by Jane Tesh
Shut up! I told that inner voice. There’s nothing there.
I finally convinced myself and went back to sleep. I forced myself not to dream, and, as usual, it worked.
Chapter Twenty-one
“A Breeze From the Hills”
Monday morning, I wanted to get back to Oakville. Maybe things had settled and I could have a look around. As luck would have it, Lassiter’s street was quiet and the houses on either side of his looked empty. I parked the Fury around the corner and walked back, taking the side driveway and coming around behind the ancient garage. The wind tossed leaves and more pieces of National Geographic in the small backyard, a whirl of shredded yellow covers, brown tape, and faded address labels. The policeman who stepped out onto the back stoop almost saw me, but I ducked back behind the garage. I caught my elbow on a rough board and stifled a curse. I hadn’t seen a police car. Probably waiting to see if the criminal returned to the scene of the crime. Not the place I needed to be.
The policeman went inside. I cautiously made my way back to the Fury and drove to the nearest gas station to think about my next move. My phone rang. It was Kary.
“David, I found out that Ashford and Bennett met in Oakville. I found a reference in one of the old newspaper accounts of the Bennett System. Bennett invited several musicians and composers to his mountain retreat in the hopes of selling them on his system. According to the report, Ashford attended this meeting. The report doesn’t say what he thought of it, though. That would’ve been interesting.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you know where this retreat was?”
“Let’s see.” There was a pause while she checked her source. “Here it is. Oh, my. Well, this answers your question. It was called Tranquil Breeze.”
All this time I thought “Tranquil Breeze” was the name of a song.
“Tranquil Breeze? You’re sure?”
“Yes, but that was years ago, David. It might not be there anymore.”
I used my phone’s direction application to look up Tranquil Breeze. I found a Mountain Breeze and a Friendly Breezes Trail, but no Tranquil Breeze.
I bought a sandwich and a Coke and headed up to Mountain Breeze. Mountain Breeze was an upscale development of huge cabins perched on the hillside, each with a spectacular view of the mountains and valleys. The owners had given their homes names like “Heaven on Earth” and “Our Home in the Sky.” I found a man pulling mail from his mailbox and asked about Tranquil Breeze.
“This is a new development,” he said. “Nothing was up here till about two years ago. You might try the old road that goes up to Glen Valley.”
“Is that Friendly Breezes Trail?”
“Yeah, that’s what they’re calling it now.”
Friendly Breezes Trail wound around and about until it seemed to meet itself. The few houses I saw were half hidden in the trees, or so old and moldy I couldn’t imagine anyone living inside. About halfway up, I came to a roadside stand. I pulled over and parked. I bought an apple and asked the elderly woman at the cash register about Tranquil Breeze.
She wiped her hands on her apron. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”
“I’m looking for the Bennett place.”
“Yes, there were some Bennetts living there.”
“This would’ve been around the late Twenties, early Thirties.”
“That’s about the time my family moved here.”
“Did you know John Ashford or Laura Gentry?”
To my surprise, she blushed. “Lord, yes, everyone knew John Ashford.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, now, I personally didn’t know him. I knew who he was. His songs were mighty popular around here.”
“So it’s possible he could’ve stayed with Bennett when he came to town?”
“I imagine so. He was always wanting to talk about his songs and showing people how he wrote them, like he was some sort of special music teacher. Some folks hung on his every word, especially that Gentry girl. She thought she could write songs, too, but they was never any good.”
“I heard there was a tragedy involving Laura Gentry.”
“Jumped in the river and drowned herself.”
“And Ashford?”
“Don’t know what happened to him. This Bennett fellow, now, his place burned down round about ’45, ’46. Never was rebuilt.”
“So the house was a meeting place for local musicians?”
“I suppose you could say that. According to what I’ve heard, there was some fancy parties there. Ashford always liked to surround himself with pretty women. They’d come from all over just to meet him.”
I’ll bet Laura loved that. “Thanks. I appreciate the information. Has anyone else been asking about Tranquil Breeze?”
“Well, come to think of it, there was a couple come by. Some lady and her boyfriend. I guess that’s who it was. They argued like they was married.”
“Do you remember what they looked like? They might have been friends of mine.”
She thought a moment. “They was fairly ordinary. He wasn’t a friendly fellow, that’s all I can say about him. The woman, now, she was a bit nicer. Had on one of them sweaters with little animals on it. Always did like those.”
Melanie Gentry. “Were they in a red Honda?”
“No, some fancy car. Real sporty.”
Had Byron Ashford been with her? “And they wanted to know where the Bennett place was?”
“Just like you. And just like you, I told them it had burnt down. They looked right disappointed. Still wanted to know where it was.”
“I’d like to know, too,” I said. “I’m studying the history of this region, and I’m always interested in the little offbeat stories.”
“Well, you just continue up this road till you come to a crossroads. Turn left and go about half a mile. You’ll see a driveway, but that’s all that’s left. Might be a few bricks or boards. I ain’t been out there in years.”
