Stolen Hearts

by Jane Tesh

  “Mother didn’t take any pictures. As for a Bible, I don’t remember seeing one.”

  “Do you remember seeing anything from the Green Valley Home for Boys?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Did your mother have a desk?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s under here somewhere.”

  After thirty minutes, we’d cleared a path to the desk, a medium-sized rolltop. It took another thirty minutes to move enough stuff so that we could roll the top back. Papers were crammed into every possible space, letters, envelopes, receipts, recipes, scraps with names and addresses, prescriptions, old birthday cards, and coupons. I was just about ready to give up when Daisy tugged the bottom drawer free and said, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  She pulled out a faded green folder with “Green Valley Homes for Boys” written across the front and handed it to me. I opened the folder and caught the thin piece of paper before it floated out. Certificate of Live Birth. “This is it.”

  “Well, how ‘bout that?”

  We stood knee-deep in the trash and read the certificate. John Camden had been born in Bell City Memorial Hospital on February 22 at eight p.m. He’d weighed all of six pounds. Under “Father of Child” was written “Unknown.” Under “Mother of Child” was written “Denise Baker.” Her age was listed as sixteen.

  Denise Baker. “Thank you, Daisy.”

  “Why don’t you take that along? Seems to me Johnny should have it.”

  “He’ll appreciate that.”

  “And bring him to see me.”

  ***

  On the way home, out of curiosity, I drove past the Green Valley Home for Boys. I had a mental image of a grim stone prison, but the series of brick buildings looked more like a small college campus, complete with shade trees, a soccer field, and a basketball court. It didn’t look like a bad place to live, but then, I’d never been an orphan. I had what I came for, though. I had a name. With any luck, the Internet and my best search engines would be able to locate the Denise Baker who was sixteen thirty years ago and lived in Bell City.

  As soon as I got to 302 Grace, I fixed some peanut butter crackers and a Coke and set to work. On PublicRecords.com I typed in “Denise Baker” and “Bell City, Virginia.” This brought up a list of Denise Bakers, all too old or too young to fit the requirements. Next I tried “Denise Baker” and “Richmond, Virginia,” thinking maybe Denise had left the Bell City area. Checking this list, I found several good possibilities, so I wrote down the addresses. Five had phone numbers. Definitely worth a try.

  The hard part would be convincing her that her son was possessed by an angry, bitter composer and finding her might just save his life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “True As Silver”

  I wasn’t too thrilled to find Fred in the kitchen the next morning, dunking his toast in his coffee and scowling. I’d hoped he was already in the park, arguing with other old geezers about the space program. Fred must have harbored some secret desire to be an astronaut, and if any of his cronies dared to suggest the moon landing had been faked, he’d start trying to chew their legs off. Every day, Camden gave him money for a newspaper and a cola. Every day, Fred came home purple in the face over something he’d read. When I asked Camden why the hell he let Fred buy a paper if it upset the old man so much, he said getting riled was the only thing in life Fred truly enjoyed.

  “Morning, Fred.”

  The scowl made Fred look like one of those bizarre dried apple dolls people sell at the festival. “You still here?”

  “I’m just as surprised as you, Fred.”

  “Cam know about this?”

  “Yes. I have his permission.”

  Another scowl. “You pay rent?”

  “Do you?”

  He pulled his coffee cup closer, as if afraid I might snatch it, toast crumbs and all. “Ain’t none of your business.”

  While I was scrambling some eggs for my breakfast, Kary came in, tying the sash of her white robe, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, an absolute vision of just-out-of-bed perfection.

  “Good morning, David. Good morning, Fred.”

  Fred made a “Huh” sound that could’ve meant anything.

  “Good morning,” I said. “You can still go to Oakville this afternoon, right?”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

  As she went past to the fridge, I caught Fred’s eye. He was looking at me as if he’d caught my hand up her robe.

  “You better watch your step, Mister.”

  “Fred, my intentions are completely honorable.”

  Another “Huh!” I knew what this one meant. He shook a piece of toast at me. The limp corner that had been in the coffee fell off on the counter. “She’ll be leaving soon. She won’t have to fool with you drooling over her anymore.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to be lectured by Space Geezer this morning. I scooped my scrambled eggs onto a plate and turned as if recalling something. “Isn’t the shuttle going up in about ten minutes?”

  He gave a start. “Where?”

  “I think you can see it from the park.”

  “Damn.” He crammed the rest of the toast in his mouth, washed it down with the coffee, and trotted around to the stairs. “Cam! Cam, I need my money!”

  Kary reached into the grocery frog on the counter and pulled out a handful of quarters. “Fred, Cam’s in the shower. Here, take this.”

  He hurried back to the kitchen, grabbed the change, and ran out the front door. In a few minutes, he was back to snatch his coat off the hall tree. The door slammed.

  Kary brought her cereal and milk to the counter. “What was that all about?”

  “You know how Fred is.” I put my toast on the plate and brought it to the counter. Kary sat down across from me, and I had about five minutes to enjoy this peaceful domestic scene before Rufus wandered in to get his cereal.

