesque downtown. Brick buildings and trees lining the sidewalk. A roundabout with the statue of a Civil War soldier in the middle. Franklin was home to several Civil War battle sites, and the history added to the charm. Downtown was a huge draw for local residents and tourists alike. I could only imagine that the rent was pricey. The smile on my mother’s face confirmed it.

  She pulled into a parking space behind a row of buildings, next to a white van with the words Southern Belles Catering painted on the side.

  “You have a van too?” I asked in surprise.

  “Two vans.”

  “Wow.” We walked inside the back door, past two women who were loading foil-covered pans into the back of the van.

  “Hey, Lila,” one of the women said.

  “Y’all ready for our big night?” my mother asked cheerfully.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I followed my mother into a small kitchen prep room, my chest tightening when I saw the woman placing appetizers onto a pan. It was my mother’s best friend and business partner, Tilly Bartok.

  “Lila, everything’s ready on my end,” she said, concentrating on her task. “Did you find a replacement for Patty?”

  “I did.” But Momma’s voice sounded off, even to me.

  Tilly’s head shot up and her mouth dropped open when she saw me. “Maggie? Is it really you?”

  I nodded, unable to push words past the lump in my throat.

  Tilly rounded the stainless steel prep table and reached for me, pulling me into a tight hug. “I thought I’d never see you again, girl.”

  Tears stung my eyes as I rested my cheek on the shoulder of the woman who had been like a second mother to me. While my mother fit her surname to a T, Tilly was her soft and comforting counterpart. She was the one I’d always turned to when I needed sympathy—especially after my father took off. My mother was the one I turned to when I needed action.

  Tilly leaned back and grabbed my cheeks in her hands, searching my face. “You haven’t changed, sweet girl. You’re still as pretty as the day you left.”

  “And you haven’t aged a day,” I said with a soft smile. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a bun, but it was still sleek and shiny with no hint of gray. Other than a few crow’s feet around her eyes, her face was free of wrinkles. The only noticeable change was the additional twenty pounds around her middle.

  She looked me up and down, her eyes widening as she took in my uniform. “What are you doin’ wearing that?” Her gaze jerked up to my mother. “She’s not filling in for Patty, is she?”

  “She sure is.”

  “She can’t be wait staff! She’s a Broadway star!”

  “Not anymore she’s not.”

  Tilly looked like she could have been knocked over by a feather.

  “It’s okay, Tilly. I want to help.” My mother released a soft scoff, but I ignored her. “Looks like you and Momma are doing well for yourselves. A downtown storefront. Two catering vans. I remember when you started, cooking in our kitchen and using your minivan.”

  Pride filled her eyes. “We sure have come a long way.”

  “We don’t have time for this trip down memory lane,” Momma interrupted. “We’ve got a party to cater. This event could take us to the next level. We can’t afford a screwup, so let’s go. You both can cry over each other later.”

  Tilly gave me a squeeze. “You can ride with me in the van and tell me all about your New York adventures on the way.”

  “Good luck with that,” Momma muttered as she headed out the back door. “She’s got more secrets than a CIA agent.”

  Chapter 3

  Luke Powell lived in a sprawling home on multiple acres that backed up to the Harpeth River. He’d only been successful for six or seven years, but in that time he’d amassed millions and achieved mega-stardom. Like a lot of people who had acquired a fortune after being born into nothing, he wanted everyone to know he’d done well. His house was a white, southern-plantation-style, two-story house with a center entrance and a wrap-around porch on both floors. There was a gated entrance, and the long driveway U-turned on a circle drive in front of the house.

  But that entrance was for guests. We were staff, of course, which meant Tilly pulled the van up to the side of the house so we could enter through the catering kitchen. Like many sprawling estates, Luke’s house had a special kitchen just for servicing parties. It chafed that I’d fallen back to staff level in less than twenty-four hours, especially since I’d been the darling of several Fireflies at Dawn parties. Just last week I’d attended a party thrown by Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick.

  I helped Tilly and several of the staff members carry trays into the kitchen. As we slid the trays into the warming drawers, Momma stood to the side talking to Luke’s personal assistant.

  “Luke is feeling a little on edge tonight,” the twenty-something woman said, keeping her gaze on her smart phone screen as she furiously typed. “His release sales aren’t what he hoped for, and now I’m worried the seafood theme will upset him.”

