Why make like Audrey Hepburn and take a powder from the trappings of music royalty for one brief moment of freedom? Practically every line in Emma's report had emphasized that, as the Princess of Pop, Jane Miller was personally responsible for the livelihoods of dozens of people, she was contractually responsible to her recording company and her concert dates, she was responsible for ensuring that her millions of fans worldwide were satisfied with her music and secure in her "goodness," and she knew it and had fulfilled those obligations to the letter. Until midnight two nights ago, she had obeyed all the rules that Boyd Monroe had used to imprison her, because to flout them would be to disappoint or even hurt too many other people.
Why break nine years of hard conditioning now? The only thing looming before her was a recording session in Los Angeles, and after eleven Top Ten albums, she could do that in her sleep.
Or could she?
The memory of Harley's acoustic guitar sitting forlornly in a chair in her Ritz suite slammed into Duncan's brain.
Emma's background report had stressed that Harley was a talented and dedicated musician. But she had left her guitar behind.
Yes, it might have been difficult smuggling it past her bodyguards, but according to his interviews with the many and varied taxi drivers she had used yesterday, and all the shop clerks she had lavishly tipped, she had done nothing to replace her guitar.
And that didn't make sense. That didn't make sense at all. He had had a brief fling with a brilliant concert violinist once and she had gone into panic attacks whenever she wasn't within ten feet of her violin.
But Harley had gone nearly thirty-six hours without any kind of guitar close at hand. Duncan swore softly. This whole case—from her final performance at Madison Square Garden Sunday night, to the guitar she'd left behind, to the wardrobe reversion to her teenage hellion phase, to that recording studio waiting for her in Los Angeles—it had all been about music. Harley Jane Miller's music.
What if she was blocked? What if she hadn't been able to come up with new material for that recording session? That might make her just desperate enough to duck out on her responsibilities for the first time in nine years.
She had avoided music stores and anything resembling a guitar all day yesterday, but if Duncan knew his musicians—and he did—she wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. When Mark, his rock-and-roll friend from college, had been blocked, he'd still practiced on his guitar every day.
Making music for a musician—singer or performer—was a physical need, a craving, an addiction.
Miss Miller might think she didn't want or need a guitar on her holiday, but Duncan knew better. She'd be breaking out into a cold sweat any second now.
Emma walked into his office. "I give up. I have not been able to find any alias that would even hint at Jane Miller's presence in any of the hotel computer reservation systems. What now?"
Duncan's eye was caught by Harley's defiant senior yearbook photo. "Run a search for every female rock and roller the computer can come up with—Laverne Baker, Ruth Brown, Betty Everett, Grace Slick, Patti Smith, Linda Ronstadt, Chrissie Hynde—all of them. Then run those names through the hotel reservation systems."
"Sure," Emma said, not looking at all sure.
Duncan, meanwhile, had grabbed a phone book from his desk drawer. To hell with legwork. He'd let his fingers do the walking. He opened up the yellow pages to music stores and began hunting.
"I've got her!" Emma shouted ten minutes later as she ran into his office.
Duncan looked up eagerly. "Where is she?"
"She checked into the New York Hilton and Towers just after nine o'clock this morning as H. Everett. I faxed her picture to one of our contacts there. It's her, all right. How did you know she might use Everett?"
For the first time on this case, Duncan knew a certain amount of triumph. "Look at this face," he commanded, holding up Harley's yearbook photo. "If this is who you used to be, what genre of names would you choose from?"
"Genius, Holmes!"
"Elementary, my dear Watson," Duncan said with the utmost satisfaction.
"So, are you off to the Hilton?"
"Nope. I'm off to Manny's Music on West Forty-Eighth Street
."
"Why there?"
"Because any musician worth his or her salt has to make a pilgrimage to Manny's, and from everything I've read in your report on the Princess, Manny's would be a magnet she couldn't resist. The game is afoot, Watson. She'll turn up at Manny's, I'm certain of it. And when she does, I'll close this damn case. Even if it isn't by the book, I'm going to prove to Dad once and for all that I can do this job."