  “Festival opens today,” he said. I got a dark look. “Still no dulcimer player.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  He gave me a scowl old Fred would’ve envied and indicated Kary with a slight nod. “Nah, you’ve had other things on your mind.”

  At the risk of angering this mammoth, I said, “And how’s your new girlfriend enjoying life here at 302 Grace?”

  Surprisingly, he backed off. “We’re getting along just fine.”

  Camden came in, dressed for work, his hair in all directions. “Morning, everyone.”

  “You own a comb?” Rufus asked.

  He pushed back his bangs. “I’ll make the attempt when it’s a little drier.”

  “I take it you need a ride to Tamara’s,” I said.

  “Yes, please.”

  “How about you, Kary? Need a ride anywhere?”

  “If you could drop me off at the college, that would be great.”

  “Just call me the family chauffeur.”

  Camden took his box of Pop-Tarts out of the cabinet. “Larry over at Parkland Motors still has that Festiva you were interested in, Kary.”

  “The one that’s Day-Glo green? It’s cute and definitely memorable. I wouldn’t even need headlights.”

  “Kind of bright, is it?” I asked.

  “It looks like a nuclear pea,” Camden said. “I told her she should get it. Actually, I told Larry he should pay her to take it off his hands. It’s got about thirty thousand miles on it, new tires, already inspected. You’re going to be driving what, maybe three miles a day? The Festiva would be perfect for you to drive back and forth to school.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Rufus shook the last of his cereal into a large bowl. “Squished a Festiva against my forehead once, just like a beer can.”

  Kary laughed. “I hope not.”


  “Just kidding.”

  I figured the Festiva issue was as dead as a flattened beer can, finished my breakfast, and announced the Randall limo service would be leaving whenever the passengers were ready. Kary went upstairs to get dressed. Camden managed to wrangle his hair into some sort of order and filled his glass with Coke.

  Rufus took a big gulp of coffee. “That Ashford bothering you today?”

  “As far as I know, he hasn’t dropped in.”

  “Doing anything about that, Randall?”

  Actually, yes, I wanted to say. I may have found Camden’s mother. Whether or not she can be of any help is the question. “I’m on the case.”

  “Seems like you’re on everybody’s case today.”

  I had a few minutes, so I went into the office and called the first Denise Baker on my list, Denise B. O’Brien. She was pleasant but firm.

  “You have the wrong number, sir. I never had any children, and quite frankly, never wanted any.”

  Strike one.

  The second Denise Baker was Denise Baker Hofsteder. The house sitter informed me that the Hofsteders were in Africa and wouldn’t be back for a month.

  “Denise and I have been friends since grade school,” the woman said. “I would’ve known something like that. And her family was very wealthy. If that had happened to her, they would’ve provided for the baby.”

  Strike two.

  The third Denise Baker, Denise Baker Sommers, said she wished she could help me, but she wasn’t the one I was looking for and she was the only Denise Baker she knew. The fourth Denise wasn’t home, so I left a message on her machine, and the phone number for the fifth Denise was no longer in service. By now I’d run out of strikes. There was one more Denise, Denise Baker Rice, and her phone number wasn’t listed. Still, I had her address.

  It wasn’t long before Kary came back down the stairs in jeans and a rust-colored sweater decorated with gold leaves. She even had on little gold leaf earrings. Camden obligingly took the back seat so she could ride up front with me.

  “I really like your car,” she said as I got behind the wheel. “What kind is it?”

  “A Plymouth Fury. It was my dad’s.”

  She smoothed the burgundy vinyl seat. “Well, it’s not a Day-Glo Festiva, but it’s nice. Isn’t it a little conspicuous, though, when you’re on a stakeout?”

  “It strikes fear in the hearts of evil-doers everywhere.”

  “Well, I hope this music you want me to play helps you catch an evil-doer.”

  “As clues go, it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

  She turned to Camden. “Are you coming, too?”

  “It sounds like fun, but I have to work all day today.”

  “Such a shame,” I said.

  When I pulled up in front of the community college, Kary gave my arm a squeeze before she got out. “I’m excited about this. See you later.” She waved and went inside.

  Camden slid into the passenger seat. He gave me a sidelong glance.

  “My intentions are completely honorable,” I said. “And if you decide to come along, I’ll toss you off the first scenic outlook.”

  On the way to the shopping center, he didn’t say much, but he didn’t break into mournful song, either, so I figured he was all right. I wondered if I should mention Daisy and my trip to Bell City, but something told me to hold all the family information in reserve until I knew for certain I’d found Camden’s mother. Camden seemed himself today. Maybe Ashford had given up and gone back to the Other Side.

  Like most of the shops, Tamara’s Boutique was decorated for Halloween, black plastic torsos in the window draped in orange and gold, little bats hanging from the ceiling, and pocketbooks shaped like half moons dangling from the mannequins’ wrists.

  I pulled into an empty parking space. “Put Tamara on Ashford Alert. If he comes back, she can give me a call.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell her the window looks great. Very festive. Ask her what she’s going to be for Halloween.”

  “She’s made herself a very fancy witch costume.”

  “And what are you going to be?”

