by Jane Tesh
“Meeting with him tomorrow. You don’t have any proof your great-grandmother wrote these songs, any scraps of paper with notes, or rough drafts, or anything?”
“No, but Lassiter might know someone who does. And I’m almost certain Byron Ashford has proof, proof he’s kept locked up away from my family. He’d do anything to discredit our claim, Mister Randall. I’m counting on you to get to the truth.”
“Well, what if the truth is something you don’t want to hear?”
“I have every faith in you, Mister Randall.”
That was nice to hear, even if I wasn’t sure I could help her. “I’ll let you know something tomorrow. And it’s David, please.”
“Thank you, David.”
I read some more of the biography. Ashford didn’t have to worry about rags to riches. He was born rich and never had to struggle for anything. Songwriting was more of a hobby for him, and when he found he could make it pay and become a popular stud, he set to it. Although the book was written in a neutral tone, I got the distinct impression that Ashford was a real jerk, selfish, egotistical, and certainly not the kind of guy who was big on sharing. After a while, I’d read enough and decided to take a break.
I could hear the TV, but when I stepped out into the foyer, I could also hear what sounded like sobbing. I cautiously peered around the corner. Kary had her face down in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. On the TV screen, I caught a glimpse of the large blond preacher and his wife. The sound was low, but I could hear his strident voice over the organ music. I didn’t want to intrude, but when I stepped back, I stepped on a creaking floorboard. Kary looked up. She grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.
“I thought you were upstairs.” Most people don’t look their best when they’ve been crying, but even with her face streaked with tears she was appealing.
“Sorry I startled you. Are you okay?”
She took a quick shuddering breath and got her emotions under control, debating what to tell me. “I was watching a very sad program, that’s all. You know, those starving children in Africa. It gets to me.” She got up, wiping her eyes. “I’d better say good night.”
“Good night.”
She passed me without another word and went up the stairs. I turned the TV back on. The Ingram Bible Hour, with the preacher and his wife singing about love and forgiveness.
Well, apparently that didn’t include their daughter. I wondered if this had anything to do with the pink roses and little pinwheel I’d seen in Kary’s bag and the aching sadness in her eyes. Was it possible she’d lost a child? Maybe a younger sister or brother. Did her parents blame her? Or maybe she was making a wreath for a friend. There was so much I didn’t know, and I already felt guilty for having invaded her privacy.
I was lounging in the island, eating some popcorn and trying to divert my thoughts with Invaders From Mars when Camden came home. He had a wild-eyed look.
“There’s some chicken left if you want it,” I said as he staggered to the sofa.
“No, thanks.” He flopped down and loosened his tie. “Ellie and I had Chinese.”
“And some strong words, I take it.”
He pushed his hair out of his eyes and blew an exasperated sigh. “This show of hers. It’s going to kill us both. I don’t want to get started on this TV thing. If I help one person, I’ll have to help a thousand.”
I passed the popcorn. “She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’ll ever let you alone, you know that. You might as well give up.”
“You’re a lot of help.”
“You’re such a wuss. Tell her no and mean it. Or marry her and make her stay home looking after the kids.”
This was so ridiculous, we both laughed, although the idea of Ellin Belton as a mother gave me the chills.
“So what is the deal with this show?”
He checked the clock. “It’s on now. You can see for yourself.”
“It’s on now? I thought all those psychic shows came on around two a.m., right after the Creature Feature.”
“Midnight is the witching hour.” He found the remote and clicked on channel forty-seven. There it was, the Psychic Service Network, Your Channel to the Stars.
You’ve seen these things. A paid audience whoops and cheers and applauds at all the right places. Phony psychics make phony predictions and paid actors dramatize the events. Everyone listens intently to stories of love found and valuable objects restored. It was all here, presided over by a good-looking blonde in flowing celestial blue and an equally good-looking brunette in flowing pink.
“I didn’t see those two around the service,” I said.
“Bonnie Burton and Teresa Perello. They used to work in horoscopes.”
“They can chart my day anytime.”
There was a question and answer section, and then a slick guy in gray told the weekly astrological forecast.
I threw some popcorn at the screen. “There’s our old pal Haverson the Hog. I thought Ellin didn’t want him on.”
“That was the centerpiece of our argument tonight.”
Haverson was plainly enjoying himself as God of the Universe. After him, there were some testimonials from the audience.
“Pretty cheesy, huh?” I said.
No response from Camden. First I thought he’d fallen asleep; then I saw he was sitting very still, his eyes wide open, unblinking.
Uh-oh.
He doesn’t often do this. It usually means trouble.
“Camden?” I reached over and carefully shook his arm. “Camden, come back.”
It must not have been a deep trance, or maybe I caught him before he got in over his head. I only had to call his name a few times before he stopped doing his stuffed animal impersonation and blinked at me.
“What did you see?”
He looked at me as if he’d never seen me before.
“Camden?”
“That’s not my name,” he said.
“Okay, then, who are you?”
He winced. “No. Wait. That’s not right.”
I wasn’t in the mood for mysterious messages from beyond, or weird unexplainable events that would cost me. “Your name is Camden, and Earth is your home planet. We’re watching TV, remember? Come back right now.”
