The lettuce wasn’t wilted—Tilly would rather die than serve salad with wilted lettuce. But I plastered on a smile and said in the sweetest voice I could muster, “Let me take care of that, Ms. Bowers.”
Since I’d given her the last bowl, I made my way to the kitchen to refill my tray. Before heading back to her table, I fluffed up her salad, leaving it in the same bowl, and added it to the tray. I made sure she got the just-fluffed salad.
She gave me a withering glare. “You should have served this salad to begin with.”
It was a struggle to keep a straight face. Tripp Tucker was sitting several place settings to her right. He had been cautiously eyeing me since I’d first approached the table with drinks. I suspected he knew who I was, given that I’d been in the media, and he probably kept on top of those things. I was certain his apprehension was over whether I recognized him, and if so, he might be worried I wouldn’t be too friendly after his major public falling-out with my father.
But he caught my eyes and grinned as I handed him a salad from my tray.
I grinned back and made a point of dramatically rolling my eyes. I needed to get into his good graces, and she had been ridiculous.
He chuckled as I moved on.
Melisandre was just as cantankerous when I served her the second course, claiming her chicken was cold even though it was steaming on her plate.
I served everyone else at the table, then took her plate back to the serving kitchen and stuck her chicken in the microwave.
Tilly gasped in horror. “What on earth are you doin’, child?”
“Ms. Bowers claims her chicken is cold. I’m heating it up.”
“Her chicken is cold?”
“No, Tilly,” I said, offering her an apologetic smile. “Ms. Bowers is just a bitch.”
“Magnolia!”
The microwave dinged, and I grabbed the chicken breast with a pair of tongs and set it back on the plate. “Don’t worry, Tilly. I won’t embarrass you or the Belles.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she muttered.
“I didn’t overheat it. I promise.”
She just shook her head and turned back to her plating job.
As I expected, Melisandre accepted the new chicken, and Tripp flashed me another grin.
After I served everyone in my section, I headed over to Colt and stood next to him, watching the table of honorees.
“How’s it going over there?” Colt asked.
“I’d love to wring Melisandre Bowers’s neck,” I said with a sweet smile.
Colt laughed, the sound warming something inside me. For some reason, an image popped into my head: me and Colt sitting on a sofa watching TV—nothing exciting—his arm curled around me and the two of us laughing. The peace and happiness I felt at the thought scared me. I’d never thought of a future with anyone else before, not a real one. Sure, I’d thought about what life would be like with Brady, but it had never seemed real. It had seemed like an escape. A fairy tale with a guaranteed happily ever after. This felt real, but what were the chances that Colt and I would actually get to have that happy future? Slim to none.
His smile fell. “Maggie? You okay?”
I shook off my moodiness. It wouldn’t help anything. “I’m fine. It’s been a long day.”
“Did you have to go back to the police station?”
“No.” I scowled, watching the honoree table. Melisandre was frowning. “But I wouldn’t be surprised to find Detective Martinez around the corner waiting for me, which might be a nice reprieve at the moment.”
I headed to the table and smiled down at the grumpy woman. “Can I do something for you, Ms. Bowers?”
“The asparagus is limp.”
The asparagus was stiff as a board on her plate. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said in a grim voice. “Would you like me to get you a new serving?”
“No. Just take the plate away if you’re going to serve cafeteria-quality food.” Then she waved her hand in a flourish.
I picked up the plate as Tripp turned his attention to the surly woman. “You must dine with kings and queens in extravagance, Melisandre,” he said in a teasing tone. “I found the chicken to be tender and juicy and the asparagus cooked perfectly.” He looked up at me. “Please give my compliments to the chef.”
I nodded, thankful for his intervention. “Tilly will be pleased to hear it.”
The other guests murmured about how much they were enjoying their meals, but Melisandre shot daggers at me. I hadn’t been the one to object to her assessment, but I’d made an enemy nonetheless. I couldn’t bring myself to care.
After I cleared all the plates away, I served the strawberry cheesecake, and Melisandre surprised me by not complaining. Then again, my mother’s recipe for cheesecake left little room for complaint. A memory popped into my head of the first time my momma had tried to teach me how to make this cheesecake—and failed miserably. A burning lump filled my throat.
I still had my tray, although now empty, but I headed down the hallway toward the bathrooms instead of the serving kitchen. After I rested the tray against the wall, I began to pace. Would it always be like this? Would the thought of her always bring me to tears?
“Are you okay?” a man asked.
I spun around to face him, expecting to see Colt even though it didn’t sound like him. Instead, I found myself face to face with Tripp Tucker.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Uh . . . yeah. I’m fine.”
“Don’t take it personally,” he said, moving a couple of steps closer. “I’ve known Melisandre for fifteen years now, and she’s never nice to anyone.”
I forced a smile. “I don’t care about that old goat.” Realizing what I’d said, I covered my mouth with my fingertips. “Crap. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He laughed. “My philosophy is to always tell the truth.”
I nodded. “And do you follow your own advice?”
