Stolen Hearts

by Jane Tesh

  I used my cell phone to call Buddy. He was delighted by my news. “Lemme talk to her.”

  I handed the phone to Evelene. Her tone was respectful. “Yes, sir. Yes, I know that one. I can come practice whenever you say. Okay, great, thanks.” She handed the phone back to me. “He says I can come over today at five.”

  “Well, all right, then,” Lodene said.

  “Thanks, Mister Randall.” Evelene returned to beating on the dulcimer with renewed vigor.

  “I’ll see you out.” As we walked to the front door, Lodene said, “I appreciate that. Evelene’s been really down ever since her group broke up. Seems her boyfriend had other ideas and other girls. This’ll cheer her up.”

  “Glad I could help out.”

  She paused at the door. “About Laura Gentry. My great-uncle Robert saw what happened to her. Says he never got over it. Says she just jumped in the river and was swept away. There was no way he could’ve saved her, but he ran along the riverbank, hoping he could do something. Found her later downstream, all white and cold, he said, her hair spread out like a fan, her eyes staring wide open. He’d tell us about it and tears would start down his cheeks. Must have been a dreadful sight.”

  “Was John Ashford there?”

  “No. Robert says she was out walking by herself.”

  Evelene was playing a minor tune now, plaintive and slow. The notes fell like soft drops of water.

  “He went to speak to her, but never got the chance. He said he wished he could’ve said something to make her stop, but you can’t stop someone when they’re bound to die, now, can you?”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “Ashford died soon afterwards. Robert says some people said it was of a broken heart, but Robert always claimed the man had no heart to break. Never shed a tear for poor Laura, just went right on.”

  “People grieve in different ways.”

  She gave me a sharp glance. “Know something about that, do you? Let me tell you, my Elwin’s been gone these ten years, and doesn’t a day go by I don’t weep for him. Don’t guess I’ll ever run out of tears. People tell me I’ll get over it. Maybe I don’t want to get over it. Maybe it’s the only thing that reminds me I’m human.” Abruptly she reared back and called, “Evelene! Play something else. I’m tired of that sad song.”

  The dulcimer leaped into a lively run of notes. Lodene listened for a while and then looked back at me. “That’s better.”

  People get over it. Maybe I don’t want to get over it. Maybe it’s the only thing that reminds me I’m human.

  I sat in the Fury for a while, thinking about what Lodene Fiddler had said. I’d run out of tears a long time ago, but there was no way I’d ever get over losing Lindsey. What’s the point of having people in your life when you know you’re going to lose them? No matter how I felt about Kary, was any sort of relationship worth the pain?

  Or was all this just my twisted way of punishing myself for not being able to find my daughter when she needed me the most?

  The image leaped to my mind before I could stop it: the car upside down, a mass of jagged metal. Scrambling up the hillside, screaming her name, unable to see past the flames and rolls of black smoke—

  My hands shook as I started the car. Reliving the accident would not solve anything. Concentrate on this case, I told myself. Maybe this time you can do something right.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Oh! Susanna”

  When I drove up Lassiter’s street, I saw yellow police tape around his house and a crowd of gawking neighbors. I parked the Fury a good block away and then wandered up to join the gawkers.

  “What happened here?”

  A round little woman with a face like a potato shook her head. “Police found Mister Lassiter about an hour ago. Said he’d been attacked and the house torn to pieces.”

  I peered around the crowd, trying to see into the house. From here, I could see a windstorm of damaged National Geographics, gaudy yellow covers strewn about like petals. “Do they have any suspects?”

  Another woman, larger and more animated, spoke up, “Damn teenagers, that’s what it was! Vandals! Drug heads! Imagine attacking a poor old man.”

  “Wasn’t no kids,” a man said. “Police said it was one burglar.”

  “You don’t know,” another argued.

  Potato Woman kept shaking her head. “Everybody round here knows Mister Lassiter didn’t have no money or valuables. Whoever did this did it just to be mean.”

  “Well, they’ll know what mean is if he dies,” the large woman said. “They’ll put them under the jail.”

  “Has there been this kind of trouble in your neighborhood before?” I asked.

  “No, never,” someone else said. “We look after each other round here. I’ll bet this was just some crazy kids looking for trouble.”

  Potato Woman seemed to realize I was not from round here. “Who are you? One of them reporters?”

  “No, I’m a friend of Lassiter’s. Which hospital did they take him to?”

  “Mercy on Sixth.”

  I thanked her, made a few more comments of a general and sympathetic nature, and slipped away. I got into my car and looked at the faded notebook.

  Damn.

  I found Mercy Hospital, went inside, and inquired about Lassiter. Bad news. He’d died from head injuries fifteen minutes after they brought him in.

  ***

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near Lassiter’s house. I’d have to try tomorrow. I drove back to Grace Street. I’d gotten so used to turning off of Food Row and into the neighborhood I almost forgot 302 was not my home.

  But it could be, I reminded myself.

