Call Back: Magnolia Steel Mystery #3 (Magnolia Steele Mystery)

by Denise Grover Swank

  Call Back

  Magnolia Steele Mystery #3

  Denise Grover Swank

  Contents

  Call Back

  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

  Family Jewels Sneak Peek

  Also by Denise Grover Swank

  About the Author

  Call Back

  Magnolia Steele Mystery #3

  Book three in the four book USA Today best selling Magnolia Steele Mystery series.

  When Magnolia Steele started digging into her father's disappearance, she had no idea she'd find so much dirt. The secrets she unearthed have changed the official story of what happened to him. Everyone other than her now believes that he embezzled from a client with the help of several accomplices, one of whom got greedy and killed the rest, but Magnolia's convinced there's more to it. She finds plenty of conflicting evidence, including startling links between several recent deaths and her father's past.

  As if she didn’t have worries enough, someone has hidden cameras in her apartment, and the stalker who's been tormenting her amps up his campaign. She wants to trust someone with her secrets, but who? The police are out—there’s someone crooked on the force, and she has reason to believe it’s her maybe-boyfriend’s best friend—and even the people closest to her are suspect. Her sister-in-law and her sinfully attractive friend, Colt, both have agendas of their own; her mother is as tight-lipped as a vault; and in addition to having shady connections, her policeman suitor has a troubling secret.

  Before she gets very far in her investigation, a murderer strikes again in Franklin, and this time the victim is someone she knows. The message is clear—step back and keep quiet—but to Magnolia Steele, it’s a call to action.

  Copyright © 2017 by Denise Grover Swank

  Developmental Editor: Angela Polidoro

  Copy Editor: Shannon Page

  Proofreader: Carolina Valdez-Schneider

  Cover Design: Nathalia Suellen

  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: 978-1-939996-50-3

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, my God. You’re Magnolia Steele,” a woman said from behind me, her voice shaking with excitement.

  It was my first day back to work at Rebellious Rose Boutique in historic downtown Franklin, Tennessee, since the attack. A murderer had viciously beaten me in my apartment three days before, and I was still sporting visible bruises, although they were mostly camouflaged with makeup. I’d been hesitant about returning to work, but I needed the little money my sales clerk job paid. So, sure, I’d expected to deal with customers’ reactions to my domestic violence look, but I hadn’t prepared myself for being recognized by name, although I wasn’t sure why not. Only four weeks ago, I’d acquired national attention for exposing my breasts in an epic meltdown on the opening night of my debut as a star in a Broadway musical.

  I spun around to face her, plastering a smile on my face. “Can I help you?”

  The woman was in her early twenties, which didn’t surprise me since my new fame seemed to have come from all the YouTube videos of my performance, and not the theatre world. “It is you!”

  “We’re having a sale on cookbooks,” I said with a forced smile, ignoring her comment. “Twenty percent off.”

  “Will you sign it?” she asked with a giggle.

  “She’d be delighted to,” a man said from the front of the store. I shot him a glare when I recognized his voice. “She’ll even personalize it.”

  Colt Austin, Middle Tennessee’s resident womanizer, had just walked into the shop.

  Great. What was he up to?

  Colt was an exceptionally good-looking man, and he knew it. With his short dark-blond hair, crystal blue eyes, and the two dimples that appeared whenever he smiled, he enthralled almost every woman who crossed his path. Even I had a hard time escaping his spell, and I was immune to most men’s charm.

  I gave him a patient smile. “I’m sure she doesn’t want that.”

  Colt walked up to me and wrapped an arm around my upper back, his hand squeezing my shoulder. I tried not to flinch at the contact—my bruises were worse than I liked to let on, and Colt didn’t know how many there were.

  “Don’t be so modest, Magnolia.” He flashed his bad-boy smile at the woman, and her attention momentarily shifted focus, not that I was surprised. Colt garnered attention from women of every age and marital status.

  “Oh, my gosh,” the woman said as a dreamy expression crossed her face. “Are you a country music star?”

  “Not yet, darlin’,” he said with a wink. “But I’m workin’ on it. Why, Maggie and I had a performance just last Friday night. I’m trying to convince her into another one. Maybe you’d like to come?”

  I shoved an elbow into Colt’s side, and he dropped his hold. Taking advantage of my freedom, I moved closer to the display. “We don’t have any performances planned in the near future. Now, about those cookbooks . . .”

  “I’ll take two,” the woman said, practically bouncing with excitement as she glanced from me to Colt, unsure which of us deserved her attention more.

  “Which ones?” I asked as I picked up a thick book. “Here’s one featuring Southern cooking, and another on bread—”

  “Sure, those two, I don’t care,” she said, keeping her gaze on Colt. “I just want you to sign them. And him too.”