  He got out of the car and leaned back in the window for a moment. “I hope I’ll be me.”

  I drove down to Mayes Street where the stores were decorated for Halloween, too. The big half-price clothing store had an array of masks and children’s costumes in the windows. I remembered every single one of Lindsey’s costumes. There were pictures somewhere. Barbara had them. Barbara had all her things. Her first Halloween, we’d dressed her in a little pumpkin suit. Then she’d been an angel, a teddy bear, a fairy, a gypsy for the next two years, and then a princess.

  And now she was back to angel.

  God, I didn’t want to think about that. If I’d had any idea the pink princess dress with the real lace and gold spangles and jeweled crown she so adored she even wore it to bed was going to be her last Halloween costume—well, what could I have done differently? Her last Halloween, her last Christmas, her last Valentine’s Day—would I have cherished those special days more?

  Nothing special about the holidays anymore.

  Disgusted with myself for getting into such a mood, I turned back up River Street West and headed downtown, determined to do something constructive and find Pamela Vincent’s locket. People would be setting up for the festival this morning. Somebody who dealt in jewelry might have a lead for me, and some of my sources might have news about Albert Bennett’s murder.

  A few streets had already been closed off, so I had to park several blocks away and walk through the confusion of festival setup. Parkland’s Main Street is a wide boulevard lined with maple trees, brilliant red leaves carpeting the sidewalks. Large stores such as Montgomery Ward and Sears had gone out of business or moved to outlying malls, and instead of letting the buildings fall into ruin, clever developers had chopped up the space into little specialty shops, restaurants, and luxury condos.

  There was a strong smell of coffee and bacon from the corner café. The street echoed with the whack of hammers, the whine of electric drills, and the clang of dropped metal posts as people scrambled to get their booths assembled. Trucks, U-Hauls, and vans backed up and unloaded the stacks of tee shirts, boxes of candles, and piles of baskets. Further down the street, I found Buddy and a friend putting together the shelves that would hold all his carvings.

  He gestured me over. “Randall, come hold this side.”

  I held one end while he slid the other piece into a groove.

  He straightened and dusted his hands. “That’s got it, thanks. We’ll put the ducks here, Velmer.”

  Velmer was another large man in overalls, his long untidy brown hair sticking out from under a cap that said “Squirrels Unlimited.” His scraggly beard hung off his chin like Spanish moss. One hand was bandaged, apparently from the possum bite. He squinted at me. “This the Randall you was talking about, going to find us a dulcimer player?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “No luck yet, fellas, sorry.”

  “All the good ones is taken,” Velmer said. “Told you we shoulda started looking sooner, Bud.”

  “Well, hell, that ain’t my department. Hand me the ducks and quit being such a butt.”

  Velmer moved back to Buddy’s truck to grapple with a cardboard box. Buddy reached under a table and pulled out another box. “Don’t let Velmer rile you, Randall. He’s a few pickles short of a jar, if you know what I mean. I know you’re doing all you can.”

  “I’ve got several things going at the same time,” I said, “but I haven’t forgotten the Nasal Warblers.”

  “You mean the Frog Hollow Boys.”

  “Is that what you’re calling yourselves now?”

  “Velmer wanted us to be Goose Creek Fever, but another group�
��s got a name kinda similar.”

  Velmer returned with the box of ducks. “Well, Frog Hollow Boys ain’t too much of an improvement.”

  I didn’t want to spend the day discussing the merits of Frog Hollow Boys over Goose Creek Fever. These guys were going to sound pretty rough no matter what they called themselves. “Anybody setting out jewelry yet?”

  Buddy gestured with a duck. “On up the street. Fella’s got about a ton of belt buckles. Thinking of getting one with a salmon on it, what do you think?”

  He pronounced it “sall-mon,” so it took me a minute to realize he meant the fish. “Sounds good.”

  “And that feather woman’s here, the one with all the tattoos. She’s got some nice bracelets.”

  “Thanks.” I walked up a few blocks. Feather Woman wasn’t hard to find. She was about six feet tall, her unnaturally black hair pulled back in a long ponytail with what looked like two eagle feathers. She was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved tee shirt. Every inch of her muscular arms and what I could see of her neck and shoulders was covered with small multicolored tattoos, most of them intertwining flowers and vines. Her booth was already assembled. She was putting out cases lined in black and filling the cases with silver bracelets, necklaces, rings, and earrings.

  “Morning,” she said. She had strong features and dark eyes. She continued to work.

  “Beautiful stuff,” I said.

  “Not selling yet. Come back this evening.”

  “I’m looking for something in particular, a gold heart-shaped locket.”

  “I only deal in silver, and I don’t do hearts.”

  “Safer that way.”

  She gave me a thin smile. “True.”

  “Anybody in the festival deal in gold?”

  “Several people. You might try up at the corner, Tommy Fairbanks and Annie Blum. Or you might buy something more your style.” She picked up a ring shaped like a skull. “Here’s a nice little conversation piece.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Not into death? How about a lightning bolt?”

  “I thought you weren’t open yet.”

  She shrugged. “Somebody looking for a heart, I make an exception.”