  Kary was sitting on the porch reading one of her large textbooks and making notes. She smiled as I came up the walk. “Did you take the recording to Mr. Lassiter? What did he say? I hope he liked it.”

  He never got the chance to hear it. I hated to have to tell her. “He had an accident, Kary. I’m sorry to tell you he’s dead.”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes filled with tears. She set her book aside. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think someone broke into his house looking for his notebook.”

  “That poor old man! Do you think it was the same person who killed Albert Bennett?”

  “I think there’s definitely a connection.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  I gave her my handkerchief. “I’ll find out who did this.”

  Her voice was muffled as she wiped her face. “You’d better. He was the nicest old fellow. Who’d want to kill him?”

  “I know Ashford and Bennett came along many years after Stephen Foster, but everybody kept a notebook, and that’s what this killer is after.”

  She took a deep breath and got control. “Then maybe what I found out will help. Stephen Foster died in 1864. Ashford was born in 1884 or 1885, so of course, he would’ve been familiar with Foster’s work. Everyone was. Horatio Bennett, though, was also born in 1843.”

  I did the math. “So he was twenty-one when Foster died.”

  “Which means they could’ve met, if Horatio was ever in New York. Foster was in Cincinnati from 1846 until 1850 as a bookkeeper, then he married and moved to Allegheny and also spent a lot of time in New York City.”

  Susie Bennett had told me Horatio had lived in New York. “Kary, it’s entirely possible they could’ve met. Now, could some musical work of Foster’s gotten into his notebook? Or into Ashford’s? It must not have been in Bennett’s, because the killer left the notebook behind. And there isn’t anything by Foster in the notebook Lassiter loaned to us.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  I got the notebook out of the trunk and brought it to her. She turned the pages carefully, inspecting each one.

&
nbsp; “Maybe somebody just thinks there’s a piece by Foster in Lassiter’s notebook,” I said. “Isn’t everything by Foster accounted for?”

  Kary smoothed the next page. “Well, this is what I found out. Even back in the 1800s, music was pirated. Singers would take songs to publishers and say they had written them. ‘Oh! Susanna,’ for instance, had as many as eighteen pirated editions. Copyright laws were not what they are today, and often Foster sold the rights to his songs and others made the real profits, or he just gave his works to publishers. But here’s the interesting part, David. According to present knowledge, there are only three copies of the first edition of ‘Oh! Susanna.’”

  “According to present knowledge. Which means, as far as they know.”

  “That’s right. Another copy would be a priceless piece of music.”

  Something people might kill for? Melanie had acted surprised to hear Lassiter had a notebook when she was the one who told me he had information. According to Ellin, Byron Ashford had money troubles. Would he have knocked off a Smithsonian director and Harmon Lassiter, trying to find something to solve his financial problems?

  “David, there’s something here.” Kary’s slim fingers tugged at the last few pages in the notebook. “It’s stuck, but I think I can get it out without tearing it.” She pulled gently at the fragile paper. “Oh, my goodness.”

  I looked over her shoulder. The music looked completely different from Lassiter’s and from Ashford’s. “What is it? Tell me it’s by Stephen Foster. There are examples of his work on the web, right? Let’s look it up.”

  We took the notebook into the office and checked the music with some online examples of Foster’s. They looked the same.

  “Is this ‘Oh! Susanna’?” I asked Kary.

  “It’s part of it.” She poured over the piece of paper. “And look at the date: February 25, 1848.” She shook her head in amazement. “It looks like one of the earliest editions. If it’s authentic, then this must be what everyone’s after.”

  “Okay. Now what do we do with it?”

  “I guess it should go to Mr. Lassiter’s family, if he has any.”

  “I’ll check.” I planned to go back to Oakville, anyway and look in Lassiter’s house.

  “You don’t want to give it to Melanie, do you?”

  “She says she’s only interested in making sure Laura Gentry gets credit and is mentioned in the documentary. She never said anything about Stephen Foster.” But she seemed awfully eager to get her hands on the notebook. And what was an eye from her sweater doing in the woods behind Albert Bennett’s house?

  That reminded me of something else. I took the little scrap of paper out of my pocket. “I found this near Bennett’s house. Any idea what ‘Tranquil Breeze’ might mean? Is that a song by Foster?”

  “No,” she said. “Maybe it’s a song by Bennett or Ashford. I could find out.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  She carefully pulled the Foster piece out of the notebook, agreeing with me that until I decided what to do with it, the music should be kept somewhere safe and separate.

  She went to the bookshelf in the living room and pulled out the “D” volume of the old set of encyclopedias. “The piano bench is a little too obvious. Why don’t we put it in here?”

  “‘D’ for—?”

  “For Foster’s last little piece of song. ‘Dear hearts and gentle friends.’”

  “That’ll work.”

  She slid the music into the encyclopedia, her hand lingering for a moment on the worn cover, her expression pensive. A victory hug was in order, but I hesitated.

  “Are you sure you want to keep working on this?”

  “Finding a lost piece of music by Stephen Foster should have been an exciting event, but Mr. Lassiter was killed and so was Albert Bennett.”

