Stolen Hearts

by Jane Tesh

  Rufus shook me. “Pick on someone your own size, you jerk.”

  My teeth rattled. “Same to you! Let go, you big moron. I’ll explain.”

  Rufus let go and turned to Camden. “This clown was about to deck you. What’s the deal?”

  “Uh-oh,” Camden said to me. “Was he back?”

  “Beyond obnoxious. I almost lost it, sorry.”

  Rufus looked back and forth between us. “Who was back?”

  “You’d better tell him,” I said to Camden. “He’s not going to believe me.”

  Camden sat down while Rufus hovered, still expecting me to attack. “It’s like this, Rufe. I’m being possessed by the spirit of John Burrows Ashford, and apparently, he’s a real son of a bitch.”

  Rufus may look like the poster child for intermarriage, but he always catches on to this kind of nonsense. “Well, who’s this John Burrows Ashford and what makes him so special? Does he just step in whenever he feels like it?”

  Camden rubbed his forehead. “Unfortunately, yes, and I can’t tell when he’s here.”

  “I can,” I said. “He’s one big mean son of a bitch.”

  Rufus got right to the point. “What are we gonna do about it?”

  “I don’t know. Ashford first said he’d leave after I solved my current case, but now he’s making noises like he wants to stay.”

  Camden looked alarmed. “Stay? You mean, take over permanently?”

  “Hell, he can’t do that,” Rufus said. “What case you talking about, Randall?”

  “I’m trying to find out who wrote the songs in Patchwork Melodies, and who killed Albert Bennett and Laura Gentry. I’d like to blame Ashford, but I don’t have proof.”

  “Well, find some. We aren’t gonna have some dead guy parking himself in Cam whenever he wants.”

  Camden was still concerned. “Did he say that exactly, Randall, that he was going to stay?”

  “That’s not going to happen. I’ll find some way to get rid of him.”

  My cell phone rang.

  Rufus gave the phone a glare. “That better not be Ashford.”

  Fortunately, it was Pamela Vincent.

  “Hello, David. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Just a little out-of-body session. “Not at all. What’s up?”

  “I’m calling to say thank you for trying, but we’ve decided the locket’s gone. Nick’s going to buy me another. It won’t be the same, but I’ll be more careful with this one.”

  First Ashford and now strike two. “I’ll be glad to keep looking.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll send you the rest of your fee. Thanks again.”

  She hung up.

  “You got another ghost calling you?” Rufus asked.

  “No, that was Pamela Vincent. I’m trying to find her locket. She called to say don’t bother, but I’m not ready to give up yet.” Plus, I’d never asked Nick about his technique. “And I’m not going to give up on getting rid of Ashford, either.”

  A horn honked. We went out to the porch. Buddy had arrived to work on his woodcarvings. Three large pumpkins gleamed from the back of his pickup.

  Buddy waved. “Thought I’d get a start on Halloween. How many you want, Cam?”

  “As many as you like.”

  “We’ll line the porch steps. Scare the little goblins.”

  He and Rufus set up shop in the backyard. I didn’t feel like gutting pumpkins, so I called around to a few more pawnshops, asking about the heart-shaped locket. Ashford didn’t make a return appearance. After a while, Buddy and Rufus were joined by two more men, and they began to practice their music. It was hard to concentrate with an intensely nasal version of “Fox on the Run” reverberating from the backyard. I decided I needed a peanut butter cracker or two.

  I found Camden sitting at the dining room table, a plate of Pop-Tarts and a glass of tea untouched. He gazed out across the backyard. The leaves shone brilliant yellow and red; the oak leaves, glossy brown. Little breezes chased the leaves on the ground and sent others spiraling from the branches. Faint smells of toast and coffee lingered in the kitchen where the cow-shaped clock ticked quietly.

  I kept my tone neutral. “Thinking about those gutters, huh?”

  “Among other things.”

  I sat down. The backyard concert paused while Buddy reattached a string to his banjo. The silence stretched. Cindy padded in and hopped up in the window to watch the leaves.

  “Mrs. Rosalie Camden,” Camden said. “I’m thinking about her, too.”

  “Your foster mother?”

  “The last one.” His gaze, like Cindy’s, was still on the leaves. “In Virginia. She was very kind, but her husband was never comfortable around me.”

  More silence. There wasn’t anything to say. I knew he’d been passed around from one family to another until he was old enough to strike out on his own. Despite his good looks and calm disposition, his talent had been too spooky for normal folks.

  I could tell that Camden’s gaze was way beyond the leaves now. “So Camden isn’t my real name. It’s hers.”

  He never mentioned his past or made any reference to how it must have been. I knew he’d been born in Virginia and had grown up in several foster homes. I knew he’d dropped out of school and traveled around the country before settling in North Carolina. He’d never seemed depressed about it. This was the work of John Burrows Ashford, undermining his confidence, softening him up for the final takeover: your life is so pitiful, so worthless, let me live it for you. I knew Ashford wasn’t going to give up so easily.

  Outside, the band tuned up and started something slow and melancholy. The guitar player strummed his guitar and sang about traveling a lonesome road.