An RV pulled up and five overweight tourists in shorts and baseball caps got out. I thanked the woman and got back into the Fury. I drove to the crossroads and turned left. It took me a few tries to find the driveway half-hidden by trees and vines. Someone’s tires had pushed down the grass and broken the small branches that had fallen in the driveway. I rounded a slight curve and came upon the vine-covered ruins of what had once been a large cabin. I got out and had a look. More tire tracks showed where a car had turned around. Another set of tracks had dried in a low place in the drive, a set with distinctively wide tread. Not the kind of tires on a Honda. The kind you’d find on a sports car, say for instance, on a Corvette like the one parked beside Byron Ashford’s house.
If the couple the woman talked to were indeed Melanie and Byron, what made those two decide to take a road trip together? How did they know about Tranquil Breeze, and what did they expect to find here?
The woman at the road side stand and her talk of parties at Tranquil Breeze gave me an idea how the copy of “Oh! Suzanna” might have found its way into Lassiter’s notebook. Lassiter had told me his mother knew both Ashford and Laura Gentry and that she had been to “some kind of party” at Ashford’s house, which could have been Tranquil Breeze. Lassiter also recalled Laura playing his mother’s piano, playing the tunes in his notebook. What if Ashford had given Lassiter’s mother “Oh! Suzanna”? Ashford was scornful of Foster’s work. He might have decided to give it away. Or Laura might have realized the song’s worth and hidden it, not in Patchwork Melodies, but in her friend’s notebook where no one would think to look.
***
Angie met me at the door. “Whew. He’s been Ashford all morning. That is one ornery rascal.”
“All day?”
“And you got a visitor in your office.”
I had re
cognized Melanie’s red Honda in the driveway. “She hasn’t met Ashford, has she?”
“I been doing my best to keep them apart, but you know how Ashford is.”
I reached my office in time to hear Ashford declare in his best Pompous Ass voice, “So here is the young woman who would smear my good name.”
When Angie went to the door, Ashford must have used the opportunity to enter my office and approach Melanie Gentry. He had his back to me, so I could see Melanie’s startled face.
“Your good name? I don’t even know you.”
Ashford immediately began his sad story. “Not in this body, no, how could you? But I assure you I am John Burrows Ashford, and as for what transpired between myself and your great-grandmother, you were not there! How dare you presume to know anything about our relationship? I loved Laura Gentry with all my heart. I never harmed her. You cannot know the depth of my feelings for her.”
Melanie glanced at me, her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “What is going on? What is all this?”
I decided to attack it head-on. “This is the spirit of John Ashford. He’s decided to park in Camden for the day. Anything you’d like to ask him?”
“If this is your idea of a joke, it’s a pretty sick one.” She moved away from him. “No, there’s nothing I’d like to ask him, alive or dead, but there’s plenty I’d like to ask you.”
“Camden—I mean, Ashford, will you leave? This is private business.”
He stood, arms folded. “I’ll not go until this young woman apologizes for the slanderous tales she has perpetrated about me.”
Melanie clutched her pocketbook like a shield. “Tell your insane friend to get out.”
“Ashford.”
“I’ll not budge.”
“If this sort of thing continues, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
I couldn’t afford to lose a paying client and someone who might be involved in all the events surrounding the notebook. “Ashford, we’ll settle this later, I promise.”
He tossed his head. “I demand an apology.”
“Melanie,” I said, “just tell him you’re sorry so he’ll leave, please.”
“I refuse to play your crazy game. What are you trying to prove? Why should I apologize to a total stranger?”
I don’t know how long they would have stood there, glaring at each other, if Angie hadn’t reached in and pulled Ashford out of the room. He had time for one startled “urk!” before he was gone. I shut the door.
“I’m very sorry. Camden is susceptible to spirits and sometimes he gets carried away.” I didn’t have time to explain in detail, and anyway, she didn’t care.
She made a great show of sitting down and fussing with her skirt and her hair. She wasn’t wearing the animal sweater. I wondered if it was at the cleaners getting its eyes restored. “After all that, I hope you have some good news for me about the notebook. Did you find it?”
“I have a pretty good idea where it is.” In the trunk of my car.
She’d forgotten all about Ashford’s demands. “You’ve done an excellent job. I really can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“Well, give it a shot. What exactly does it mean to you?”
For a brief moment, she looked annoyed, as if having to explain things again to a cretin such as myself was beneath her. Then she smiled. “It means my great-grandmother will get the credit she deserves. It means the new documentary can set the record straight. It’s part of history.”
I didn’t tell her my theory of history: it’s all wrong. Just like you, Ms. Gentry, I suspected. “Just credit and glory. Nothing else?”
“That’s enough for me.”
“Sure there’s not some money involved somewhere?”
She made a dismissive gesture. “I want Laura’s good name to be restored, that’s all.”
She had to know. Why else would she want the notebook? Did she want the notebook badly enough to break into a house and knock an old man on the head?
Was Melanie Gentry capable of murder?
