Stolen Hearts Read online

  “Have you approached John Ashford about this?”

  “Oh, he’s dead, too, and his great-grandson, Byron, refuses to see me. I tried to get the police involved, but they say I don’t have enough real evidence. As far as they’re concerned, Laura Gentry drowned in 1929, and that’s the end of it.”

  I pulled a limp songbook from the pile. The cover had faded flowers and a title in white: “Flowering Tree” by John Burrows Ashford and Laura Gentry. “Your great-grandmother’s name is on this music.”

  “That’s probably the last copy. There will be new copies of all the songs, only without my great-grandmother’s name. Byron Ashford will see to that. He thinks Laura stole from his great-grandfather and caused his death. Right now, it’s his word against mine.”

  “Is there anyone else alive who knew both of them? With a case this old, I’m not sure where to start.”

  Melanie Gentry came prepared. “I have some names for you.” She pulled out another piece of paper. “I work at Charles Park University, and Tate Thomas, a music professor there, could help you, and Harmon Lassiter is a retired folk musician who lives in Oakville, Ashford’s hometown. He didn’t want to talk to me, but he might be willing to talk to you. And there should be some women at Shady Oaks Retirement Home who knew Laura.”

  I took the piece of paper. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Mister Randall.”

  “One other thing, Ms. Gentry. Did your great-grandmother or Ashford know an Albert Bennett or his family?”

  She frowned. “No, I’ve never heard of Albert Bennett. Do you think he had something to do with this?”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  She stood and offered me her hand. “Thanks again. I’ve been everywhere, and no one wanted to help me. You were my last hope.”

  When I worked for Morton’s, I often joked that he should call his place the Last Resort Detective Agency, because we were last on everyone’s list. Now I had assumed that dubious honor.

  “Glad to help.”

  Another dip into the bottomless bag. Melanie Gentry pulled out a wad of bills. “Here’s three hundred dollars. I’m not sure it’s enough, but it’s all I have right now.”

  Three hundred dollars was more cash than I’d seen in a long time. I carefully straightened the pile of bills. “I’ll get right on it.”

  She gave me another grateful smile. I escorted her out, pleased with the way today was progressing. I had a client and three hundred dollars.

  And an office.

  I stood in the doorway, wondering if I could make this work. I didn’t waste much time soul-searching. Instead, I went through all the Bennetts in the phone book, hoping to find a relative of the murdered man, but every Bennett I called was not related to him. Then I had an idea. The contacts Melanie Gentry had given me might know more about Bennett. I could solve the Bennett case from another angle, beating Jordan at his game and improving my detective credibility.

  Tate Thomas’ secretary said he was out of the office and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. I made an appointment to speak with him. Harmon Lassiter didn’t answer his phone, and the message on Byron Ashford’s said he was in the Bahamas and would not be in Parkland until later in the week.

  Next, I read Laura Gentry’s letters to John Ashford. The first few were chatty and full of endearments. Then “Dearest John” became just “John” as the letters became more and more frantic, begging to see him, questioning his whereabouts, and accusing him of stealing her music. I looked up Ashford and Patchwork Melodies on my computer and found a list of his songs and a brief biography. Laura Gentry was mentioned only as his lover who died in a tragic accident. The online Parkland Herald account of Albert Bennett’s murder included a picture from his notebook. Bennett’s handwritten notation looked like worms, little curls and squiggles. Then I called Jordan and asked if he could tell me any more about Albert Bennett.

  “I won’t be taking any of your glory if you tell me what your people think about the writing in the notebook,” I said.

  Jordan must have been in a good mood. “We think it’s some kind of private or experimental music code.”

  “Is it worth anything?”

  “If it is, nobody’s come forward to explain why.”

  “Nothing else was missing from his house?”

  “Yep, a pretty clumsy job. Looks like Bennett surprised the thief. The intruder hits Bennett on the head, takes his notebook, and then drops it in the yard. A house full of antiques, jewelry, paintings, all ignored.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Nope.” Jordan hung up.

  I went looking for Camden to thank him for the quick office makeover and found him in the kitchen, spooning vanilla ice cream into a large bowl.

  “Use it as long as you like.” He offered me the ice cream carton, but I declined.

  “It was great for today, but I need some place a little more private.”

  “Nobody’s here during the day. Fred goes to the park. Rufus goes to work. Kary will be at the college, and I have a part-time salesclerk job at Tamara’s Boutique.”

  “Tamara?” I’d met her before. “Tamara Eldridge? Dynamite brunette?”

  “That’s right.”

  “As I recall, she’s sweet and kind and nice and doesn’t try to push you into doing things you don’t want to do.”

  “That’s her. Plus I do carpentry work.” He closed the ice cream carton and put it back in the freezer. “Cabinets, shelves, things like that. Every now and then someone hires me to refinish a table or build a TV stand.”

  “So definitely no more Psychic Service, no matter how many blondes beg and plead.”

  “That’s about it. You can have a room and an office space for a very reasonable rate.”

  And I’d be in the same house as Kary Ingram.

