Lure of Song and Magic

by Patricia Rice

  With the ease of familiarity, she set up the recording and sound machines, arranged the background chords, and switched on the computer. She’d once spent fortunes on technicians and musicians to handle the mechanics of the trade. These days, to maintain her privacy and protect the innocent, she’d learned to do it herself. There was something innately satisfying in taking a song from idea to disc without interference of others.

  And the simple tasks gave her time to calm down, forget Oz and bodyguards, and focus on the Beast gnawing at her guts. Once she slid her earphones on and opened up the mic, the world went away.

  She’d gone beyond the worst of the pain these past few years, which provided her with this small semblance of discipline. Poor Robbie was a ghost who still haunted her, a pathetic creature as lonely and tortured as she had been when they married. If she’d had any experience at all, she would have known he was weak, despite his macho bad boy image. But she’d been sixteen and in love. Her stupidity was excusable. And from the distance of time, Robbie’s descent into adultery and addiction was predictable.

  Killing him with tears was neither excusable nor understandable.

  So she still cried with that long-ago pain and then wept out her heartache from the isolation she’d suffered all her life, the loneliness that stalked her, despite the friends she’d managed to cultivate. She had no family to miss or to miss her. She didn’t regret losing her singing career. But she regretted the loss of the audience, the brief illusion of being loved, if only for a few hours.

  She poured into the microphone her sorrow that she would never know love of any kind—parental, maternal, romantic.

  And once she sang away her tears, she was free to let her fury boil upward, to lash the scales, to destroy the harmonies, to scream and bang her head to the canned beat. She shouted. She shook her fists at the roof. And she let the Voice cry agony until it was raw. She could harm no one releasing it in here. No one would ever hear these discs.

  By the time she’d emptied her soul and sent the recordings to her password-protected cyberspace library, her security camera showed it was dark outside, and she was starving. She texted Bertha, too depleted to attempt talking. Cop gone? she asked.

  Dscvrd u missg few hrs ago. Cursed. Left.

  He could be anywhere. She hoped he’d returned to L.A., but as long as the man was being paid, it wasn’t likely.

  She could give the hired bodyguard and Mr. Oswin a real panic attack. She didn’t have to leave here until she knew the coast was clear.

  Opening the freezer in her studio kitchen, she dug out a frozen meal and nuked it. She’d spent many long nights on the futon in here. She could occupy herself for days, if necessary.

  Let omnipotent Mr. Oswin put that in a pot and stew it.

  Chapter 6

  A text from the Librarian arrived just before Oz shut down the office for the day. The Silly Seal Song was all it said.

  After an hour of Googling every possible variation of that title, when he should have been hunting dinner, Oz didn’t know whether to curse or weep. There was no such title in any index he could locate. Maybe the Librarian simply hated him or thought he ought to give up having a life.

  The title sounded like a children’s song. Oz had bought CDs of kids’ songs to keep his son amused when they were in the car. He and Donal used to sing along with them while stuck in traffic. The kid had crowed over his favorites.

  Donal would be five in May. Would he still listen to silly songs? Or was he too terrified to enjoy silliness? Provided his son was even alive. Oz pressed his fists to his eyes, refusing to trek down memory lane.

  Digging deep inside him to where the pain lived and clamping it down, Oz reached for the phone. Maybe this was the connection to Syrene the Librarian had alluded to. Maybe Pippa knew the song.

  The phone rang before he could key in the number. Checking Caller ID, he answered curtly, “Yes, Bob?”

  “She’s scarpered,” the ex-cop said without preamble, “just like she warned you. If she’s in town, no one’s talking.”

  Oz’s fury escalated, multiplied by the frustration of this past hour. She was his only damned hope. He should be allowed one lousy little hope.

  “They’re her friends. They won’t talk.” He buried his hand in his hair and glared at the desk he’d spent the day emptying. “Go home. I can play this game too.”

  He’d lost any interest in playing games the day his son had been stolen. If Pippa James had any part in Donal’s kidnapping, she would pay, and she would pay dearly.

  Except even he was still rational enough to know that all he had was a hunch and anonymous messages to believe his son was alive. For all he knew, he was badgering the damaged singer for nothing. And yet, he meant to go on badgering her until he lost all hope. That was his idea of fun these days.

  He’d skimmed her file throughout the day, looking for clues. Besides the devastating photos of a lovely child deteriorating into a half-starved, bedraggled hellion, it contained a familiar litany of offenses committed by the entertainment industry, none of them new or unusual.

  Philippa Seraphina Malcolm James had been rescued from poverty and a foster home and given a life of hard work, wealth, and adoration, and she’d blown it all in a spectacular meltdown after her young husband’s death. The only real news was that her management had never robbed her. She’d taken charge of her extremely healthy trust fund on her eighteenth birthday and disappeared.

  He wouldn’t let her fall off the radar again. If she held clues he needed, he meant to find them.

  He went home, packed a bag, and flung it into an old Dodge Ram pickup he’d driven as a kid to carry his surfboard and gear. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone surfing, but the truck had a lot of miles left on it. He saw no reason to throw it away.

