Center Stage: Magnolia Steele Mystery #1 (9 page)

I gritted my teeth and faked a smile. “Where would you like me to file them?”

She set the glasses back onto her nose and returned her attention to her screen. “Good choice. We have cabinets in the basement. You can take the older ones in that cabinet—” she pointed to a tall black metal stack of drawers, “—and file them in the basement. Then file the new ones up here.”

“This is going to take a while,” I grumbled, my good mood quickly evaporating.

“Good thing you’ve got plenty of time,” she said with some sass.

“I’m going to check out the basement first.” I headed for the door, but Momma called after me.

“Don’t forget the key,” she said, pointing to a key hook. “The door’s outside.”

How had I not noticed that? I hesitated. “Can I get Roy’s number so I can call him?”

My mother released a labored sigh. “Magnolia. If you really want to talk to him, then let me arrange it.”

“Why can’t I just call him?”

“Because you’ll beat your head bloody trying to get through to him.” But she grabbed a small piece of paper and scribbled on it, then handed it to me. “This is his cell number. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I snatched the paper from her, then snagged a lanyard from the hook and tromped down the stairs and out the back door. She hadn’t told me which door led to the basement, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.

But first I dug out my cell phone. I couldn’t decide whether to call my brother or text him, but then settled on the element of surprise. Pressing my back against the building, I dialed his number. The phone rang multiple times before it went to voice mail, which was probably for the best.

“Hey, Roy. This is Magnolia. I just wanted to let you know I’m back in Franklin, although I’m not sure for how long. But I’d love to see you and maybe work things out, so call me back. I guess you have my number now . . . I’m sorry we don’t talk, and I want to change that. Bye.”

I hung up and tilted back my head, closing my eyes. Wow. That had sounded intelligent.

Time to get to work.

The door opened to a set of dark concrete stairs. I hesitated, frozen in terror.

I’d always struggled with small, dark places since I’d left home, but something about this felt too familiar.

I was going to do this. I
had
to do this. How could I explain to my mother and Tilly that I was afraid to go in their basement?

I would feel better as soon as I found the light switch. I propped the door open with a brick, which was probably kept there for that very purpose, then eased my way down, sucking in a breath to keep my anxiety at bay. Not that it helped. A cold sweat broke out on my neck and my hairline.

Finally, I spotted a string dangling from the ceiling several feet away. I tugged on it, turning on a single light bulb.

My anxiety only increased.

Part of my brain screamed for me to run up the stairs, but my body refused to cooperate. My chest was heaving, sucking in air and puffing it out so quickly my face was numb.

Calm down, Magnolia. It’s a goddamned light bulb
.

It took a good five minutes for me to calm down enough not to feel close to passing out and another five until I could actually focus on my environment. Sure enough, two filing cabinets hulked in the corner. I recognized one of them from home. It had been my father’s business file cabinet.

I walked over and opened several empty drawers before finding one with a few files. The bulb made for a fairly dim light source though, and I had a hard time reading the tabs. Did they sort things by chronological or alphabetical order?

“What are you doing down here?” a man asked behind me.

I screamed and dropped the key onto the concrete floor, then spun around to see a dark figure in front of me, perfectly framed by the door behind him. I took a step back, bumping into the cabinet.

“Maggie Mae. It’s me. Colt.” He stepped to one side, moving into a pocket of light, and I could finally make out his features.

I bent over my knees, gasping for breath as I waited for my heart to slow down.
Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out
.

“What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me like that?” I finally huffed out.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I saw the open door and decided to check it out.” He knelt and picked up my dropped key.

“What are you doing here?”

A smart-ass grin spread across his face. “I work here, remember?”

“I didn’t think Momma and Tilly had an event today.”

“They don’t, but Tilly asked me to help her pick up supplies at Costco.”

“Shouldn’t you be singing or writing songs or something?”

