Stolen Hearts

by Jane Tesh

  “How in the hell could you be so stupid? Couldn’t you have waited to find out?”

  Melanie’s voice was shrill. “Stupid! I don’t think I’m the stupid one here. If you’re not careful, I’m going straight to the police.”

  Immediately, he calmed down. I could hardly hear his next words. “All right, all right. The main problem is the notebook wasn’t there. Are you sure Randall doesn’t have it?”

  Melanie was calmer, too. “He told me Lassiter wanted to hang onto it because it had some of his music. I never touched the old man. He wouldn’t let me into his house.”

  “Well, somebody touched him.”

  “Byron, of course.”

  “What would he be doing there?”

  “The same thing he was doing at the Smithsonian.” She gave a brief laugh. “I’ve got the goods on him, too, so whatever anyone finds belongs to me.”

  “You have no idea of the value, the historical importance—”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I want my money.”

  The secretary returned, so I had to move away from the door and pretend I was up stretching.

  “They’re still in there?” she said. “Sorry about that. You want to come back tomorrow?”

  I didn’t want Melanie to see me. “Let me give you my cell phone number. I think I’ll go get a cup of coffee, and you can call when Thomas is ready to see me.”

  I made sure I was out of sight and waited in one of the little courtyards beside the building until the secretary called with the all clear. As a precaution, I waited a few more minutes and then went in.

  Tate Thomas was visibly upset, his face pale, his hands trembling as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He motioned me to a seat. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Randall. I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

  “This will just take a second.” I plopped the notebook on his desk.

  Talk about an instant cure. He immediately leaned forward and gasped in surprise. “Is this Lassiter’s?”

  I nodded.

  His eyes gleamed. “Have you shown this to Melanie Gentry?”

  “No, just you.”

  He opened the notebook and looked at Lassiter’s tiny notes. He turned a few pages. “Copies of songs, some original works. Not very original, but some game attempts at capturing the essence.” He went through the notebook page by page. “I recognize some of Laura Gentry’s work. Copied, of course. And here are a few of Ashford’s. Lots of inferior tunes by Lassiter, some familiar tunes by Gentry and Ashford, and the original notation for ‘Two Hearts Singing,’ perhaps Ashford’s most famous song, written here by Ashford himself. Let me just make sure.”

  Thomas reached across to his crowded bookshelf and pulled down a large volume. “I believe there’s an example of his handwriting in here, a photocopy of a speech he gave to a musical society.”

  The handwriting in the speech matched exactly.

  “In your opinion, could this notebook prove Ashford is the author of ‘Two Hearts Singing’?”

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “Is there any proof in this notebook that Laura Gentry wrote any of the songs in Patchwork Melodies?”

  “No, if anything, it proves she had very little to do with the collection.”

  Bad news for Melanie, but good news for Camden. Ashford was going to have to vacate the premises. “Is it worth anything?”

  “Maybe to a collector of folk music.” He kept searching through the pages. “Is this all? I mean, he didn’t have another notebook?”

  “This is it. Were you looking for something else?”

  He couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice. “Well, there’s always the chance there might be an unpublished gem hidden somewhere.” I saw his expression change as he found the place in the cover where Kary had removed “Oh! Susanna,” but he didn’t say anything. Kary had borrowed some special glue from the college media center and repaired the cover. “Mr. Randall, this is a remarkable find. May I ask what you plan to do with it?”

  “Well, since it proves Ashford is the real composer of Patchwork Melodies, I doubt Melanie Gentry will want to it. I thought about Lassiter’s family, but he doesn’t have any.” At the mention of Lassiter’s name, Thomas winced. “Yesterday in Oakville, someone killed Harmon Lassiter. I think they were looking for this notebook.”

  “Yes, I heard something about that. That’s dreadful news.”

  “And I’m sure you also heard about the murder at the Smithsonian.”

  “Yes, indeed. A horrible thing.”

  “Someone killed Horatio’s son, Albert Bennett, over a notebook, too. What do you think they’re looking for?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” he said. “However, if you’d care to leave Lassiter’s notebook with me, I could check it over more thoroughly. Perhaps there’s something that’s been overlooked.” He paused as if coming up with an idea. “Kendal Robertson might like to examine it while he’s in town. He’s an expert. He might find something I didn’t.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better keep it,” I said.

  I could tell Thomas did not want to let go of the notebook. “Really, Mr. Randall, it’s no problem. I assure you I’ll keep it safe.”

  “Yes, but will you be safe? Three people have been murdered. I don’t want you to be the fourth.”

  He swallowed hard and handed the notebook to me. “I understand. Perhaps, when this is all cleared up, you can bring it back.”

  “I’ll be glad to.”

  “I assume you’ll be calling Melanie Gentry?”

  “Yes.”

  Thomas looked defeated. “Very well.”

  I was going to call Melanie, but first, I wanted to talk to Byron Ashford, and I wanted to have a look at his tires.

  ***

  I’d hoped to get a look at the Corvette before Byron saw me, but he met me at his front door. “What’s this all about?”

