Center Stage: Magnolia Steele Mystery #1 Read online

  Her face flushed as she stuck several bills in his overflowing jar.

  “Oh, my God,” I groaned. “You’re a piece of work.”

  He leaned into my ear, his breath making the hair tickle on the back of my neck. “I’d be happy to demonstrate why women love me.”

  I jerked backward. “What the hell is it with you cocky country bastards? You think you can say some pretty words and women will just fall at your feet.”

  He flashed me a smile before turning to the next woman in line. “What can I get for you, beautiful?”

  She gave him her order, and he shot me a glance as he started to make her drink. “So you never answered my question. What are you doing up here?”

  I eyed the dark hallway branching off the end of the room. Sure enough, there was a guard standing sentry. All I had to do was hear Luke out. He’d implied his offer wasn’t salacious, but if that was a lie, I could always turn around and leave. I’d be a fool not to at least listen.

  “I’m here to try and salvage my career,” I said as I turned to leave.

  He called after me, but I kept right on walking until I reached the guard. He looked down at me—both literally and figuratively—and said, “No one goes back there, miss.”

  “Luke Powell invited me.”

  “You and every other woman trying to find his bedroom.”

  “Uh . . . no. I’m supposed to meet him in his study. He told me to tell you ‘Dauphin Island.’”

  He stepped to one side and tilted his head. “The hall forks off back there. If you’re going to his study, keep to the left. If you’re going to his bedroom, go to the right,” he said with a smirk.

  “I’ll keep to the left,” I said in disgust as I headed down the carpeted hallway. The overhead lights were out, but the wood-paneled walls were lined with paintings, and the picture lights emitted a soft glow. After I passed two doors on either side, the hall forked. I stayed left. This hallway was darker, the picture lights dimmer. I stopped at the fifth door on the left, the third door after the turn, and rapped lightly on the closed door. When no one answered, I pushed it open and stepped into the dimly lit room, letting my eyes adjust.

  A large mahogany desk sat directly in front of me, and framed albums lined the walls. To my left, there was a long leather sofa and three windows that looked out onto the backyard and the river.

  But something else caught my attention. Or rather, someone else.

  There, on the floor by the sofa, was Max Goodwin. His pants were pooled around his ankles, and a letter opener was sticking out of his chest.

  The glassy look in his eyes confirmed that he was dead.

  Well, shit.

  Chapter 5

  I’d be the first to admit that I didn’t handle it well. I stared at him for a good ten seconds, trying to figure out what to do. Seeing him lying there like that, surrounded by a puddle of red, triggered a deep-seated terror that left me paralyzed with fear. Images flooded my head. A rainy night. Screams. Blood. Lots of blood. They were familiar—even if I didn’t remember why.

  My head turned fuzzy and my knees started to buckle as my body forgot to breathe. But then some rational part of my brain took over. Those visions had nothing to do with the man in front of me, and I had to deal with this situation first.

  Do something, Magnolia.

  Blood was dripping from the letter opener. If Max were still bleeding, he might not be dead yet. Feeling like I was going to throw up, I forced myself to move closer and dropped to my knees beside him, my eyes locking on to the huge bloodstain on the rug. Panic bubbled in my chest.

  Don’t look at it.

  I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips to his neck, searching for a pulse. When I didn’t find anything, I opened my eyes to make sure I was in the right spot. My gaze drifted down south. Looking at his semi-erect penis was better than the spreading bloodstain, although not by much. I dug my fingertips harder into his neck, still feeling nothing. That was when I noticed it—a puckered circular scar on his penis. I had given him that scar two years ago.

  It was at that exact moment that Luke Powell appeared in the doorway. His mouth dropped open in shock.

  I straightened upright and lifted my hand from Max’s neck, horrified to realize that I’d not only touched Max Goodwin, but I’d touched a very dead Max Goodwin.

  “What happened?”

  “He’s dead.”

  His eyes went wide as they bounced from me to Max and back. “You killed him?”

  “What? No!” I scrambled to my feet and took several steps backward, bumping into his desk. “I came here looking for you. But he was lying on the floor.”

  “I need to get my security team up here right away. If word about this gets out . . .” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and spoke in a low tone. “. . . dead body . . . police . . . big trouble . . .”

  Luke was staring at me in shock the whole time he talked, and when he hung up, the words spilled out of me. “I didn’t do this, Luke!”

  “Then why were you kneeling next to him? Checking out his dick?”

  Oh, God. This was an utter nightmare. “I walked in and found him lying there. I froze up for a half minute, but then I realized he might be alive. So I knelt by him to check his pulse.”

  “And the other?” He looked completely wigged out.

  “See that dimpled scar?” I asked, pointing to Max’s crotch. “I did that.” I cringed. “I wanted to see it. I’m not proud of it, but I was curious.”

  His face paled. “You stabbed his dick too?”

  “No! Oh, my God! Will you just listen to me? I didn’t stab any part of him!”

  “You just said you gave him that scar.”

  “Two years ago. When he came on to me. But it was an accident. And I didn’t stab him. At least not technically. It was from my shoe.”

  He took several steps backward toward the doorway, then shut the door. With me on the inside with a dead body.