* * *
Wearing her new green terry cloth robe and her equally new slippers, Harley pulled open her room's peach-colored curtains and looked out over the city she had fallen in love with yesterday.
Manhattan felt like the world in microcosm. Life in microcosm. Boyd had kept her hidden away from life for so long, that to be suddenly thrust into the midst of poverty and abundance, the beautiful and the ugly, had been a huge shock to her system. A welcome shock, because with it had come the growing determination not to let fear and reality do what Boyd had done for so many years: keep her isolated from life … and herself.
Looking down on the vibrant street below her window, she saw a small crowd of office workers stopping on their way to work to listen to a trio of street musicians—a violinist, a cellist, and a clarinetist—playing near the corner. A love for those musicians surged within her, just as it had last night as she had walked back to the RIHGA, drawn forward by the startling sound of bagpipe music. She had dropped one of her twenty-dollar bills into the piper's open instrument case, not because he was good—he wasn't—but because he was so enthralled with his pipes and the bad music he played and she envied him that.
Two blocks later, she had dropped her last twenty-dollar bill into the case of a jazz trumpeter who played far better than the piper, but with an equal love of the music.
She turned from the window, paced the room for a moment, got irritated with herself, and ordered breakfast from room service. An hour's workout in the Hilton's fitness center had left her famished. The sooner she ate and got out into the day, the sooner this restlessness would disappear.
She looked around the room. Her pendant, small itinerary notebook, and brush and comb were lying on her dresser. Her two large suitcases were sitting by the desk. The king-size bed took up most of the room, and what was left over was taken up by an armchair and ottoman, the desk, the dresser.
But the room looked empty.
She stared at herself in the dresser mirror. She wore a thick Turkish cotton robe, and she felt naked.
Restlessness worried at her skin.
She understood then. She was alone, not because Boyd wasn't next door or Annie nearby, but because there wasn't any music in this room. A part of herself was missing.
There was a knock at her door. She looked through the peephole and then let in the room service waiter with her breakfast cart. She paid him and closed the door after him, and even sat down and ate. But every cell was focused on the guitar she had left behind, the music that had died within her, and the emptiness in this room.
She was supposed to check out of the Hilton this morning and into the smaller Mansfield Hotel. But the restlessness had seized her and would not let her go. She grabbed the small notebook with her holiday itinerary and quickly scanned through it. She wasn't like Boyd. She could be flexible. She could move things around.
Maybe all she needed was a quick fix, then she could come back and check out and get on with her day.
She dressed quickly in black high-tops, black jeans, and a sleeveless black T-shirt. She attached the anklet money belt to her ankle, slid her pendant back over her head, and she was ready. Checking the hall in case Boyd was lurking there, she strode out of her room and then walked out of the Hilton, scanning the crowd of people near the main entrance, some arriving, some leaving. No Boyd. No detective. She was still safe.
She smiled as she headed down to Sixth Avenue
. She had a date with Manny's Music. She would walk, she would fulfill a teenage dream by visiting the Musicians' Mecca, then she would feel better, and that was that.
She strode down Sixth Avenue
to West Forty-Eighth Street
and discovered almost a full block of music stores, with a tiny park and waterfall separating two of the buildings about halfway down the street. Magic turned up in the oddest places.
Then she saw the sign for Manny's Music. White wrought-iron vines climbed up posts at the door and along the display windows that held trumpets, drums, a sax, an electric guitar, flutes, and clarinets. She felt as if she were coming home.
Smiling, she stepped under the dark green awning, opened the front door, and crashed into a broad chest. Muscular arms went around her to steady her.
"I beg your … pardon," she faltered as she stared. He was about six feet of tanned virility. He had short, black, naturally curly hair and expressive black eyes that were a little wide and a little startled just at present. His broad chest was encased in a plum-colored T-shirt. Tight faded jeans lovingly enveloped long, muscular legs. Brown leather shoes and a forest green jacket completed the ensemble.
Harley's heart began beating wildly in her breast. "Wow," she said, and then realized that she'd said it, and blushed. She couldn't bring herself to look any higher than his chest. His yummy chest. "I-I-I mean, I'm sorry I barreled into you like that."