  “Just thought I’d check by and see if you’d changed your mind about working with Melanie Gentry.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You haven’t had any contact with her?”

  “No.”

  I didn’t think he was going to let me in, but he grudgingly stepped aside. We went into the living room. He didn’t offer me a seat.

  “I can only spare a few minutes, Mr. Randall. I’ve got several errands to run. Have you found any proof that Laura wrote anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “So you’ve just been asking around?”

  “Yeah.” He was lying, so I joined in. “Nothing so far.”

  He relaxed somewhat and then jumped all in. “You haven’t come across a very old notebook that belongs to some old guy in Oakville named Lassiter, have you? I think some of my great-grandfather’s original handwritten notation is in that book. If Melanie Gentry gets her hands on it, she’ll destroy it.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she’s a nut. I wish I had it. It would settle this nonsense about authorship once and for all. You haven’t unearthed it, have you? The old geezer says he won’t sell it to an Ashford.”

  “You’ve talked to him recently?”

  “No, some time ago. He said it contained just his songs, but you never know.”

  If, as Melanie intimated, Byron killed Lassiter for the notebook, it wasn’t in Lassiter’s house. Now Byron was fishing for clues to its whereabouts.

  “I’ll talk to Melanie,” I said. “Maybe I can find out something about this notebook. Why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “You’re working for Melanie Gentry. Why should I help?”

  “But if I find this notebook, you want it.”

  “Damn right I do.”

  “You haven’t been out to the mount
ains lately, have you? Maybe take the Corvette for a spin?”

  He frowned as if I’d said something in a foreign language. “What?”

  “Your great-grandfather used to visit a fellow musician at his mountain home, Tranquil Breeze. Thought you might have been curious to see it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “No. I’ve never heard of any place like that.”

  “Just asking. You have a terrific car, by the way.”

  As I’d hoped, he was so proud of the Corvette, he didn’t mind showing it off. While he bragged about aluminum cylinder heads and compression ratios, I wandered around the car, making admiring noises. Unfortunately, the tires were clean, with no convenient pieces of dried mud that could be compared with the dirt at the cabin, but I could bet money the tread matched what I’d seen at Tranquil Breeze.

  I opened the driver’s door. “Don’t suppose you’d let me take her for a spin?”

  “No way I’m letting you drive this car.”

  “I’ll sit and dream, then.”

  He laughed. “You’ll never be able to afford one of these, that’s for sure.”

  I slid behind the wheel and pretended to admire the interior, all the while hoping to spot some clue he’d been at Lassiter’s house. But except for some white shirts and a pair of tan slacks folded neatly on the passenger’s seat, Byron kept his treasured car spotless.

  I wanted a closer look at these clothes. “Where’s the hood release? I’d like to see the engine.”

  For a few moments while the hood was up, I glanced through the clothes. No blood stains. No rips or tears. Nothing in the pockets of the slacks. But down in the cuff of one leg, I felt a very thin slip of paper. I curled the paper in my hand as I exited the car. I spent another twenty minutes learning more about Corvette engines than I ever wanted to know. After thanking Byron for his time, I drove to the nearest gas station and examined my treasure. Well, I’d been having pretty good luck with little pieces of paper. This one was no exception. It was a mailing label from a magazine, and not just any magazine. A National Geographic magazine, mailed to Harmon Lassiter, 1045 Evenway Avenue, Oakville, NC.

  I put the label in the Fury’s glove compartment. Now what? Take the label to Jordan? Confront Byron? I decided to bag it and save it. It might come in handy.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “The Sinful Maiden”

  I kept hoping Ashford would get tired and bored and leave on his own, but he still put in appearances. This time I was ready for him. I looked through the house for Camden and couldn’t find him. Then I knew he was Ashford when I found him in my car, frowning at the controls and testing the steering wheel. Camden doesn’t drive.

  I leaned in the open window. “Ashford, what the hell are you doing?”

  He glared at me. “Learning how to operate your automobile. It’s a bit more complicated than my machine, but not beyond the scope of my understanding.”

  “And why do you need my automobile?”

  “I intend to go to my great-grandson and tell him the truth.”

  “I got your truth. Get out of the car.”

  Reluctantly, he followed me to the porch. I handed him the notebook. “Here’s your proof, now scram.”

  He turned the pages, his face pensive. “Yes, this is my writing. This is the original version of ‘Two Hearts Singing.’” He looked up from his reading. “I want to see Byron.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s impossible. He’ll never believe you’re his great-grandfather.”

  “Are you planning to give Byron this notebook? Will he turn it over to the proper authorities? How can I be sure this won’t fall into the wrong hands?”

  “It’s in my hands. I’m the good guy, remember? I’ll take care of everything. You get out of Camden like you said you would.”

  I didn’t like the look Ashford had in Camden’s eyes, that cold calculating glitter. “I wish to speak to my great-grandson. I want to be sure this information is in the hands of an Ashford. Then I’ll go.”

  Byron Ashford would never believe the spirit of his dark domineering relative was in a fair slight man who favored sloppy clothes. “No. You keep adding demands, and this notebook’s confetti. You wanted proof. Here’s the proof. Now get lost. I want to talk to Camden.”