  “You picked the seafood theme weeks ago, Amy,” Momma said, her Alabama drawl thickening. I knew from experience that meant her patience was wearing thin. “It ties in with the beach theme of the album.”

  “His agent now thinks it was a mistake to record a country album with a Jamaican tone.”

  “Be that as it may, we still have seafood appetizers.”

  The assistant gave my mother a pouty look. That had never worked for me in the eighteen years I’d lived with the woman. Bless her heart for trying, but it wasn’t going to work for her either. “Are you sure you can’t change it?”

  My mother’s jaw set, and I saw the tic in her eyelid.

  “Uh-oh,” Tilly mumbled.

  Do not get involved. Yet I found myself walking over to them anyway. I dusted off the sweet southern accent I pulled out whenever I wanted to get away with something in New York. It often worked with men, but it was fifty-fifty with women. “So let me ask you this,” I said. “The problem is that the seafood will remind him of his album?”

  My mother shot me a glare that said, Stay out of it, Magnolia.

  The assistant looked me up and down, then rolled her eyes in dismissal. “I thought that part was obvious.”

  Her attitude didn’t dissuade me. I was used to fighting tooth and nail to get what I wanted. “But his second album—Freefall—had several songs about the Gulf of Mexico, right? Like ‘Beach Baby.’” I started to sing the chorus. “I want to play all day in the sand, beach baby.”

  The assistant suddenly looked interested. I couldn’t help thinking it was partially because I could actually sing, but then again, we were in the country music capital of the world. Almost everyone could sing here. “Yeah.”

  “So if he’d like to take the focus off his new album, why don’t you treat the party as a celebration of his career? Concentrate on his successes and call this his experimental album. Play it like he’s so successful he can afford to take risks and be a little fringe with some projects.”

  Her eyes lit up. “That might work. Are you a publicist filling in for the caterer?”

  “Nope. Just a dried up has-been Broadway actress.”

  She acted like she met a couple of those every other day. “Stick around after the party. I suspect Luke will want to talk to you.” Then she spun around and left the room.

  My mother was furious. “What in the Sam Hill are you doin’, Magnolia?”

  “Helping you, in case you hadn’t noticed. I got her off your back.”

  “You were busy trying to find yourself a new care
er.”

  “As a publicist?” I asked in disbelief. “I’d rather be forced to sing the national anthem on live TV at five in the morning in a North Dakota blizzard. I just had an idea for how you could satisfy his ego without making a last-minute change to the menu.”

  My mother was not appeased. “You had no right buttin’ in my business.”

  “What are you talking about, Lila?” Tilly asked in disbelief. “She smoothed that over.”

  Momma’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t her place.”

  Several of the catering staff had stopped to stare at us, their mouths gaping like catfish as they took in our showdown.

  Tilly crossed her arms under her breasts. “The problem is that the both of you are mule-headed—too stubborn to admit when you’re wrong. She saved us a potential beef with the client, and we do not want to piss off Luke Powell’s assistant. We need the referrals this job’s gonna get us.”

  But my mother’s frown only deepened. “You may have helped this time,” she said, pointing a finger at me, “but you have no idea how we run our business.”

  “Maybe not, but I do know how temperamental A-listers can be. I understand how they think. I’ve defused situations liked this as both a waitress and an actor.”

  “Because you’re just as self-centered as they are,” Momma spat out, her eyes alight with fury. “You ran off without a backward glance, and now you think you can just waltz in and try to insert yourself into my business. You have another think coming, missy.”

  “Lila!” Tilly said in horror, grabbing her arm and tugging her to the side. “Your prodigal girl has finally returned. Why can’t you just be happy about that?”

  Momma watched me for several long seconds, then turned away. “We need to unpack the crystal.”

  Tilly sighed and patted my arm as my mother walked away. “She’ll come around.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Which meant I needed to get my shit together fast. Especially if I was paying her rent. I hadn’t even bothered to ask how much she was charging.

  Luke’s assistant returned twenty minutes later to inform us that the party theme had indeed been changed and new banners were being rush printed. Thank goodness we didn’t have to deal with anything but the food and booze. The theme shift would be someone else’s headache.