“Wait.” I couldn’t tell if he meant me or someone in his vision. “I’m not—I don’t want you to—no!”
He suddenly flung himself off the sofa and landed on the floor. I jerked in surprise, sending popcorn flying.
“Damn! How about a little warning?”
I helped him onto the sofa, and he slumped back, dazed.
“What the hell was that about?”
His eyes were still rolling. He shook his head as if to clear it and gave me a confused gaze. “What happened?”
“You zoned out, spoke in tongues, and fish-flopped on the floor. What were you seeing?”
He rubbed his elbow. “Nothing. I was watching the show. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor.”
“You didn’t see anything? No disasters? Floods? Famines? Snowstorms?”
He shook his head. “One minute: horoscopes. The next minute: carpet.”
I sat back down in my chair. These trances of his never make sense to begin with. “Maybe you were a performing seal in your past life.”
He seemed okay, so we watched the rest of the show. Then I checked the recording of The Time Machine. “You want to watch this?”
“Didn’t you watch it this afternoon?”
“Just the last part. I can watch it again. I’m not sleepy.” This time I got the Deep Look. I held up a warning finger. “Don’t say anything. Do not say one word. After your acrobatics this evening, I’m not sure I can trust your predictions. And you really shouldn’t stare like that. I can hear the villag
ers rustling their pitchforks.” I swear I could almost hear him walking around in my mind, opening drawers and cabinets to find what he wanted, but he didn’t say anything. After a while, he fell asleep on the sofa, and I dozed off in the blue armchair.
When the dream came, I caught a glimpse of white dress, ribbons, a small hand flipping long brown curls over one lacy shoulder. I pushed the dream away. No. I’m tired and confused and I can’t handle this even when I’m feeling my best. Go away.
I managed to struggle awake. The house was silent. Faint light came from the kitchen where the light over the stove had been left on. A warm breeze lifted the curtains at the front windows and made the porch swing sway. It creaked softly.
There was someone in the swing.
At first, I thought it was Camden, for the figure was small and dressed in white, but he was still asleep on the sofa. When I realized who it was, my whole body began to tremble.
No. No. I’m awake now, I know I am.
She didn’t say anything. She sat in the swing, her little feet dangling in their black patent leather shoes. Lindsey. My God. Lindsey.
Part of me wanted to scream and run away, far from what I didn’t want to see: her accusing eyes and sad downcast little face. Part of me wanted to run and grab her and never let go. But she didn’t look at me.
I couldn’t be dreaming. There was the rest of the popcorn, my shoes, my keys and wallet tossed on the table with the rest of the household junk. I could smell leftover chicken and Kary’s perfume and the fragrance of the old wooden house. I wasn’t dreaming. But I had to be.
Cindy wandered in from the kitchen and stiffened, whiskers alert. The cat’s green eyes glowed as she looked out the window toward the swing, and she growled a curious sound, as if asking a question.
“Do you see her, too?” I whispered.
This had to be the height of desperation, talking to a cat about a ghost in the middle of the night. Cindy trotted to the window and hopped up on the sill. When she turned her enigmatic gaze back to me, I could see the empty swing behind her, creaking softly in the night breeze.
Chapter Seven
“The Good Old Man”
Somehow I found myself in the green bedroom the next morning. I swung my feet over and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to find some sort of meaning in the images I’d seen. Damn, if Camden’s house was haunted, all the more reason for me to get out.
The dream stayed with me no matter how hard I tried to push it away. At breakfast, I was so distracted I didn’t realize Kary had spoken to me until she tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
“David, did you want some scrambled eggs?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” I rubbed my eyes. “Sorry. Thinking about my case.”
“That’s okay. One egg or two?”
“Two, please.” The sight of her finally registered on my tired brain. She had on a white terry cloth bathrobe that was a little big for her, so it kept slipping off her shoulder, revealing more of her creamy skin. Any other time, I would’ve appreciated this, but the white robe reminded me of Lindsey’s white dress and I couldn’t concentrate on admiring Kary as much as I wanted to.
She avoided eye contact. Was she embarrassed I’d caught her at an emotional moment?
“Look,” I said. “Last night, I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard somebody crying, and I was just concerned.”
“Thanks, but I’m all right.”
She didn’t look all right. She was still a vision, but a lot of her sparkle was gone. She gave the eggs her full attention until a wizened elderly little man wearing faded striped pajamas wandered in. Sprigs of hair grew from his ears and around his bony skull. It was Fred, Camden’s oldest and moldiest tenant. He looked like a stalk of celery that had been left out overnight.
“Good morning, Fred,” Kary said. “Do you want some scrambled eggs?”
He gave a snort that Kary interpreted as a yes and cut his beady eyes my way.
“Who are you?”
“David Randall.”
Another snort. “Guess Cam lets anyone in.”
Camden came into the kitchen, yawning and pushing his hair out of his eyes.
Fred turned on him. “This a friend of yours? How long is he staying?”
“As long as he wants.” Camden gave me a look but didn’t say anything about last night. I would’ve bet money he’d had the same dream.
