On her patio table, she spread out the song sheets to "Double Minds," her favorite of the songs Serene had chosen for this album. Butch had scratched through the "offensive" lines that she needed to change. Without those lines, it sounded to Parker like a love song. In fact, that was what it had been. A love song to Christ.
Her own father considered her talents wasted on her Creator, since he wasn't big on faith. Pete James was a wannabe rock star. But the music business had almost done him in. For years they had tried to get him to stop drinking, and he'd made a valiant effort--for short periods. He paid lip service to Christianity, but in her heart, Parker couldn't believe that he really understood what had been done for him on the cross. Christ had died to set him free, but her father was still in bondage. He was a double-minded man--professing one thing while his life showed something vastly different.
She looked down at the songs, sick that she had to rewrite the lyrics she'd been so happy with. After she did, they'd be like all the other songs that played on the radio every day--songs that had no eternal value, songs that people hummed for a few days, or maybe a month, and then forgot.
The phone inside rang, so she went back inside and reached for it. "Hello?"
There was a long pause, then a man's low voice. "Her death was about you, Parker."
Parker caught her breath. "What? Who is this?"
"It was about you," the voice said again. "But don't worry. I'm protecting you."
The phone clicked off, the dial tone humming in her ear. She dropped it as fire flashed in her cheeks. Her heart hammered as she forced herself to pick it up again. Shaking, she dialed Gibson's cell number. As she waited for it to ring, she hurried to every door and window, making sure they were locked.
Gibson's voicemail clicked on. "You've reached Detective Gibson James of the Nashville Police Department ..."
She waited, jittering, as the greeting finished. When it beeped, she almost yelled her message. "Gibson, some guy who didn't give his name just called me and told me that Brenna's murder was about me. I'm scared. Please call me back."
She wondered if Gibson could trace the call. What had the man said again? That Brenna's death was about Parker. He'd said it twice, and then he'd said he was protecting her. What did that mean? Was someone trying to kill her, after all?
She ran back to her bedroom, grabbed a duffel bag, and began packing it. She was getting out of here, fast. There was no way she was going to stay here another night alone, even if Gibson wound up on her couch. No, she would go home and stay with her mother.
She grabbed the music and ran out, locking the door behind her. She threw it all into the backseat. As she backed her car out of the driveway, she looked up and down the street, wondering if someone was watching her, planning to shoot her through the car window.
She drove way too fast as she made her way through town to her mother's house, praying that her mom would be home so she wouldn't be alone.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Parker's mother lived in a sprawling ranch-style house on fifteen acres, not the kind of place you would just happen upon. Driving up the driveway, Parker felt a sense of security, as though no killer could find her here. She'd checked her rearview mirror all the way, looking for any sign that someone had followed her down the maze of roads that led to her childhood home. But she'd seen no one.
Still, the location of her mother's home wasn't a secret in Nashville. With so many family members in the music business--her brother LesPaul working as a musician and recording engineer, her father a guitar player who had once garnered some respect, and her brother Gibson, the cop, working part-time as a studio musician--almost anyone could have known the address. Besides, Lynn had weekly Bible studies that filled her house with gossiping young women.
The thought that someone could find her here dropped like lead in her mind.
Her death was about you. The words rang through her head and made her heart race as she turned her car off near her mother's house and rushed in through the open garage.
She burst inside. "Mom?"
"Back here, honey!" her mother called. "Grading papers."
Parker locked the door and bolted it. "Mom, you shouldn't leave the door unlocked like that--"
Her mother came into the kitchen, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that said, Fifty is the New Thirty. "Everything all right?"
"The garage," Parker cried, pressing the button to close it. "You can't leave it open like that. Anything could happen."
Her mother's look of dread made Parker feel even worse. "What happened, honey?"
"I got this phone call." She headed for the other doors to make sure they were locked. "He told me that Brenna's death was about me."
"Oh, dear God, help us." Lynn grabbed the phone from the wall and dialed. "You have to tell Gibson."
