Double Minds (3 page)

CHAPTER

FOUR

Parker didn’t like being dead.

The television was on in Serene’s den, and Serene and her Svengali, Butch, sat in front of the wide flat-screen as the local news covered the murder. Butch, Serene’s manager, leaned forward with rapt fascination. It may have been the first sincere emotion she’d ever seen on his pale face.

Butch was an unlikely manager for a rising Chris tian recording artist. He walked around in raggedy shorts and an oversized T-shirt. He had a round belly and a bald head and was usually sucking on a Tootsie Pop that would have rotted his teeth if it weren’t for his porcelain veneers. But he was a genius with music.

The reporter Parker had “tipped off” stood in front of the camera, rattling off the “facts” surrounding the murder at Colgate Studios.

“Parker, check this out,” Butch said.

Parker dropped the bag of food on the coffee table and handed Serene her Coke. “Yeah, I know. I’m dead, allegedly.”

She let her gaze settle on the screen. There was her brother, coming out of the studio with bags of evidence. She hoped they’d found fingerprints. Even now, Gibson could be showing up at the killer’s house, ready to take him into custody.

Serene sat on the floor with her legs crossed, looking nothing like the star she was. She had the body of a fourteen-year-old boy—a scrawny one at that. At five-five and ninety-five pounds, she had no curves or comfort, just sharp angles. She had no trouble shopping at the stores in Nashville that only carried sizes zero and two. But that was the way America wanted their celebrities these days. Parker was content to be a size ten and made no apologies for it.

She watched Serene tear into the bag and unwrap the burger. Her friend had probably not eaten more than half a piece of cantaloupe or some chicken broth in the last few days. And what she did eat she didn’t keep down. She’d been taught well in the School of Skinny.

But Serene didn’t bite into the burger. Instead, she opened it up and began peeling off the pickles and lettuce and onions.

“Just eat the stupid thing,” Butch said.

“I just want the patty.”

“You promised you’d eat it.”

“I am going to eat it. It’s a big patty.”

Parker should have known.

Serene took a tiny bite of the patty. “So that girl who was killed. I only saw her a couple of times, never talked to her. She was always filing or something. What did Gibson tell you about the murder?” Parker sat on the arm of the sofa. “Nothing. Just asked me a few questions about the office and the stuff on my desk. Wanted to know if anything was missing.”

“Was it?”

“I don’t think so. Computers were still there, sound boards and engineering equipment seemed fine.”

Serene tasted her drink, wrinkled her nose, and set it on the coffee table. Too much sugar, no doubt. Parker should have gotten her a diet drink. “Do they have any idea who killed her?”

“If they do, he didn’t tell me.” Parker’s dull eyes settled on the screen, and that sick feeling came back. Why had she let them think she was dead? She thought of those kids she’d been leading in worship when she got the call. Would they hear on the news that she’d been murdered? Maybe she should call their youth minister, Daniel. He might even still be there with them, hanging out, playing ping-pong in the rec room before they went home for the night. She didn’t want them posting blogs about her death on My Space while she collected her press clippings. She wasn’t eager to read a thousand eulogies and watch as teenagers picked her life apart and pasted it on websites for all to see.

Hearing her name drew her thoughts back to the wide screen over Serene’s fireplace mantel.

“Sources tell us that Parker James was twenty-eight years old—”

“Twenty-
six
,” she muttered.

“She’d been working at Colgate Studios as receptionist for the past five years. The deceased has a website that describes her as a singer/songwriter, as well. In fact, the site claims that she penned most of Christian artist Serene Stevens’s songs.”

Serene collapsed in laughter. “You’re gonna be more famous than I am!”

Butch threw his head back and howled. “Girl, get a grip. You don’t let people think you’re dead just to make another family feel better.”

She could never make him understand. “They would have broadcast Brenna’s death on TV. Her parents would have found out that way.”

“But
that
was true!” Serene said. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Parker closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “I know. I panicked and just threw it out there. I kept thinking of her family—”

“Never mind yours.”