  “It’s upsetting, but—”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I’m not upset. I’m angry. I don’t want anyone else to die, certainly not over a piece of worn-out paper.”

  “We’ll find the murderer. Where’s the rest of the gang?”

  “Fred’s in the park. Rufus and Angie went somewhere together, and Cam’s still asleep.”

  I’d seen a package of hamburger in the refrigerator. “How about if I grill some burgers for supper?”

  By the time I’d cleaned the grill and had the burgers frying, Rufus and Angie had returned, Fred had wandered in from the park, and Camden was awake. Everyone except Fred was impressed by my culinary skill. I explained that, after two failed marriages, I’d better know how to cook.

  Angie brought a plate out to the grill. “You can put the burgers on here, Randall.”

  “Thank you.” I plopped the first finished burgers onto the plate.

  She shooed a few stray flies away from the burgers. “You’ll have to share all your recipes.”

  I raised my spatula. “Let me warn you. I can tell when I’m being made sport of.”

  Her smile made her tiny eyes almost disappear. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”

  “I have many layers.”

  “Like a big old cake? I believe it.”

  “That entitles you to the cheeseburger of your choice.”

  We decided to picnic in the backyard, so Rufus set up more lawn chairs. Ellin came in just as we were sitting down to eat. Kary and Fred looked alarmed, as if they expected her to grab a fork and start stabbing people. Camden indicated a chair beside him.

  “Hi, Ellie. Join us for dinner?”

  “No, thank you. If I might speak to you for a moment, please? In private?”

  Camden excused himself. We watched them go with varying levels of apprehension.

  Kary’s eyes were wide. “She doesn’t look too happy, does she?”

  “Does she ever look happy?” I asked.

  Fred stopped eating long enough to speak for us all, even though his mouth was full: “That woman gives me the willies.”

  We got real quiet. We could hear Ellin’s voice—hell, I think all of Parkland could hear Ellin’s voice—but we couldn’t make out any words. We heard pauses where Camden must have answered, or tried to.

  “What in the world does she want this time?” Kary said. “I wish she’d do her own psychic thing and leave Cam alone.”

  We listened. Now it was too quiet out there.

  “Do you suppose she’s killed him?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Rufus said.

  “I’ll go see.”

  I walked through the island and peered out the front door. Ellin’s car was gone, and Camden stood on the porch, looking out across the yard. The screen door squeaked when I opened it, but he didn’t turn around.

  “I think the next saucer’s due at eight fourteen,” I said.

  He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “If it shows any sign of stopping I’m hopping on board. Maybe women on other planets are easier to understand.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” he began, and then stopped.

  “Wonder what?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Thanks for cooking supper. We’ll put you on the list.”

  “The list?”

  “We take turns. I usually make lasagna, and Kary makes a mean tuna casserole.”

  “Don’t start with any plans for me. This is just temporary, remember? Oh, and come in the house for a second. I need to show you something.”

  We went to the bookcase, and I showed him the scrap of music tucked into the encyclopedia. The minute he touched the paper, his eyes went wide.

  “It’s real, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “In Lassiter’s notebook. Kary and I figure Horatio Bennett might have met Stephen Foster when
they were both living in New York.”

  “Then how did it get in Lassiter’s notebook?”

  “Who knows? That was a long time ago. Ashford might have hidden it there, or Laura. Foster was famous in their day, too.”

  He touched the paper again. His eyes glazed over. I wondered if he was seeing Stephen Foster sitting at a desk writing this song, or maybe standing at a window, the tune forming in his head. “This could be worth a fortune.”

  “Worth killing over. Lassiter’s dead and his house trashed. Someone was looking for this.”

  Camden put the music back in its hiding place. “This is why Ashford didn’t want anyone to have Lassiter’s notebook.”

  “I’m wondering if that warning includes Tate Thomas. His secretary told me Thomas was excited about finding something. Now, what if he suspected this connection between Bennett and Ashford and Foster and encouraged Melanie and Byron, too, to hunt for this notebook?”

  “Why not hire someone like yourself to find it for him?”

  “And why not ask his colleague, Albert? Something’s going on here, and until I figure it out, the best place for this little piece of music is volume ‘D,’ and the best place for the notebook is in the trunk of my car.”

  ***

  That night as I stretched out on my bed, I thought: I told Camden this was temporary, but I’m still here. I enjoyed sitting on the porch watching the birds. I enjoyed cooking for everyone. It was as if I had my life back. Almost.

  Outside, the remaining oak leaves rustled softly. I drifted off to sleep. Then I realized the rustling sound wasn’t the leaves. It was the rustle of a dress, of lace. She wasn’t very distinct, but I would have known that white lacy dress and those long brown curls anywhere. She was standing in my doorway. As she opened her mouth to speak, I jerked myself awake.

  “No!”

  Heart pounding, I made myself look where she’d been standing. There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there.

  “There’s nothing there,” I said aloud, but that other part of me asked, What did she want? What was she trying to tell you?