He laughed as he handed me the lanyard. “Unfortunately neither one of those pays the bills right now. But I’m playing tonight if you want to come check me out.”

“I already told you—”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t want a boyfriend.” He winked. “But I have several other friends coming, and none of them plan to sleep with me either.”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trailing off. “I just got back. And I’m a suspect in a murder. I don’t think I should be hanging out in bars.”

“You’re a person of interest.” When I opened my mouth to ask him how he knew, he added, “I watched the news this morning.” He grinned again. “Which I never do. Did you know that a church in Nashville has opened up part of their land for homeless people to live on? They’ve got these little bitty houses for them.”

Since his question seemed rhetorical, I didn’t answer.

He shrugged. “Turns out you learn all kinds of things watching the news. And you should come. You can’t let the po-po keep you from living your life.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “The po-po?”

He held out his hands. “I’ve been trying some gangsta words in my lyrics. Too much?”

“Um . . . yeah. I still think I’ll stay home tonight—if nothing else, for my mother’s sake. But thanks for the invite. Maybe another time.”

He pointed his finger at me. “I’m going to hold you to that, Maggie Mae.”

“Sure,” I said, eager to drop the subject. Going out in public with a large crowd sounded like a dangerous proposition right now.

Colt followed me up the stairs to the office, and then he and Tilly left on their errand. I spent the next couple hours hauling files to the basement, and each time I descended the staircase, it took me a little less time to recover. After much debate with my mother, I convinced her to file them alphabetically.

“If they were digitized files, you could find them either way,” I suggested on one of my trips upstairs. “They could be both alphabetical and chronological.”

“Shut up, Magnolia,” Momma grumbled.

My stomach let out a noise of protest, and it suddenly occurred to me I hadn’t eaten in hours, probably since the previous afternoon. “Do you have anything to eat here?”

“No.”

“But you have all those containers we brought.”

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “You touch those and you’re dead.”

“You have a massive kitchen and nothing to eat. There’s something so wrong about that.”

Momma grabbed her wallet out of her purse and pulled out some cash. “Go to the café across from the police station and get us some lunch.”

“I’d rather stay as far away from the police station as possible.”

She pushed out an exasperated groan. “Fine. There’s a deli down the street. Toward the roundabout. You can pick up something there.” She gave me her order, and moments later I was out the door.

Walking on the Main Street sidewalk brought back a rush of warm memories, all of them now tinged with regret. Maddie and I used to spend hours here, hanging out at the Starbucks at the opposite end of the street, going shopping, seeing a movie at the old theater. I was glad to see it was still open. There’d been rumors it was about to close, but now they had musical shows too.

I wondered what Maddie was doing now. It had been years since I’d tried to reach out to her. Would she talk to me if I called her? I was scared to try, but I needed to talk to her now more than ever as my memories were coming back. With my latest memories of Blake, I needed to know she was okay.

The deli was only a block away, but I had to wait in line once I got there. I spent my time Googling my name on my smart phone. Yesterday, the articles about my New York failure had embarrassed me and made me want to hide in a cave—or my childhood bedroom. Today, I was just happy there was nothing about me being implicated in a murder. Oh, what a difference a day made.

I finally made it to the counter and placed my order—giving them the name Maggie instead of Magnolia for a bit of anonymity, then stood aside and continued my search while I waited for them to call my name. I was reading Griff’s apology to the theatre world on my behalf when a text popped up on the screen.

I’m going to kill you, Magnolia.

“Maggie,” the server who had taken my order called out.

My heart slammed into my chest, and I took a deep breath, telling myself not to freak out as the text disappeared from the screen.

“Maggie!” The woman behind the counter said it more insistently this time, looking right at me. I rushed forward to grab the bag, but I bumped into someone and stumbled backward.

He grabbed my arm to hold me upright. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, staring into his warm brown eyes. He looked to be about my age, with dark brown hair and the kind of heavy stubble that’s a precursor to a beard. I was still trying to calm down when my phone vibrated in my hand, alerting me to a new text. My head felt fuzzy. I should never have come back.