  A tidal wave of hysteria washed over me. I ran to the door and tried to open it, but he must have been holding it shut. “Luke! Let me out of here right now!”

  “I can’t do that, Magnolia,” he said, his voice muffled by the door. “I found you leaning over his body. What if you run off before the police get here?”

  The blood rushed from my head, and a feeling of overwhelming terror stole over me. Max’s body was freaking me out, but most of my panic came from a different source—well-hidden deep within me.

  But I needed to focus on the present. Would the police really think I was responsible? If I were a suspect, it would make the news, and I really couldn’t handle more bad publicity. Feeling lightheaded, I decided it would be a good idea to sit, but the sofa was out since Max was sprawled out in front of it. I stumbled over to the desk and sat on the edge, gripping the sides to help me balance.

  Deep breaths. Slow deep breaths. I tried to calm down, but Max’s body was right there, growing colder by the second. Sitting wasn’t helping. If anything, I was getting more freaked out. I had to get out of here.

  I got up and beat on the door with both fists, close to sobbing. “Let me out of here right now!”

  The door swung open, making me trip backward.

  The security guard from the hallway filled the space, taking everything in.

  “I walked in and found her next to him,” Luke told him.

  “And I told you I was trying to find out if he was still alive! We need to call 911!”

  But no one listened to me as more security guards showed up, followed by a shaken-looking Amy, who glanced from me to Max and then back.

  “Someone needs to call 911,” I repeated to Amy, hoping she would listen.

  She turned to me, her eyes glazed with shock. “But he’s already dead.”

  “You don’t know that!” I said. My gut told me she was right, but it seemed so wrong for us to stand around without even trying to save him. While I detested Max Goodwin, I didn’t want him dead.

  “Luke!” I shouted
, trying to break through the barricade of muscled men wearing security uniforms. “We have to call an ambulance!”

  “It’s been taken care of,” one of them told me. From the steely-eyed look he gave me, it was obvious he didn’t much believe in innocent until proven guilty.

  Several minutes later, two uniformed policemen walked into the room, followed by a middle-aged man with pasty skin. His dark brown pants and tan blazer looked over a decade old. He eyed me up and down before turning his attention to the body. “No one leaves this house until we’ve interviewed people.”

  One of the officers leaned in close to the man in the blazer. “There are over two hundred people here.”

  “Then you better barricade the exits and start interviewing,” the man in the sport coat barked. “We’re going to need more men here.” As one of the officers left to do his bidding, the plainclothes man added, “But don’t give the people you interview any details.” His gaze shot to Luke’s security. “Anyone have a name for the body?”

  I cringed at his callous tone.

  “Max Goodwin,” Luke said, stepping forward. “A talent agent.”

  My eyes drifted to Max’s body. It was all too much, and I suddenly felt a little woozy.

  The guy in charge shot me a glance. “Get those two out of here!” He flicked a finger toward me and then at Amy, whose greenish pallor could be seen from across the room. “They look like they’re about to barf on my crime scene.”

  I looked up in surprise as the remaining uniformed policeman grabbed my arm and ushered Amy and me to a bedroom across the hall.

  Not trusting my legs, I sank onto the fluffy white comforter that draped the canopied bed, but Amy paced the room, holding her face between her hands.

  I closed my eyes, sucked in slow even breaths, and imagined I was lying on a warm beach. I was no stranger to anxiety attacks. My first few years in New York had been riddled with them. I’d learned to shut them down as a survival tactic—it didn’t matter how good you were at waiting tables if you periodically disappeared into the bathroom to fight off freak-outs.

  As soon as I felt like I could reengage with the world without fainting or screaming, I opened my eyes to evaluate my surroundings. Amy was seated in a wingback chair now, her eyes glassy, her shaky hands gripping the armrests.

  “Did you do it?” she asked, but it lacked the conviction to suggest she considered it a legitimate possibility. More like it was an obligatory question.

  “No. I couldn’t stand him, but I never would have killed him.”

  She nodded and then looked out an open window to the concrete drive below, staring at the police cars’ flashing strobe lights.

  She’d turned on a lamp that cast a warm glow, but I still found myself shivering.

  “Was he alive when you found him?” she asked so quietly I barely heard her.

  It took a second to register her question. “No.” My voice croaked, so I started over. “No, I think he was already dead.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone die?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “Once.”

  But I’d never even seen a dead person before, so where had that come from? A new wave of panic bubbled up, and while I did my best to stomp it down, it still simmered below the surface.

  “I saw someone die once,” she said, her voice flat. “In an accident. There was lots of blood. Like with Max.”

  All this talk about death and dying and blood was sending my anxiety skyrocketing. But while Amy was acting creepy as shit, at least this new prison wasn’t shared with a corpse.

  I needed help, but who should I turn to?

  I pulled out my cell phone, ignoring all the recent missed calls and texts from friends in New York. None of them could help me. Of course the only person I could really call was my mother, but she was going to go ballistic. I hadn’t even spent my first night back in my childhood bed, and I was already a murder suspect.

