Page 86 of Call Back

“All clear?” I asked.

Colt was sitting at the island with a cup of coffee and half his food gone. His gaze strayed to my legs, and I became instantly aware of the fact that I was wrapped up in a towel that only barely covered my butt. “Your bedroom is clear,” he finally said, returning his attention to his plate.

“Where did you put the cameras?” I asked. “Can they still hear us?”

“They’re down in my car.”

“Not the trash? Why didn’t you flush them?”

He shook his head. “So wasteful, Magnolia Steele. I can sell them or use them myself.”

“What would you use them for?”

He looked up at me, his eyes serious. “I think we both know I have several side jobs to pay the bills.”

He’d admitted to installing the cameras outside the loading dock, but the way he’d said it suggested the deal had been brokered under the table. What exactly did he do when he wasn’t working for the Belles and singing in bars? Belinda had mentioned his arrest, and he’d been open enough about his seedy past, but I hadn’t thought he was still involved in anything devious. Then again, after last night, I wasn’t sure about anything. I needed more answers, and I needed them soon.

“For God’s sakes, Magnolia,” he groaned. “Put some fucking clothes on.”

I cringed, having somehow forgotten I was still standing in the skimpy towel. “Sorry.”

Darting into my bedroom, I found my last clean dress and quickly put it on, then went into the bathroom to put on a little makeup, making sure I used plenty of concealer to cover the dark circles under my eyes and some still-fading bruises. After I rolled my hair up into a French twist, I returned to the living area and found Colt lying on my sofa with his eyes closed.

“You’re already done?” he asked, squinting one eye open.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“I just expected you to be more high maintenance.”

“Does that statement apply to my appearance or to me in general?”

“Both.” His eyes sank closed again. “I’m going to hang out here and take a nap while you’re doing the Bible study thing.”

I walked into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. “Why is Ava mad at you?”

“That’s none of your—”

“Come on. You know ten times more information about me than I know about you.” On second thought, that was probably a low estimation.

He lifted his head and glanced back at me. “Here’s the thing you need to know about Ava—what happens between you two needs to stay between you two. So if you want to know why she’s ticked at me, ask her.”

“She’s told me all kinds of things this morning,” I said. “She just might tell me.”

“No skin off my back,” he said, settling down on the sofa again. “But be wary: her information always comes at a price.”

Something I’d already suspected.

I glanced at the clock and saw I had ten minutes before I had to head back over. I started to grab my phone to search for the latest information on Emily’s murder when the box from Ava’s attic caught my attention. Ava had chided me for not finishing my homework. Was there something else in the box she wanted me to see?

I took off the lid, sat on one of the barstools, and began to flip through the articles, searching for any information I might have missed. Five minutes later, I was only halfway through the clippings when a name listed in a write-up about a literacy fundraiser grabbed my attention.

“Charles Rogers, president of Grobbel and Rogers Financial, was in attendance with his wife Rowena. The Rogerses, who have been long-time supporters of literacy, generously gave the charity a ten-thousand-dollar donation.”

The clipping had photos, but I didn’t recognize anyone in them, and there wasn’t a picture of the Rogerses. Grobbel and Rogers Financial? Had Daddy convinced another financial planning firm to join his project?

I set the clipping aside and kept looking through the pile. Several items later, I found a program for a ladies’ garden luncheon that listed Rowena Rogers as the treasurer of the garden club.

I glanced at the clock—I only had five more minutes, but I was determined to find out more before I left, especially if Ava was going to let me ask questions. I picked through several more clippings and was about to wake up Colt and assign him the task when I picked up a clipping and froze. There was a photo of a woman I’d seen before.

Once with Walter Frey at Mellow Mushroom, and the second time at his funeral.

Her chin was lifted and her mouth held the barest hint of a smile. She looked like she didn’t take shit from anyone and was more than happy to hand out lots of it in return. She was younger than the woman I’d seen in person—her hair was darker and she had fewer wrinkles—but there was no doubt it was her.

The title read, “Franklin Woman Honored for Her Work in Children’s Literacy,” and underneath the photo, the caption read, “Rowena Rogers.”

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