Stolen Hearts Read online

  “Oh, hello.” She gave me such a dazzling smile I checked my beer to make sure it wasn’t foaming over. “I’m Kary Ingram.”

  I was surprised my voice worked. “David Randall.”

  “Randall will be staying here a few days,” Camden said.

  Another smile. “Nice to meet you, David. I hope the piano playing won’t disturb you.”

  She could’ve played the tuba for all I cared. “I love piano music.”

  Her golden hair swung in a sleek wave as she turned to Camden. “Cam, about what we discussed earlier.”

  “It has to be your decision.”

  “Donnie’s a wonderful person.”

  “Seems like a good guy.”

  “But am I doing this for the right reasons?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to work out.”

  “That’s true. Have you seen my Elements of Education textbook?”

  “It’s on the kitchen counter.”

  Kary went around to retrieve her book. “Kary’s taking classes for her teaching degree at Parkland Community College,” Camden said.

  That was not the important info. “And who is Donnie?”

  “A fellow she met at the college.”

  Damn. “Are they in a serious relationship?”

  “Well, he is.”

  Kary came back and picked up a book bag propped beside the piano bench. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to class. Will we see you at dinner, David?”

  “Yes, you will.” I hadn’t planned to stay, but there was no way I was refusing this angel’s request. My spirits took a definite upswing. She was so full of life and energy and purpose, everything I wanted to be again. Was it only a few hours ago I stood surrounded by jittery police lights, haunted by death? The harrowing scene faded in the warmth of her smile. But what was the deal with this Donnie character, and how soon could I dispose of him?

  When a car drove up and the driver honked the horn, the sound jarred me from my tangled thoughts.

  Kary looked out one of the front windows. “There’s my ride. See you later.”

  I stared at Camden, who settled back innocently on the sofa with his drink. “Don’t tell me she’s living here, too.”

  “Working her way through school on pageant money.”

  “You liar. You dirty old man,” I said. “Any more like her upstairs?”

  “Fred’s still here, and Rufus Jackson. You remember him. He’s doing construction work on the new stretch of I-85. That leaves a room for you.”

  “Any of them pay rent?”

  This earned me a dark look. “They do what they can to help out.”

  “In other words, no.” I took a drink of beer and reached for the pretzels. “How long has Kary been living here? I would’ve remembered her.”

  “Off and on the past year.”

  “How old is she? Do her parents know she’s living here?”

  “Kary’s got some issues with her parents. That’s why she’s here. I know she looks young, but she’s twenty-four. She has one more year to go at the community college to get her teaching degree. She had some health problems that sidelined her for quite a while. Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Ideas? Who’s got any ideas?”

  “Well, for starters, you can roll your tongue back in. You’re getting drool all over my rug.”

  I flipped him a friendly finger and took another swig of beer. “How serious is she about Donnie?”

  “As I said, he’s more serious than she is.”

  “Are they engaged?”

  “Nope.”

  “Best news I’ve heard all day.” A gray cat slid in from the kitchen and wound its way through the chairs. Then it leaped to the top of the sofa and curled itself around Camden’s neck.

  “This is Cindy. Another stray.” The cat gave him a long green-eyed stare. He patted her head. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m not going to believe you can read the cat.”

  He scratched Cindy behind her ears. “Only when she lets me.”

  Cindy leaped gracefully to the coffee table, sniffed the open bag of pretzels, and gave me an unwavering green stare. Then she jumped down and ran from the room.

  Camden grinned. “What did you say to her?”

  “What did she say to me is the question.”

  He gave me one of his power stares. “So how long do you want to stay?”

  “I’ll stay tonight, thanks, but that’s all,” I told Camden.“And turn down the high beams, will you? I don’t want you in my brain.”

  “But it’s so nice and roomy in there.”

  “Ha. I see your comedic skills haven’t improved.”

  “‘Comedic.’ That’s good.”

  “Give credit to my Word-A-Day calendar.” I put my feet down and heaved myself out of the chair. “I mean it, Camden. Don’t start.”

  He took another drink. “Okay.”

  I retrieved my belongings, went up the worn stairs to the second floor, and stopped in the doorway of the bedroom. I remembered this room: a calm shade of green with a big four-poster bed, green bedspread, green curtains, a chunky dresser with an oval mirror, a closet, and a small bathroom, also green. I stepped in and put my suitcase on the bed. The room smelled pleasantly of rain and old wood. I took a look out the wide window at the backyard, more large oak trees and a hedge full of ivy. Rain beat a steady rhythm on the thick leaves of the trees and on the uneven metal gutters. At least it wasn’t one of the violent thunderstorms we often had in the summer. That was another thing I’d gotten used to in the south.

  Camden couldn’t afford air conditioning, but there was a large fan by the window in case the room got too stuffy. Thanks to the rain shower, the room was cool, though, and slightly damp. I thought about unpacking my suitcase, hanging a few clothes in the closet, putting other things in the dresser drawers. I’d have to retrieve the rest of my wardrobe later, when Anita was away. I could probably find it on the lawn right now.

