Stolen Hearts

by Jane Tesh

  “Great. That helps a lot.”

  I dropped him off at Tamara’s Boutique, an exclusive little clothing store in the shopping center. Tamara’s an exclusive little gal herself, with a slow sensuous voice and brilliant green eyes. How Camden could pass her up for Ellin Belton is one of the mysteries of the universe.

  Chapter Five

  “The Angel’s Kiss”

  I drove on to the university to see if I could locate Tate Thomas. The music department was in one of the older brick buildings on campus. The faded gold hallways were decorated with dark photographs of past bands, orchestras and choruses, all members staring solemnly at the camera, probably wondering how they’d ever make a living. I could hear some soprano warbling scales and the muted thud of a drum. I passed practice rooms and larger rooms with risers, most of them empty. In one, I saw a few languid students going over a music score.

  The secretary in Thomas’ office said he’d be back in about twenty minutes if I’d care to wait. I sat down on a dark green plastic sofa and eyed the stack of music magazines. I didn’t see anything that looked even vaguely like traditional jazz, so I reviewed my life instead. This took ten of the twenty minutes. The other ten I spent admiring a young violinist who sauntered through the office in search of a string. She was serious about getting the right string and ignored me. This single-mindedness reminded me of Kary, and I had a return attack of gloom. Who was I kidding? I’d been so dazzled by Kary’s looks, I’d seriously misjudged her. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also a bright, intelligent young woman, as hell-bent as Ellin Belton to have a career, and with my track record, I’d be a fool to even think of marrying again.

  The secretary’s voice pulled me out of the depths. She had stopped typing and was talking on the phone to someone who was obviously upset. “I wish you’d calm down. I’m sure your job is safe. Yes, there will be cuts, but I don’t see how this affects you. It’s mainly the older staff members who are being let go.” She paused. “Well, the arts always get cut first. Why don’t you transfer to the P.E. department? There’s no way they’re going to get rid of the football team.”

  A trim man with gray hair and a Vandyke beard came into the office. Early fifties, I guessed. Looks just like a music professor. And he was.

  “Mister Randall? I’m Tate Thomas. How may I help you?”

  I stood and shook hands. “I just need a few minutes of your time, Mister Thomas. Melanie Gentry said you might know something about a songwriter named John Burrows Ashford. Any information you’ve got would be very helpful.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Come into my office.”

  Thomas’ small office had a window that looked out onto the tree-lined quad of the university. A bust of Beethoven and a bust of some other scowly guy sat on the bookshelves filled with volumes on music, conducting, and composing. Thomas sat down behind a small desk overflowing with papers and motioned me to a chair.

  He made an attempt to straighten the papers. “Just finishing some arrangements for the chamber orchestra—if we’re lucky enough to have a chamber orchestra next semester.”

  “Yes, I happened to overhear your secretary talking about budget cuts.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Business as usual around here, I’m afraid. But we’ll manage. Now what exactly do you need to know about Ashford? He was a fairly minor figure in folk music, but his works have been of surprisingly lasting influence.”

  “So it’s your expert opinion that he wrote his own songs?”

  “It’s everyone’s expert opinion. It’s a fact.”

  “Melanie Gentry claims her relative, Laura Gentry, wrote the songs. Does she have a case?”

  Thomas sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Well, it’s true that Laura Gentry and John Ashford had a close and somewhat volatile relationship. No doubt Laura contributed musical themes and ideas, but the bulk of the work is Ashford’s.”

  “What can you tell me about their relationship?”

  He took another long pause. “This is what I’ve learned from my studies, you understand, and what I’ve tried to explain to Melanie. I can’t say how much of it is gospel. But there are great and tragic stories about nearly every composer. Musicians are very dramatic people. Very hard to live with at times. At least, that’s what my wife tells me. Ashford and Laura lived together for a while, back when this was scandalous behavior. Ashford was a driven man, very egotistical, very much aware of society and how he could flaunt its rules. He came from a distinguished family and felt this gave him the right to act as he wished. Everyone else was ordinary, beneath his contempt, that sort of thing. When his music became popular, his head swelled even further.”