  In a moment, Camden’s face relaxed. “I’m here.”

  “It’s about time.” I put the notebook back in the trunk of the Fury and slammed it shut. I came back to the porch. “Are you going back to the festival today?”

  “In a little while.”

  “Okay. I’ve just about solved this case, so that should be the last of Ashford. The songs are his.” He nodded. “You all right?” He looked odd, but then, Ashford bouncing in and out couldn’t have been comfortable. “Come inside and get a Pop-Tart. As soon as I talk to Melanie, I’ll give you a lift downtown.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I went into the office to call Melanie Gentry, but first, I sat down at my desk to think.

  Melanie Gentry and Byron Ashford. Each one wanted the notebook, but couldn’t get it. Suppose they knew about the connection to Stephen Foster and the possibility of another copy of the first edition of “Oh! Susanna.” Suppose they were working together, and this feud of theirs was all for show. Suppose they said, Bennett’s notebook didn’t have what we wanted. Lassiter won’t give his notebook to either of us. Let’s get someone else to find the notebook for us. Even if they hated each other, they still might work together to achieve a common goal, especially if it involved a large sum of money, just like Tommy and Annie with their jewelry booth.

  But there was someone else in this equation, someone who might not have needed money, but needed a big discovery to save his job: Tate Thomas. Being a music expert, he must have known about a possible copy of “Oh! Susanna.” When Melanie Gentry came to him with her complaints about Ashford, he must have known the connection to Bennett and then to Foster. Find the notebooks, he would’ve told her. Hire someone who’ll have no idea of their worth. If there’s anything by Foster, let me have the discovery, and you can have any money a collector might pay. But Byron Ashford wanted in, too. He had debts to pay. So Byron took his private jet to Washington and was playing in the old sheet music when he was surprised by a director and had to kill him. Then he went after Lassiter.

  Did Thomas know these people were on a murderous spree? Or had he planned the whole thing?

  No, wait. There was something else. I overheard Melanie say she had the goods on Byron, and then she said, “too.” She said, “If you’re not careful, I’m going straight to the police.” When she was in the woods, what if she saw the murderer leave Albert Bennett’s house and was now blackmailing this person? And who would that be? Why not Bennett’s old colleague, Tate Thomas? Thomas desperately needed a discovery to save his job and to assure him a place in the documentary. What if his old buddy refused to show him Horatio’s notebook, and Thomas took it by force?

  Time to find out.

  Melanie Gentry answered the phone on the second ring. “Mister Randall, I hope you have good news for me.”

  “That depends,” I said. “I hope you have a few answers for me. Did you know Harmon Lassiter had been murdered?”

  I heard her suck in her breath. Pretty dramatic and possibly rehearsed. She knew Lassiter was dead. “Murdered?”

  “I’m wondering if someone was after his notebook.”

  Another gasp. “You’re not suggesting—”

  “I’m just thinking out loud.”

  She immediately gave up Byron. “Byron Ashford would do anything to keep me from getting that notebook. You need to talk to him.”

  “I will.”

  “What about the notebook? You still have it, don’t you? Is it safe? Where is it?”

  Now, how did she know I had it? Thomas must have called her right a
fter I left. “It’s safe. I’m sorry, but it proves Ashford wrote the songs, not Laura.”

  Silence. Then she said, “Oh. Well, I’d still like to see it.”

  “I’d be glad for you to see it, but I think it ought to go to Lassiter’s family.”

  Another long silence. “I suppose that’s best. Where is it now?”

  I knew Melanie and Byron were working together. Did I want either one of them to ransack 302 Grace or show up on the doorstep with murderous intent? “Why don’t we meet at the college?” I said. Nice safe neutral territory. I’ll call Jordan and have him standing by. “Thomas’ office? Say, in about an hour?”

  She agreed. The minute she hung up, I heard a noise. A car noise. Had someone driven up? I looked out my window. No, someone had driven out. The Fury was gone.

  God! I leaped up and ran outside. Damn it to hell! I should have realized something was up when Ashford gave in too easily. The sneaky bastard had pretended to be Camden, had taken my spare key off the kitchen board, and was speeding toward Byron Ashford’s with the notebook in the trunk.

  Don’t panic, I told myself. He doesn’t know the way to Byron’s, does he? He’ll have to stop and ask someone. There’s a chance I can still catch him.

  Catch him with what? Everyone else was at the festival. I took out my phone to call a cab when Ellin drove up. Perfect!

  “Lend me your car!”

  “I will not,” she said. “What the hell is this?”

  “Ashford’s run off with Camden. He’s heading for Byron’s. Move over!”

  “No! You get in.”

  I ran around and hopped in the passenger’s seat. No telling what Byron Ashford would think when Camden burst in.

  Ellin gripped the steering wheel. “This is just great. I thought about what you said and came back to talk to him. Why weren’t you watching him?”

  “I thought Camden was back.” She started down Willow. “Don’t go this way. You’ll run into all the festival traffic.”

  “Don’t tell me how to drive. I’m going to cross over Food Row at the bakery and take the service road.”