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

by Denise Grover Swank

  I almost told him I was sure he was wrong. Owen had shot Dr. Lopez to keep him from telling me something. Besides, Owen had made it pretty clear he didn’t think of me as an innocent.

  I looked into Brady’s warm and concerned face. Would he believe his best friend was more crooked than he thought? All I knew was that, uneasy as I was, I still needed Brady’s protection, and the surest way to alienate him would be to tell him his best friend might be trying to kill me.

  Chapter 15

  Part of me wanted to run far away until the entire mess was resolved, but I wasn’t going anywhere now that I was finally getting answers. I had to go back out into the world. Hopefully I could do it armed with more information.

  “What is Bill James’s involvement?” I asked bluntly. I wasn’t ready to share anything Momma had told me, especially since she’d asked me not to tell anyone. “Why did you warn me to stay away from him?”

  “I think he’s dangerous.”

  “Obviously. Why?”

  “I’m sure James was much more involved in a land project your father was running than he claims.”

  I held up my hands. “Whoa. Wait. You think my father was running the Jackson Project?”

  “You know about the Jackson Project?”

  Crap. He had no idea what I’d learned over the last few days. “Ava Milton mentioned it yesterday.”

  That piqued his interest. “After I told you about Emily’s murder?”

  “No. I was cleaning a bunch of newspaper articles out of her attic. She’s hoarded boxes and boxes of them. I’m surprised the fire marshal hasn’t fined her.”

  “So what do you know about the Jackson Project?” he asked.

  How much should I confess? “I know that he suggested some of his clients invest in the project, but it got sued and his clients lost a lot of money.”

  “Magnolia,” he said in a patient voice. “Your father knowingly bilked millions of dollars from investors in the Jackson Project.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “He brainstormed it. It was his pet project.”

  “What?” Feeling like I was about to jump out of my skin, I got to my feet and walked over to the window.

  Brady stood too, though he had the sense to stay several feet away. “I’m sorry.”

  I kept my back to him as I watched the horizon turn pink through blurry eyes, which pissed me off. I’d kept my shit together for ten years, fourteen if you counted my father’s disappearance, and I did. I’d been called delusional and a liar in my insistence that my father had been innocent of any wrongdoing. But the deeper I dug, the less I recognized the man I’d loved. Nevertheless, I was done with crying. Crying didn’t solve shit . . . unless you were trying to weaken a man’s resolve. In this case, my tears weren’t going to do a single thing to change the facts.

  “No,” I said as I clutched the neckline of my pajama shirt, twisting it around my fingers in an effort to ground myself. “I knew he was involved, but not that he was in charge.”

  “He did a good job of hiding his involvement by using Winterhaven, a dummy corporation, but Owen figured it out. Even if your father created it, I’m sure Bill James is dirty, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he played a role in all those kidnappings and disappearances.”

  “And murders,” I added. “There were recent outright murders, but let’s also call the disappearances what they were. Murders.”

  “But recently they got sloppy,” Brady said. “They never left dead bodies behind before Goodwin’s murder. And now Amy’s murder . . . I have to wonder if the serial killer is tied to the other disappearances and murders. It all changed with Max Goodwin’s death.”

  The day I came back. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the serial killer had started killing again, and Daddy’s old business partners had started dying within days of my return.

  “How many women?” I asked.

  He looked startled. “What?”

  I spun around to face him. “How many women have been murdered by the serial killer?”

  He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t know, Maggie. Eight. Maybe more. That’s if we count Emily Johnson and Amy Danvers. Amy’s case was curious, but then I saw the mark on Emily . . .”

  “How did you know the details of Amy’s body before you got that packet? I thought her case was handled by the Brentwood police.”

  “It was, but I’d become invested in the case because of your involvement. And like I said, the suicide seemed fishy to me, so I asked to see the report. It was the photos that stuck with me. No one thought much of the cuts on her legs, but I knew I’d seen that mark before.”

  “So you knew about the other women before Amy?”

  “Yes and no. I knew about the murder in Clarksville. I remembered seeing the mark on her leg.”

  “That case was ten years ago,” I said. “You didn’t graduate from the police academy until eight years ago. How could you have seen it?”

  “It was a cold case kind of thing. Groups that try to solve unsolved mysteries.”

  “You joined it as a cop?” I asked in disbelief.

  The first hint of irritation filled his eyes. “I wasn’t a detective when I joined the force, and I told you that I like investigating. So yeah, I joined a few online groups. They had no idea I was a cop. It was with that group that I heard about another murder, the one from fourteen years ago. So I started looking into other cases and realized there must have been a serial killer.”

  “Why haven’t you already contacted the FBI?”

  “I did. A guy contacted me; he looked over the cases, then said it was nothing. But it doesn’t seem like nothing to me. So I contacted them yesterday, and they’re coming in to take a look.” His eyes searched mine. “Maggie, now that you’re involved, I’m more determined than ever to find the bastard.” He hesitated. “In all honesty, you shouldn’t have even looked at the files, and I definitely shouldn’t have shared what I did, but I thought you had a right to know.”

