Sara's Song

by Fern Michaels

  The Disaster Master crew arrived promptly at eight o’clock. Sara and Carly had jackets and purses in hand.

  “We’ll be done by three, ma’am,” the crew’s chief said smartly.

  “We’ll be back by then. Just in case we’re running late, I’ll leave the check on the kitchen counter. Just lock the door behind you.”

  In the garage with the light on, Sara noticed that the Jaguar hood ornament was missing from her car. Her fist shot out, making contact with the hard plastic window of Carly’s Jeep. “Now that pisses me off.”

  “You drive, Sara. I have a couple of calls to make.”

  Sara listened to her sister, her jaw dropping when she heard her ask, her voice dripping sweetness, what a previously unrecorded Dallas Lord song was worth. “I don’t think it really matters who I am. Just give me a number. Well, why not? There is priceless and then there is priceless. How many zeros are you talking about? Oh, I see. You know what, I’ll get back to you.”

  “I don’t think that was a smart thing to do, Carly. How did you know whom to call?”

  “I have some of Dallas’s albums and a few of his tapes. I just called the company on the label.”

  “I guess you know your phone call will make the six o’clock news tonight.”

  “So what! I didn’t give my name. It’s very difficult to trace a cell-phone number. Even EMS has a hard time finding people who call in with a cell phone. I wasn’t on the line more than three minutes. Maybe it will give Mr. Lord pause for thought. Where are we going, Sara?”

  “To O’Brien’s furniture store. I think if we explain what happened, they will deliver us some new beds and den furniture. Later on we can get the rest. So, how much did they tell you the song was worth?”

  Carly’s eyes glazed over. “He said it was the three front numbers that were important. To me it could mean a hundred million. That can’t be right, can it, Sara? I remember reading somewhere that one of Michael Jackson’s song earned that much money, and he’s still alive.”

  “I suppose anything is possible. No wonder Mr. Lord wants it so bad.”

  “Did you believe him when he said Dallas was going to call off the marriage?”

  “No. Dallas couldn’t wait to say I do. I think he was trying to one-up his brother. He’s had this fear all his life that he was retarded.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. He isn’t . . . wasn’t. I’m not sure if Adam and the band knew he wasn’t. Dallas truly believed they all thought he was retarded. He said it was simpler to just go along with it. The reason he thought it was simpler was because he believed it.”

  “My God, how awful.”

  “Yes, it was awful,” Sura said quietly. “Can you imagine carrying something like that on your shoulders all your life?”

  “Are you sure, Sara? Did you tell him he wasn’t?”

  “Carly, I’m a doctor. Of course I’m sure, and, yes, I told him. I wish you could have seen his face. I will never, ever, forget the joy I saw in that man’s face. I will remember it until the day I die. At that precise moment Dallas became a different person. That’s another reason why I know he wasn’t going to cancel the wedding. I want to always remember him like he was that day, alive, vibrant, ready to take on the world and not hide behind his music. He literally came into his own. He said something kind of funny yet sad to me. He said, Now I can eyeball my brother and not look away. He made me cry. That was the night he gave me the master copy of the song.”

  “Then by God, we aren’t giving it up! Let’s get one of those spiffy satin couches. With a chair to match.”

  “Whatever you want. You better call the insurance company before we go into the store. Just ask for Joe Hamilton. The number’s in the address book in my bag.”

  Carly yanked at the voluminous quilted bag that belonged to Sara. “What do you have in this bag, Sara?”

  “My life.”

  Sara pulled into a parking space at O’Brien’s Furniture Mart just as Carly broke the connection. “We have to get a copy of the police report and fax it to Joe. We also have to make a list of the damage. There is a $200 deductible. Maybe we should have taken Mr. Lord up on his offer to furnish the house.”

  “I don’t want anything from him. I don’t think you do either. We’re going by the book here. When we start doing things his way, it’s all over. Trust me on that. Now, let’s go pick out that satin couch and chair.”

