Double Minds (20 page)
Authors: Terri Blackstock
A week after LesPaul had finished mixing the album and they had tested the sound on speakers from Bose stereos to boom boxes and car systems, Parker took the chance of giving a copy to George Colgate. Her hope was that, even though he’d passed on signing her with one of his labels, her boss would still give her a pressing and distribution deal. That way, she wouldn’t have to use her own funds to make and package the CDs. It was a couple of days before he listened to it, but her constant reminders forced him into it.
Finally, he called her into his office. “It’s good,” he told her. “Way more professional than I expected on a shoestring.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’re a genius songwriter, Parker. And you chose the title song well.”
Nothing about her vocals. Taking what she could get, she sat down across from his desk. “I’m really glad you liked it, George. It means so much coming from you. But I need a huge favor. I need a pressing and distribution deal.”
He sighed. “Parker, we’ve been over all this.”
“I know, but before, we were talking about a recording contract. I just need money to help me get it pressed. I only need a print run big enough to sell at the tour dates. And I need money for printing and packaging, and tour expenses. I have a great opportunity with Serene, and it would launch my career. It’s almost a sure investment.”
The pause that followed was awkward. “Parker, I do see potential here. You’re a good singer. Your voice is … kind of different.”
Hope shattered at her feet. “Different … in a good way … or a bad way?”
He shifted and crossed his legs. “It depends on your perspective. I really like your sound, but it’s a little risky.”
“I’m not trying to be risky.”
“No, it’s not anything you’re trying. It’s just … your sound.”
Her
different
sound. Different from Serene and Tiffany Teniere. Different from all the pretty-voiced artists who pleased program managers in radio stations. “But why wouldn’t you
want
someone different? Someone who stood out?”
She knew as she blurted the question that she shouldn’t. It was asking for too much honesty. She felt it coming before the words hit her …
“Parker, I think if I invested in you as a performer, I’d lose money.”
“Wow.” She felt like an idiot sitting here like this, forcing him to go on. But she couldn’t seem to move. Somehow, she made herself swallow. Clearing her throat, she said, “Well … thank you for your honesty.”
“Parker, I’m sorry. I know this is a let-down.”
Her cheeks were burning. She rubbed them, hoping to hide the pink. “No, no, not at all. I’m a professional. If I can’t take criticism, how will I ever grow?” Her heart pumped blood into her face so fast it almost hurt.
“All I can say in the way of advice is … well, don’t invest more than you can afford to lose. You’re a fabulous songwriter, Parker. That’s where your future lies. In fact, I have artists right now who would love to record some of these songs. I know Serene gets first shot at them, but you could be making more money on them. You shouldn’t have to work as a receptionist with such a marketable talent.”
She tried to remind him that she worked here to get studio time, so she could record. But the words got caught in the knot of her throat. The words
different
and risky reeled through her mind in an endless loop. She managed to stand. “Okay, then. I’d better get back up front. Can’t quit the day job, as they say.”
The phone was ringing as she went back to her desk.
When five o’clock came, Parker gathered her things and hurried out to her car. Between eight and five, it seemed a thousand hours had passed. Holding her laptop and purse, she unlocked the car.
“Parker.”
She swung around and saw Marta getting out of her car. “Marta, I didn’t see you.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Sure.” Parker opened her car door and set her things on the seat as Marta came toward her. Her face was wet, her black mascara smeared. “Are you okay?” Parker asked.
Marta shook her head. “Why did you tell your brother that Mick was following you?”
Parker stiffened. “Because he was.”
“No, he wasn’t. He hardly even knows who you are.” She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her black knit shirt. “Did he tell you we’re going out?”
“Who?”
“Your brother, the cop. Did he tell you?”
“No. Gibson doesn’t tell me everything.”
“Well, we are.” Her eyes rounded, and she stepped closer to Parker. “He’s not like that. He’s been through a lot. The last thing he needs is to be accused of being a stalker.”
Parker touched the girl’s shoulder and made her meet her eyes. “I can see that you’re upset, Marta. But with everything that’s happened, you’re extra vulnerable. Maybe you shouldn’t be seeing him right now.”
Marta shoved her hair back. “You’ve got this so wrong. He’s not what you think. He’s not at all like his family.”
Parker wondered if Marta knew about the song. “Did he tell you about ‘Double Minds’?”