"No problem," he said. His hands were on her shoulders. She could feel their weight, their strength, their warmth. It had been so long since a man had touched her. She dragged her eyes back up to his. Wow! He blinked and took a sudden step back. "It … was entirely my fault. Are you okay?"
"That depends," Harley said, her brain still leaving her completely in the lurch. "Are you any relation to an Oklahoma tornado?"
He had a lovely smile that crinkled the corners of his black eyes. "My mother was a glacier and my daddy was an earthquake. Were you just coming in?"
"Yes. I … I thought I'd look around."
"I hope you enjoy yourself," he said, stepping aside and holding the door open for her.
She walked past him, turned to thank him, but he was gone.
Darn. She'd just made a complete ninny of herself in front of the most gorgeous hunk of manhood she'd ever met. So much for feeling better this morning.
Harley turned and found herself in bedlam. The place had just opened, but already it was crammed with people, all colors and kinds of people. Hundreds of black-and-white photographs of all the famous musicians who had come to Manny's crowded every inch of available wall space. Down the narrow aisles she could see every size of amplifier and every imaginable instrument. Manny's packed a lot of music into a very tight rectangular space.
But it was the right wall that held her transfixed. Guitars of every shape, color, size, and style ran the whole length of the store. "Oh … my … God," she whispered. Guitar heaven. Mesmerized, she took the few steps necessary to bring her into contact with nirvana. She reached up. Her fingertips brushed the glossy finish of a Paul Reed Smith. She shivered. Slowly she walked down the wall, gazing rapturously at Martins and Gibsons and Ibanezes. She stopped in front of a turquoise blue six-string Washburn acoustic guitar. It was gorgeous.
A little more than halfway down the room, she faltered to a stop once again. She stood before a small alcove, a three-sided room with electric guitars, dozens of different electric guitars, hanging from the walls and ceiling. Her gaze narrowed, all peripheral vision lost as she stared up at a Fender Stratocaster. A black Fender Stratocaster hanging in a sea of Fender Stratocasters. The most universal of all electric guitars. It could, and did, play anything. The beloved of Buddy Holly, Jimi Hendrix, and Eric Clapton was hanging right before her eyes. She could reach up and touch it, but dared not.
"May I help you?"
Vaguely, Harley was aware that a young man with long red hair combed back from his forehead was standing to her left.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked.
Harley gazed back up at the Fender. "Can I touch it?"
He smiled. "You can play any guitar in the store."
"Nice girls don't play electric guitar!" her mother had insisted.
"I'd like to try … that one," she said in a strangled voice, pointing to the black Stratocaster.
He lifted it down as if it were just an ordinary guitar. He plugged it into a small amp sitting on the floor of the alcove and handed the guitar to her. "Here you go."
She stared at the Stratocaster a moment and then watched herself hold out her hands, taking it from the blurry young man and slowly pulling it against her body. "God!" she whispered. It was slim and light and fit perfectly against her belly and diaphragm, cupping the undersides of her breasts.
She strummed an E chord, and then an A, shuddering a little as the music filled the alcove.
"It's better than sex, isn't it?"
Harley focused her eyes on the shop clerk. He was probably in his mid-twenties. A name tag on his white shirt read "Clark."
"It's even better than double chocolate mousse," she said.
He laughed. "Been playing long?"
"Fourteen years," Harley said, playing chord after chord. "But acoustic, not electric."
"Seems to me like you've found your guitar of choice."
Harley stroked the gleaming black surface of the Fender. "Oh yeah."
She hadn't planned it, she hadn't even imagined it, but ten minutes later she was removing sixteen hundred dollars from her money belt to buy the Stratocaster, complete with carrying case, strap, and guitar picks. She placed a few hundred more down on the light oak counter in the center of the store to buy a Maxi-Mouse amplifier so she could start practicing.
She found herself standing under the green Manny's Music awning, the guitar case in her left hand, the amp in her right. She didn't think about checking out of the Hilton, or about the Bartlett Museum, which she had planned to tour later this afternoon, or about Côte Basque, where she had a dinner reservation, or about the show she had planned to see that night.