“For the most part.”
“And how many women have you pissed off that way?”
He rubbed his cheek as he fought a grin. “We won’t talk about that part.” The amusement left his eyes. “Seriously, Melisandre’s been miserable for years. Complaining is her only happiness in life, so you’ve given her plenty of joy tonight. It seems wrong for you to be crying.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “I’m not crying over her, you fool.”
His eyes widened, but he laughed. “I should be more careful about dispensing advice. If you’re not upset about her, then why are you crying in the hallway?”
I realized he felt a little familiar, like a forgotten pair of shoes in the back of your closet. I couldn’t remember anything specific about him, but I was certain he’d been at our house when I was a kid—and not just because I’d been told as much.
He was watching me, waiting for an answer, so I said, “My mother died this past weekend. While I was serving the cheesecake, I remembered it was one of the first things she tried to teach me to bake. I failed miserably at it.”
His smile fell. “Is your mother Lila Steele?” He grimaced. “Sorry. Was.”
So he did know who I was.
“She still is,” I said with a half-shrug. She would always be my momma even if she was no longer with me.
A war of emotions played out on his face before he finally said, “Do you remember me?”
“No. But I know you’re Tripp Tucker. And I know you used to come over to our house when I was a kid. If I’m honest, something feels really familiar about you.”
“You really don’t remember me?” he asked in surprise.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
He studied me for a moment as though assessing me. “You used to love taunting me,” he said with a sad grin. “You were smart as a whip even back then. Joking around with you was one of the many reasons I loved going to your house.”
“I’m sorry that I don’t remember you,” I said, meaning it.
“It’s probably fo
r the best.” He glanced over his shoulder at the room behind him, then back at me. “You were on Broadway. What are you doing serving bitches like Melisandre lukewarm chicken?”
I pointed my finger at him with a grin. “First of all, that chicken wasn’t lukewarm. Tilly would rather die than serve lukewarm chicken. And second, my mother was a partner in the catering business. Maybe I’m claiming my inheritance.”
“Not likely. Not about the chicken, but the claiming your inheritance part. You were always meant for great things, Magnolia Steele.”
I shrugged. “For my mother, owning a catering business was a great thing.”
“That was her. This is you.” He leaned his back against the wall. “Do you know the greatest lesson I learned from your father?”
“To trust no one?” I asked sarcastically. “Or to keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”
“Surprisingly, I don’t think that was pointed at me,” he said. “When you were younger, your father could do no wrong.”
“I was a child,” I said bitterly. “I was an idiot.”
He grimaced. “I take it you’ve heard some of the hard truths about your father.”
I didn’t respond. It was obvious enough.
“No, surprisingly, the greatest lesson he taught me was to be true to myself.” He rolled his eyes. “It seems crazy now, especially after it all crashed and burned. But your truth is yours, Magnolia. You shouldn’t follow someone else’s, or you’ll only end up unhappy.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “My father taught you that?”
“In the beginning, before he became jaded.” His mouth twisted as he focused on the wall behind me. “Or maybe he was always jaded, but he used to be better at hiding it.”
“Do you think he killed Tiffany Kessler?” I asked, trying to gauge his reaction. I needed to know what he thought of my father.
He looked startled, then said, “I didn’t see that question coming.”
I knew I should have worked my way up to that, but I was tired of tiptoeing around the truth. “I’m sorry, but my father lied to me, and it sounds like he lied to you too. I want the truth.”
“I loved Tiffany,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I had no idea she was sleeping with your father.”
“Are you sure he was?” I asked. “I know he had affairs, but I’ve since found out that he didn’t sleep with Shannon Morrissey. Maybe he didn’t sleep with your fiancée.”
He made a face. “Oh, they slept together. Trust me on that.”
“But do you think he killed her?”
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I found out about their affair because I came home and heard Tiffany on the phone, begging your father to leave your mother for her. He refused and Tiffany threatened to tell Lila about their affair. Brian threatened to destroy her if she did.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. “So why don’t you think he killed her?”
“Because I don’t think he was capable of such a thing.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“Tiffany and I got into a fight and she left. She never came back. They found her body several days later.” His voice broke. “Of course, your father and I were both suspects, and we were both eventually cleared, but I blamed myself, and I blamed your father. She was the love of my life, and I’ve never gotten over her.”
I nearly protested that he always had a new woman on his arm in the pictures that ended up in the tabloids. Shoot, he had one here tonight, a woman who looked younger than me, and Tripp had to be over forty, even if he didn’t look it. But I knew better—people tried to fill loss in all kinds of ways. The fact that he was photographed with multiple women only drove his statement home. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t have anything to do with her death.”
“But I reminded you of it.”
“It happened a long time ago.” Only, the look on his face suggested a hundred years wouldn’t heal his wounds.
“I’m not sure the guy who was arrested for her murder actually did it.”
He looked taken aback. “Why do you say that?”
I hated to press the issue since I’d clearly upset him, but wasn’t pressing the issue the point of being here? “Because I don’t think she was the only one.”