  “So his music was popular, despite this fling with Laura?”

  “Oh, the relationship enhanced his popularity. He was the bad boy of folk music.”

  “And by folk music, you don’t mean ‘Blowing in the Wind’?”

  Thomas shook his head. “No, not that kind of folk music. We’re talking about the pure mountain strains that were brought to this country by the English and Scottish and Irish settlers, the real minor, atonal, twelve-note-scale themes. Ashford’s sounded remarkably authentic, and people loved them. You must remember that turn of the century audiences enjoyed what were called ‘Pathetic Ballads,’ the real sob story stuff. Daddy’s in Heaven, Mother’s an Angel, My Child Shall Suffer No More.”

  “But you’re saying Laura didn’t write any of them.”

  “She may have collaborated on a few.”

  It was beginning to look as though I didn’t have a case, either. Thomas got up and went to one of the bookshelves, hunted a moment, and took down a slim volume, which he handed to me.

  “This may be useful to you. It’s a biography of Ashford. Not definitive, by any means, but a good solid study of the man’s life and work. It’s the only one I know of.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I believe there may be some copies of his letters to Laura Gentry in the back.”

  I turned to the back of the book and glanced at a few of the letters. In earlier letters, Ashford had responded to Laura as a lover, but then he grew more and more distant until he was giving her the 1920s version of a brush-off. I felt he could’ve been a little kinder, but apparently, the woman was smothering him.

  “I have given you my heart and soul!” the last letter said. “You must allow me my freedom! I have let you share in my innermost thoughts and desires, my music, my passion. You cannot cling to me so! What more do you want?”

  Whew. I have given you my heart and soul. Too bad, buddy. She wanted blood.

  “In your opinion, do you think Ashford murdered Laura over the songs?” I asked Thomas.

  Thomas sat down and stroked his pointed beard. “Well, if you read the book, you’ll see there was some controversy over Laura’s death. She drowned. Some accounts say she and Ashford quarreled and he pushed her in. The death was ruled accidental, however, and Ashford killed himself soon afterwards. The mystery was never solved to anyone’s satisfaction.”

  And it won’t be solved today. Seems I’m several dozen years too late. “I’m also curious about Albert Bennett,” I said. “You may have read about him in the paper. He was apparently killed over a music notebook, which was left behind on the lawn.”

  “Yes, I did see something about that,” Thomas said. “I was actually acquainted with Albert Bennett. He taught here for about five years before he retired. I didn’t know him very well, but still, a terrible tragedy.”

  “Did he have any enemies? Quarrel with anyone? Argue about music?”

  “No, he was a very private man.”

  “Did the police ask you to decipher the marks in his notebook?”

  He shook his head. “No one contacted me about that. I wouldn’t have known what his notation meant, anyway.”

 
“I’d like to know if there’s anything about Bennett’s music that connects to Ashford or Laura Gentry.” It was a long shot, but it seemed an odd coincidence that a man had been murdered over a book of music just as Melanie Gentry approached me to solve a similar mystery.

  “Well, Albert Bennett was not a composer, but his father was. Sort of.” Again he reached for his bookcase and chose another large book. He thumbed through the pages. “Bennett, Bennett, ah, here we are. Horatio Isleton Bennett. Yes, he thought he’d revolutionize music by using his own symbols instead of the standard notes. It only made his works more incomprehensible.” Thomas found the page he wanted and read aloud. “‘Horatio Isleton Bennett, 1853–1940. Creator of the “Bennett System,” an unsuccessful attempt to change the notation system. Bennett’s compositions include “Swan Lake Revisited” and the experimental “Three Flats Lower.” An example of his Bennett System follows.’ And there are some of his symbols. My guess is that’s what was in the notebook.” Thomas turned the page so I could see the string of triangles and curls, the same little squiggles I’d seen in the newspaper account.

