Stolen Hearts

by Jane Tesh

  “This heart was stolen.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  I walked past more booths. A tangle of wind chimes made uneven melodies in the brisk breeze. Slick wooden chairs and tables were stacked up under one tent, as well as wooden key holders, napkin holders, and candleholders. I passed a large woman unloading framed photographs of lighthouses and two stout men in overalls pushing a cart filled with apples.

  “David! Over here!”

  Lily waved from a tent made of spangled purple netting. I wandered over to admire the celestial glory of the ASG’s Festival Tent. Bright plastic stars hung from the corners. Three tables were covered with crystals resting on purple velvet. Lily was covered in some sort of ghastly red-and-white polka dot shawl, her white hair under something that might have been a sombrero decorated with one of the plastic stars.

  “Look what a great place we have this year!”

  I wasn’t sure what was so great about being wedged between a booth full of oddly colored pots and a booth selling peanuts, but I made all the right replies.

  Lily continued to color-coordinate her crystals. “You see, everybody loves peanuts, so we’ll always have a crowd. Last year we were beside these really expensive paintings and Emma Lou’s Country Jumpers that cost forty dollars apiece. We didn’t do well at all, but this year, we’ll be able to do really well, I think.”

  “I think so, too, Lily.”

  She beamed at me. “Do you still have your lucky crystal?”

  “I carry it with me everywhere.”

  “Are you buying someone a present?”

  “Looking for a stolen necklace. I haven’t had much luck.”

  “You’ll find it. You’re very good at finding things.”

  I almost told her I might have found Camden’s mother. “Thanks.” I left her pondering whether or not to put a big clear crystal beside a blue one and went on up the street.

  Tommy Fairbanks and Annie Blum were in the middle of an angry quarrel. Fairbanks was a big, soft-looking man dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel shirt. His loose, fleshy face contrasted with Annie Blum’s sharp bony little features, but his pale blue eyes and her dark gray eyes were filled with the same furious glare.

  “I told you to bring the chains,” he said. “What were you thinking? Now I’m going to have to go all the way back to Lewisville to get them.”

  “You didn’t say bring the chains.” Annie Blum had on tight jeans, a blue shirt, and a leather vest. Under normal circumstances, she might have been pretty, but anger had screwed her face until she looked ready for a broomstick ride. “Am I supposed to read your mind? We didn’t need the chains in Asheville. We didn’t need the chains in Meritsonville. What makes you think we need so many damn chains here?”

  Tommy Fairbanks gave the side of his head a slap. “Hello! I can’t believe you’re so stupid. This is Parkland! Two hundred thousand people and the biggest street festival in North Carolina. We need all the chains we can get.”

  From what I could see of their booth, they had dozens of gold and silver bracelets, gemstone rings, and quite a few chains. Not enough, apparently.

  Annie Blum blew out an exasperated breath. “I’ll go back to Lewisville and get them.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t. I know how you drive. The festival will be over before you get back. You stay here and run the booth. I’ll go get them.”

  “And leave me to do all the work?”

  “If I leave now, I’ll be back by seven tonight.”

  This quarrel showed no signs of slowing. A small crowd had gathered to watch this bit of street theater. I thought I’d circle around and check with the happy couple later.

  A fellow named J.W. dealt only in semiprecious stones. Fergus McNeely, despite his Scottish-sounding name, was an Asian man, and his specialty was jade. His business cards said, “Fergus Hiroshi McNeely,” which I found very melodic.

  By the time I returned to Fairbanks and Blum, Tommy had gone to retrieve the all-important chains, and Annie was sitting in a lawn chair behind a bank of glittering bracelets, glaring and smoking like a dragon guarding her treasure.

  I wanted to say, Got any chains?

  She took the cigarette out of her mouth. “We’re not open.”

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

  “We don’t have anything like that.” Her fierce expression dared me to ask another question, but I’m so used to Ellin’s glares, this one seemed almost anemic.

  “Do you know anyone who does?”

  She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke. “If you’d like to wait a couple of days, you could ask my partner.”

  Lily and her sparkly purple tent looked amazingly normal after all that. She was still alone, still fiddling with the crystals as if trying to find the perfect alignment.

  “Did you have any luck?” she asked.

  “Tommy and Annie seem a bit fractious.”

  “Oh, they don’t like each other,” she said.

  “But they’re partners?”

  “I know. Isn’t it odd? They always come to the festival.”

  “You’d think they’d find other people to work with.”

  “Well, Annie does the designs, and Tommy puts the pieces together. Their jewelry is really in demand. They make a lot of money.”

  “It always comes down to money.”

  “I guess that’s why they put up with each other.”

  I looked around. “Did your pals get abducted? I thought they were bringing drinks.”

  She pointed to a can of Diet Coke. “They did. Now they’ve gone to find lunch. Do you want to stay and eat with us?”

  “No, thanks.” I’d had enough festival for now. “See you later.”