Marta laughed bitterly. “This is so much more important than a stupid song.”
So Marta did know. “What did he tell you?”
“What did he tell me? He told me that he found his mother dead when he was twelve. It was suicide.”
Parker caught her breath. “Suicide?”
“So tell your brother the truth. Mick wasn’t following you.”
“Marta, I’m sorry about the suicide. That’s horrible. But you shouldn’t be with someone just because you have compassion for him. This case is still unsolved.”
“No, it isn’t. They have Chase.”
“He hasn’t been charged with murder, and frankly, I’m not so sure he did it.”
Marta looked stunned. “But … the gun.”
“Someone else could have put it in his apartment.”
Marta’s mouth came open. “Not Mick.”
“We don’t know who.”
Marta hugged herself, her sleeves still clutched in her fists. “Maybe you deserved to have your stupid song ripped off.”
She left Parker standing there and went back to her car. Parker didn’t get into her own until the girl had driven away.
Gibson stared at his computer screen and pressed Print.
The Tennessean
story of Katrina Evans’s suicide ten years ago rolled out.
Katrina Evans was found dead at her home at 3016 Meadow Drive in Brent wood on Thursday. Police have ruled it a suicide. Her twelve-year-old son discovered her body and notified police.
“I didn’t know her very well, but she seemed like a good person,” Barbara Sulwer, her neighbor, said. “It’s so sad to think that she was that disturbed and nobody knew it.”
Another neighbor, Linda Boykin, said she’s in shock. “She and her son were so close. I can’t imagine why she would leave him this way.”
Gibson turned back to his computer and did a quick search on her cause of death. He pulled up all the public records he could find in her name.
Her Death Certificate reported it as Suicide. He studied the Autopsy Report. Toxicology indicated that she’d died of an overdose of sleeping pills.
He sat back, rubbing his eyes. Finding his mother dead at the age of twelve had to traumatize the kid. That was a decade ago, long enough for Mick to heal … or harden.
He pulled up the public records associated with Nathan Evans. He’d divorced Katrina when their son was seven. Three months later, he married Tiffany, twenty-three at the time. Fourteen years younger than his first wife. Twenty years younger than Nathan, himself.
A Google search of Nathan Evans produced an article dated six months before Katrina’s death. It was about a lawsuit filed by Katrina Evans against the record producer, demanding back child support.
According to Katrina Evans, her ex-husband only saw his son twice a year, even though they lived in the same town. She stated that her son Mick had never even been invited into the mansion he shared with his current wife, Christian recording artist Tiffany Teniere, and their five-year-old daughter. Child support was not increased, but Evans was ordered to pay $50,000 in back payments.
Gibson looked around the office for his partner. He was standingat the coffee pot, his favorite hang-out, stirring sugar into a Styrofoam cup. “Rayzo, check this out.”
His partner ambled over. “Whatcha got?”
He showed him what he’d found. Rayzo pulled up a chair and put on his reading glasses. When he’d seen it all, he leaned back and regarded Gibson. “It doesn’t prove that Mick Evans did anything. Just that he had a crummy father and a lousy surprise when he was twelve.”
Gibson thought about all those portraits and framed snapshots he’d seen of Brenna in her parents’ home. Mick might have been bitter, especially if he felt replaced. But bitter enough to want his sister dead?
For once, he thought Rayzo might be wrong. “I don’t know, Rayzo. Looks to me like a motive.”
The loan officer’s smile didn’t match his eyes, and a psychologist would have had a field day with his body language. To Parker, everything about him said no. “Well now, Miss James, what collateral do you have to offer?”
He said it like it was a trick question, as if she were a college student trying to buy a yacht. “I have some equity in my home,” she said. “I’ve had it for three years. I didn’t put much down, but it’s probably appreciated in value.”
He looked at her address on the application, and his smile turned into an apologetic wince. “Yeah, in that area, not so much. Of course, it depends on what you paid and the condition of the home.”
She told him what the house had cost her. “It’s in excellent condition. I’ve made a lot of improvements. The backyard is beautiful. I’ve done a lot of landscaping.”
“Landscaping might help you sell faster, but it doesn’t increase the value.”
“Well, I’ve painted, put in new floors.”
He made a notation in her file. “That could help. Do you have a current appraisal?”
“No—do I need one?”