  Camden grinned as if he’d heard that thought, and he probably had. “After my snack, I’ve got to check on the neighbors’ house. I’m bringing in the mail while they’re on vacation. Why don’t you sit on the porch and think about it?”

  Chapter Three

  “The Deceived Girl”

  I couldn’t remember if I’d had lunch, and I didn’t want to raid Camden’s pantry, so I got some of my orange peanut butter crackers and took them out to the front porch. October in Minnesota, where I grew up, consisted of two days of fall color if we were lucky, immediately followed by snow and ice. Even though it was late afternoon, the sky still beamed a rich clear blue and the trees sparkled gold and red. Fallen leaves swirled in the warm breeze. Squirrels chased each other around the tree trunks and up into the branches.

  I sat down in one of the rocking chairs. Everything was peaceful and comfortable, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted my life to be the way it was before. I wanted to find the one thing I knew I couldn’t find. Since my life would never be the same, and my dearest possession was gone, I’d better consider myself damn lucky to have found a place to stay and at least one friend I could still count on.

  “Hello, David,” a voice called from the hedge between Camden’s house and the one next door. “Is Cam there?”

  Lily Wilkes emerged from the foliage, her cotton-white hair poking out wildly from beneath a round straw hat decorated with plastic cherries. Lily must have the worst fashion sense in Parkland. Her choices today included a yellow parka over purple long johns, green socks, clunky sandals, and a clear crystal like the tooth of some prehistoric cat dangling from a leather string around her neck. She was carrying a wooden box.

  “Sorry, Lily, you just missed him.”

  Lily hopped up the porch steps. “Shucks. I wanted him to feel these crystals.” She cocked her head. Despite her weird clothes, Lily is very attractive in a spacey elf sort of way. “You look like you could use a crystal, David. Le
t me see what I’ve got for you.”

  She sat down in a rocking chair and opened the lid. Light caught on little spears of white, blue, pink, and purple.

  I picked up one of the purple ones. “Those are nice. Where’d you get them?”

  Lily hugged the box. “Oh, I couldn’t tell you. These are special. I’m going to make some jewelry for the festival.”

  Parkland’s annual Falling Leaves Festival is always held in October. It’s a huge week-long street fair, crafts and food, musicians, tourists, the perfect excuse for anyone who thinks he’s an artist to display wares along the sidewalks. People come from all over North Carolina, swelling Parkland’s population to well over its usual two hundred thousand. One visit to the mass of humanity struggling to purchase metal wind chimes and ham biscuits had been enough for me. Maneuvering around town during Falling Leaves is an exercise in frustration. Trying to get a pizza delivered is hell. If you went anywhere near the center of town, your eardrums would be assailed with the worst bluegrass imaginable. Anyone with true musical talent would be light-years away.

  Speaking of light-years, back to Lily.

  “Did you get a booth?” Space was at a premium on Main Street.

  She nodded, the cherries on her hat bouncing. “I am so lucky. Margery and Clark said I could have a corner of their table.”

  “Margery and Clark?”

  “Two members of the ASG.”

  ASG stands for Abductees Support Group. Despite Camden’s assurance that they’ve never been off the planet, Lily and her pals swear they’ve been abducted by aliens, not once, but many times. Lily has even told me her white hair is the result of alien experiments. That I can almost believe.

  She rooted in the box. “Well, there was a very nice yellow one in here somewhere. Yellow’s good for soothing your aura.”

  I tried to keep a straight face. “Does my aura need soothing?”

  She gave me a long, serious look. “I sensed it the minute I saw you.” She found the crystal she was looking for and handed it to me. It was clear with a faint yellow tint.

  “Thanks.”

  “I put silver caps on all of them so you can hang it around your neck.” She peered deeply into my eyes. “You want something, David. You won’t be content until you have it.”

  “I think that could be said about everyone.” Cute as she is, Lily was beginning to get on my nerves.

  “This crystal will help you realize your dreams. Wear it in good health.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  She closed the box. “If I leave these with you, will you please tell Cam to check them?”

  “Sure. What’s he supposed to find?”

  “Well, I don’t want any with disruptive vibrations. Some could have been owned by bad people, you know. Some could have survived earthquakes. Some could have opposing minerals.”

  “That could hurt.”

  Lily always takes me seriously. “Especially if one’s psyche is fragile. I won’t need them back until the festival, so he can take his time.” She set the box in another rocking chair and peered at me from under her absurd hat. “Are you going to find Cam’s parents?”

  The question took me by surprise. “It’s not something we’ve discussed.”

  “Well, I think it would be a very good idea.”

  “Why? Has he said something to you about it?”

  “I sense these things, as you know, and I feel Cam has a real identity crisis.”

  If there’s anyone who knows what he wants out of life, it’s Camden. He wants a home, a family, and, God knows why, he wants Ellin Belton. “I think you might be mistaken there, Lily.”

  She shook her fluffy head. Cherries flopped. “I’ve consulted the Tarot several times about this, and every time, I reach the same conclusion. Cam needs to know who he is. It’s hampering his ability to grow as a person.”