“I’ve been in touch with them. They know I’m not dead.”

“What about all your friends? Don’t you realize people are probably crying over their poor murdered friend right now?”

Parker looked at Serene. Was that true? Would there be people grieving her supposed loss? She did have a lot of friends and acquaintances, though none as close as her family or Serene. Maybe there would be tears shed …

She hoped so. It would be a terrible thing to have your death pass without a tear.

She caught herself and looked back at the news. What was she thinking? What kind of self-centered diva was she to crave that kind of mourning? She’d been so worried about Brenna’s friends finding out in the dorms that she hadn’t even considered her own. “What should I do? Go back and talk to the reporters?”

Butch chuckled. “Probably no need. If it helps any, the other two stations are reporting that it was Brenna.”

She grunted. “You could have told me that before making me feel like a jerk.”

“I’m just messing with you,” he said.

She took the remote and changed the channel. Just as he’d said, Brenna’s name was on the screen, along with her age and the fact that she was a Belmont student. So Parker’s pretense had been unnecessary. Serene and Butch were right. She
was
a fool.

Disgusted, she got up. “I think I’ll go home, after all.”

“Why?” Serene asked. “I told you you could stay here.”

“I don’t really feel like company tonight. I think I’ll take my chances.”

“We didn’t mean to laugh at you,” Butch said, still chuckling. “Don’t go.”

Parker scowled back at him. “What do you care?”

“He cares because we need you, Parker.”

“Why?”

“We need some rewrites … like, tonight.”

Parker stared at her. Did Serene expect her to write at a time like this? “I’m not in the mood.”

“There’s nothing you can do for Brenna.”

“I’m not trying to
do
anything. I just don’t want to be around people right now.”

“But you’ve got to help me.” Serene’s hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and strands of it fell into her eyes. She wore a great big sweatshirt with the name of some college Parker had never heard of, and a pair of baggy gym shorts. She stood there barefoot, her hundred-dollar pedicured toenails in living color. She had that look on her face—the one that broadcast her need for another stupid favor, like driving through Wendy’s after a friend had been murdered. “Parker, I didn’t want to tell you on the phone because you were upset.”

Parker braced herself.

“Jeff Standard is trying to buy out my contract.”

“Jeff Standard? The guy who owns Standard Entertainment Corporation?”

“That’s him.”

Parker stared at her. The CEO of the record giant owned several other entertainment companies as well. She’d seen his picture on the cover of
Rolling Stone
last month. Something about his stellar skill in picking artists that made him millions.

“Wow,” she said. “How does he know about you?”

Butch leaned back. “There’s a lot of money in Christian music. And with the success of ‘Trying,’ she got his notice.”

Parker lifted her eyebrows. This
was
huge. “But if he’s only interested in Christian music for the profit—”

“Don’t be naïve,” Butch said. “Christian record execs are in it for profit, too. They’d go under if they didn’t make money.”

“Right now I have one song on the secular charts.” Serene’s eyes sparkled. “What if
all
my songs crossed over? Think how many people I could reach.”

Parker could see her point. She always meant for the songs she wrote to reach a broad audience. If they drew larger numbers to worship … well, that was success, wasn’t it? “So what do you need my help with?”

“I need you to rewrite all the songs on the album.”

Parker caught her breath. “What? I thought you were almost finished recording. You’re going to rerecord
everything?
”

“Not everything. The musical tracks are fine. He just wants us to tone down the lyrics for the general market.”

Parker brought a hand to her chest. “What does ‘tone down’ mean?”

Serene sighed. “Now, don’t go all judgmental on me, Parker. He just wants to make it a little more … what was the word?”

“Ecumenical,” Butch provided.

Parker knew that word.
Ecumenical
meant that no one stood for much of anything.

“I’ve got a hard deadline,” Serene said. “The tour is booked and there’s a street date for the album’s release in the stores.”

“The
Christian
stores,” Parker pointed out.

“That’s right. But Jeff Standard owns the biggest chain of record stores in the country. If this works out, he’ll get them into the secular stores. He’s got the money to get the airplay on the radio stations. If that happens, Parker, we’ll both be rolling in money.”