  Colt’s grin spread, and I rolled my eyes. His already impossible ego would become unfathomable. “I’d be delighted,” he said.

  I grabbed the two books and headed toward the register, ignoring Colt’s amused grin.

  I’d kill him later. With no witnesses.

  Alvin, my boss and the owner of the boutique, tried to interest our excitable customer in an apron and some cooking utensils, but she shook her head, still starstruck. “Just the cookbooks and their autographs.”

  I started to ring her up as Colt shimmied closer to her. He leaned his elbow on the counter as he peered into her flushed face. “You from around here, darlin’?”

  Her face turned even redder, and she stammered, “Uh . . .”

  “Why, Colt Austin,” I said in an accusatory tone, planting a hand on my hip. “Are you flirting with that girl right in front of me?”

  The dreaminess left the young woman’s face. “Oh, my goodness. Is he your boyfriend?” She shook her head. “Of course he would be,” she said, somewhere between mournful and reverential. “He’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous . . .”

  I couldn’t stop the smile that lifted my lips. The police hadn’t let me back into my torn-up apartment
yet, and my sister-in-law, Belinda, had loaned me some of her clothes. The cream, vintage-style dress with yellow and pink rosebuds did great things for my complexion.

  Momentary confusion had flickered in Colt’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by playfulness. “You know what we have isn’t exclusive, Maggie Mae. And I can’t help it if this beautiful young woman has captured my attention.”

  She practically swooned, and I wondered what he was up to. Colt was a charmer, but he didn’t usually lay it on this thick with other women around me, not that I cared . . . well, mostly. We weren’t together, after all, just friends.

  “That will be thirty-six dollars and ninety-seven cents,” I said.

  “For two cookbooks?” she asked in dismay.

  “They’re Southern Living approved,” I said, picking one up and tapping the seal on the corner.

  “Oh, well, I’ll just take one.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t care. It’s not like I’ll actually use it. The cheapest one.” She turned to Colt. “Do you have many performances? I’d love to see one.”

  He graced her with a lazy grin. “I’m usually a solo artist, but me and Maggie have sung together a couple of times. We have an agent interested in signing us. He thinks we could be big.”

  I shot him a look that reminded him that was never going to happen, even though I felt a bit guilty over it, even though the prospect made me a little wistful. Colt had been trying to break into the country music scene for years, and the one night we’d performed together at the Kincaid had brought an agent knocking on his door, but only if we were a package deal, something I wasn’t interested in. I’d spent enough time in the limelight following my Broadway disgrace. I was interested in lying low for a while.

  Especially since my own personal stalker had been keeping an eye on me since my return to Franklin. But I’d made the Nashville news after my attack on Saturday night, so it could be argued I wasn’t much good at lying low.

  “Eighteen dollars and sixty-three cents,” I said.

  The woman dug out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me as she continued to watch Colt. “Would you sing something for me now?”

  He chuckled. “Right now? I’m sure Alvin wouldn’t approve of me disrupting his business.”

  Alvin had been standing to the side, taking in everything, but now he moved closer with a beaming smile. “I have a guitar in the back. How about you and Magnolia sing together? I’m sure she’s missing the stage.”

  Colt gave me a lackadaisical smile, but I could see the pleading in his eyes.

  I was missing the stage, and I had loved singing with Colt, maybe a little too much, but I hated to give him false hope. Still, Alvin had been an amazingly understanding boss in the short time I’d worked for him, so I hated to refuse him. “Sure.”

  The woman squealed.

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Who would you like the cookbook made out to?”

  “Trina.”

  The cookbook author would probably be less than grateful that a washed-up Broadway star and a wannabe country singer were signing her bible on bread, but at least I was making a sale. I grabbed a pen and wrote in swooping script, Always chase your dreams—something I’d come up with after accepting the role of Scarlett in Fireflies at Dawn, my first starring Broadway role—and then signed my name, Magnolia Steele, and a heart below it.

  I lifted the book and handed it to Colt. Our eyes locked and I was surprised by the gratitude I saw there. For agreeing to sing with him? But he looked away before I could get a good read. He scribbled something below my signature, then handed the cookbook back to Trina as Alvin emerged from the back with a guitar.

  “Where in the hell did you get this?” Colt asked in awe. “That’s a vintage Gibson.”

  I couldn’t help wondering the same. While Alvin’s store had a mixture of new and vintage items, there wasn’t a single musical instrument.

  He shrugged as he handed it to Colt. “It was mixed up in a batch of antiques I got last week. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with it.”

  Colt took the guitar and strummed a few chords, then tightened the strings to tune the instrument.

  Alvin pulled a stool out from behind the counter and dragged it to the front door.

  “Alvin?” I asked, starting to feel uneasy. “What are you doing?”

  “Setting up.” He disappeared out the front door, reappearing in the front window as he placed the stool front and center.