  Camden has to be the calmest, most levelheaded person I know. “What makes you say that? He seems fine to me.”

  “He’s denying his true self because he doesn’t know who he is.”

  If there’s anything I hate worse than UFO crap, it’s amateur psychology. “Let’s leave him the way he is, okay, Lily? If he wants me to find his parents, he’ll say so.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “Well, all right, but it’s certainly something you should consider. After all, you can find them, can’t you, David?”

  I looked at her pixie face with its serious expression. I didn’t need this today. “I’d give it my best shot.”

  “Would you? Would you, really? You’re not too busy?”

  I pulled a wry face. “Busy?”

  She was immediately apologetic. “Guess things haven’t been going too well, have they? I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure things will pick up.”

  She got up and touched the yellow crystal in my hand. “This will help you.”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “Really. You have to believe, David, that’s all it takes. I want you to consider finding Cam’s folks.”

  “Well, what if I find them and they’re horrible people? What if they come around and make a lot of trouble, ever think of that?”

  “How could Cam’s parents be horrible?”

  “Their eyes could be on stalks.”

  She took two steps back and hugged her arms. “Don’t say that!”

  It’s way too easy to tease her. “Just kidding. You know Camden thinks he’s an alien.”

  She kept her distance. “Of course he does. Wouldn’t you, if you didn’t know where you came from, and you had all these amazing powers?”

  “A lot of people are psychic. It’s nothing that amazing.”

  “Not like Cam. I think his parents must be remarkable.”

  “I’ll let you know when their saucer lands.”

  Lily shook her head, exasperated. A few cherries fell off her hat and tumbled over the edge of the porch. “Don’t forget to use your crystal. Just believe, that’s all it takes.” She hopped back down the porch steps and disappeared through the hedge.

  No, Sugar, it takes a little more than a piece of sparkly glass.

  Cindy the cat came up the steps and hopped into the rocking chair. She sniffed the box of crystals and turned up her nose.

  “I think you’ve got the right idea,” I told her. “If it ain’t edible, it’s useless.”

  ***

  I drove over to Food Row and bought a newspaper. When I came back into 302 Grace Street, again, despite my frustration at my current situation, I felt the same sense of peace when I walked in the house. Cindy was dozing on the back window seat in a pool of sunlight. The floorboards creaked slightly, but she didn’t wake up. I could hear the ticking of the cow-shaped clock in the kitchen and the slight rustling of the oak leaves as they fell.

  I stood in the parlor doorway, debating what to do. Finally, I went back to the porch and looked through the ads for apartments for rent. Most of the places were too expensive. Several were way out of town. I halfheartedly circled a few addresses and phone numbers, realizing the source of my indecisiveness was a certain attractive young woman who’d been in my thoughts since the moment I met her. Like one of my favorite jazz songs said, I’d found a new baby, but I had to find the best way to approach her. Better concentrate on other problems. As I closed the paper, something on the front page caught my attention.

  “Smithsonian Director Found Dead in Office. Valuable Music Destroyed.”

  What?

  I quickly read the whole story. A member of the Smithsonian staff had been killed last night and several folders filled with music were scattered in the hallway. Officials were trying to determine exactly what, if anything, had been stolen, but many of the fragile papers had been trampled. Washington police suspected the murder was a possib
le diversion while thieves broke into other sections of the museum, but this could not be confirmed.

  Albert Bennett had been killed yesterday over a notebook full of old music. Melanie Gentry’s great-grandmother might have been killed over old music. And now a third person murdered over old music.

  What was going on? What were the murderers looking for?

  I went into the office and went online for more details of the Smithsonian crime.

  The murder victim was an assistant director in the antiquities department. He’d been working late and had forgotten to set the alarm on his hallway. Like Bennett, he’d been struck over the head and killed. The music folders had American folk music from the early 1800s up to the 1920s, and many pieces had been crushed and damaged beyond repair. No one was yet certain if anything was missing, but there was concern that some of the pieces may have been by Stephen Foster.

  I’d studied Foster in elementary school, so I knew he was a writer of classic American folk songs such as “I Dream of Jeannie,” “Camptown Races,” and “Oh! Susanna.” The paragraph in the newspaper referred to Foster as “The father of American music, the most popular composer of the nineteenth century.”

  The same time period as Laura Gentry’s music. The same time period of this new PBS documentary Melanie mentioned. I didn’t know a lot about folk music, but I did know anything by Stephen Foster was likely to be quite valuable. Is that what Bennett had in his notebook? But someone at the police department would’ve recognized a Foster tune, wouldn’t they?

  I called Jordan to make sure.

  Jordan sounded even more irritated than usual. “Nothing that even vaguely resembles music here, Randall, and I believe we agreed you weren’t involved with this.”

  A car pulled into the driveway. The sight of Kary set my pulse into double time. I quickly told Jordan good-by and closed my phone. She slid gracefully out of her friend’s car, waved good-by, and came up the walk.

  Maybe she’d like a drink. I ran around to the kitchen, grabbed the first soda I could reach, and I met her at the door. “I was just coming out to sit on the porch for a while. Care for a soda?”