Stolen Hearts

by Jane Tesh

  Out she went, punching a number into her cell phone.

  I gave Camden another suggestion. “Run while you can.”

  He shook his head and went up the stairs to see if Angie had gotten settled. In a little while, Angie tromped down. “So what’s the deal with Blondie? Man, that tongue could open tin cans.”

  “She’s Camden’s dream girl. Don’t ask me why.”

  She jerked a massive thumb toward the stairs. “He’ll be down later. I told him to take a nap.”

  “Yeah, he could use one,” I said. “Things tend to get a little crazy around here.”

  She ambled toward the kitchen. “Who’s this guy Ashford?”

  “A dead composer who’s decided to take over Camden’s body.”

  She gave me her glacier stare. “Yeah, right.”

  I shrugged. “If you’re going to live here, you’d better get used to this kind of stuff.”

  She continued her slow march to the food. “What about that brunette he works for?” She reached the counter and paused for breath.

  “Tamara Eldridge.”

  “Nah. That’ll never work.”

  So she was the expert now? “Why not?”

  She grinned, her cheeks rising to cover her eyes. “Tam and Cam? I don’t think so.”

  This surprised a laugh out of me before I could stop it. “I knew something wasn’t right.”

  She edged around the counter to the fridge. “Used to work for a guy named Gayford Rayford. Painful. Downright painful. ‘Gay Ray’, everybody called him. Parents must have been crazy.”

  “My former boss is Gordon Morton.”

  “That’s a mouthful.” She gave me another cheeky grin. “How ‘bout Chip Dipp? I swear that was the boy’s name. And my momma knew a Bo Peep Thacker.”

  “That’s nothing. I went to school with Thumbelina Andersen and Hiawatha Quisenberry.”

  Chuckles shook her rolls of fat. “Damn it, you’re kidding now.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “All right.” She was suddenly serious. “Scout’s honor. What’s really going on around here?” She took a Coke from the fridge. “There’s a beauty queen whose folks don’t care where she is, an old man who looks like he’s got mold growing on him, a little guy who sees things, and a struggling private detective who looks like some TV star, I forget his name, and this Ellin woman with the screechy voice.”

  “Welcome to 302 Grace Street.” I checked my watch. “I’ve got to talk to someone about my latest case. Would you keep an eye on Camden? If Ashford shows up again, see if you can convince him to leave.”

  She eyed me. “Yeah, sure. Too bad I tossed my proton thrower and ghost trap away.”

  ***

  From what Melanie had told me, I expected Byron Ashford to be a Class A jackass, but he was surprisingly civil and cooperative. In looks, he reminded me of an older, more polished Reg Haverson, tall, sandy-haired, tan and self-assured.

  “There’s nothing to hide.” He led me into his spacious country home in Lesser Lake, one of Parkland’s more exclusive suburbs. I’d parked the Fury beside a shiny black Corvette Sting Ray. “Melanie Gentry is simply a misguided young woman with too much time on her hands.”

  We went into a den decorated in neutrals, and Ashford indicated a tan leather sofa. “Could I get you a drink, Mister Randall?”

  “No, thanks.” The room was just as polished as its owner, oak-paneled walls, bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes and golfing trophies, a wide-screen TV, DVD, stereo CD player, all the latest toys. The beige curtains were drawn back to reveal tennis courts and an indoor swimming pool in the backyard. Lesser Lake gleamed a bright blue in the October sunshine. A speedboat bobbed at the dock.

  “Do you write songs, too, Mister Ashford?”

  “Not me.” He gave a self-depreciating laugh. “Great Granddad had all the musical talent in the family. I can’t tell one note from another.” He sat down in a matching tan leather chair. “But I do know the value of my great-grandfather’s work. The original copies are in the museum in Elenna. You can see for yourself who the author is.”

  “Do you know about the upcoming PBS documentary on early American music?”

  “Yes, I do. In fact, I’ve been approached about being interviewed for the program.”

  “Ms. Gentry seems to think they will ignore the contributions of her great-grandmother entirely. Is this a valid concern?”

  Byron Ashford sat completely at ease in his chair, his hand smoothing the soft leather. “What contributions? She’s nothing but a footnote, if that. And if by some wild chance Laura Gentry had anything to do with those songs, who better to discover it than the experts?”

  “You’d have no problem with that?”

  “No problem at all. I told you, there’s nothing to hide, no deep dark secret. My great-grandfather wrote those songs and that’s all there is to it.”

  “What about Laura Gentry’s death? There seems to be some question about how she died.”

  “You mean did John Ashford kill her? Mister Randall, I think Laura Gentry killed herself. She was emotionally unstable, living with a man in a time when this was beyond sinful, and when he could no longer handle her wild outbursts and demands and asked her to leave, she simply couldn’t take it. All you have to do is read her letters.”

  From my own reading, I knew Laura’s letters had become increasingly emotional, from the early simple letters filled with “I love you so much” to the more distraught “I cannot live without you.”

  “You’ve read her letters?”