Parker sighed. It wasn’t supposed to cost money to get airplay on radio stations. Payola was against the law. But the big money knew lots of ways around the law. They hired promoters to schmooze and cajole program directors into putting their songs in their lineups.

“Come sit down. Let’s talk about it,” Serene said.

Parker dropped onto a chair. Slipping off her shoes, she pulled her feet beneath her. Serene turned off the television and stood in front of it, the star of the room. “Parker, think of it. You could live in a house like this. I could buy an even bigger one.”

“I don’t want a house like this, Serene. I’m perfectly content with my own little house. I don’t write to get rich.”

“Of course you don’t, but you wait salivating for every royalty check that comes.”

“Sure, I take the money and pay my bills with it. It’s not wrong to be paid for what I do. But being a millionaire isn’t my goal.”

“I know, I know,” Serene said, lifting a hand like she’d heard it a thousand times. “You’re in it for ministry. I totally get that. But what if you didn’t have to work as a receptionist? What if you could just spend all your time writing and living life?”

Parker had to admit that sounded good. “Still, if we take out the lyrics that could point them to God … if we’re making them worship the wrong thing—”

“Not every song has to be about worship, Parker.”

“But every song is.” She got up and turned on the stereo, tuned the radio to a country station. “Listen to this. This guy’s worshiping the girl in the black dress sitting at the bar.”

“No, he’s not,” Serene said.

Parker flipped to a rap station. “This one’s worshiping guys with diamond grills on their teeth.” She turned it to a rock station. “A girl named Roxanne.” Another country station. “A little boy’s daddy.

” Butch spread his arms on the back of the couch. “That’s not worship. That little boy isn’t
worshiping
his daddy. He just misses him. Those songs are pointing out the human condition, and that’s not wrong.”

“Okay, but I’d still say ninety percent of songs are worshiping something. The other ten percent are sappy cry-in-your-beer songs about some perverted
version
of the human condition.”

“Where do you get those statistics?” Butch asked. “I don’t remember that question on the last copyright application.”

“She pulls them out of the air,” Serene said. “A song can’t worship, anyway.
People
worship.”

“Whatever the statistics, I want the songs I write to help fill the voids those other songs talk about.”

“They will, Parker. They just won’t be so in-your-face.”

“In-your-face is what got you to the
Billboard
charts. ‘Trying’ is in-your-face.”

“But I need love songs. They’ll get me played on secular stations, so people will buy the albums. Then they’ll hear the worship songs.” Serene got on her knees in front of Parker. “Remember when we were kids, Parker, dreaming of being famous?”

“You are famous. You got your dream.”

“Not like I’d be if Jeff Standard buys my contract. And don’t get all holier-than-thou on me. You’ve auditioned twice for
American Idol
. If you got on that show you wouldn’t hesitate to sing whatever they told you to—from the Beatles to Diana Ross. You’d be giving it a shot like the rest of them, not balking that the songs weren’t Christian songs.”

Serene knew her too well. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll never get on that show.” Daniel’s words tonight about her not having a voice that drew crowds played back through her mind. The
American
Idol producers apparently agreed with him.

Her songwriting ability wasn’t in question, however. She liked her songs the way she’d written them. She didn’t want to change them. “Look, I know this is a big thing for you, and I don’t want to shoot you down. But if I rewrite them, would I still be able to perform the original ones?”

“Of course you could,” Butch said.

Parker pictured herself in front of a youth group—or a church full of people—singing the songs the way she intended them. Even if she told them how songwriting worked—that you wound up being a surrogate mother, delivering the songs over to someone who would perform them the way they wanted—wouldn’t they think her version was cheesy? If Serene’s version was what they knew, her performances of the originals would fall flat.

“What if I wrote some new songs for your album?”

“There isn’t time to rerecord everything. We’ve already recorded the musical tracks. It has to be these songs.”

She leaned her head back on the seat and looked up at the ceiling. “Then you could rewrite them without me.”