  ***

  I found my own lunch at Janice Chan’s, one of the few restaurants still downtown. Janice and her partner Steve make the best hot dogs I’d ever eaten, fat and juicy in soft steamed buns. As usual, the little place was busy, but I didn’t mind waiting. Janice caught my eye and nodded. She’d have my order ready by the time I got through the crowd. Janice, a slim dark woman of Chinese ancestry, and Steve, red-haired and taciturn, made as odd a team as Tommy Fairbanks and Annie Blum. Steve was always in the back, cooking and cleaning, rarely emerging from the clouds of steam. Janice ran the front, pausing occasionally to push strands of her silky black hair behind one ear.

  Most of the customers were picking up their dogs to go, so I found a seat on one of the red leather stools at the counter. After a while, there was a lull in the action, and Janice brought over two hot dogs all the way, fries, and a Coke.

  “David.”

  “Hello, Jan. Seems a little more crowded today.”

  “It’s the festival. Always brings in more people.”

  “You mean not everyone wants pork rinds and apple sauce?”

  “You’d be surprised.” She wiped up a spill of cola.

  “Janice, I’m looking for a gold heart-shaped locket that’s missing from a home in Greenleaf Forest. Have you heard anything about that?”

  Thanks to a steady stream of talkative customers, Janice hears everything that happens in Parkland. “No. Things have been pretty quiet lately. Everyone’s been discussing the festival. Do you need to know about a certain warehouse shipment, or perhaps the latest leak at the city council?”

  “No, thanks. What about Albert Bennett, fellow who was murdered late Sunday night, maybe early Monday morning?”

  “Over by where you used to live?”

  “Yeah. The only thing taken was a notebook the police found on the lawn. It has some strange music notes in it.”

  “A notebook with music in it?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Oh,” sh
e said. “Then you might be interested in this.”

  Janice gets all kinds of newspapers for her customers to read. She handed me a copy of the Washington Post. “Page two.”

  I folded the page back, and Janice pointed to an article. I read, “Officials now believe the man who attacked and killed an assistant director at the Smithsonian was looking for a sketchbook containing the works of American song writer, Stephen Foster. An expert in the field of early American songs and folk music said the original sketchbook is in the Stephen Foster Memorial Museum at the University of Pittsburgh and the murderer may have mistakenly thought it was in the Smithsonian.”

  Good grief. Another notebook! I read on.

  “Foster, author of some of America’s best-loved songs, including ‘Oh! Suzanna,’ ‘Camptown Races,’ and ‘Beautiful Dreamer,’ kept a sketchbook to draft ideas for song lyrics and melodies. A digital copy is readily available online, courtesy of the University of Pittsburgh and the Center for American Music. Police are continuing their investigation.”

  And I’d better continue mine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “My Hopes Have Departed Forever”

  I had a few minutes before meeting Kary, so I went back to the college. I noticed a black Corvette just like Byron Ashford’s in the visitors’ parking lot. I wanted to talk to Tate Thomas, but he wasn’t there. His secretary looked as if she’d been crying.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She sniffed and blew her nose into a tissue. “Sorry. One of my friends was let go this morning.”

  I wondered if this was the same friend she’d told not to worry. “That’s too bad.”

  “She’s not the only one. Professor Thomas is worried he might be next.”

  “Doesn’t he have some kind of seniority or tenure?”

  “He’s sixty-eight and the college is really coming down on the professors who haven’t published anything lately.”

  Thomas hadn’t looked that old to me. “Is this a real possibility?”

  She nodded and blew her nose again. “I’d hate for that to happen. I’d be out of a job, too. But I think things are going to change for the better. Professor Thomas has a meeting with Kendal Robertson this afternoon, you know, the man who’s filming a documentary about early American music? Professor Thomas is certain to be interviewed for the film. If he’s chosen for this documentary, it would be a huge boost to his career, and then I doubt the college would let him go.”

  “Is Thomas that well-known?”

  “No, but he will be. He’s been very excited lately about the possibility of finding something very important. He couldn’t tell me the details, of course. It’s not unlikely for another professor to steal his ideas. It can get kinda cutthroat in the academic world.”

  The possibility of finding something very important. Could Ashford’s music be more valuable than Thomas let on?

  She gave her nose one last pat. “Can I give him a message?”

  “No, thanks. Just one other thing. Has a man named Byron Ashford been by to see Thomas?”

  “Yes, he came in just before you.”

  “Has he been here before?”

  “Yes, I think Professor Thomas is helping him locate some of his great-grandfather’s music.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll try to catch Thomas later.”

  As I was going out the door of the music building, Melanie Gentry was coming in. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Have you been to see Thomas?”

  “His secretary told me he’s meeting with Kendal Robertson.”

  She jumped right on this. “Really? When?”

  “Now, I believe.”

  “Has he found something? Have you found something?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to Harmon Lassiter’s this afternoon.”

  Her fierce look faded. “Oh. Well, that’s good.”

  “Tell me something,” I said. “Is Ashford’s work worth more than anyone suspected?”

  “I don’t think Ashford’s work is worth spit,” she said. “Laura’s, however, is priceless.”

  “Did you know Thomas is also talking with Byron Ashford?”