The color left his face. “What does that mean?”
“Other women have been murdered. The same way Tiffany was killed.”
He looked shaken, and it took him a moment to form a response. “The police never told me that.”
“I don’t know if they’ve made the connection. Until this month, the deaths have been years apart. Miles apart.”
Tripp shook his head. “No. You’re wrong. The police were certain they had the right guy.”
“I think there’s a connection to my father. She was found outside of Jackson. You lost money with the Jackson Project.”
A vacant look filled his eyes and he sat on his butt, his legs stretched out in front of him. “The others?” he said, reaching up and grabbing my arm. “What’s their connection?”
I squatted next to him, feeling guilty for dredging this all up for him again. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t checked.”
“Maggie?” Colt’s worried voice caught my attention.
I looked up to see his panicked face, only then realizing how strange Tripp and I looked. We were both sitting on the floor, and he was holding my arm. “I’m okay.”
I started to stand, but Colt strode over and reached out a hand to help me up. When I was on my feet, he wrapped an arm around me and put himself between Tripp and me. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his full attention on Tripp.
Tripp got to his feet and stared at Colt’s arm around my back. His gaze lifted to my face. “I need to get back. It was great catching up, Magnolia. Let me know if you want to talk again.”
Tripp walked back into the hall, and Colt turned his attention to me, studying me with worried eyes.
“I don’t think Tripp did it.”
“Tell me about it later. We’ve got bigger problems, Mags. Detective Martinez is here looking for you.”
Chapter 18
“You have to get out of here,” Colt said.
My back stiffened. “I told you—I’ve finished running.”
He grabbed my wrist and tugged. “Then I’m dragging you out of here because she’s got evil in her eyes, Mags. She’s out to get you.”
I released a nervous laugh. “Do you know how paranoid that sounds?”
“After everything that’s happened, you think that sounds paranoid?”
He pulled me out of the back door and into the parking lot.
“I don’t have my car.”
“I called an Uber, but you’re not going home.” He pressed a key into my hand. “The Uber is taking you to my apartment. It’s apartment 301. Tilly and the rest of us are covering for you, so stay there until I finish up. I’ll come get you, and we’ll figure out what to do next.”
A car pulled around the side of the building, and Colt guided me toward it and opened the back door.
“Colt . . .” I said, looking up into his eyes. I’d given him grief over something that was obviously personal, and yet he was putting himself on the line to help me. Again. “About this afternoon—”
“Stop right there. You had every right to be upset, and I’m going to explain some of that after I get done here. Call me if you need me.”
I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
He gave me a short kiss on the lips and broke loose. “You need to go. Now.” Then he pushed me into the backseat and shut the door.
The driver took off, and Colt watched for a moment before he went back inside. As I reached for the phone in my pocket, I realized I didn’t have my purse. Hopefully Colt or Tilly would remember to grab it, but right now I felt naked without the gun hidden underneath my wallet.
Since Colt had ordered the Uber, I h
ad no idea where I was going. I was surprised when it headed toward Brentwood. The car pulled into the parking lot of a luxury apartment complex, then pulled around to the back and stopped outside a door.
“This is it?” I asked, looking up at the building. I’d always pictured Colt living in a dive.
“Building 4,” he said as if I’d lost my mind.
I got out and headed inside. There was an elevator, but I decided to take the stairs to buy more time. Colt had always told me I couldn’t come to his apartment because he had roommates. How would they react to me just showing up?
When I walked up to his apartment, I knocked on the door, not wanting to walk in and surprise anyone, but when no one answered, I used the key Colt had given me. I’d expected to find thrift store furniture, not furniture that looked like it had come out of Restoration Hardware.
“Hello?” I called out in case one of Colt’s roommates was home. I headed down a short hallway to check out the bedrooms. I found a home office with a desk and a computer and a bedroom with a nice furniture set and masculine bedding.
Colt didn’t have any roommates.
I knew he’d told me a lot of white lies as part of his cover, but this seemed like a huge one. Colt worked for the Belles and some part-time musician gigs. The way I saw it, he didn’t make enough money to cover the rent in this place.
Had my father paid for this?
The thought made me sick. I’d ask Colt when he showed up.
I headed into the kitchen and opened the fridge, fully aware that I was snooping. His fridge was mostly empty, with the exception of a carton of eggs, a bottle of ketchup, and several bottles of beer and water. I grabbed one and found a bottle opener in a drawer, then looked out of the living room window, taking in the view of the parking lot, which was full of nice cars—further confirmation that this apartment was outside of Colt’s budget.
So this was why he’d never wanted me to come here. He’d always told me his apartment was off-limits, even when I was in danger. But I suspected there was also more to it—Colt Austin was a charmer who thought on his feet, so he could have come up with some believable explanation for living here. No, I was pretty sure he had been hiding something else from me, and I would have bet money there were clues in his home office.
Curtain Call: Magnolia Steele Mystery #4 Page 17
