by Jane Tesh
“Okay.”
I was ready to change the subject. “So how are you and Angie getting along?”
“Great. She and Rufus make a perfect couple, don’t they? Rufus told me she was as cute as a speckled pup, and she says Rufus is as fine as frog hair.”
“They were made for each other.”
We finally reached Oakville and Lassiter’s house. As I’d hoped, Lassiter was charmed by Kary and invited us into the dark cave of his home. The man owned every issue of National Geographic ever printed. We carefully maneuvered past the tall neat yellow stacks to a musty parlor. An old dark piano crouched in one corner. It looked pretty decrepit to me, but Kary gave a little cry of delight and hurried forward.
“How beautiful!” She opened the piano and smoothed her hand over the yellow keys. She played a few chords. “What a nice tone! How old is it?”
Lassiter beamed. “Over a hundred years. Was my mother’s.”
Kary sat down on the piano stool and began to play a Chopin waltz. Lassiter’s face softened even further. “Haven’t heard it sound like that in years.”
Kary rippled through the waltz and stopped. “What did you need me to play, David?”
Lassiter dug his notebook out of an ancient bureau. He found the right place and handed the book to Kary. She didn’t even blink at the sight of the music.
“‘Field Mouse Dance.’ That sounds cute.”
She set the notebook up on the piano and began to play. I turned on my recorder. “Field Mouse Dance” was a perky little tune with a lot of high notes to indicate mouse noise. Kary liked it well enough to play it again. Lassiter stood as if transfixed. Well, why not? An angel had come down from heaven and was playing his song.
After “Field Mouse Dance,” Kary played “Little Jenny Jones” and three Lassiter had written. His were okay, but lacked a certain spark and harmony. I recorded all of them. Lassiter sat in a dark cracked leather armchair, his thin fingers playing the notes along in his lap.
Kary finished and turned to face him. “These are very nice. I’ve tried to write music. I really envy you.”
“Wish I could play like you,” he said. “That’s a true talent you’ve got there, Miss Ingram. Hope you plan to do something with it.”
“I’m going to teach school.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Don’t stop playing, though.”
“Oh, I won’t.” She looked through the notebook. “This is pretty here, this ‘True As Silver,’ and I really like this title, ‘Two Hearts Singing.’”
I see two hearts singing. That’s what Camden had said several days ago, when all this started.
Lassiter made a face. “I have to admit I stole that title from one of Laura Gentry’s songs. It was just too good to pass up.”
“That’s okay,” Kary said. “There can be more than one song with the same title.”
“Her song’s right much better. It’s on the next page. I copied it down, too.”
“Play both versions, please, Kary,” I said.
She played Lassiter’s first, a straightforward little tune, nothing remarkable. Then she played Laura Gentry’s. It was evocative, plaintive, charged with emotion, the kind of tune that gets in your head and doesn’t go away.
She finished and sat back. “Wow.”
“You see,” Lassiter said. “No way I’d be as good as that. She wrote that when she first fell in love with Ashford, but it’s so sad, you have to wonder if maybe she knew things weren’t going to work out, one of those mind things, like a hunch.”
A premonition. I know all about those.
Kary played it again. As the sad sweet tune filled the dark little parlor, I couldn’t help but think of Lindsey and the happier days of the past, of love lost and love betrayed.
Damn. Now they had me doing it.
Kary played the last soft chords. The music trailed away like a sigh. The three of us sat for a while until I shook myself from the memories. “Thanks very much, Mister Lassiter. I think I’ve got all I need.” We shook hands and he started to replace the notebook back into the bureau drawer. Then he turned and looked at Kary.
“You’d take good care of my book, wouldn’t you, Miss?”
Kary looked puzzled. “Of course I would.”
Lassiter gazed at the faded cover for a long moment and then handed the notebook to her. “I’ll let you take it for over the weekend, so you can record everything, as long as you make me a copy. It’s been so long since I’ve heard these tunes, and you play them so beautifully.”
Kary’s cheeks turned a becoming pink. “Why, thank you, Mister Lassiter. This will certainly help David’s case.”
He grinned. “Ain’t doing it for him, Girl. This is between you and me. Now don’t rush off. I may have a soft drink or two in the Kelvinator.”
I thought we’d better leave before he changed his mind. “We ought to get back. It’s a long way, and Kary might have some studying to do.”
He elbowed me in the ribs and winked. “You’re a lucky dog, Randall.”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me.”
Kary closed the piano and shook Lassiter’s hand. He held on for a moment. “Did my heart good to hear my old piano played like that. You tell Randall here to bring you back any time, you understand?”
“I’d like that very much,” she said with her million-dollar smile. I hoped Lassiter’s old heart could take the strain.
He kept her hand in his. “Ain’t nobody left in my family but me, nobody who likes these old songs. But somebody needs to remember them.”
“You’re right, Mister Lassiter. I think it’s important to keep all kinds of music alive.”
“Well, you do that, Miss. I certainly appreciate it.”
We got in the car and started for home. “Thanks,” I said. “You’ve saved me a lot of time.”
