The Way You Make Me Feel (7 page)

Shrugging, she turned to the second verse and jotted down,

Smiling, she played the melody through. Thinking about what she'd just interrupted, she told herself that once
was
enough. She liked the conversation they'd had that morning about passion. The man was deep and it crept into her mind that he was also sexy. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and her face grew dreamy. Studying the many single words scrawled on the big sheet of paper, she was pleased that this was going to be one of the easy ones where the words and the music just came to her like the gifts from God they were.

She called out a playful “Enter” at a knock around twelve and Damien came in with a big bag of trail mix.

“Something just told me you'd like trail mix and this is one of the finer varieties. No sugary stuff.”

She took the bag from him. “You're right, sometimes I seem to live on trail mix when I'm writing and I don't want to stop to fix something to eat. Thank you. You're so thoughtful.”

“Occasionally I don't have time to be. How's the song coming?”

She hunched her shoulders. “Damien, it's almost writing itself. You write songs, so you know how that goes sometimes.”

“Yeah.”

She handed him the paper with the two verses on it and hummed the melody.

“Sure like that music, and the words talk to me.” He sat down and studied the verses. Suddenly he smiled. “This song is like you, Stevie, divided as to feelings.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Take the first verse. Warm, but holding back. Likable. Rich with feeling, but, like I said, holding back.”

He closed his eyes. “But, ah, this second verse lays it on the line.” And he quoted, “‘Deep down inside I want you. Each breath I draw will reveal…' Nothing hidden there. You want this love and you ask for it, pure and simple. This is good, baby. Even unfinished it's good and like I said, the melody is rare.” He thought a moment. “I'd keep it the way it is. Life is like that sometimes, holding back when we should leap forward. When you do leap in the second verse, it moves my very soul.”

“Thank you” was all she could say.

“Do you want to go out to lunch, go down to the cafeteria, or have something sent in?”

“So many choices. I'm often bashful when I'm composing. Could we have something sent in?”

“Sure. Come into my office with me. I usually watch the twelve o'clock news.” He glanced at his watch. “And, oh yeah, there are a couple of rascals you know who called and said they're coming by.”

“Who's that?”

“Zeb Willis and Sam Pearce.”

“Oh, wonderful! I think I remember them in a good way.” Zeb was her agent, Sam her manager.

In Damien's office the two men had been seated when Stevie and Damien came in. They both got up and rushed to her, nearly knocking each other over in their haste.

“Hey, you, Stevie!” Zeb's big bass voice thundered from his short, portly frame. Middle-aged with fire-red hair and snow-white skin, Zeb was one of the best agents in the field of country music and he had helped make Stevie rich and famous. He had gotten her her due. He hugged her tightly and held on.

The dapper young pecan-brown man with black hair just behind him tapped Zeb on the shoulder. “Don't make this an all-day show,” he said. “I'm eager to get my hug.”

Zeb let go and Sam hugged Stevie hard. “Listen you guys,” she said, laughing. “A body would swear I haven't seen either of you in a month of Sundays.”

They both mentioned Stevie's amnesia and said how sorry they were.

“But, Lord, you're looking well,” Zeb said. “Sure, I see the scratches, but they take nothing away. Baby, they want you in Atlanta, Hotlanta that is, in July or August and the deal I'm working on will make you salivate.”

Stevie nodded. “Sounds interesting if I'm well by then.”

“You will be. And you don't even have to sing. The way your audiences love you, just being there will be enough.”

Sam kept tapping his foot impatiently. “And I'm doing my thing, too. Take your time and get well. I won't let Zeb push you too hard because we've got to protect that glorious voice. Kid, when the Lord made you, he threw away the mold.”

Damien got on the intercom and gave Sheila his order for lunch for the four of them and they settled down to watch the noon news.

The large, lighted painting of the late Otis Blackwell smiled benignly down on them. He had penned over a thousand songs, had written for top singers like Elvis, sang and played piano beautifully himself. He was Stevie's idol.

No sooner had the news begun than the female anchor announced a breaking news story.