  I remained silent, still seeing those dead women in my head. Even if I hadn’t seen her photo, Emily was one of them now. And even though I knew Brady was right—that the murderer had killed her, not me—I felt responsible.

  Who would be next?

  Brady moved in front of me and rested his hands on my shoulders. “You can’t tell anyone that you know about the cases. I put my job on the line by telling you what I did. If it got out that I shared confidential information, I would lose my job.”

  “Okay,” I said, quieter than I’d intended, but the shock of the whole situation was hitting me hard. “It’s not like I’ve told anyone else about that night anyway.”

  But that wasn’t true. I’d told my mother less than twenty-four hours ago. A decade-old secret treated like yesterday’s gossip. I couldn’t help wondering if I’d pay a price for that.

  I noticed the clock on the stove read 6:45. “I have to get ready for work.”

  “Right now?”

  “I have to be at Ava’s early today.”

  “Why?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Because she’s one of my bosses, and she told me to come in early.”

  “She can’t make you work overtime to pay off the damage to the apartment. You were attacked, Maggie. If that’s what this is about, let me know, and I’ll see if I can do something before you have to resort to hiring an attorney.”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or annoyed. The last thing I needed was Brady butting in any more at Ava’s. I was a grown woman who didn’t need the guy she’d been staying with to stand up for her. “No. That’s not it. She knows I’m looking for some extra money, so she’s given me extra chores to do this morning,” I lied. “It was actually very sweet of her.”

  “Ava Milton sweet?” he asked in disbelief. “That’s a first.”

  “So you do know about her?”

  “By reputation. Everyone in town knows she’s a busybody and a bully.”

  I nearly
protested the bully label, but I could see how she’d earned it. “I’ll admit that she’s difficult to work for, but I’ve worked with plenty of difficult people before. She’s more bark than bite.”

  “Then you haven’t gotten to know the real Ava Milton yet.” He lifted his hand to my cheek. “Thank you for sharing your experience with me, but I need to ask something of you. Something that will be really hard.”

  “I already told you I wouldn’t say anything about the other women.”

  “That’s not it.” He paused. “I need you to take me to the house. The one you found before you came to the police station.”

  I took a step back, bumping into the window. “The house where I was held hostage?”

  “Yes.”

  I wasn’t surprised by the request, but I started shaking anyway.

  “I’ll be with you the entire time,” Brady said, resting both hands on my upper arms. He bent a little at his knees, making our eyes level. “And it will be just you and me. No one else, so you won’t feel intimidated or concerned that anyone is watching you.”

  “Don’t you need to bring the other police?” I asked. “The guys who collect evidence and take photos? Shouldn’t we tell them?”

  “No. I’ll see it with you first, and then I’ll bring them in later.”

  “How will you explain finding it? Won’t you need to tell them about me?”

  He rose to his full height and kissed my forehead, his lips lingering for several seconds. “Not if I do this right. I’ll have someone call in an anonymous tip or something. I’m going to protect you, Maggie. I promise.”

  “But—”

  His phone rang in the bedroom, and he gave me a pleading smile. “You trusted me enough to tell me your story. Trust me to protect you in this too.”

  Something about it didn’t feel right, but Brady had already admitted that he suspected cops on the force were dirty. I decided to ignore the niggling feeling that suggested he wasn’t on the up and up. “Okay.”

  His phone continued to ring, but he asked, “Can you get away this afternoon?”

  “Don’t you need to answer your phone?” If someone was calling him this early, it had to be important.

  “It can wait. This is important. What do you have going on this afternoon?”

  My heart raced at the thought of going back to that house, but it made sense that he would need to see it. I’d told myself there wasn’t any evidence there after all these years, but that had partially been to assuage my guilt because I was too worried about what my stalker would do if I told anyone the truth. “I have the Bible study until twelve thirty. Then I work at Alvin’s until six. He wants me to help him with inventory after we close at five.”

  “What about after?”

  A shiver ran down my spine. “It gets dark soon after six.”

  “I’ll have a flashlight.” His eyes hardened. “And my gun.”

  Common sense told me that the killer wouldn’t be there, but I was still terrified.

  “I hate to ask you to do this, Maggie, and I wouldn’t if it weren’t important.”

  My mouth was dry, but I managed to say, “I know.”

  “I’ll be with you every step of the way. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He searched my face. “Do you believe me?”

  I nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”

  He took my hand and pressed it to his chest. “Thank you for that.”

  I nodded again, unsure of what to say.

  “I can pick you up from Alvin’s shop if you’d like.”

  “Okay. We’ll drive out to Momma’s and hike through the woods behind the house. I’ll need to bring a change of clothes.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?” he asked.

  “No. I can change at Momma’s.” His phone started to ring again. “I heard her and Tilly say they were going to see a movie. Now go answer your phone.”

  “Thank you, Maggie. I know this is hard.” He kissed my forehead again, then headed down the hall to his bedroom, leaving me standing in the living room.