  Driving into the mountains, he left his headset and BlackBerry off. He’d spent the day lining up production people for the children’s show. It was a simple, inexpensive concept that in the right hands would have the project in motion and talent lining up within a week. He had time to ponder the neurotic singer’s vanishing act.

  Pippa wasn’t quite as fragile as she seemed, he was beginning to suspect. She’d broken when he’d revealed that he knew about her past. But she’d recovered swiftly enough to retaliate.

  He based his career on knowing people, understanding their idiosyncrasies, judging how far he could push them. Pippa had the tensile strength of fine steel concealed behind that skin-and-bone facade.

  Which meant she probably wasn’t shivering in fear in some dark corner but carrying out her threat until he restored her privacy. He respected that.

  But if she was the key to his son’s disappearance, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. He’d better hope he discovered something soon because it could get damned tricky sticking close to a devious madwoman who didn’t want him around.

  It was dark by the time he booked a room at the B&B. He’d flung an air mattress in the truck with his suitcase. He’d buy new mattresses for the lumpy beds in the morning. He was used to the finer things in life and saw no reason to accept less.

  He’d had the drive up the mountain to develop a strategy. It wasn’t much of one, but his patience was limited. After checking into the El Padre Inn, he strode across the road to Dot’s Café and let the screen door slam behind him. Dot’s customers stared as he stalked up to the counter still wearing his office attire of silk pullover and designer blazer, although today the shirt was white and the coat silver-gray. He could aw-shucks with the best of them, but tonight, he meant to make an impression.

  “Coffee, black,” he told the waitress behind the counter. She was young enough to be Dot’s daughter. “And the biggest burger you can fry. A side of fries with that.”

  When she had the order, Oz turned with his back and his palms resting against the counter so he coul
d sweep the room with his gaze. Old ladies in a corner booth glanced up at him and then whispered among themselves. A couple of old men at the counter pretended he wasn’t there. A young Hispanic family ignored his posturing and stayed focused on keeping the toddlers fed and in their chairs.

  Oz might never persuade Donal to eat his spinach again. Forcing down the familiar pain, he concentrated on the adults in the room now that he had their attention.

  “I understand the church needs a new roof,” he said in a mild voice that easily carried over the whispers and dying conversations.

  “The whole town needs roofs,” declared a wag wearing a billed cap bearing a tractor image.

  “I’ll be hiring shortly,” Oz acknowledged. “Buy roofs with your wages if you want. But the only reason I’m here is Miss James. Without her, I go away. She doesn’t like me much, so I’ll have to rely on you to keep her interested in the project. Can I have your cooperation?”

  He didn’t hear footsteps behind him, but he ducked instinctively at Pippa’s first words.

  “You’re a jerkwad, you know that?” she declared.

  The remains of a lemon pie skimmed the top of his head, leaving whipped cream to dribble down his cheekbone. He wiped off a smear and licked his finger, turning around to admire the irate fairy who had flitted in from the kitchen. Damn, but he was good. He’d expected it would be morning before his theatrics would draw her out. Somebody at the B&B must have warned her of his arrival.

  “You’re a hysterical nutcase, but I can deal with that.” He grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser to wipe down his blazer. His dry-cleaner would earn his pay.

  While dabbing off lemon pie he kept an eye on Pippa. She’d painted her teeth today. The streak in her hair was gold, to match the glitter on her cheekbones. She looked like sunshine personified. Even the overalls were orange and gold, with a glittering sun painted on the bib.

  “You’re bribing an entire town to spy on me!” Hands on nonexistent hips, she looked as if she’d like to fling another pie, but she never raised her voice. Women usually shrieked when they threw things at him.

  “I don’t work with disappearing acts,” he admonished. “You’re the one who insisted I move the production up here. I want a guarantee my talent won’t do a flit after I’ve spent a few million. Fair is fair.”

  “Now I remember why I left L.A. I don’t tolerate insufferable asses.” She spun on her painted Keds and departed the same way she’d entered, through the kitchen.

  One of the old men at the counter left a dollar beside his cup and stood up. “I’ll see she gets home okay.”

  And that was that. Figuring the entire town knew Pippa James walked a thin edge and needed looking after, Oz sat down and devoured a burger savory with triumph.

  ***

  The insufferable ass was at Dot’s the next morning, occupying the same booth they’d shared yesterday. Pippa aimed for the counter, ignoring him, until Dot waved Pippa’s usual breakfast under her nose and carried it back to Oz’s booth.

  Cursing traitorous friends under her breath, Pippa considered walking out. Until those horrible months when she’d killed and maimed with her grief, she’d never learned to fight back. At twelve, she’d bent over backward in her eagerness to be agreeable. At sixteen, she’d simply walked away. At eighteen, she’d self-destructed. Since then, she’d learned calm acceptance and ignored that which could not be changed.

  Calm acceptance and Dylan Oswin did not exist in the same universe. He simply tempted the shrieking furies of her Voice by his presence.

  Today, he’d dropped the shark suit. In its place he wore a short-sleeved, blue cotton shirt. It had probably cost a few hundred to achieve that tailored, I’m-one-of-you-look. Except no one up here had highlighted hair styled to evenly brush the back of said collar. Or wore a half-grand art-carved gold loop in a pierced ear.