  I smelled a rat.

  I narrowed my eyes as I turned to Colt, about to accuse him of being part of this, but it was obvious Alvin had caught him by surprise. Otherwise, he would have brought his own guitar. No, it would seem my enterprising boss had cooked up a unique way to draw attention to his store, not that anyone other than Trina was likely to see the connection between cookbooks and country music.

  His smile as wide as his face, Alvin came bustling back in, only to immediately leave with another stool. At least we’d both get a seat.

  When he finished tuning, Colt glanced up at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “Showtime.”

  Even though I was irritated to be roped into this, I couldn’t ignore the butterflies of excitement in my stomach.

  Colt held the door open for Trina and I, then perched on the stool and strummed a few chords. Still a little reluctant, I sat down beside him. Trina stood facing us, so excited she was practically jumping up and down, our fan base of one.

  “What do you want to do?” Colt asked. “Our set from Friday night?”

  Part of me didn’t want to sing at all. Four weeks ago, I’d been onstage in New York City, living my dream. Now I was a street performer.

  But the entertainer in me won out. “Sure.”

  He started Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now,” the first song we’d sung together last week, a few nights before our debut at the Kincaid. I chose not to reflect on the fact that he’d pulled me onstage to sing as a distraction after I stumbled upon Walter Frey’s dead body—the second murder victim I’d found since moving back to Franklin. The first time, I’d ended up as a person of interest in the police investigation, and Colt had—rightly—deduced I was terrified of it happening again.

  I started singing the first verse of the song. Colt quickly joined in, and I lost myself in the music. In less than a minute, Colt and I were singing the chorus to each other, and my heart felt lighter than it had in days.

  I could almost forget that I’d nearly been killed by a Nashville dentist, Geraldo Lopez, the man who had likely murdered my father.

  I could forget that nearly a million dollars’ worth of gold had been stolen from my apartment—gold my father had possibly embezzled from one of his financial clients.

  I could forget that I was staying with Brady Bennett, a Franklin police detective who had let me sleep in his bed for the past three nights. Or that he had neither pushed my boundaries nor asked anything of me.

  I could forget that I’d arranged to meet Walter Frey the night of his murder. He and my father had set up a meeting the night of my father’s disappearance, and I’d hoped to ask him about it. Instead, he’d been murdered outside of the bar where he was supposed to meet me—something Brady hadn’t included in the report on Frey’s murder.

  I could forget that Brady’s best friend, Owen, another Franklin detective, had likely hidden facts about Walter Frey’s death. And that he’d lied about the events leading up to Dr. Lopez’s death. He’d saved me, but he was hiding something.

  I could forget that my brother Roy had a deep violent streak and not only hated me, but he was beating his sweet wife, Belinda.

  I could forget that my mother was dying from cancer—a fact that, at her request, I had hidden from nearly everyone around me.

  Most of all, I could forget that ten years ago I’d run away from my high school graduation party, sought shelter from the rain in an abandoned house, and found myself in the middle of a real-life nightmare. A man had murdered a woman in fr
ont of me, and he’d carved a mark into my leg with a hunting knife so I would never forget the price of telling. And I hadn’t—I’d suppressed memories of the traumatic event so thoroughly they’d only begun to resurface after my return to Franklin.

  I could even forget that my attacker was still watching me, texting me on occasion to remind me of the importance of keeping everything that had happened in that dark, dank basement a secret.

  All that was here in this moment was me, Colt, and the music—and I felt like I could breathe for the first time in days. We sang for thirty minutes, gathering a huge crowd on the sidewalk before we were done, and Alvin knew what he was doing apparently, because more customers went into the boutique during our performance than in the whole, admittedly short, time I’d worked there.

  So I was feeling pretty good until I looked up and saw a man in the back of the crowd with a baseball cap pulled low to partially hide his face. He was facing me, and while I couldn’t see his eyes, a slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth when he realized I’d noticed him. It wasn’t the kind of smile I was used to getting from men—there was something menacing about it. Knowing.

  My heart skipped a beat and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Could he be the man who’d held me captive ten years ago? He’d worn a hood, and I’d never gotten a good look at his face.

  Without thinking, I started toward him, but another man was headed toward me, and the expression on his face told me I was about to meet with another kind of reckoning.

  Detective Owen Frasier.

  Chapter 2

  Colt noticed Owen moments after I did. Putting his hand on my shoulder and leaning into my ear, he asked, “Want me to get rid of him?”

  I was still too shaken by the man in the baseball hat, who’d already slipped away, to ask Colt how he knew Owen. He’d encountered Brady a few times—most of them unpleasant—but as far as I knew, he’d only seen Owen at the Kincaid last Friday night, standing next to me. Hell, I’d barely spent any time with Owen myself.