She had Lassiter’s notebook in her lap, and she smoothed the cover. “I loved playing that piano. The songs were so engaging, especially that one about the hearts.”
The sunset was a mass of purple and pink clouds, the trees, dark silhouettes against the brilliant sky. I drove just under the speed limit, wanting to prolong my time with her as much as possible. I finally had to come right to the point.
“Speaking of hearts, Kary, I realize this is none of my business, but why did you accept the ring? You don’t seem very excited about it.”
“I am. It’s just such a big step. I feel overwhelmed.”
“There’s no rush, you know.”
She kept her gaze forward. “Well, I didn’t want a nose ring or a tattoo, so I chose the first atheist I could find.”
It took me a moment to realize she was making a joke. “You don’t have to take the first atheist you find, do you? Give the rest of us a chance.” She didn’t say anything. I gripped the steering wheel. I risked a glance at her. “Kary, I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I feel we have a connection.” I was startled by how normal my voice sounded. “I think we’re both looking for the same thing.”
She was so quiet, I thought I’d upset her. I took another glance in her direction. She looked straight ahead, her perfect face in the twilight revealing nothing.
“Maybe. But I think we’re in very different places in our search.”
But my search is over, I wanted to say.
Chapter Fifteen
“The Drowned Lover”
We got back to the house around six. Kary went up to her room, and I slumped into the office. We hadn’t said very much the rest of the way home. I’d stopped short of begging her to call off the engagement and marry me. I couldn’t believe I had that much restraint.
I was going to call Melanie, but there was a call on from Nick Vincent, a distraught Nick Vincent.
“David, my watch is missing.
I can’t find it anywhere. I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t believe this!”
“What happened?”
“I can’t find my watch. I know I had it yesterday when we were on the porch. I’ve looked everywhere.” His voice was on the rise. “I can’t possibly be this careless. It was a birthday gift from Pamela. She will kill me.”
“Okay, take it easy.”
“Thank goodness Pam’s at her friend’s house. I haven’t told her. She’s going to flip out.”
“Nick, take a deep breath and relax. I’ll stop by first thing in the morning.”
“First the locket and now this. She’s going to leave me.”
“I doubt that. We’ll find your stuff, don’t worry.”
I heard him take some unsteady breaths. “Okay.”
“You going to be all right? Do you want me to come to your house now?”
“No, no. Tomorrow morning will be fine. Pamela won’t be here. She has an art class or something.” He gave a slight laugh. “I know I’m forgetful, but honest to God, I can’t be this stupid.”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“Thanks, David.”
He sounded a lot calmer, so I hung up. Reasonable explanation? I didn’t have an explanation of any kind about either of my cases. What did I have? Lost jewelry, a pile of teary love letters, a recording of sappy tunes, a possessed friend, and a broken heart. I could write my own song.
Speaking of possessed friend, I thought I’d better check on Camden. He wasn’t in the island watching TV or in the kitchen. I went up the stairs to his third-floor bedroom. He wasn’t there, either.
I came down to the second floor and knocked on Kary’s door. “Have you seen Camden?”
“No,” came her reply.
I tried Angie’s door, but heard only thunderous snoring. I hurried back out to my car. I knew what had happened. Ellin had taken advantage of this situation, as usual, and carted him off. If I didn’t hurry, Ashford was going to be broadcasting his woes all over town, and people were going to think Camden had lost his mind.
WPKD’s across town. I cut down Tenley and made an illegal left turn onto Marsh. Took me twenty minutes. The station’s a small brick building surrounded by impressive electrical towers and satellite dishes. Ellin’s car was parked in the lot. I went in and told the receptionist I was a guest on Psychic Service Network, I was very late, would she please show me the correct studio.
She hardly looked up from her romance novel. “Fourth door to your left.”
I thanked her and went down the short hallway to door number four. The dark studio had a high ceiling full of jungle wires and a floor crawling with snaky cables. Brilliant white light illuminated the Psychic Network set: tasteful chairs and a table with a huge bouquet of pink, blue, and white flowers, those soothing psychic colors. A stagehand was fastening a microphone on the low collar of one of the hostesses, either Teresa or Bonnie. Audience members searched for their seats. I saw Reg Haverson in all his glory, preening in front of a small mirror. Ellin stood by one camera, discussing something with another stagehand, and there was Camden. I should have said there was Ashford, because I could tell by his stiff posture and the way he scornfully surveyed his surroundings, the songwriter was definitely in the house. He had on Camden’s best dark gray suit and burgundy tie. When he saw me, he smirked as if to say, “Fooled you.”
Ashford may have been inside, but Camden was still five seven, one hundred and thirty-five pounds. I took his arm and pulled him along with me. “Party’s over.”
He tried to get away. “Unhand me! This is none of your business!”
I hung on. “Oh, yes, it is. For one thing, you’re trespassing. For another, this is my case, not Ellin’s, and I’m going to solve it my own way.”