Right now, what she wanted more than anything was a place to sit down before she fell down.
Dimly she saw the tiny pocket park with a fountain splashing down a stone wall across the street. Forgetting to look left, let alone right, she crossed the street and entered the narrow oasis. She sat down with a thump on the nearest stone bench and stared at the cascading water opposite her.
A Fender Stratocaster. She had just bought a Fender Stratocaster! She set the amp down on the ground and hugged the guitar case with all her might.
She wasn't naked or alone or restless anymore. And she felt lots better.
"Hello again, Miss Miller."
Harley's heart stopped. There was a roaring in her ears. Slowly she turned her head and looked up. A man stood beside her bench. It was the hunk from Manny's, and he knew who she was. Staring up into those dark eyes, she knew it was futile for her to even attempt to pretend that she didn't know that he knew who she was. "Are you Duncan Lang, the man who was asking questions about me at the RIHGA yesterday?"
"One and the same."
"Did Boyd send you?"
"Boyd hired me. I found you thanks to high technology and brilliant deductive reasoning."
Harley stared up at him. "Can you be bought off?"
His dark eyes crinkled in amusement. "'Fraid not. Dad would be peeved. Colangco has a sterling reputation for honesty and results. Sorry," he said as he picked up her Maxi-Mouse. "Shall we head back to the Hilton for your things?"
Crud, he knew where she was staying. Harley tried to think, but her brain felt like iced sludge. It was over. She hadn't even had two full days of freedom yet, and it was over.
Her chest ached. "I'm twenty-six, a grown woman, legally independent," she stated. "You can't just haul me back to Boyd like he owns me!"
"I can when that's what
I'm hired to do."
"But I haven't even had a chance to try out my new guitar," Harley said, hot tears welling in her eyes. She hurriedly pushed them back. "Boyd is not about to let me keep it. He hates electric guitars. He doesn't think they're feminine."
"What?"
"And he won't let me wear black clothes, or red clothes, or anything resembling a bright color. And no jeans. Not even slacks."
"He's got a tight rein on you," Duncan Lang agreed as he sat down beside her.
"He is sucking the life's blood out of me."
"Why do you let him?"
"Boyd is deaf to anyone's 'no' except his own," Harley replied bitterly.
"But as you pointed out, you are twenty-six and legally independent. You don't have to put up with his crap if you don't want to."
"Why do you care?" Harley demanded, glaring up at the treacherous hunk.
"I don't," Duncan Lang stated. "I'm just curious. You did a very good job of hiding yourself among eight million people—"
"You found me."
"Ah, well," he said, ducking his head in false modesty, "I'm a trained investigator, after all." His winsome smile must have charmed every female who'd even glanced at him sideways from the time he was sixteen. It made Harley's teeth grate. "My point is that," he continued, "Boyd's opinion not withstanding, you seem fully capable of taking care of yourself. Fire the control freak and get on with your life."
"It's not that easy," Harley said, her arms tightening around the guitar case. "I owe everything to Boyd: my career, my success, my fame, my money. I'd still be a little hick from Oklahoma if it weren't for him. And I'm not so sure I can make it in the industry without him now."
"He has run a number on you, hasn't he?"
"Oh yeah," Harley said, staring down at the concrete ground.
"So why did you run away?"
Harley felt her stomach freeze over. Her jaws began to liquefy. She stared blindly at the fountain. "The music stopped coming," she whispered.
"I thought so," Duncan Lang said.
Harley turned her head and met his sympathetic black gaze. It nearly undid her. Oh God, her music! "It's been two months and not a note, not a lyric." The well she had depended on all of her life had gone dry. There was nothing left to be tapped. She looked up at him, pleading for a stay of execution. "I thought if I could just have a few weeks of fun. A few weeks of not being Jane Miller. A few weeks of just letting go, and maybe it would come back. Maybe I'd be okay again. Then I'd fly to L.A., get back on the treadmill, and make the damn album for Sony."
STOLEN MOMENTS Page 4