“This morning around eleven o'clock the body of a woman identified as Bretta Evans was found in the woods a couple of miles from Nashville. Police said the woman had been shot to death. She was quickly identified by a label in an orange-red jogging suit she was wearing.”

The room was spinning around Stevie then and the orange-red ball was as big as the room itself. It was all there and it didn't dwindle at all but reached out to her, captured her and held her in its deadly grip. Dimly she heard Damien call her name and felt his arms around her. Bretta. She saw Bretta clearly and remembered her as blackness engulfed her.

W
ith an emergency appointment, Stevie was in Dr. Winslow's office within two hours. Damien had been sick with worry that Bretta's death was going to prove to be too much for her. But she had rallied as he'd quickly grown accustomed to her doing. Now she sat across from the psychologist who studied her with kind eyes.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.

“I'll survive. You say I'm a survivor.”

She was quiet for a very long time with her eyes closed before she sighed and began, “I
saw
the whole scene again when the news came on TV. I'm sure of it. But when I fainted and came to fully it was gone. I
do
remember Bretta now, but not after Sunday of last week.”

“And today is Thursday. Almost a week. What happened on Sunday?”

She seemed anxious to talk now. “She called and said she had to see me, and she came over to my house. We had coffee and Danish, or at least I did. She was so nervous she couldn't eat. She spilled her coffee. I asked her what was wrong, and she shook her head and said she couldn't tell me right then but she would later. ‘You're going to think I'm an awful fool and I'm afraid that's just what I've been.'

“She wouldn't say any more and I pressed her. She looked terrible, as if she hadn't slept for nights. ‘If you'll tell me what it is, I can probably help. You always say I'm good at helping others,' I told her, but she refused. She said she'd have a lot to
confess
—that was the word she used—when this was over and that would be soon. I think Keith, her ex, killed her.”

“And he's threatened you. I want you to be very careful.”

“Oh, I will be. I've got Damien.”

“You're getting closer to him all the time.”

She blushed then. “Yes. All the time, but he's in love with someone else.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He doesn't have to. I just know.” She hugged herself and swallowed hard. “Bretta was the sister I never had, Dr. Winslow. We were so close. She was in
love
with Keith Muncy. Even after he treated her the way he did, beating her and all that, she loved him. She worshipped his station in life and always admired what she called his class. Beating women. Some class.”

She drew a deep breath. “But I think it all turned to hate at the end. She won a very large divorce settlement from him and he always resented that. Even though he could easily spare the money, he didn't want her to have it. I called Jake a monster. They're both monsters. Yes, I'm sure he killed her.”

“And you're afraid he'll kill you?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm not. I should be, but I'm not. Am I being a fool?”

“No, but you may be in denial. As I said, I want you to be very careful. The aftermath of Bretta's death is going to take it out of you. Will you be going to her funeral?”

“Oh, yes, I have to. She often talked of what would happen when she died. After her father's death a year ago, she got very morbid and said she was no longer afraid of dying because she'd be with him. I'm going to give Jessi, her sister, all the help I can.”

“Please don't overdo. You've been through a severe trauma.”

“I won't. I'm going to sing next Thursday at Club Insomnia…”

Dr. Winslow hesitated, said slowly, “Well, I don't know if that will be wise.”

She leaned forward. “I've
got
to. That way I'll be close to Bretta. I'll be singing, but I'll be watching faces in the crowd, too. I'm going to do everything I can to help find her killer and if it's Keith, to bring him to justice.”

He frowned. “Your first debt is to yourself and getting well. It isn't going to help anything if you put your life in danger.”

She seemed to ponder what he said for a moment. “I said I'd be careful and I will, but I've got to do this.”

The doctor leaned forward, too. “Well, life is based on disagreements and you say you have to do what you have to do, but I insist that you be careful. How is your medication affecting you now and do you have enough?”

“I have enough and I can't believe how much it's helping me. It's like a miracle. I'm functioning well and my mind is clear—well, except for the dream which I've only dreamed once. And the visions when I close my eyes. It kills me not to be able to remember. Bretta came by that Sunday and it's all as clear as a summer day—then nothing. Why?”