  I knew how bad this looked. But the plain and simple truth was that I was innocent of any wrongdoing. Max had been stabbed with a letter opener, and I’d never touched it. Surely the fact that my fingerprints weren’t on the murder weapon would prove my innocence.

  Amy was now twisting her hair so tightly around her index finger she was either going to pull out a chunk of her blonde strands or amputate her finger.

  “Did you know him?” I asked. She was acting guilty as hell. But what exactly was she feeling guilty about?

  She stopped twisting and turned to stare at me. “Yes.”

  “Through Luke?”

  She hesitated. “Yeah.”

  The door swung open, revealing the pasty guy who’d issued orders in the other room. He stood in the threshold, eyeing Amy and me as if he couldn’t figure out which one of us to torment. I gave him a good once-over. Unfortunate comb-over, check. Smarmy smirk, check. Over the years, I’d become a pro at reading people, and my instincts told me this guy had a massive ego complex.

  “Magnolia Steele?”

  I was pretty sure it wasn’t a good thing he knew my name.

  “Yes,” I answered in a croak. My mouth was dry. The only way to get through this was to play a part. That was how I’d learned to survive those first few years on my own. The question was what role?

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  I stalled. “Can I get a bottle of water first?”

  “Sure. Of course,” he said, his tone all fake sympathy. He glanced over his shoulder. “Officer Ryan, could you get Ms. Steele a bottle of water?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about me?” Amy asked. “I need to go. I have a million things to do.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “We need to question you as well.”

  “Why?” she asked defensively. “I didn’t find him.”

  He gave her a long look. “We’re questioning everyone . . . Ms.?”

  “Danvers,” she said, her face turning a pasty gray. “Amy Danvers. I’m Luke Powell’s assistant, and he needs me to handle the press . . . along with a host of other things. I really need to go.”

  “Well, Ms. Danvers, if you’ll head out into the hall, my partner will be happy to get your statement.” He turned back to me, but he didn’t speak until she left the room. “Ms. Steele,” he finally said. “I’m Detective Timothy Holden, and my partner Detective Ray Murphy is out in the hall. I’m the lead detective on the case, and I’ve been told you found the body.”

  Showtime. I pretended to be brave and strong, a favorite role from a decade ago.

  I nodded, pressing my hand to my chest. “Yeah. I did.”

  “Can you walk me through that?”

  I recounted the event, leaving out the part about looking at Max’s scar. I knew that wouldn’t be in my favor.

  A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway, holding a bottle of water. The detective took it from him and handed it over to me.

  “I hear you had a previous incident with Mr. Goodwin,” he said, still sounding sympathetic.

  I stared at him as I uncapped the bottle. My mind automatically went to Max’s penile deformity, but then it struck me that he was referring to our encounter downstairs.

  “Oh,” I said, sounding nonchalant enough to deserve an Oscar. I’d threatened to stab Max Goodwin in the heart with my shoe, and it had happened less than an hour later, albeit with a letter opener. “What exactly did you hear?”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.” He sounded light and breezy, my definitive clue that he was trying to snow me.

  I had two choices, and neither was good. My courage was slipping. “I’d like to speak with my lawyer.”

  Surprise flickered in his eyes, then shifted to thinly veiled hostility. “Do you have something to hide, Ms. Steele?”

  I was scared, but I was also pissed. I was innocent; I didn’t deserve this kind of scrutiny. “I’m not stupid. I’ve seen all those shows where the police twist things around and use them against you.”

  “You got something we can use agai
nst you?”

  I crossed my arms, trying to appear calm and cool even though my pulse was pounding in my temple. My mind was scrambling, trying to figure out who in the hell I’d call. I hadn’t exactly kept in touch with my circle in Franklin, and I certainly didn’t know any criminal attorneys. And then there was the little matter of payment.

  Detective Holden shifted his weight. “Come on, Magnolia. Why don’t you save us both some time and tell me your story? I know there was a disagreement between you and the victim downstairs about an hour ago. I’ve got plenty of witnesses to back up that claim.”

  I reminded myself of my role. I was brave, even if I didn’t feel it. “If you already know what happened, then you don’t need my statement at all.”

  “Don’t get flippant with me, Ms. Steele.”

  “I’m only stating the facts.”

  “So you’re really not going to tell me?”

  “No.”

  He stared at me for several long seconds. “Don’t leave this house. And don’t tell anyone that Mr. Goodwin was killed. If word gets out and I trace it back to you, I’ll have you arrested for interfering with an investigation.”

  That sent a shiver down my spine.

  “I’ll let you know when you’re free to go.”

  If I were free to go was probably more like it. There was a very real chance he was going to haul me to the police station and make me give a statement or—even worse—arrest me. I needed to find an attorney fast.

  He left the room, and I didn’t waste a second before bolting out of it. There was no sign of Amy or the other detective, but the hall was filled with multiple policemen, all of whom watched me like I was a sideshow attraction as I ducked under the crime scene tape blocking off the hall at the fork. I continued down the hall, unsure of where to go. The logical place was the kitchen, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to face my mother.

  Unbelievably, people were still partying. Then again, the police probably wanted their witness pool to stick around. Colt still had a line of hotties waiting for drinks, but he abandoned his post and made a beeline for me.