“Before we could give you a home equity loan, we’d have to have that.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I can give you the names of some appraisers, if you’d like.”
An appraiser? That sounded expensive. “So, how much does that cost?”
“Could be two or three hundred dollars.”
She swallowed. “I can’t afford that unless I’m sure I’m getting the loan.”
“Well, we can’t assure you of the loan until we see the appraisal.”
Checkmate. It looked like an appraisal was in her future. “Okay. How long does it take?”
He glanced over her shoulder, probably at a client who had a little more promise. “It’ll take a couple of weeks to get someone to look at it, another week or so for them to write up the appraisal.”
“I can’t wait that long. I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“Then I’m sorry. Your house is probably not the best collateral. Do you have anything else?”
“My car. I might have a few thousand dollars of equity in that.” She told him the model and the amount she owed.
He turned to his computer and typed something in. “I’m sorry. With the Kelley Blue Book value, your equity in the car is very small. Really only a thousand dollars or so.”
Her mouth fell open. “But I bought it new. It’s nearly paid off.”
“You lose thousands when you drive it off the lot.”
Again, she felt he was lecturing her like some kid who needed her dad’s signature. “What about a song? Could you use that as collateral?”
He frowned. “A song?”
“Yes. I wrote every song on Serene Steven’s new album. There’ll be money coming in. Just … not for several months, till they pay royalties. I could give you my contracts, and you could use that …
” He held up a hand to stop her. “I’m sorry, Miss James. While I’m sure your songs will make you a nice profit, there’s no way for us to measure that now. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get that approved.”
It had to be the house, then. She got the number of a few different appraisers and called each one, begging them to come soon. The earliest she could get was the week after next. Apparently home appraisals were big business. Maybe she should go into that if her performing career didn’t work out.
And at the rate she was going, it wouldn’t. Until she could get the money for the pressing of her records, everything was at a standstill. The tour expenses wouldn’t make sense if she didn’t have CDs to sell. Short of a miracle, she wouldn’t even be able to pay for her hotel rooms.
She might have to bow out of the tour, after all.
Parker didn’t have time to have lunch with her mother, and she dreaded the inevitable pep talk. It wasn’t enthusiasm she needed—it was money. Still, Lynn had insisted on treating Parker for lunch at the Spaghetti Factory, and Parker never liked to disappoint her mother.
The smell of garlic bread wafted over the restaurant as Parker made her way between the tables. The place was decorated like a train depot, with a passenger car at the center of the room. Every entree was served with spaghetti, a basketful of garlic bread, and sorbet. The last thing Parker needed was more carbs. She’d already gained five pounds in the last couple of weeks. Stress hormones were fattening, and so was the food she choked down when she was too busy to think. She’d have to enlist Omar the tent-maker to costume her for the tour, if this kept up.
Her mother, on the other hand, looked lovely and sleek in a coral-coloredblouse and a slim black skirt. She exuded confidence and peace … so unlike the feelings coursing through Parker today.
They made small talk as they waited for their food. Parker tried to feign happiness, but her mother read her too well. Finally, she said, “Honey, you look miserable. Tell me about the money.”
Parker rubbed her tense forehead. “Do I have to? I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yes, you have to. Come on, it’s just me.”
Parker sighed. “I’m waiting for the appraiser to come. He said he might come tomorrow or the next day. I’m kind of at his mercy. I’ve called about some of the other properties in the neighborhood, gotten their square footage and listing prices. Estimating from those, I’ll only have half the equity I need to get the CDs pressed. And I still won’t have money for the tour.” She picked a cherry tomato out of her salad. “I’ve thought about asking Serene for a loan, but her father’s always trying to squeeze money out of her.”
“That horrible, cruel man has the gall to contact her?”
“Occasionally. Her gatekeepers help her avoid him most of the time. I don’t want to take advantage of her like he does. Besides, she’s already given me such an opportunity.”
Her mother leaned on the table. “So what happens if you mortgage your house and go on tour, and you don’t sell as many CDs as you hope?”
Parker put her hands over her face. “Mom, you’re supposed to be the one who’s positive and encouraging.”
“I’m not being negative, honey. I think you’re wonderful. You know that. I’m just worried about your future. I don’t want you to lose your house.”
Parker slid her hands down her face. “So you think I should cancel? Just give up?”
“No, of course not! How could you think I meant that?”