  Adam carried his breakfast coffee outside so he could watch his dogs romp with Tom Silk. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired. He had slept less than three hours last night. Each time he closed his eyes all he could think about was Sara Killian’s shocked, vulnerable face. Each time he closed his eyes he found his thoughts going to Dallas and why someone like Dr. Killian would be interested in him. He’d bet his life savings she wasn’t a rock fan. Was she after Dallas’s money and the glory of being married to a celebrity? He didn’t think so.

  What if there wasn’t a song? What if he was spinning his wheels for nothing? No, there had to be a song. Would Dallas have hidden it? Would he have given it to someone to safeguard? To his knowledge the only person Dallas had ever trusted was Billy Sweet. Did Dr. Sara Killian have the song, and was she going to keep it until just the right moment, or would she announce she had it and get a bidder’s war going? “The very least you could have done, Dallas, was to leave me a clue, something to go on,” he muttered.

  When Adam finished the coffee in his cup, he stomped into the house for a refill. What was really bothering him was that he’d found himself attracted to Sara Killian yesterday. When she’d calmed down, he’d seen a peculiar glint in her eye he couldn’t identify. He’d felt rather buoyant after that.

  “Anything in particular you want me to do today, Adam?” Tom called from the pool deck.

  “I’m going out for a Christmas tree around noon if you want to come along. I have some things to take care of first that will take all morning.”

  “Jeez, that’s my favorite thing to do. Take your time. I’ll forge ahead with my training. Do you need any help decorating the tree? More to the point, do you have any decorations?”

  Adam grinned at the wistful look on Tom’s face. “Absolutely I need help. I’ll call someone and order everything. Listen for the gate buzzer, okay?” The grin stayed with Adam as he tried to visualize the stunned surprise on the trainer’s face when he presented him with a brand-new Dodge Ram van on Christmas morning. Dallas wasn’t the only one who was generous.

  Adam dived into the mess in Dallas’s bedroom. It was after ten before he had all the files back in place in the office. He removed the contents of the desk to carry to his own room. The pile was small and consisted of Dallas’s personal checkbook, which he never bothered to balance, loose bills, paid receipts for things he’d bought, scribbled notes, and a small jeweler’s box. His eyes started to burn at the sterile, antiseptic life his brother led. Where were all the personal things that made up a person? Where was the junk everyone collected? His stomach became a hard-fisted knot. He wanted to cry for his brother. Hell, he needed to cry. He did cry then, hard, racking sobs that shook the bed on which he was sitting. He cried for the would-haves, the should-haves, and the could-haves.

  Drained of all emotion, Adam’s analytical and methodical mind took over. He found the entry in Dallas’s checkbook for the money Dr. Killian had mentioned. He knew in his gut there was no signed promissory note anywhere. Sandi Sims would say the hundred thousand was a gift. If there was no way to dispute it, he would have to write it off.

  Adam never had a problem doing two things at once. His left hand pawed through the scribbled notes as his right hand flipped through his file for the detective agency he’d called to run a check on Sandi Sims and Sara Killian. He punched out a set of numbers, his left hand still sifting through the notes. He identified himself when the detective’s voice came over the wire. He listened, a frown building on his forehead.

  “The doctor is just what she says she is. She
has an impeccable reputation. While she was serving her residency, she turned in a colleague for tampering with the drug cabinet on her shift. She was involved in an intimate relationship with the doctor in question at that time. She’s a good credit risk, has no driving violations, and her coworkers speak highly of her. Her bank balance is healthy but not robust. She makes her car payments on time and pays her utility bills when they’re due. That’s it. I’m going to fax you my file on Sandi Sims when we hang up. I came up with squat where Benton Memorial is concerned. No one there will talk. I tried everything. The guy you need to talk with is Harry Heinrick. They call him the Hawk. My bill is included with the fax. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lord.”

  “Same to you.”

  Adam stared out the window, his thoughts chaotic. The detective had read off his report on Sara Killian but was faxing Sandi Sims report. Now, what did that mean?

