The Fame Equation (23 page)

Basically, intellectual property meant creations of the mind. Patents, copyrights, songs, articles, books, music, and other artistic work. The owner of those works then had the right to sell, license, or produce the work for monetary gain. If I understood that correctly, Melody wanted me to have twelve percent of all the songs she had written, along with future advances and royalties from her record sales, merchandising, licensing, or any film or television projects about her.

I closed out of the browser, stunned. I wasn’t sure how much all of that was, but I knew that in less than a year of “big star” status Melody had been able to purchase her dream home for cash. Of course, a lot of that money had come from touring. Melody had told me that record and songwriting royalties were often delayed up to a year––or longer.

Holy cow, Brent was right. Melody’s bequest might not make me a wealthy woman, but I also might not have to shop at the thrift store anymore. I tiptoed back up the stairs, cautious of the two squeaky steps. When they were stepped on they gave off a sound much like a screech owl, and I didn’t want to wake Darcy. Maybe I could get the steps fixed, too.

I knew I had to stop thinking and get some sleep, but it was hard to turn my brain off. Our vet was coming in the morning to do a full exam on Ringo: soundness, vision, x-rays, the whole kaboodle. Next week Ringo would have a massage to establish baseline soreness, if any, and after that the equine chiropractor would come. Gusher Black had assured me that when it came to his horse I was to spare no expense. I was taking him on his word. And his signed contract, of course.

Our vet didn’t see any reason Ringo couldn’t jump right into training, I hadn’t been breathing much during the exam, and air rushed into my lungs at the news. I needed Ringo, or a horse like him. If Ringo hadn’t cleared his vet check, I would have had to start another nationwide search for a top horse to show next year. It was late for that, as other trainers had already snapped up the best horses. I’d still like to get another horse or two to campaign, and already had some potentials there.

As Doc loaded his equipment back into his truck, a question popped into my mind. “Don’t you take care of the horses at the Mighty Happy center in Kingston Springs?” I asked.

“I do,” he said, slotting a portable x-ray machine into a cubby in the vet box on the back of his truck.

“You know, my friend Melody Cross was a volunteer there. She was the country music star who was killed.”

“Really? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were close.”

I nodded. “The police haven’t figured out who did it yet and I was wondering . . . did anything ever strike you as strange when you were out there? Anything odd?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Strange? No. Emily Harding is the horse person there. The center was her idea. Most of the horses are older, but they’re well cared for.” He took time to think. “There is something, though.”

“What?”

“They put their back fence too close to the river. That’s my opinion. As soon as the next big flood comes, that whole line of fencing will be taken out.” He smiled. “They’re good people, Cat, and they’re doing good work.”

With that, he was in his truck and headed down my drive. Ringo had earned some free time, so I put him in the arena, and when I turned around I spotted Sally pinning her ears in her paddock. I followed her angry gaze to find a car parked next door at Fairbanks. That was strange. Since Glenda Dupree’s death her elderly mother, Opal, had mostly kept the house closed.

I couldn’t help myself. Wearing the guise of a concerned neighbor I jogged across the property and up the antebellum mansion’s front steps. Turned out a cleaning crew was inside. The house was going to be put on the market and I knew that must have been a hard decision for Opal to make. Her now deceased daughter had owned the home and the place held a lot of memories. Of course, many of the memories were tragic. Maybe some of those sad recollections had played into her decision.

I debated calling Opal to get the full scoop, or even popping in at her assisted living place for a visit. But the less I had to do with the Duprees, the better. They were distant cousins of the Giles family, though. That meant if Brent and I ever married (which was a topic that had not even remotely been discussed), then I’d be a cousin, too. Distasteful thought, that.

Slipping back between the fence rails I felt my phone buzz in my jeans pocket. I had turned the ringer off during Ringo’s vet check, so as not to disturb the process. When I pulled the phone out of my pocket I saw that a text had come in from an unknown number. I flicked the screen from locked to unlocked to better read the message, then all the air whooshed right back out of me.

BACK OFF OR YOU WILL END UP LIKE MELODY

Oh boy. This was so not good. Jon took most of the farm calls so only a few people had my cell number. I could count them off in my head: Jon, Brent, and Martin; Annie, Tony, and Agnes, Darcy, Darcy’s Dad, and Bubba; Hill (unfortunately), my college friend Noah Gregory, Bob’s owner Doc Williams, our vet and farrier, Gusher Black, and Melody.

Who else had gotten hold of my cell number? Mr. Clean Cut maybe? And just who was he anyway? My hands began to shake as the full meaning of the text slowly dawned on me. Whoever killed Melody, had my number.

My legs suddenly didn’t seem to want to hold me and I plopped down in the dry grass, smack between my house and the Fairbanks fence line. Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe. It took a few minutes to calm myself, and when I did, I called Martin.

Fortunately, my favorite detective was not too far away and arrived a few minutes later. By that time I had gotten myself into my house.

“I’ll need to take your phone,” he said. “I can either get a warrant for it, or––”

I slid the phone across my kitchen table to him.