  Camden listened for a while. “John Camden. Not very imaginative, is it? Practically every boy at Green Valley was named John. Sort of like a scene from Buckaroo Bonzai.”

  “At least she didn’t name you Rosalie.”

  This brought a grin, a slight one. “Or Hubert. That was his name.”

  I was probably one of two people who knew his first name. Too bad it was the same as Ashford’s. This had to be working in the songwriter’s favor.

  “Does it matter?” I tried to sound casual. “Lots of screwed-up people came from wonderful upstanding parents. Having a certain name doesn’t guarantee success.”

  “No, it’s just that I’ve never been able to find out my real name, if I ever had one. And the only thing I know about my mother is what Mrs. Camden told me. She said she was a young woman who couldn’t keep me. It’s as if my parents never existed.”

  “Maybe they’re using their super-secret powers to block you from finding out your true identity.”

  He grimaced. “A kryptonite shield, perhaps?”

  “Ashford’s the reason you’re feeling like this. He thinks he can win you over with his lofty family tree. Don’t let him get to you.”

  “I can’t remember anything he says. I wake up, you tell me he was here, I go on as usual.”

  “There has to be some way for you to make contact with him. He’s working on you from the inside. How are you going to fight him if you can’t remember anything?”

  “I don’t know, Randall. I’ve never had this happen before. What am I supposed to use for ammunition?”

  “He wants the mystery solved. He wants the world to know he is the author of those songs.”

  “I thought he was.”

  “Well, obviously something’s wrong, or he would’ve stayed dead.”

  Camden picked up his sneakers. “I have to get to work.”

  It was unsettling to think that spacey little Lily was right all along. Maybe she did have a direct line to the stars.

  “Camden, there’s a way out of this problem. I’m the hotshot
detective here. Why don’t you let me find your parents?”

  “No, thanks. If they didn’t want me before, why should they have anything to do with me now? I’m not interested.”

  With eyes like his, he’s a terrible liar. “If you know more about them, you could keep Ashford from taking over. Don’t you have a birth certificate somewhere?”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “It’s bound to have your mom’s name on it if nothing else. You don’t remember?”

  “When I left home, I didn’t take a lot of things with me.”

  “Would Rosalie Camden have a copy?”

  “She died a long time ago.”

  “So who got her stuff?”

  He shook his head. “Forget it. I appreciate the offer, but no, thanks. We’ll have to think of some other way to get rid of him.”

  “Okay.” I’d already put my mind in gear. He didn’t know it, but he’d given me enough information to start my search. He could thank me later.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The Wild Daisy”

  Tamara picked Camden up before I turned on my computer. Until now, I’d kept out of Camden’s personal affairs, figuring if he wanted me to find his folks, he would’ve said so long ago. This was the first time he’d ever mentioned any names or places. I started with “Green Valley” and “Virginia.” Several items came up, including the Green Valley Home for Boys in Bell City. I clicked on the web address and found an address and phone number. It was doubtful anyone at the home would give me Camden’s information. In certain circumstances, adoption records were sealed in Virginia. But if I could find someone who knew Rosalie or Hubert Camden, I might be able to learn his mother’s name. Bell City was about three hours from Parkland. If I left now, I could make it there and back today.

  I found Kary at the piano, looking through her sheet music. She set the stack of music aside and opened the piano bench. “You haven’t seen my copy of Chopin’s Ballades, have you? I think I’ll play the G minor for the Miss Falling Leaves Pageant.”

  “So you’re definitely going to enter?”

  “First prize is five thousand dollars.”

  “I’d walk around in my bathing suit for that.”

  She closed the bench. “Where could that book be?”

  “I’ll help you look.”

  “Maybe it’s in the bookcase. It has a yellow cover.”

  There were several patchwork cushions in the island, the kind that are large enough to sit on. I could tell Cindy had used a few of the tassels as cat toys. I pulled two over so we could sit down to look through the music. Outside, the Nasal Boys continued with “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.”

  Kary set another stack of books to one side. “Now where is that stupid book?”

  I pushed the old encyclopedias over, disturbing a tiny spider. “Why don’t you play one of your own pieces?”

  “They aren’t nearly good enough.”

  “I think people would like them. What about that one you were playing the other day? It was very nice.”

  “David.”

  I waited for her to continue, afraid I’d pushed too hard.

  She sat back on the cushion. “I love music, and I’ve always written little tunes and songs. I thought at one time I’d be a composer. I had a scholarship to the Kirby Music School in Charlotte, but I had some health problems and couldn’t go. I had to give it up.”

  I started to say “I’m sorry,” but she put up her hand.

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know. That’s why I’m telling you. I write some music every now and then, but just for fun. Cam’s already been after me to have them published, so don’t you start, too.”

  “That’s a very good teacher voice you’ve got going there.”

  “Thanks. I like to keep in practice.”

  “Are you studying to be a music teacher?”