“Because I know my voice isn’t like everybody else’s. It’s different. Maybe too different. I thought God was opening these doors, but maybe the door’s not really open. Maybe it’s just a tiny little window with the glass broken out.”
“Stop it!” Her mom took Parker’s hand and leaned toward her. “Parker, you’ve worked too hard on your album to give up. I have faith in your songs.”
“Faith in the songs,” she said. “That’s just it. I have faith in the songs, too. But no one has much faith in my performance ability.” “You’re letting George Colgate get to you,” she said. “He just
“You’re letting George Colgate get to you,” she said. “He just wants a sure thing. But Carole King wasn’t a sure thing, and neither was Bob Dylan. The problem with these record labels is that they don’t rush to embrace people who are different.”
“You’re right, Mom. That’s my problem.”
Lynn leaned in, fixing her gaze on her. “Honey, did God bring you this far, or didn’t he?”
Parker rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know, Mom. I honestly don’t.”
“Well.” Her mother sat back. “I didn’t expect to hear that from you.”
“I know.” Parker tried not to let her tears fall. “I want to believe he did bring me this far. The thing is, he’s provided so much for me already. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking for more.”
Lynn smiled then, and crossed her hands under her chin. “Jesus said, ‘You have not, because you ask not.’ He gifted you. Why wouldn’t he equip you to use your gifts?”
Parker stabbed at her pasta. “Maybe he has equipped me. Maybe the performing stuff is not my gift.”
“I believe it is. And I can prove it.” Her mother leaned over and got her purse, set it in her lap, and began to dig for something. “Parker, I don’t want you to get that appraisal, because you’re not going to need that loan. I want you to call the bank and tell them you’ve changed your mind.”
Parker breathed a laugh and shoved a bite of spaghetti into her mouth. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m about to give you my face-lift fund.”
Parker snapped her eyes up. “Your what?”
“My face-lift fund,” she said in a loud whisper.
Parker almost spat out her food as laughter welled up. She grabbed her napkin and pressed it to her mouth.
Her mother looked from side to side. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Make fun all you want, but when a woman reaches her fifties, she looks in the mirror and doesn’t like what she sees. I put a little money away so I could do something about my face.”
Parker managed to gather herself. “Mom, I didn’t know you were worried about the way you look.”
She threw up her hands. “Of course not. Why would I broadcast it, so that everyone’s thinking, ‘Mom’s a hag. Her face is drooping, her features are blurring, her eyelids are heavy, her jowls are like a hound dog’s.’”
Now Parker let her giggles roll out. “Mom, that’s ridiculous. You’re beautiful.”
Lynn waved the objections away. “That’s beside the point. What I’m trying to tell you is that I have ten thousand dollars saved up for that and I’m giving it to you.”
The laughter died, and Parker stared at her. “Ten thousand? Mom, I can’t take that!”
“Oh, yes you can, and you will. Not only that, but I just sold some of Grandma’s property, and I’m giving you the proceeds. I told God that if he let me sell it quickly, I’d give it to you. Sold right off the bat … so it’s yours.” She slipped the check out of her pocket and slid it across the table.
Parker stared down at it. It was a few hundred more than she needed. “Mom, you’re kidding me.”
“I expect to get the money back when you finish the tour, at which time I can proceed with my face lift.”
Parker gaped down at the check.
“This is my investment in your talent, Parker. I believe in you, and I know you’re going to recoup the investment.”
Suddenly Parker wondered if she was worthy of this kind of investment. “And if I don’t?”
“And if you don’t, well then, I guess that’s God’s way of telling me I don’t need a face lift. I’ll just find one of those expensive skin-tightening lotions.” She set her chin on her palm. “They don’t work, so I really hope you’ll earn the money back. But I know you’re going to sell every CD and come home with a list of back orders. The record labels are going to be competing to sign you. In fact, I bet Jeff Standard will be begging you to sign with him.”
Parker’s fatigue lifted, and she found herself invigorated with new energy. She smiled at her mother. “I won’t let you down.” Parker got up to come around the table to hug her.
That was when her phone rang. Wiping her eyes, she reached for it. Gibson’s number came up. She slid her thumb across the screen to answer. “Gibson, you’re never going to believe—”
Gibson stopped her. “Parker, I just got a call from the department. Tiffany Teniere was just found dead.”