  In Dallas’s attention-getting office, Adam picked the pages from the fax as soon as they slid to the base of the machine. He scanned them, his eyes narrowing. He carried the six-page report back to his bedroom. On the surface there was nothing to get excited about.

  Sandi Sims is a professional name of one Mona Wilson. She waited tables, sang in supper clubs, sold used cars decked out in a string bikini, with outstanding sales. She’d attended college for one year, then dropped out, at which point she did the race-car circuit. Could not confirm race-car stint because it appears she used a name other than Mona Wilson or Sandi Sims. At that time, the woman in question had flame red hair. For the past few years she has been linked with a series of older men, most of them “sugar daddies.” One of the daddies paid for some pricey dental work and breast implants. She owns two condos, one of which is rented for a hefty monthly income. She lives in the other. Very luxurious. Both condos are paid for. Her bank account for someone her age is better than robust. She drives a late model 560 SL, compliments of one of the more recent sugar daddies. The bottom line is she has credit cards out the kazoo and the bills are paid by someone other than herself.

  A scribbled note in the margin of the report read:

  I think the guy who pays the bills is some high muckety-muck attorney. He pays in cash. Bills run three to five grand a month. The only description I could get fits hundreds of people. Dead end in that respect.

  Adam snorted. The report fit half the women in California. He tossed the pages on the bed and dialed Sandi’s number from memory. She picked up on the third ring, her voice sleepy-sounding. “It’s Adam, Sandi. Why didn’t you tell me about the hundred thousand dollars Dallas lent you?”

  “He didn’t lend it to me. He gave it to me. He told me to do something nice for my parents for Christmas. He suggested a cruise with all the trimmings. Are you saying you want it back? I paid for the cruise and everything. It was a gift, Adam.” All sleepiness was gone from her voice and was replaced with a nasally whine.

  Adam took the aggressive approach. “That’s not what it says in Dallas’s checkbook. It says, ‘loan to Sandi.’ ”

  “I don’t believe that! If that’s true, then why didn’t he have me sign something? It was a gift. You can’t make me pay that back. I won’t pay it back. Why are you being so ugly about this?”

  “A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. That must have been some cruise. Where exactly did you send your parents? Around the world?”

  “To the Caribbean. That’s where they wanted to go. I had to buy new wardrobes for them and give them shopping money. It was Dallas’s idea. He didn’t say anything about giving back the balance. He also told me to buy myself something nice for Christmas. For heaven’s sake, Adam, where is your Christmas spirit? Do you have any news on my song?”

  Adam hung up on her in mid-sentence. She was lying about the hundred thousand. He felt it in his gut. If she lied about that, what else did she lie about?

  The second call on Adam’s list was to Benton Memorial Hospital, where he left a message for Harry Heinrick that was simple and to the point: I’ll be in your office at one o’clock.

  Adam flopped back on the bed. He wished he were back in South Carolina with the dogs in his own house. Christ, how he hated this black-and-white modern glass-and-chrome house of his brother’s. He bolted from the bed in a rush. Pockets. He hadn’t gone through any of Dallas’s pockets. Even when he was a kid, Dallas jammed stuff in his pockets until he was bottom heavy. In his haste to get off the bed the small jeweler’s box fell on the floor. His face flushed, he picked it up. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a magnificent diamond engagement ring with a matching wedding band. He didn’t have to be told the stones were flawless. He wondered if Dallas had help picking the rings out or if they were his own choice. He stuffed the box in the pocket of his jeans. The jeweler’s box gave him a bona fide excuse to go to Sara Killian’s house again.

  There was a spring in his step as he made his way down the hall to his brother’s bedroom. He admitted to himself that he was looking forward to seeing Sara Killian again. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction to the rings in his pocket.

  Adam drew a deep breath before he opened the door to Dallas’s walk-in closet. He was immediately drawn to the jeans hanging on the hooks. He knew he was going to find something.