“That's what we're struggling to find out. And we will. I'm convinced of that. You've made incredible strides since we began Tuesday. You remember so much now…and it's only four days.”

“But not the most important thing. I keep feeling that if I remember, I die. Now can you see why I've got to get out, to sing and watch the crowd, talk to people, study them, especially Keith…”

“Stevie, I'd give Keith Muncy a wide berth if I were you. You say he has a history of being out of control. Why expose yourself to that kind of danger?”

Her jaw felt as if it would break with tension before she said, “Because I've
got
to know. Bretta would do the same for me.”

He only nodded. “You'll have to talk again with law-enforcement officers, too. I don't mind telling you I'm concerned about your welfare. I must admit you're an admirably sturdy young woman, but we all have our breaking point. And you need time to grieve.”

“I'll take time to grieve, but doing what I can to solve this murder will be a part of that grieving. I loved Bretta very much. She could be headstrong and wayward, but we were close. She was once one of my backup singers and dancers. She was gifted and she never really used those gifts.”

Again the doctor nodded. “Will she be buried here in Nashville?”

“Yes. I'm going to sing.”

“Stevie, I…”

“I'll be all right. Damien will be with me.”

“You're very fond of him.”

“We go back a ways. We're fond of each other. Too bad it'll never be love.”

“At least you have what you have and you see things so clearly.”

Suddenly Stevie looked very sad. “Except for one thing I'm unable to see at all.”

 

At home a little later, Damien, Cina and Ben hovered around her. Damien thought she was too quiet and his heart hurt for her. She seemed so determined. They were all in the sunroom when Cina answered the door chimes and brought Detective Rollins back. Ben and Cina left and Detective Rollins turned sad eyes on Stevie.

“I'm sorry about your loss,” he said. “I came here to save you a trip to my office. There are a few questions you can help me with, if you feel well enough. Please stay, Damien. There may be things you'll know.”

Stevie brushed a tear away. “I'll always feel well enough to help you. Don't worry about me.”

The detective questioned Stevie gently and expertly. Several days before, they'd found Bretta and Stevie's cars. She told him all the things she'd told Dr. Winslow. He asked other questions before he finished. “We already have good leads and there'll be others. We don't feel this was any random thing, but a crime of violent passion.”

Stevie felt she would retch but she managed to reply. “The more I hear about this, the more I feel it's Keith Muncy. He's such a demon.”

The detective only shrugged and said, “If you should ever remember, please call me as soon as you've talked with your doctor. May I ask who you're seeing?”

She told him and he smiled slightly. “He's our police psychologist. Very good man.” Detective Rollins rubbed his jaw. “I'll be at Ms. Evans's funeral to watch the faces and figure out some things.”

“That seems like a very good idea,” Damien said.

 

Stevie and Damien met Jessi at Bretta's apartment in the plush section of town where Bretta had lived. The two women hugged for a long time.

“Stevie, I hate for you to have to bear all this,” Jessi said. Her face looked worn and haggard.

“Hush,” Stevie said. “It's hard on us all, but we'll catch whoever did it. The sheriff's office has a very high rate of closure. And I'm surely going to do my part.”

“There's little any of us can do,” Jessi said, “and I don't want you straining yourself. You've had so much on your shoulders.”

“God doesn't give us what we can't bear,” Stevie said humbly.

Damien sat in the living room listening to jazz records from Bretta's collection to give the women time alone.

In the bedroom, Jessi said, “You don't have to attend the funeral, love. It'll be so much pressure, and you know she'd understand.”

Stevie shook her head. “No, it won't be. I'll be there singing ‘Rock of Ages,' Bretta's favorite hymn and I'm singing at Club Insomnia next Thursday.”

“Honey, that's way too much.”

“No, it isn't. It's something I've got to do. Bretta would have done it for me.”

“Yes, I know, but she wouldn't have had the shock you've had. How's your head?”

“Well on the way to healing. Apparently, I'm made of iron.”

“You're the tenderest soul I know and you've got to take care. You're traumatized by my sister's murder and you need rest and you need to take care of yourself.”

Stevie placed a hand on Jessi's shoulder. “And I will, love, but please let me do what I've got to do.”