I hadn’t thought so at first, but after seeing the anger in her eyes when confronted with Ashford, I was beginning to wonder just how far this woman would go to get what she wanted.
“What if the information in the notebook proves Ashford wrote the songs?” I asked her.
“Then that’s it, I suppose. I will have done all I could.”
She’d told me when we first met she knew nothing about Albert Bennett. “Have you been up to the mountains lately to see where Ashford and Laura lived?”
“No.”
“Albert Bennett’s great-grandfather Horatio knew Ashford. He had a cabin in the mountains called Tranquil Breeze. Did you know about that?”
“No. What does this have to do with anything?”
“Mister Bennett may have had something to help support your claim.”
“This is the man who was killed? Didn’t the murderer leave his notebook behind?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you haven’t asked to see it.”
“The police say it’s just scribbles and they have to keep it as evidence. I can’t see how that would help me, at all. I’m only interested in Lassiter’s notebook. As soon as you find it, you let me know.” She got up. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I saw her to the door and watched her drive away. Maybe she truly wanted Laura Gentry to take her rightful place in history. Maybe I was a harem dancer in a previous life.
Wait a minute. Was that Ellin’s car in the driveway?
I had only a moment to process this, when damned if I didn’t hear Ellin and Angie getting into it. My first clue that Ellin was using her voice only dogs can hear. The remaining oak leaves were falling rapidly.
Ellin had confronted Angie at the dining room table. Angie, placid as ever, cut some cloth into a large blouse shape.
“Well, hell, blondie, if I wasn’t so crazy about Rufe, I’d be all over the little guy, and I mean all over. What’s your problem? I’m surprised that boutique babe hasn’t carved her initials in him already.”
I hadn’t seen Ellin speechless. I enjoyed the sight for five seconds. Then she said, “This is none of your business, you interfering cow!”
Angie gave one of her glacial shrugs. “You don’t want him, fine by me. I know lots of girls who’d be thrilled to have such a nice guy.”
Ellin was scandalized. “Of course I want him! I love him. I always have. Doesn’t anyone in this stupid house see that?”
Angie lobbed her next bomb. “Seems to me you like him better when he’s Ashford.”
“Ashford is a pig!”
“But a mighty sexy pig, now, isn’t he?”
I never thought Ellin Belton would ever actually be glad to see me, but she glanced in my direction and gave a frantic signal. “Randall, get over here and tell this woman the truth! Tell this woman how much I love Cam!”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “You tell Camden how much you love him.”
As before, she got this odd expression on her face and closed up shop. “I don’t know why I bothered with you,” she said. “Or you,” she added to Angie. “Neither one of you has the slightest idea how I feel.”
“Neither does Camden.” I turned to Angie. “What did you do with him?”
“I tossed him in his room.”
“Go on up,” I told Ellin. “Whoever’s up there will be glad to see you.”
“I came to see you.”
“Me?”
She went past me, heading toward the office. “Could we talk in your office?”
I followed, amazed. “What do you want?”
“You asked me to find out if Byron Ashford was in Washington this week. Mother said he was. She has society friends up there, and they saw him at a fund-raiser at th
e Smithsonian.”
So Byron hadn’t been in the Bahamas as his answering machine reported, but conveniently at the Smithsonian where he could easily slip away from a party. “Thanks. That’s actually very helpful news.” But I knew this wasn’t the only reason she was here. She could’ve just as easily called me with the information. “And?”
“And Robertson still wants to meet Cam. Have you talked to him?”
She should be halfway up the stairs to comfort Camden or enjoy Ashford’s manly presence, but apparently, the position at the Psychic Service Network came above all things.
“I thought you two had already thrashed this out.”
“And I thought you were going to help me convince him.”
“Look,” I said, “why don’t you go upstairs and talk to him? I know you want this spooky possession thing to happen on camera, but it’s not doing Camden any good. I want Ashford to get out and stay out. Then maybe Camden will take part in the documentary—as himself.” I wanted to add, wouldn’t that be enough for you? But I had an idea nothing would be enough for Ellin Belton.
“I really wanted to go with the Spiritualism angle,” she said. “It would be ratings dynamite. Robertson’s in town for another two days, and then he’s going to another location.”
“Well, go up and see what Camden says.”
She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to the studio. I don’t have time to argue with him again, and I don’t really want to. If he doesn’t want to help me, then that’s the way it is.”
“I don’t think it’s a question of wanting to help you. He’s not in control. Ashford is. You have to decide which one you really want.”
She gave me an icy stare and left without another word.
Chapter Twenty-two
“The Cruel Mother”
I went up to the third floor to Camden’s bedroom. It was a large open room. Light filtered in through pale sheer draperies looped off-handedly over wooden curtain rods. Except for the ornate light fixtures and elaborate molding around the ceiling, which must have been original, there was a stack of books on the floor, an old wingback chair, a bureau with clawed feet, and a telescope pointed out the back window. Camden was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head down in his hands. I knocked on the open door.