  She tugged at a folder that had gotten stuck under a large dictionary. “I thought about it, but there are so few positions in the arts. I’d like to teach second grade.” The folder came loose, but it didn’t have what she was looking for. “I’ve done some practice teaching in second grade. Second graders can usually tie their own shoes, and they haven’t become jaded. They’re still open and excited about life. You can teach them anything.”

  Lindsey had loved second grade. She’d loved school. Hell, she’d loved everything. There were so many things she’d never experience.

  I was glad Kary was focused on her search because my expression must have been grim before I got it under control. I pushed another row of books over and caught a glimpse of something yellow with “Chopin” in black letters. The music book had fallen behind the bookcase, which fortunately didn’t have a back.

  I tugged it out. “Is this it?”

  “Yes! Thank you!”

  When I handed her the book, our fingers touched. Kary held my gaze longer than I expected. Then she blushed a little and got up.

  “Thanks.”

  To cover my confusion, I used my best TV promo voice. “I’m a detective. I find things. That’s my job.”

  I made her laugh. She went to the piano and began to play. I put the rest of the books back on the shelf and headed out to Virginia. I was a detective and it was time for me to do my job and find something very important.

  ***

  There were quite a few Camdens listed in the Bell City phone book. I started with Allen Camden, asking about Rosalie or Hubert, and worked my way through down one column until I reached a Daisy Camden, who sounded pleasant if slightly concerned.

  “Rosalie Camden was my mother. What’s this all about?”

  “My name’s David Randall, Miss Camden. I’m trying to find out some information about Rosalie’s adopted son, John. Did you know him?”

  “Oh, you mean Johnny? The one with epilepsy?”

  Well, this was news. I wasn’t sure what to say. “Yes.”

  “Poor little thing. He left home when he was just sixteen. I don’t know how in the world he could get along having those fits of his.”

  Ah, the mysterious fits. “Staring into space? Seeing things? Maybe not remembering where he was?”

  “Yes, exactly. Why are you calling? Has something happened to him? I can’t be much help to you, and Mother and Father are dead.”

  “Miss Camden, if you don’t mind, could we meet somewhere? Camden—that is, Johnny—needs to know about his birth mother, and I was hoping you or another relative might have a copy of his birth certificate.”

  “That would be in Mother’s things.”

  “Would it be possible for me to see it?”

  A long pause. If she hung up now, my best chance would be gone.

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it. I’m on Cross Street, near Circle Drug, number three-fifty-five. Come on over.”

  ***

  Daisy Camden met me on the porch of her small blue house. If she took after her mother, then Rosalie Camden must have been a large shapeless woman with soft wrinkled features and wispy hair trying to escape an untidy bun.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Miss Camden.”

  “Well, it’s nice to see you, Mister Randall. Come have a seat.”

  We sat down in white plastic chairs. Daisy smoothed the skirt of her billowy flowered dress. “You know, I often wondered about Johnny and hoped he was all right. You say you’re a friend of his? How’s he doing?”

  “He’s doing fine,” I said. “He works in a clothing store in Parkland.”

  “My, my. Got those fits under control, I hope.”

  “Yes. He never mentioned a sister, though.”

  “Oh, he probably don’t remember me. I was a good fifteen years older and out of the house by the time Mother took him in. Mother said nobody want
ed him on account of his problem. Just remember he was a cute little thing, always humming or singing.”

  “He still does a lot of singing.”

  “Is he married? Got kids?”

  “He has a girlfriend.”

  “That’s good. Now what was it you wanted to know?”

  “His birth mother’s name.”

  “Well, I got no idea where that birth certificate is, but we can look for it.”

  The bare front porch sporting only two plastic chairs gave no clue to the amazing disorder within the little blue house. I stood in the doorway, appalled. I’m not the kind of guy who keeps his clothes sorted by color, but neither am I the kind of guy who leaves empty pizza boxes and beer cans on the floor. I sure as hell don’t leave everything I own on the floor. Daisy led the way through the piles of clothes, papers, and empty food containers, following a narrow trail through the debris. I expected an entreating skeletal hand to rise from the depths. Save me! Or a tribe of feral cats oozing around the stacks of newspapers and plastic bags.

  “It’ll be back here somewhere. That’s where I put all of Mother’s things.”

  Mother’s things were crammed into another room from floor to ceiling: furniture, boxes, books, more clothes, and lots of things I didn’t recognize. Camden had said Rosalie died a long time ago. I didn’t want to think about what had been growing in this room since then.

  Daisy began to root around in the mess. “Should be a box in here with papers.”

  I was afraid she’d cause an avalanche. “A file box, maybe?”

  “Shoe box, most likely.”

  Great. Wishing I had some plastic gloves, I started digging. I caused several crashes trying to retrieve what looked like shoe boxes from the elephants’ burial ground.

  “Sorry, Miss Camden.”

  “That’s all right. Just push it over to the side. And call me Daisy. I feel like we’re kinfolk.”

  What side? There was no side. I managed to rearrange enough junk to get to another stack. Daisy must have rented a forklift to clean out Rosalie’s house. “Did your mother have a family Bible? Sometimes important papers are kept in Bibles. Or a photo album, maybe.”