  I could think of ten million things I’d rather do than go back to that house, but I’d do it if it helped Brady find the killer. I owed Emily, and so many other people, much more than that.

  Chapter 16

  “Where’s the box?” Ava asked when I walked in through the back door, slightly sweaty after my five-block walk from the parking lot outside of the Belles, made more strenuous by the fact I’d packed up all my belongings at Brady’s and brought them with me. There was a huge pot on the stove and several baking sheets were spread across the counter.

  I closed my eyes, then blinked them open. “I’m sorry. I forgot it.” How could I have been so stupid? I’d been so anxious about going to that house later, I’d spaced out about everything else.

  “Did you get it done?”

  “No, ma’am.” But I wasn’t so sure it mattered, at least from my perspective. I’d been searching the box for clues about my father’s involvement in the Jackson Project. I’d gotten plenty of information from other sources.

  “Why do you look so bedraggled?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “You look like you’ve been awake for two days.”

  She wasn’t far off. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “Well, be sure to put plenty of concealer on to cover those bags under your eyes before you play hostess in a couple of hours. I can’t have you looking bad in front of my guests.”

  I nodded slightly, too tired to get angry. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I started to head out the swinging door toward the dining room, but she called after me in a harsh tone. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Back upstairs to work on the other box of papers.”

  “That can wait,” she said briskly. “I need your help in the kitchen.”

  I turned around but stayed in the threshold between rooms. “Like I told you, I’m not much help in the kitchen.”

  “Poppycock,” she said, grabbing an apron out of a drawer. She started to hand it to me, but after she got a good long look at my jeans and well-worn, blue, scoop-neck T-shirt, she stuffed it back in the drawer. “There’s plenty you can do.” Then she reached for a coffee mug, filled it with coffee, cream, and sugar, and handed it to me as I approached her. “Here. You look like you could use this.”

  I took it from her, trying to cover my shock. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t be thinking I’ve gone soft,” she snapped as she grabbed a spoon and started to stir something in a bowl. “I need you to perk up, or we’ll never get everything done.”

  I hid a small smile as I took a sip. Maybe there was something to my mostly bark and little bite theory after all.

  “I need you to remove those croissants from the baking sheet and put them on that blue and white plate,” she said, her side still to me. “Are you capable of such a simple task?”

  “I hope so. I’ll do my best.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “At least you’re honest.”

  I started working on my assigned job, and to my surprise, she broke the silence.

  “Are you still searching for information about your father?”

  I stopped mid-scoop, then resumed my task. “Yes, ma’am. There was helpful information in that box you gave me.”

  “Is that so?”

  I nearly laughed at her smug tone. I decided to be honest with her. “I found out he was part of the Jackson Project. A big land deal gone wrong.”

  She tsked and shook her head. “Quite a few people lost money on that venture.”

  “I also had no idea my father had helped manage some country music artists’ money.”

  “He was known for it for a while, which was why I was so surprised to hear he’d run off with Shannon Morrissey.”

  “He didn’t run off with Shannon Morrissey,” I said with a frown. “Geraldo Lopez killed him.” Or at least that’s what a lot of people believed now. It didn’t explain the serial numbers on the gold.

  �
�Are you sure about that?”

  I froze. What did Ava Milton know? And more importantly, why hadn’t she told anyone? “What do you know about my father?”

  “More than we have time to discuss before my meeting.”

  I shook my head and pointed my spatula at her. “Do you really think you can drop a statement like that and expect me to stand around with my tail between my legs, waiting for you to decide when to give me another nugget of information?”

  She dropped her utensil into her bowl and slowly turned to face me, her face expressionless.

  Ava was going to fire me, and I probably deserved it. Even so, I sure as hell wasn’t going to apologize. I held her gaze, accepting her challenge.

  Our stare-off lasted several more seconds before her head dipped slightly, a gleam of approval filling her eyes. “She has a spine.”

  “I have a hell of a lot more than that. What do you know about my father?”

  Her head tilted to the side, and she studied me as though seeing me for the first time. “Contrary to what you might think, Magnolia, I do have a career. Do you know what it is?”

  My gaze landed to the multiple baked goods in various stages of completion on the counters, but as well-known as she was for her culinary endeavors, I suspected that wasn’t what she meant. “No, Miss Ava. I have no idea.”

  “Come now, Magnolia. I pegged you as being brighter than that. What do I have in my attic?”

  She had boxes and boxes of information. Ava Milton wasn’t a mere gossip. She used the information she collected. “Are you a blackmailer?”

  To my surprise, she burst out laughing. When she finally settled down, she was still smiling. “On occasion, if I’m being entirely honest, but only when it was for the greater good.”

  “So what do you do with the information you gather?”

  “I save it. I dole it out when needed. I correct wrongs and reward rights.”

  “That’s not really a career, is it?” I asked. “You don’t get paid for that kind of thing.”

  “It depends on your definition of being paid.” She waved her hand toward my baking sheet, which still held several croissants. “Get back to work. Are you incapable of working and talking at the same time?”