“I wish we could listen to it,” Julie said, and she began to figure who might have an old reel-to-reel. Maybe SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design. They had an impressive film department.
“I’d be afraid we’d ruin it,” I said. “It’s going to the Country Music Hall of Fame. Which reminds me. Has anyone heard from Holly this week?”
No one had. “Let’s call,” I said. “Maybe Kyle can help me out with this tape.”
“I’d like to know why the tape is so valuable,” Julie said. “Sure, Elvis is—Elvis— and back in the day, everybody was crazy about him, but that’s so long ago.”
I had to remind myself that my children’s generation couldn’t understand the full impact of the Elvis phenomenon any more than I could identify with the music of the Roaring 20s.
“You have to understand the mind of a collector,” Alex said. “Some collectors, not all. The ones that will do anything to own whatever it is they want to own.”
Felicity had said as much. Antonio DeMarco was crazy about Elvis. Obsessed.
“I don’t know if I’d be so quick to forgive Kyle,” said Catherine, who had turned her attention to the crudités with fresh herb vinaigrette. “What a stupid thing for him to do!”
Michael came quickly and staunchly to Kyle’s defense. “He didn’t know Mom was going to lose her suitcase. If she hadn’t lost her suitcase, Barry Blake would’ve snatched the tape as soon as she arrived in Paris, and she wouldn’t have been involved.”
So good to be home.
I punched in the Nashville number, and Holly answered.
“My suitcase just arrived,” I said. “The tape is here.”
“Mom’s got the tape!” she called out. Kyle said something in the background. “Just a minute,” she said, and I waited. When she came back on, she lowered her voice. “Kyle still can’t forgive himself for all the trouble he caused you. I know he made a bad mistake, but he’s not a bad person. In my heart, I know he’s an honorable person.You understand, don’t you, Mom?”
Why did I suddenly think about Paul Broussard? I felt a smile edge into the corners of my mouth. My first day back in Savannah, I had called him, thanked him for the painting, promised to make some inquiries about art galleries in Atlanta. Twice this week he had called me. Alex and my daughters weren’t the only ones who could keep secrets.
“You do understand, don’t you? Are you there, Mom?” Holly was saying.
I answered both questions with a yes. “Let me speak with Kyle.” I tried to sound breezy. “Maybe he can help me get the tape to the right person at the Country Music Hall of Fame. That’s what Virgil Pitt intended.”
“Maybe that’ll help him find a job,” Holly said.
I shouldn’t have been startled that Kyle had lost his job. Barry’s company could hardly survive his death and Felicity’s disappearance.
“He’s bright. He’ll find something,” I said.
Kyle came on the line, just as Alex, who had been examining the reel like a true historian, called to me, not bothering to care that I was on the phone. “Jordan, will you look at this!”
“Hold on, Kyle. I have the reel in my hand,” I said. “I recognize Virgil Pitt’s block printing on the label. The same as his letter. Listen.”
I read for all to hear. “January 10, 1956. Lonesome Delta Boy. Words and music, Virgil Pitt.Vocal, Elvis Presley.”
I said, “We’ve got to get this tape somewhere safe.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
Phyllis Gobbell is the co-author of two true-crime books based on high-profile murders in Nashville, Tennessee: An Unfinished Canvas with Michael Glasgow (Berkley, 2007) and Season of Darkness with Douglas Jones (Berkley, 2010). Her narrative, “Lost Innocence,” was published in the anthology Masters of True Crime (Prometheus, 2012). She has received awards in both fiction and nonfiction, including Tennessee’s Individual Artist Literary Award and a nomination for the Pushcart Prize for short fiction. An associate professor of English at Nashville State Community College, she teaches writing and literature.
Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery) Page 33