  “Yes, Melanie let me read them some time ago. She wanted John Ashford’s letters, but I’d already promised them to the museum. She’s certainly welcome to go there and read them. When you read his, you’ll see how much he cared for Laura and how he tried to keep her from becoming so dependent. He knew the relationship was falling apart, and he was trying to soften the blow.”

  John Ashford was sounding more and more like a saint, and I knew from my brief encounters with him via Camden that couldn’t be the whole picture. What would this smug man say if I told him I’d met his great-grandfather and thought he was a horse’s ass?

  “Suppose my investigation turns up information that proves Laura wrote these songs?”

  His smile was more of a smirk. “That’s highly unlikely.”

  “Coauthorship, then. They both get credit.”

  At last he displayed some of the famous Ashford snobbery. “Why should the Ashfords share credit with someone who doesn’t really deserve it? But your questions are hypothetical. Go to the museum and see for yourself. Or ask any reputable musician or scholar. Melanie Gentry does not have a case. I hope she’s paying you well for wasting your time. Was there anything else?”

  “Yes. Do you know Albert Bennett? Would your great-grandfather have known anyone named Bennett?”

  He thought it over. “I don’t recall that name. Does this Albert Bennett have anything to do with the Ashford family?”

  “Just checking.” I’d had enough of this guy’s attitude. If Melanie was the queen of her small country, then Byron was king of the neighboring province, glaring at her over the border and daring her to start a war. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “John of Hazelgreen”

  When I entered his pawnshop, Bilby Foster looked exactly like a troll hunched over a king’s treasure. He gestured to a glass cabinet. “Told you on the phone I had a few. Take your pick.”

  There were three lockets that fit Pamela Vincent’s description of her missing necklace. “Can you put these aside until my client comes?”

  “Got yourself another sweetie?”

  “One can never have too many.” I took out my cell phone. “Pamela, it’s David Randall. Do you know Foster’s Pawnshop i
n Parkland? He’s got three lockets here you should have a look at.”

  “I’ll be right there, thanks,” she said.

  I closed my phone. Bilby was inspecting a tray of rings, his thin mouth pursed as if each ring had come out of a box of Cracker Jacks. I walked up the aisle to the front of the store, passing the rows of guitars, banjos, mandolins, and other instruments hanging on the wall. Had people given up trying to learn to play them, or had their dreams for glory and success gone awry? This piano, too—did an aspiring musician have to pawn his treasured instrument for food or to pay the rent? Was he hoping and praying it would still be here when he had the money to claim it?

  Would Kary take her piano with her when she left?

  The thought of her leaving the house was like a blow to the chest. But if she married Donnie, she’d leave, and she’d take every trace of her: the piano, the colorful needlework, the silly-looking cow-shaped clock, the stained glass butterflies hanging in her bedroom window—it would be like a death in the family.

  I sat down on the piano bench. My God, was that what was really bothering me? The thought of losing another—

  I tried to keep Lindsey from my thoughts, but she came in anyway, smiling her perfect smile. She will always be perfect, eight years old, with her long brown curls and dark eyes, dressed in her best Sunday dress, all white lace, the dress we buried her in, the dress she was wearing as she sat in Camden’s porch swing—

  You don’t deserve Kary. After all, you couldn’t take care of one little girl. What makes you think you could take care of another?

  It’s not like that!

  Pamela arrived before I managed to tie myself in mental knots. The sight of her changed Bilby’s screwed troll face to open-mouthed admiration.

  I escorted her to the back. “Three choices here. I hope one’s yours.”

  Bilby was still staring. Pamela looked carefully at the lockets.

  “May I see this one?”

  She had to repeat her question. I tapped on the glass top of the counter. “Bilby.”

  He snapped out of his stupor. “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. One moment.” He pulled out the tray and set it on top of the counter. Pamela picked up one of the lockets, and with a sigh, put it back in the tray.

  “That’s not it.”

  Bilby wilted as if he were personally responsible.

  “Mine has the slightest tracing along the edge, and the chain isn’t quite this thick.”

  He perked up. “I’ll certainly be on the lookout for it. If you’d care to leave your number—”

  “You can call me, Bilby,” I said. “I’ll see that Mrs. Vincent gets the message.”

  “Yeah, sure, okay.”

  Pamela viewed the surroundings. “You have a very nice shop, Mister Foster. Everything’s so clean and well-organized. I’m afraid I had a completely different idea about a pawn shop.”

  “Please look around,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”

  He watched as Pamela went up and down the aisles. “Randall, how do you do it?”

  “She’s a client. A married client.”

  “She’s absolutely gorgeous. Reminds me of my mother.”

  “Your mother?” I’d always imagined Bilby as the offspring of a toad and a tree stump.

  “Had that same beautiful red hair.” He noticed my disbelieving stare and glowered. “Took after my dad.”

  Pamela came back with a smile that made the gold jewelry in the case seem dim. “This is quite a place, Mister Foster. I expected something dark and crowded.”

  “I’m very sorry I don’t have your locket.”

  “And he’s never sorry about anything,” I said. “Thanks, Bilby. We’re going to try Del’s.”

  “He’s got nothing but junk.”

  “We’re going to try him anyway.”

  Pamela thanked him, and we went out. She sighed. “You know, I wish we could find the locket, but I’m really more concerned about how Nick is taking this. I keep telling him it’s not his fault.”