“Our forensics team can maybe get some info from it. They hook it up to a do-hickey and get all kinds of data,” he said. Then he paused, folding his hands and placing them on the table. “I ’spose I should tell you that we found Melody’s car.”

“And?” It took a conscious will of effort to stop the shrieking inside my head.

“It was behind the church, behind that thick screen of trees between the playground and the river.”

The church again. Allen, Emily, Ruthie, and Robert. Did one of them kill my friend? The shrieking in my brain morphed into a rage-like anger and I grabbed the table to keep myself from getting into my truck and driving to the church. That would not have ended well. One day I’ll do something about my anger issues. But not today. Martin reached across the table to hold one of my shaking hands.

“Do you want to hear the rest?”

I nodded.

“According to several people at the church, the only time people go behind that screen of trees is to walk down to the river to be baptized, or to sit peacefully near the water to pray.” He looked into my eyes. “You with me?”

I nodded again. I didn’t trust myself with words.

“There’s a little, paved parkin’ spot there behind the trees. People park, walk the several hundred yards to the river. The church couldn’t put a longer road in to get closer to the river ’cause it floods there sometimes, mostly in the spring. Now, Miz Cross drove a five-year-old gray Toyota Camry. ’Cept when we looked back there behind the trees a few days ago, the car wasn’t there.”

“How did you find it, then?”

“Churchgoer went back there and parked. Was going to sit by the river, then realized the car prob’ly belonged to Miz Cross and called us.”

“But,” I processed, “just because the car is there doesn’t necessarily mean someone from the church is involved.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “Could Melody’s body have been moved?” I asked.

“Could she have been killed somewhere else?”

“Possibly.” He loosened his grip on my hand as he explained. “The water in her lungs was river water. Harpeth River water. Could she have been drowned somewhere in the Harpeth other than behind the church? Maybe. We’ve got an expert working on weather conditions––temperature and wind and such all––matching it to the water depth and flow. She can maybe help us know, given the time frame from seven-thirty Wednesday night to eight a.m. Thursday morning, where and when Miz Cross entered the river. Pathology says she probably died more toward Thursday morning, but water and the cold night temperatures make that difficult to pinpoint.”

It was all so complicated. I wished for the thousandth time that none of this was happening, that I didn’t have to sit across my kitchen table with a police detective and have him explain the details of my friend’s death.

“There’s somethin’ else,” Martin said.

There always was something else.

“We recovered her car, but not her purse, so you are right. Whoever killed Miz Cross has her phone––and your number.”

A
FTER
M
ARTIN LEFT WITH MY
phone I realized that the recent emotional events called for major hot chocolate. I took out some of my special dark chocolate blend, heated two cups of water to boiling, mixed in the chocolate, added a splash of whole milk and a tablespoon of sugar, then poured it all into a thermal to go mug and topped it with a generous amount of whipped cream. I’d be on sugar overload for the next week and a half, but I didn’t care.

Before I walked out the door, I took the letter Melody had left me out of my purse and tucked it into my jacket pocket. Then I wrote a note for Jon, left it on the kitchen table, and headed for the riverbank. That was where I went whenever I needed to think, to wash away my emotions, or to pound my fists into the ground.

My favorite place on the steep, wooded bank was in the crook of the trunk of a large maple tree that hung diagonally out over the water. The tree was near the top of the bank, and when I was there, I was hidden from the world. As soon as I got comfortable I realized that Hank had followed me. The tree-filled riverbank was a treasure trove of sticks, and I watched as he nosed around, first choosing one, then discarding it when he found another that was more suitable. Then he settled on the ground a few feet below me at the base of the tree. His gnawing presence was soothing, and I was glad that he chose to spend this time with me. There’s nothing like the comforting presence of a loyal hound dog.

I thought of other emotional times when I had sat in this tree. I’d run here after I discovered Glenda Dupree’s body, and after my first serious boyfriend told me the only redeeming thing about me was my green eyes. Today, the remains of the fall foliage was beautiful. November is typically the most colorful month in Middle Tennessee, and I saw a swirl of red, orange and yellow, backed with the brilliant blues of river and sky.

I leaned my head against the rough bark of the maple and watched a series of dark clouds descend over the river. I had decisions to make. The first was contact with other people. Melody’s killer had my phone number, but I no longer had to worry about that because the police had my phone. I’d have no worries that the next call or text would scare me to death.

I’d unplug my landline, then email my clients and friends (and Melody’s team) that the best way to reach me during the next few days would be through email. All I’d have to do was check my email more than once a week. Then I’d run up to Walmart and get one of those pre-paid disposable phones for emergencies. I’d give the number only to Brent, Martin, Darcy, and Jon.

My second decision was who to tell about the threatening text. I’d have to tell Jon. He always knew when I was holding out, and in the spirit of our newly regained cooperation, he needed to know. And Darcy. I took a sip of the hot chocolate and felt it’s warmth spread through me, and the sugar rush to my brain.

Brent? I’d have to tell him, because Martin knew. I dreaded that little conversation. Brent liked life simple and smooth. He was different from his younger brother in that way. Martin loved tackling a complex puzzle, and reasoning through people’s bad choices.