  And damn if the result wasn’t the sexiest thing she’d seen since watching Rhett Butler on the big screen when she was a kid. Oz hadn’t worn that earring yesterday with his shark suit, she’d lay odds. This was his idea of laid-back and nonthreatening.

  Which almost made her laugh. Almost. He held her life in his hands, though, and that wasn’t a laughing matter. She slid into the seat across from him and let him admire the blue-green tears she’d painted on her cheek this morning.

  “Good choice of color,” he commented before biting into his bacon and regarding her critically. “The camera will love you. So will the kids. You’re a natural.”

  “I’m about as unnatural as it gets. You’d better be lining up your actress because you’re not getting me in front of a camera again.”

  “Reneging on our deal already?” He didn’t seem fazed as he sipped his coffee and studied her. “I’ve hired a dead ringer for you as your stand-in, but Audrey will never be you.”

  She didn’t like being studied. She hated that she found him attractive. Her skin felt two sizes too small under his scrutiny.

  “I’ve tried finding my birth parents. I’ve spent a fortune hiring experts,” she informed him after sipping her juice. “I don’t exist. So you may as well quit tormenting me and resign yourself to using my material and my town but not me.”

  “Do you know a song called ‘The Silly Seal Song’?” he asked out of the blue.

  Her stomach dropped to her toes, and she stared at him as if he’d suddenly developed a crystal ball for a head. “Why?” she demanded. Her hands were clammy, and she didn’t dare lift her fork for fear she’d reveal her trembling.

  “You do,” he said with satisfaction. “Do you have the lyrics?”

  Either he was too perceptive by far, or she wasn’t doing as good a job hiding with him as she did with others. She’d written the lyrics. They’d been her first tentative steps toward writing her stories into music. She’d sent them to her cyberspace library when she’d bought a new computer nearly four years ago. No one knew of the song’s existence. How could he?

  “If you want to know all my secrets, Mr. Oswin, you can discover them yourself. Why should I make it easy?” She returned her attention to her eggs as if he hadn’t dumped another hot load of burning oil over her head.

  He was the one who looked uncomfortable. It looked good on him. Pippa recalled all the smug, arrogant men who’d pushed her around, turned her into a walking, talking Barbie doll, and manipulated her and her music and her life, and she hummed happily to herself. Turnabout was fair play, even if Oz wasn’t the cause of her original grief.

  She liked having control for a change. It had been a precious commodity for most of her life.

  Pippa could see him plotting, scheming to get what he wanted without telling her why. He’d soon learn she was no longer the easily influenced child she’d been. She’d prepared herself for this moment for years.

  She would not—ever—go back to being Syrene.

  Chapter 7

  Oz gritted his molars and tried to assume a nonchalant stance when what he really wanted to do was reach across the table and strangle the self-satisfied elf eating her eggs and toast.

  She knew the title of the song! Or she pretended to. Or he was reading things into her expression that weren’t there in his desperation to find the connection between the annoying female, the Librarian, and his son.

  “I did not discover the title of that song,” he said slowly, watching her face, searching for clues. She refused to look at him. The paint tears down her cheek reminded him that she wasn’t stable. He didn’t want her curling up in a fetal ball and keening again.

  It was a damned good thing he wasn’t into fragile women, or he’d be trying to wipe away make-believe tears. “I received it in an untraceable text message.”

  The turquoise turtleneck she wore beneath a denim jumper concealed her body language, but he thought she grew still. He made no sudden movements, as i
f he were trying to capture a wild creature. He needed bait to entice her, except Conan hadn’t had time to find the one thing she wanted.

  “An anonymous message?” she asked coolly. “What could it have to do with me?”

  Excellent question. One he wasn’t prepared to answer. He wasn’t ready to tell anyone of his obsession with tracking down crackpots in his desperation to find his son. “I’ve read all your books. None of them have a ‘Silly Seal Song’ in them. Are you working on a new book that might?”

  She finally looked up, glaring at him through turquoise eyes that appeared as translucent and mysterious as the ocean. “What difference is it to you? Are you in the habit of hunting down the writers of all the spam that hits your mailbox? You must be a very busy person, if so.”

  He didn’t trust her. If he mentioned his son and she was somehow involved with his disappearance, she would run, and he’d never find her again.

  “It’s not spam,” he said carefully, plotting as he went. “It’s from an informed source, one who led me to you. Someone knows more about you than I do. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

  He bit his tongue and prayed she had that backbone of steel he suspected, or he was about to be treated to another hysterical tantrum.

  She had a redhead’s pale skin, so he couldn’t tell if her cheeks lost color they didn’t have. She simply sat still, as if processing his information through a concealed computer. But her eyes were blank, and he was afraid he’d lost her.

  “I don’t think this person means harm,” he offered. “I really think they’re trying to help, but the messages are so incomplete that it’s hard for me to tell who they’re helping. They’ve cut off abruptly at times. I think the sender might be monitored.”

  “And they say I’m crazy,” she replied noncommittally, scraping up the rest of her eggs. “I don’t suppose you write science fiction by any chance?”