  “Yes, that looks just like it.”

  “You’ve seen the notebook?”

  “What was left of it. I arrived with the police the night of the murder.”

  Thomas closed the book. “Horatio Bennett is even more obscure than Ashford. I seriously doubt they ever met. But I can check some other sources for you.”

  I thanked Thomas for his help and promised to return the book. I checked my watch. Quarter to twelve. Plenty of time to drive to Pamela Vincent’s. I might even make it back home to see some of The Time Machine.

  A time machine would be very helpful right now. I never trusted history books or accounts said to be accurate. I have a theory that everything we call history is wrong. The only people who know the truth are the ones who lived through it, and they’re long gone, just like John Burrows Ashford and Laura Gentry. Who knows? They could’ve been deliriously happy together and wrote fake love letters as a joke. So far, Laura’s sounded like bad soap opera episodes.

  ***

  Unlike most locations in Parkland, Greenleaf Forest actually lived up to its name. The developers had left nearly all the trees, building large homes on private lots deep in the woods. Pamela Vincent’s house was a beautiful redwood home with a wraparound porch. Pamela Vincent was a stunning redhead. Okay, I’ve seen quite a few redheads in my time, but I can honestly state that Pamela Vincent is in the top five. Besides the glowing hair cut to swing just at her shoulders, she had a flawless complexion and dark brown eyes. She had on tight blue jeans, a white shirt, and diamond earrings.

  She shook my hand. “Thanks so much for coming. Let’s sit on the porch. This weather’s wonderful, isn’t it? I find it almost impossible to stay inside on days like today. Would you care for some tea?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  While Pamela Vincent went inside to get the tea, I admired the quiet woods around the house. Birds of all kinds jostled for position at the feeder near the edge of the lawn. A sparrow fiercely defended his patch of seeds against a bewildered-looking crow. Blue and white wildflowers swayed in the breeze. I found it hard to believe such a glorious woman as Pamela Vincent could hide away here and not be pursued. Maybe the husband was a huge hulking beast.

  She returned with the tea and some sandwiches.

  “I looked at the clock and realized it was lunchtime. Hope you like chicken salad.”

  “That’s great, thanks.”

  We took seats in the rocking chairs. She pushed back her hair. “Now, about my locket. I remember wearing it to a party last Saturday night. I remember wearing it when we went to a friend’s house on Sunday. Somewhere between Sunday afternoon and Monday morning, I lost it. I’ve turned this house on its head. Nick has searched every inch of the lawn. It’s not some tiny flat thing, either. It’s two inches wide and fat, very shiny gold on a thick gold chain.”

  “You’ve checked all your pockets.”

  “Yes, and in the car. We’ve retraced our steps. We’d feel silly calling the police for this, but still, it means a lot to me.”

  The sandwich was delicious. I took another bite and swallowed. “This friend you visited Sunday. Did he look for it, too?”

  “I’m certain I had the locket on when we left his house.”

  “And you came straight home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember taking it off?”

  Here Pamela Vincent blushed a magnificent rosy blush that matched her sunset hair. “Well, actually, Nick and I took everything off. He always says the locket hits him in the nose when we, um, you know, so I took it off. I put it on the dressing table, and that’s the last I saw of it.”

  “Was this in the bedroom?” She nodded. “Could I have a look?”

  We finished our lunch. Then Pamela Vincent led the way through a large rustic living room and up wide wooden stairs to a bedroom decorated in shades of yellow. The dressing table where she’d last seen the locket was next to a window displaying an array of glass perfume bottles with colorful stoppers.

  She pointed to the corner of the table. “I put it right here. I’m sure I did.”

  The cool October breeze gave the blue mini-blinds a slight rattle. “Has anyone been admiring that locket lately? Someone who might have decided to steal it?”