  “Is his forgetfulness a problem for him at work? What does he do for a living?” I could just imagine Nick Vincent as a surgeon or a lawyer, one of those professions where you might need a good memory.

  “Oh, he’s the only child of a very rich businessman, so he’s independently wealthy. He’s always had plenty of money to buy whatever he liked, so if he lost something, or forgot where he put it, he’d just buy another.”

  “I believe he offered to buy you another locket.”

  “And I should’ve said yes right away, but I didn’t. Now he’s obsessing about finding this locket.”

  “We’ll find it.” Although I wasn’t really sure how yet.

  Pamela was still pondering Nick’s background. “Maybe being an only child made him more scattered. Maybe his parents gave him too much attention.”

  I’m an only child, but I had a happy, normal childhood. I thought of Kary’s parents. Since they turned out to be so heartless, was she afraid to trust anyone else? Was she afraid one mistake and she’d be thrown out again? Did Donnie seem safe and normal to her? What did that make me?

  Something else I didn’t want to think about.

  “Let’s head over to pawn shop number two,” I said to Pamela. “And sorry, but it’s just as clean and nice.”

  She pretended to be annoyed. “My goodness, for what I’m paying you, you should at least find one grimy hole in the wall.”

  ***

  Although it was pleasant being in Pamela Vincent’s company, we had no luck at any of the pawnshops we visited. She went back to Greenleaf Forest. I headed back to 302 Grace to see if Ellin had made good on her threat.

  I expected to find TV vans, camera crews, and anxious paparazzi clustered at the windows. The front yard looked surprisingly normal. Camden was in the kitchen putting some food in Cindy’s dish.

  “Has the media circus already left town?” I asked. “I’d hate if I missed it.”

  “Ellie forgot she’d sent her camera crew to Greensboro to film the Wicca Convention. However, she’s contacted Robertson’s people, so I’m sure they’ll all descend on us at some point.”

  “Ashford pop back in?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but then I never know when he’s here.”

  “Well, Byron Ashford’s convinced Laura Gentry had nothing to do with Ashford’s work and is getting himself ready for a spot in the documentary. Maybe the two of you can share a segment.”

  I went back to the office and pulled out the folder full of Laura Gentry’s letters to look through them again.

  “My dearest John,” one read. “You can’t begin to imagine the emotions that swell within me as I pen these lines. Like the forgotten bride in the ‘Resurrected Sweetheart,’ like the heroine in ‘John of Hazelgreen,’ I can live only for the ‘glance in your darkling eyes.’ You must come see me. You must keep your promise.”

  “Trash. Sentimental trash,” intoned the superior voice.

  I looked up. Ashford was back on board, his presence making Camden’s posture rigid and his eyes cold. He tossed his head back like some maestro about to conduct the philharmonic.

  “I don’t suppose you found anything of use.”

  “Your great-grandson’s tone-deaf.”

  He decided whether or not to get angry before snorting. “Genius skips a generation or two. The important thing is that I have it.”

  I closed the folder. “What do you need Camden for, then? You’re so brilliant, you find another way to come back.”

  He sauntered forward as if he owned the room. “I like the way my songs sound in his voice. The way he craves music, just as I do. It’s too bad he doesn’t know who he is.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Another snort, another head toss. “This
pitiful young man has no idea about his family. I am John Burrows Ashford! My mother was Clara Barrows, a first lady of Virginia society. My father was John Davis Ashford, a wealthy and influential landowner and politician. I can trace my ancestry back hundreds of years to the Stuarts of England and Scotland. What does Camden know? His mother gave him away. He never knew who his father was. He has no real family. Why, even his name isn’t really his.”

  “Then why bother with him?”

  His eyes glowed. “Because music is in his blood, in his very being, like me! I can give his life meaning. He can be everything I am and more. I can make him famous.”

  “He doesn’t want to be famous. He just wants to be left alone.”

  “I never heard such nonsense. Why spend his life in this rundown old house when he could live in a mansion? He could travel, have concert tours around the world!”

  “Look, he’s been that route, and he doesn’t like it. His clairvoyance brought him more than enough fame, usually the wrong kind. He wants a normal life.”

  The crafty look came across Camden’s face. “Does he? You’re not seeing it from my point of view, Mister Randall. I have the inside story, so to speak.”

  “Nice try,” I said, “but Camden doesn’t remember anything.”

  “Really?” His grin was sly. “Perhaps he says he doesn’t remember, but I think he does.”

  “It doesn’t matter. As soon as your business is finished, you’re out of there.”

  Another calculating look. “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll make you leave.”

  His laugh was harsh. “I don’t think so.”

  I wanted to smash that superior look off his face. I hauled back my fist but my arm was grabbed and almost wrenched out of the socket by Rufus, who glared from his immense height like some wrathful hillbilly god.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  How to explain, in twenty-five words or less, that I wasn’t trying to hit Camden, but his evil alter ego? To make matters worse, Ashford, the bastard, fled like smoke up a chimney, leaving Camden to stare at us with wide confused eyes, which infuriated Rufus even more.