Fred glared at Camden accusingly. “Did you eat the last Pop-Tart?”
“No, there’s a whole box.”
Fred gave a sniff. “Hurry up with them eggs, Kary. I got to get to the park.”
Camden went to the stove and gave Kary a hug. For a moment, she put her head on his shoulder.
“You’re sure about this?” he said, and she nodded. “You don’t want to call them? Your mom might want to hear from you.”
“The only thing they’d want to hear is that I’m coming back, and that’s not going to happen.” She gave the eggs a quick stir. “Almost done, Fred.”
Rufus was the next one in, taking his place at the dining room table. He refused an offer of eggs, choosing his cereal instead. There was casual conversation about his construction job, the weather, and how many jack o’lanterns Kary wanted Buddy to carve for the front porch. I ate my eggs and tried not to think about the dream.
For some reason my ex-wife Barbara came to mind. Damn it, I didn’t want to think about her. Barbara would be crying, but not for me. I wondered if she ever stopped crying, if she ever found any measure of happiness again, any consolation at all.
And I was a big help, wasn’t I? Just a big help all around.
***
On the hour drive to Oakville, I listened to the CD of Ashford’s songs Melanie Gentry had given me. Selections included “The Restless Dead,” “The Sorrow-Filled Dream,” “The Deceived Girl,” and “The Hangman’s Daughter.” Carefree stuff. Camden must have been listening into her brain waves, because the songs sounded exactly like the dirges he’d been singing lately. There was one about a baby left in the woods; one about a phantom haunting her lover; one about angels leaving heaven to comfort a grieving father. Love lost, love betrayed, love gone wrong—Ashford had a one-track mind.
After a while, they all ran together into one big sobbing mess. I took out the CD, surprised it wasn’t soggy, and replaced it with the New Black Eagles Jazz Band. It’s impossible to be maudlin with “Fidgety Feet” pounding through the car. Now this was real music, real man-eating jazz, clarinet and trumpet and trombone trading harmonies and racing toward the conclusion like runaway trains. I wondered if Kary liked this kind of music.
Kary. My thoughts always came back to Kary. I turned up the volume and tried to concentrate on the case.
Oakville, like Parkland, is a large busy city, but because it’s closer to the mountains, some of the streets angle up steep inclines and others look like they’d plunge over the end of the world. Large trees shade old houses and traffic crams the roads. October’s prime time for “leaf lookers,” as the locals call the tourists who swarm the hillsides, searching for the peak colors. Roadside booths all along the highway proclaimed the best cider, apples, and pumpkins, usually on misspelled signs. This used to bug me until Camden pointed out that visitors to our fair state expect a certain amount of rural cuteness.
There was nothing cute about Harmon Lassiter. He matched the raspy voice I’d heard on the phone, a rail-thin man with bony fingers and a fringe of gray hair clinging to his knobby skull. He looked like one of those walking stick insects carefully sidestepping its way around a bush. He met me on the porch of his ancient Victorian home on Evenway Avenue, and although the weather was chilly, we sat outside, as though this was as far as he wanted me to get. He had on a ratty gray sweater with broken buttons, faded corduroy slacks, and dingy slippers the color of oatmeal. In an odd way, it was li
ke looking at Tate Thomas through a warped glass. He had the professor’s academic air of condescension and dry lecture-speak. Tate Thomas on a really bad day. Tate Thomas when the grant money ran out.
His long fingers toyed with the broken buttons on his sweater. “My mother knew Laura Gentry and John Ashford. They were friends for a while. She even went to some of their parties, but they were uncontrollable people, she said. Way too emotional. Enough emotion for a hundred people. Everything was a production, everything. A mere trip to the bakery was fraught with significance.”
“And what’s your opinion about authorship of the songs?”
“I’m almost certain Laura wrote ‘Little Jenny Jones’ and ‘Field Mouse Dance.’ I can remember hearing her play them. ’Course, I was just a little tad, but I liked that ‘Field Mouse Dance.’ She played them here, in this house. Used my mother’s piano.”
“Then why hasn’t she received the credit?”
He grimaced as if he had to share his branch with an impertinent aphid. “You’ll have to ask Byron Ashford. Lord Byron, I call him. Tone deaf upstart! Had the gall to call me up and ask for a copy of my notebook, as if there was anything in there he didn’t already know.”
“Your notebook?”
“Where I wrote down my songs. My first efforts were pale copies of Laura’s work, just like a beginning author often copies his idol’s style.”
“It would help my investigation if I could have a look at your notebook.”
He looked at me a long moment, like an insect that has come to a crack in the walk and isn’t sure how to cross over. “You’re working for Laura’s great-granddaughter, that’s what you said?”
“Yes, she hired me.”
“I’ve already told her I don’t have anything of any use to her.”
“I’d still like to see it.”
He sighed and pushed himself out of his rocking chair. I heard old bones pop and creak. “I’ll be a moment.”
I sat in the chill afternoon air and watched traffic successfully maneuver up and down the steep road in front of his house. Must have been twenty degrees cooler in Oakville. Most trees were in their last flame of color, and more than one flock of birds flew past, heading south.