  “Yes, but I have every faith you’ll find what I’m looking for first. If Lassiter has any sort of notebook, I want to see it. Under no circumstances should Byron Ashford get his hands on it.”

  “Thomas’ secretary said Thomas has been excited about the possibility of finding something important. Was she talking about this notebook?”

  “Good heavens, no. Tate Thomas would not be that interested in Laura’s work or Ashford’s. She must have been talking about something else. He’s doing research on Beethoven. Maybe he’s on the trail of a lost symphony.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed her. I knew enough about Beethoven to know he wasn’t an American composer. If Thomas was trying to get a part in Robertson’s documentary, he wouldn’t meet with him to discuss anything Beethoven might have lost. “Well, I hope I can have good news for you by later today.”

  “Excellent,” she said.

  ***

  And excellent was the word I used to describe the sight of Kary waiting for me in front of the community college. It was a perfect October afternoon, the sun at just the right angle in the bright blue sky, and the cool air filled with the smell of burning leaves, but as I leaned over to open the door, I noticed she looked distracted.

  “Those pesky teachers pile on the homework?”

  She tossed her book bag on the backseat and slid in. That’s when I saw the tiny sparkle of light on her left hand. My heart went down for the count. The only thing that saved me was her preoccupied expression. She didn’t look like a woman who’d just been given an engagement ring. It’s been my experience that delighted gasps and ear-splitting squeals are involved as well as an uncontrollable impulse to inform the entire world.

  I cleared my throat. “Are congratulations in order?”

  She glanced at the little diamond. “Yes, thank you.”

  Maybe she was stunned. “Was it in your hamburger?”

  This finally brought a smile. “You almost called it. The ring was around a carrot in my salad. We have a joke about his aversion to vegetables.”

  I couldn’t believe she was going to go through with this. “So when’s the happy day?”

  “Oh, that’s a ways off. We’ve got so many things to get straight first. I want to get my degree and a teaching job, preferably here in Parkland. He wants to finish his degree. He’s already been offered some great jobs. The only problem is most of them are out of state.”

  Do you really love him? I wanted to ask. Is he worth all this frustration? “Would you want to move?”

  “I don’t know. I always thought that if I stayed here, maybe someday I could—” She swallowed hard. “Do you still have your parents?”

  “My dad died five years ago. My mom lives in Florida.”

  “Did you get along with them?”

  “I was really lucky. They were the best. My mom still is.”

  “You could talk to them? Explain things?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t say anything for several moments, her gaze on the houses and fast food restaurants that lined the street leading away from the college. I wasn’t sure what to say. What had she done that required forgiveness? Or was the only sin her parents’ one-sided view of the world? I had the worst suspicion she was marrying Donnie not only to goad them into contacting her, but also because he could offer her stability and security. I was neither stable nor secure at this point, but I damned well planned to be. And I wasn’t giving up. She wasn’t married yet.

  She looked back at me, her expression puzzled, as if she couldn’t quite decide what to say, either.

  “You’ve got a lot to think about,” I said.

&nb
sp; She waved her hand as if erasing the subject. “Tell me some more about the case.”

  As we drove toward the interstate, I told her as much as I knew about John Ashford and Laura Gentry and their ill-fated love affair. I was glad I had to keep my eyes on the road. If I’d had to look into her face, I’m not sure I could’ve driven very far, my emotions were so scrambled.

  “That’s sad,” she said when I’d finished the Ashford/Gentry saga. “So obsessive.”

  Since I was teetering on the edge of obsession myself, I decided not to comment.

  “Kary, you’re a musician. What do you know about Stephen Foster?”

  “I know there are a lot of myths about him that aren’t true.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, he wasn’t a Southerner. He was born in Pennsylvania and made only one trip to the south, to New Orleans. You know the song, ‘Camptown Races’? Camptown is in Pennsylvania.”

  “I always thought that was way down south somewhere. What about ‘My Old Kentucky Home’? You’re saying he never lived in Kentucky with the old folks at home?”

  “I think he was seeing that as everyone’s home.”

  Like 302 Grace, I thought. The ideal.

  “And Foster wasn’t an untrained musician who just sort of floated around gathering melodies,” Kary said. “He was a professional songwriter.”

  “Any mysteries about him? Any missing songs or legends of lost operas?”

  She thought for a moment. “There was a stage work that was performed but never published, but that was early in his career. I don’t know if that would count.”

  But it might, I thought. Somebody’s after something. Albert Bennett’s screwy little notes, John Ashford’s folk songs, Laura Gentry’s—forget it. A lost work of Stephen Foster’s would be worth a fortune.

  Kary’s attention was on the flame-colored leaves rushing past. “He died young. He was only thirty-seven with just thirty-eight cents in his pocket. And a piece of paper that said, ‘Dear friends and gentle hearts.’ Dear friends and gentle hearts. I’ve always thought that was so sad.”

  I did not want her to be sad, not even the slightest bit melancholy. “Here’s where your research skills come in handy. Anything else you can find out about Foster would be very helpful.”