  Tomorrow, I’d start looking for an apartment. I wasn’t going to stay here.

  I peeled off my suit and put on drier clothes. Camden could get away with the refugee poet look. I like a little more class. I combed my hair and decided I didn’t look too old for Kary. Six years wasn’t that big a gap, was it?

  Chapter Two

  “All the Fair Ladies”

  I went downstairs and found Camden with another good-looking young woman, damn it. This one had short bouncy blonde curls, blue eyes, and a nice figure in a light blue power suit. She looked good, but she had a definite whine in her voice and a glare in her eyes. Whoever she was, she was severely pissed. Camden was still on the sofa, and the blonde was in the blue armchair, leaning forward in an attack position. She’d stopped talking when I came into the living room and cut those blue eyes toward me as if she’d caught my hand where it wasn’t supposed to be.

  Camden looked relieved by the interruption. “Randall, this is Ellin Belton. Ellie, my friend, David Randall.”

  She gave me the full force of that killer glare and a slight nod. “Nice to meet you.”

  I’ll stick with Kary, I thought as I walked past them to the kitchen. “Nice to meet you, too. Go right ahead. I want to see what’s in the fridge.” Their voices carried clearly.

  Camden sounded calm, with a slightly steely tone. “I’ve told you, I’m not interested.”

  “But this is good news, Cam. I’m on my way to WPKD. We go on the air tomorrow at midnight. It’s not an ideal time slot, but it’s a start.”

  Camden used to work for the Psychic Service here in town. I’d heard something about the group recently launching their own cable TV show.

  “That’s great,” Camden said. “I’ll be sure to watch.”

  “I want
you to do more than watch. I want you to be a guest.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but you know I can’t.”

  “Nothing drastic. Just tell about your experiences. I think this would be perfect. Everyone knows how good you are. You could add a lot to the program.”

  Which meant he could add respectability. Most of the so-called psychics who worked for the service are spacey-looking people, well-trained in the correct responses. Camden’s the genuine article, possibly the only one. But the last thing he wants to do is flaunt it.

  “Ellie, if I go on TV, I’ll be swamped with requests. You know I’ve retired from the service.”

  “I know you need money. This house must cost a fortune to keep up, and all these deadbeats don’t help.”

  “No, thanks. I wish you all the success in the world, but I really think you can do the show without me.”

  She kept her tone sweet. “Of course, but I’d rather do the show with you.”

  Camden wasn’t fooled. He tried to divert her. “Why don’t you ask Reg? He’s good, and he’s a lot more photogenic.”

  I’d seen Reg Haverson, a sleek preppie type who wouldn’t look out of place in a Sears catalog modeling the latest suits.

  Ellin refused to be diverted. “Haverson’s a media hog. He’d want to take over the whole show.”

  “I’m really not interested.”

  “Well, you might be interested in the big PBS special about music that’s going to be filmed here. I’m going to get in on it, and you’d be perfect, Cam.”

  “What, as the Singing Psychic? No, thanks.”

  “You think about it.”

  Camden didn’t promise anything. Ellin said good-by and hurried out. I came around the corner. “She seems nice.”

  “If there’s an angle, she’ll find it.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “She can be a little intense, but she’s the one.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  I gave him a Deep Look of my own.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “But I’ve been dreaming about her for years. What can I say?”

  “You’ll say yes to whatever she wants. I’m heading back to Morton’s. He’s supposed to have a paycheck for me.”

  He gave me one of his power gazes that in earlier times would have gotten him condemned as a witch. It felt as if my brain has become a Rolodex, cards flipping as he read my inner thoughts. “I think your luck’s about to change.”

  “You see a wealthy client coming my way?”

  “A client. I’m not sure if she’s wealthy.”

  ***

  I drove to Morton’s Detective Agency on Coronation Avenue. Coronation Avenue isn’t much of an avenue, and Morton’s isn’t much of an agency. We specialized in finding runaway spouses who don’t want to be returned, deadbeat dads who don’t want to pay child support—those sorts of fine upstanding citizens. Nothing your average community watch or crime stoppers TV program couldn’t solve. I spent most of my time on the computer and on the phone, tracking people through driver’s license bureaus, airline reservations, relatives who hated them, and other ridiculously simple sources. The other investigators spent a lot of time camped out in our dingy waiting room drinking coffee, playing poker, placing fantasy bets on sporting events, and wondering why they didn’t get a better class of clientele.

  Those days are over, I told myself as I got out of my car. I climbed two flights of stairs and pushed open the door. An investigator was sprawled asleep on the cracked leather sofa with a newspaper over his face. Morton’s office door was closed. I knocked and went in.

  “Got a paycheck for me?”

  My soon-to-be ex-boss scowled. Imagine one of those Disney pictures where all the inanimate objects come to life. Gordon Morton would be the cranky but lovable bowling ball. “Gordon Morton”—can you believe it? What were his parents thinking?

  “Sit down for a minute, Randall.”