  “A lot of people have admired it. I don’t want to accuse anyone of stealing, I really don’t. I just can’t imagine anyone taking it.”

  “Has word gotten around town that it’s missing? Have you offered a reward?”

  “No.”

  I took another look around the bedroom, trying not to imagine Pamela in the bed. I looked out the window. The porch roof was conveniently flat, so someone could climb up the porch railing to the second floor. The thief knew exactly where to look, and if Pamela and her husband were busy—

  “I take it you two didn’t see or hear anything?”

  She blushed again. “We were quite involved.”

  I was going to have to meet the lucky Mister Vincent. “Does your husband have any idea what might have happened to the locket?”

  She sighed. “Well, here’s where it gets complicated. Nick is a little scatterbrained sometimes. He’s always forgetting or misplacing things.”

  “So he may know where it is and just forgot?”

  “He’s blaming himself, and I hate that. Something else must have happened to the locket.”

  “You’re fairly isolated out here, Mrs. Vincent. A thief could’ve come in your window and picked up the first shiny thing he saw. Do you always wear those diamond earrings?”

  She touched one. “Yes, they were a wedding present from Nick.”

  “Someone might have figured you’d have more expensive jewelry in your house. I’ll ask around and check back with you in a day or two.”

  ***

  Camden had given me Ellin Belton’s phone number. She said she was very busy, but if I stopped by the Psychic Service, she might be able to answer a few questions. I didn’t know why she couldn’t answer my questions over the phone, but when I arrived at the address she gave me, I began to understand.

  The Psychic Service used to send out its cosmic rays from an old shoe shop in a strip mall, but life in the cosmos must have picked up because now the service was located in one of the newer office buildings downtown, a tall rectangle of granite and glass. The receptionist’s office was stylish, powder blue and pale pink with light wood trim. Very soothing. Decorations included a big fancy silk flower arrangement, muted lighting, New Age drivel permeating the airwaves, and a trim young woman in white sitting behind the pale pink desk. She had short white hair and big crystal earrings that dangled to her shoulders.

  “Welcome to the Psychic Service,” she said. “How may I help you?”

 
You oughta know, I wanted to say. “I’d like to speak with Ellin Belton. I’m David Randall.”

  “Yes, sir. One moment, please.” She pressed a button on her phone. “Ms. Belton? There’s a Mister David Randall here. Yes, I’ll tell him. She’ll be right with you, Sir.”

  “You have a fellow named Camden who works here? How’s he with cats?”

  She gave me a look as if I had suggested hiring Steven Speilberg to videotape a birthday party. “Mister Camden works only on the most difficult cases.”

  “So I couldn’t see him?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She was as frosty as her hair. “He’s taking a short leave of absence. However, I’ll be glad to forward your request. He likes to help as many people as possible, and he’s excellent.”

  Ellin came out, wearing a rose-colored suit that made her blonde hair an even richer gold. Her little earrings were crescent moons. “Good afternoon, Mr. Randall. Let me give you the tour.”

  She led me up and down the pastel halls, showing me private consultation rooms, the banks of phones occupied by crystal-wearing operators with mellow voices and earnest expressions, the horoscope division, full of more earnest people checking charts and maps of the constellations, and the other offices where, no doubt, people were being channeled and fleeced.

  “I wanted you to see everything before you dismissed it,” she said. “I know Cam’s been telling you all sorts of stories.”

  “Actually, no. I have no idea why he’d want to retire and give up all this splendor.”

  Boy, if I ever want my hair curled, I’ll remember the heat in Miz Belton’s eyes.

  “This is just the main office. We have a studio downtown where we’ll be broadcasting our television shows.” We paused in front of a large bulletin board. On the board were brightly colored posters announcing: “Ready to Believe,” “Past Forward,” and “News for the New Age.” “These are some of the projects I’ll be producing.”

  “Congratulations. Sounds like fun. What about this PBS documentary on music? What do you know about that?”