“You don’t look okay,” the man said, tugging me toward a table. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Oh, God. The last thing I needed was to make a spectacle of myself. “I’m okay, really. I just got a little dizzy. I’ll feel better as soon as I get some air.”

“
Maggie
!” The woman behind the counter glared at me and hoisted up the bag.

The man grabbed the bag, holding it with his own order, then cupped my elbow with his free hand to lead me outside. But I was already starting to come to my senses, and the last thing I wanted was to be saddled with a stranger. I needed to see if the new text was another threat.

“I’m fine,” I said, snatching the bag from him as he followed me out to the sidewalk. “Thank you for your help.”

“Are you driving?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“No,” I snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

His back straightened. “It’s my business if you aren’t coherent enough to get behind the wheel of a car.”

He was right, yet the way he announced it, as if he were King Solomon making a royal decree, got under my skin. Of course it didn’t help that I was on edge. I was ready to go off on someone, and this poor man was it.

“I resent the insinuation,” I sneered, putting a hand on my hip. “I would never knowingly endanger anyone.”

“Why would you think I’m insinuating anything?” he asked in exasperation. “I don’t even know you.”

“That’s right!” I poked my finger into his solid chest. If I weren’t so angry, I would have stopped to appreciate it. “You don’t know me, so what gives you the right to assume the worst of me?” I poked him again for good measure. “I’m a good person, dammit!”

People on the sidewalk were now openly gawking at us.

“Look,” he said, grabbing my hand in his. “If you
had
driven, I was going to offer to either sit with you until you felt ready to drive or call someone to come get you. That’s it.”

Well, shit. I snatched my hand away and took a step backward. “I walked.” I lifted my chin in an attempt to recover my fading indignation. “And I’m only walking a block, so there’s little chance of me taking out a bunch of pedestrians with my takeout bag.”

The corners of his mouth twitched a little, like he was fighting a grin. “Maggie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

I gasped. “How do you know my name?”

His amusement faded in an instant. “From your bag. And because the woman at the counter kept calling out Maggie and staring right at you.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, backing up against the brick wall.

“This isn’t a normal reaction to a stranger knowing your name. Why are you so frightened?”

“Who made you an expert on people’s reactions—”

I looked at the bag in his hand and added, “
Brady
?” What kind of name was Brady? He had to be another country music star wannabe. It fit his image—his solid chest, his ruffled hair, and that scruffy beard that looked downright sexy. And his voice . . . firm and authoritative. He could get on stage and command an audience to pay attention. I was surprised he hadn’t signed with someone yet, but then again, maybe he had.

He studied me for several seconds, long enough for me to decide I needed to get the hell away from him. I knew people—I’d spent the past ten years studying them, first for survival and then for my acting—and I could tell this man was far too observant.

He started to speak, but I held up a hand and waved it in front of his face. “You know what? Strike the question. I don’t want to know.” Then I spun around and started down the street. “Thanks for your concern.”

“Maggie.”

He sounded so insistent that I found myself turning around to face him despite myself. Damn his voice. I put my hands on my hips and pressed my lips into a tight line.

“
What
?”

He looked confused, as if he couldn’t figure out whether he should run away or come after me, but ultimately he just ran his hand through his thick brown hair, making it look even more ruffled and sexy than before.

Damn it
. Run, Magnolia.

He shook his head and gave me an ornery grin. “Don’t mow anyone over with that bag of yours.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically and then spun around again and headed toward Momma’s shop. Once I’d made it to the corner, I snuggled up against the building and looked at my phone screen to read the second text.

Call me!!!!

It was from Jody, my friend and former roommate in New York. And so was the text that had arrived immediately before it—the one I’d taken to be a threat. I pressed my back against the wall, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, and reveled in the feeling of relief.