  I took the metal folding chair opposite the desk. Aside from his P.I. license, which must be written on papyrus, Mort didn’t have much in the way of decoration. There was a dead plant on top of the filing cabinet, a stack of faded magazines in the corner, and a football trophy he used to prop up the window.

  Randall, I told myself, this is your life. Unless you do something drastic, you’re going to end up just like Mort. Get out. Get out now.

  Mort screwed up his small features. “You sure you want to do this? Leave the agency? You got a real talent for finding things.”

  “I’m tired of following people who don’t want to be married anymore. Maybe if we’d gotten some real clients with real cases. I think it’s time for me to be on my own.”

  Mort straightened the papers on his desk. ‘Well, don’t expect me to take you back if you get in over your head and can’t finish whatever jobs you might find out there. Paycheck’s on your desk. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  For the last time, I went to my office. My closet, I should say. An industrial gray closet. I had considered hanging out here until I found an apartment, but there was barely room for the desk, a chair for me, a chair for nonexistent clients, and the battered filing cabinet a family of elderly mice were using for a retirement condo. I looked out the small window at the rain falling on the gray street and into the gray trash cans and had a sudden image of the view from Camden’s front parlor window, all trees and grass and quiet neighborhood street. I imagined Kary coming home from work, and I’d be right there to meet her. We’d sit on the porch and talk about her day. Then while I cooked dinner, she’d play the piano. We’d watch TV in the island, talk about our dreams and plans and maybe even a family—stop, I told myself. No more fantasy. You had a family. You had the perfect family, and it all went to pieces. You’re not going through that again. You can’t.

  I put the paycheck in my pocket and went back down the stairs to my car. Just as I was unlocking the door, a red Honda pulled into the place next to me, and a woman with long light brown hair called from her window.

  “Excuse me. Could you tell me where I could find Morton’s Detective Agency?”

  “It’s on the second floor of this building.” On impulse, I added, “But I think they’re closed for the day. Maybe I could help you.” I dug out my ID. “My name’s David Randall, and I’m a licensed private investigator.”

  She checked my ID and then looked me up and down. Apparently she liked what she saw. “I have kind of an unusual problem.”

  “Then you don’t want Morton’s. They’re strictly deadbeat dads and cheating spouses.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that.”

  Seize the moment! “I have an office on Grace Street, if you’d like to stop by.”

  She thought it over. “I might do that.”

  “302 Grace. You can follow me if you like.”

  “All right.”

  I got back into the Fury and gave the woman a little friendly wave. As I started back toward Camden’s, I grabbed my cell phone and punched in his number.

  “About that parlor,” I said. “It needs to look like an office in about twenty minutes.”

  ***

  I’m not sure what had been in the parlor before, but by the time I got back to Camden’s house, he’d managed to make the room look like someone worked there. There was a small but nicely polished desk and swivel chair by the window, a chair for my soon-to-be-the-first client, some papers and pencils. I set my laptop on the desk and went back to hold the screen door for the woman. I gave her a closer inspection as she passed. She had a serene, serious air, as if she were the queen of a small but important country. She wore a long denim skirt and a bulky sweater decorated with farm animals with those little plastic swirly eyes. Slim legs piqued my interest about the rest of her figure. Her face was slender with brown eyes under well-plucked brows, a lo
ng nose, and lips that were just full enough.

  “Please come in. Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” She sat down in the chair. “I’m Melanie Gentry.”

  I sat down in the swivel chair. “How can I help you, Ms. Gentry?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about my great-grandmother.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “She’s been dead for sixty years. But I need help proving she was not a thief.”

  Great. A sixty-year-old robbery. Bound to be dozens of clues. My expression must have given away this thought.

  “I know you’re thinking it’s ridiculous to try to solve a mystery that’s so old, and I suppose I could live with it, except I know the truth, and I know my great-grandmother would’ve wanted the truth to be known.”

  “And the truth is?”

  She leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap. “My great-grandmother, Laura Gentry, is the one and only author of Patchwork Melodies, the definitive collection of folksongs from the Appalachian Mountains. Those songs were stolen from her, and the credit has gone to John Barrows Ashford.”

  I know nearly as much about folksongs as I do about ballet dancing, but when Melanie Gentry mentioned songs I flashed on the torn pages I’d seen from the murdered Albert Bennett’s notebook. The policeman said his notebook contained music notes and weird scribbling. Was it possible there was a connection?

  “Do you have any proof the songs were stolen, Ms. Gentry?”

  She dug into her shoulder bag. “I have all my great-grandmother’s letters.” She heaped an untidy pile of paper on my desk. “She and Ashford were lovers. They agreed to share everything. But he became greedy and wanted the credit. They say she fell into the river, but I think it was no accident. Then he claimed he had written all the songs himself.”

  I picked up a faded love letter to “Dearest John,” signed “Your loving Laura.” “Ms. Gentry, if this is true, why have you waited so long to tell anyone?”

  “A man named Kendal Robertson is planning a major documentary for PBS on early American music along the lines of Ken Burns’ Civil War series,” she said. “They’ll feature folk songs from this area. Ashford will get all the credit, and I can’t bear the thought of that.”