  He rifled the pockets and found the usual junk: a wadded-up napkin with several bars of scribbled music, a pen that was out of ink, a tattered rabbit’s foot minus the fur, a key he didn’t recognize, twenty-seven pennies, and a small bottle of Bayer Aspirin. A second pair of jeans held a receipt from Burger King, two dollars in loose change, three matchbooks with scribbled words he couldn’t make out, a second key, two packages of Trident chewing gum, a second bottle of Bayer Aspirin, and two crumpled dollar bills. The third pair of jeans had $335 dollars rolled into a wad with an elastic band around it, a key, an empty aspirin bottle, a stubby pencil, a pack of half-eaten Life Savers, and three pebbles.

  Adam left everything in the pockets except the keys. They seemed identical. He matched them up, putting one on top of the other. All the grooves lined up. What did the keys unlock?

  Whatever it was would have to wait. He had to get on his stick and head for town with his meeting with Harry Heinrick.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sara opened the kitchen door to be greeted by total silence. A citrusy scent, not unpleasant, assailed her nostrils. The house sparkled. She looked around, marveling at the thoroughness of the cleaning crew as she meandered through the house. All the shredded furniture, mattresses, and debris had been carted off.

  “Look. They even cleaned out the fireplace and laid logs. All we have to do is light up. Here comes the furniture,” Carly called from the front window.

  Two hours later, their new beds made, the furniture in place, the tree waited in the stand to be decorated.

  “I don’t think we bought enough lights. I love lots and lots of lights on the Christmas tree. I’ll go to the drugstore and get more. I can pick up some Boston Chicken for dinner,” Carly offered.

  “It’s better than cooking,” Sara said.

  “I have to take your car. Mine is on fumes.”

  Sara groped in her black bag and tossed her sister a set of keys. “I’m going to take a quick shower, then I’ll light the fire. We can pretend we’re Camp Fire girls like we did when we were kids. You better get two strings of lights.”

  “Will do. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

  Carly didn’t return in thirty minutes or in sixty minutes. Sara went outside three different times to stare down the road. Each time she entered the house, she became more agitated. She paced in circles, then she cursed the newness that surrounded her. Everything was all wrong. Nothing felt right. When the doorbell shrilled, she almost jumped out of her skin. She ran to the door expecting to see Carly, her arms loaded with dinner and Christmas lights. The last person she expected to see was Nellie Pulaski.

  The old nurse held up her hands in a gesture of reassurance. “Carly’s okay, Sara, but there was an accident. A bad one. The air bag saved h
er life. EMS took her to Benton and Harry called me. The police were coming to tell you, but I said I would do it. She’s going to be fine, Sara. As long as you know and believe that, everything else is okay. She does have a fractured shoulder.”

  Sara grappled for her bag among the day’s purchases. “What happened?” She couldn’t fall apart. She needed to stay in control. Nellie would never lie to her.

  “The brakes failed on the curve, and Carly lost control. The roads are kind of slick this evening. It’s been misting for several hours.”

  “That’s impossible. I had the Jag serviced a month ago. Aside from some ugly scratches on the door and a broken hood ornament, the car was in perfect shape.” Sara’s voice turned hysterical when she said, “Nellie, there was nothing wrong with the goddamn brakes.”

  “Right now that isn’t important. Carly needs to see you. As you well know, nurses and doctors make the worst patients. She’s convinced she’s going to be crippled or deformed. For life! They had to give her a sedative to calm her down. She really is okay, Sara. Your car is totaled, though. I think you need to tell me what’s been going on, Sara. Everything.”

  Sara recited the entire story, from the day of her first visit to Dallas’s estate to the trashing of her house and buying new furniture. “I’m telling you, Nellie, my brakes were fine. That was no accident.” The hysteria was gone from her voice, replaced by a cold, angry tone.

  “Are you saying someone tampered with your brakes?” Nellie demanded.

  “If you were me, what would you think?”

  Nellie muttered something indistinguishable.