Ellin spotted me and rushed forward like a freight train out of control. “Randall! Leave him alone!” She didn’t say, “He’s mine!” but I knew she wanted to. She grabbed Camden’s other arm. “How dare you come in here and disrupt the program? We’re on in five minutes.”
She was not going to win this tug of war. “You’re on in five minutes. Camden’s coming with me.”
She held on. “He isn’t Camden right now. He’s Ashford, and he wants to be on the show.”
“Are you crazy? Do you want everyone to see Camden like this? Will you think of him for once?”
Her face turned red. “Randall, he wants me to be happy, doesn’t he? He wants to help.”
Our argument attracted the attention of the audience. Reg Haverson strolled over, brushing imaginary lint off his perfect suit. “What seems to be the trouble? Do we have competition for our program tonight?”
“There’s no trouble,” Ellin said. “Randall was just leaving.”
I kept a firm grip on Camden’s arm. “Not without Camden.”
She dug in her heels. “How many times do I have to tell you he isn’t Camden right now? This is John Burrows Ashford, and he’s our guest for the show.”
Ashford decided to put in his two cents’ worth. “I have promised Ellin I would speak on her television program.”
“Well, you’re not,” I said. “I told you I’d help you, but you have to cooperate, and making a fool out of Camden on TV isn’t part of the bargain.”
He puffed up. “Make a fool out of him? What utter nonsense! I shall make him famous.”
Reg checked his watch. “You know, this is really interesting, but we’re on the air in three minutes. If you can’t come to some agreement, we’ll have to find another topic.”
“No,” Ellin said. “It’s settled. Ashford wants to do this, Randall. You have no right to stop him.”
“And you have no right to drag Camden into this without his knowledge or consent.” Time to play dirty. “Reg, you could fill in, couldn’t you?”
From the way he grinned, I knew he’d been waiting for just such an opportunity. “As a matter of fact, I have something on hand in case of emergencies.”
Ellin’s voice shook with anger. “We are not going to do a program on reincarnation.”
“Let me get my notes.”
Now she had to let go. “Reg!” She turned the full fury of her anger to me. “Damn it, this is my show! I call the shots!”
I pulled Camden away. “Tonight it’s Reg Haverson and his past lives. If you don’t want him to take over the entire hour, you’d better see what else you can dig up. Camden and I are out of here.”
Ashford protested and Ellin threatened death and lawsuits, but I hauled Camden out of the studio, down the hallway, and past the bored receptionist. He was still Ashford in the car and still Ashford all the way home, griping about being manhandled.
“Doesn’t my opinion count?”
“Not much,” I said. “Besides, what good would it do to tell your story on TV? Only music scholars know who you are. Nobody’s interested in a sixty-year-old murder case except Laura’s great-granddaughter, me, and you.”
He crossed his arms and sulked. “The way Ellin explained it, my words would have gone out all over the city. Someone might have useful information. You have denied me access to my public!”
“And you’ve denied Camden access to his life. Will you go away? Let me handle this. Or at least help me and keep away from Ellin.”
This brought his predatory grin. “She is a fantastic woman, so fiery, so independent! Laura was like that.”
“Yeah, and look where it got her.”
He scowled. “I did not kill her, Randall. She was headstrong. She shouldn’t have gone out in that storm. She wouldn’t listen to anyone.”
I hadn’t heard about a storm. “Tell me what happened.” Okay, so I was taking advantage of the situation, too, but not in front of thousands of people.
“We quarreled, as usual. We could never agree.
I told her we were not good for each other. She was too demanding. I wanted to see other women. Instead of accepting my offer of a ride home, she said she would walk. There was a terrible storm that night. She slipped on the riverbank, fell in, and drowned. Of course, I blamed myself. I became despondent and could not write. And then I didn’t want to live.”
Tate Thomas had told me what had happened.
“You killed yourself?”
“Yes.”
I pulled into the driveway and turned off the motor. We sat for a long while in the darkness. The porch light cast such eerie shadows on Camden’s face, I could almost see Ashford’s features.
“My last memory of Laura is seeing her in her coffin, so very white, her dark hair spread out on the pillow. She held two white roses in her hands. At the graveyard, two ravens came and sat on her tombstone.” His voice faltered. “I had just written a song about a raven plucking a ribbon from a dead lover’s hair. Such an eerie coincidence. I felt it was an omen, a sign I should follow her.”
I didn’t want to feel sorry for Ashford, but I did. “Why are you here? What do you really want?”
For the first time, he was uncertain. “I’m not really sure.”
“To prove the songs are yours.”
“But of course they are. There’s no question about that.”
“Where’s the proof? What’s it going to take to get rid of you?”
“Perhaps it is destined that I come back in this man. Perhaps it is his destiny, too. My music needs to return to this world.”
“I doubt it’s Camden’s destiny to have you poking around in there.”
“But my music. Surely my music must live on.”
“I hate to tell you, pal, but your music is antique. Hell, people hardly listen to classical music any more, much less some folk ballads. The only composer people know and the kids might study in school is Steven Foster.”
“Foster! My work is just as good as his! I took what he had created and built upon it, improved it!”