"I left a message, but he hasn't returned it." Even as she spoke, her phone rang. She took it out of her pocket and answered. "Gibson?"
"Speaker phone," her mother whispered.
Parker put it on speaker.
"I saw you called. What's up?" Gibson said.
Clearly, he hadn't listened to her message, so she told him about the call. "He said that he would protect me, or something like that. That I didn't need to worry."
"He said that?" Lynn asked. "Gibson, what does that mean?"
"I don't know, Mom. But I'll work on it."
Lynn took the phone out of Parker's hand. "Can't you get phone records and see who called her?"
"I'll get right on it. Meanwhile, stay at Mom's, Parker."
"So where are you going to stay tonight?" Lynn asked weakly.
"Guess I'll go home and negotiate a surrender of my apartment."
Lynn touched her chest. "Don't get in a fight with Tom. If he gets too belligerent, just come here. But for heaven's sake. Do me a favor and call me before you come in. I don't want to wonder if you're a prowler."
"Do you think we're safe here, Gibson?" Parker asked.
"I think so. Mom? Better load that gun I gave you."
They hung up, and Lynn drew Parker into a hug. "You did the right thing coming here." She combed her fingers through her hair. "So now, let's see. Where is that gun?"
Parker followed her mom to her bedroom closet and watched as she searched under blankets and boxes and Bible study notebooks lined up on the top shelf--James, Romans, 1 Corinthians, 1 Kings, Isaiah. Finally, she pulled out a case. "Here it is."
Parker's stomach tightened as Lynn took the Taurus .45 caliber revolver out of its box and laid it on the bed. "I hate guns," she said.
Lynn nodded. "Me too."
"Is it loaded?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure how to tell." Lynn stared down at it. "I should have taken that shooting class Gibson wanted me to take."
"So are there bullets anywhere?"
"Somewhere, probably." Lynn went back into the closet and stood on a suitcase as she tried to see. "Here are some. But I don't have a clue how to put them in."
Her mother picked up the pistol, pointing it carefully toward the window. "It's a revolver, so we have to stick the bullets into that rolling chamber thingy, like in Clint Eastwood."
This was absurd. "If we try to load it and we make a mistake, the gun will be more of a danger to us than to the killer."
"We could throw it at his head," Lynn said, beginning to laugh.
Parker caught her mother's smile. "Not funny."
"Yes, it is. Kind of." Laughter overtook them both. "At least we can scare him with it. Make him think it's loaded." Lynn scrunched her forehead and gave Parker a pleading look. "Want to sleep with me?"
Parker knew she wouldn't be sleeping much. "Can't. I need to work on my songs. First I have to go out and get my stuff out of the car. Want to cover me while I do?"
Lynn took the empty gun and turned her back to her, aiming outward like a soldier escorting a dignitary through enemy fire. "Let's go."
"Don't get carried away, Mom."
Her mother was a scream. She had a way of lightening the heaviest of moments and making her children forget their fears.
After her mother went to bed, Parker went into the music room her mother had created when Parker was a kid. She'd sound-proofed it with white floor-to-ceiling curtains all the way around the room. It held a grand piano and several of her brothers' guitars lined up on stands around the room. She warmed up with a praise chorus she hadn't written--"Agnus Dei," singing the "Alleluia" with all her spirit. Worthy is the Lamb ...
Christ was worthy. Worthy to receive praise through her songs.
He'd given her this opportunity to get her songs heard, this chance to be on a stage in front of thousands of people, singing the songs that she was able to keep for herself. The ones that weren't drained by some musical sieve that dripped the Spirit out of them, leaving them with only dried-out thoughts that meant nothing much to anyone.
Just do it, she told herself. Sit down and write the stupid lyrics, and let Serene record them. It's her big break, too. Think what she can do for the Lord if she's there, in the midst of all that music industry madness.
But madness wasn't what Serene needed.
Parker heard the door and sprang to her feet. The gun ... her mother had the gun. Then she heard the familiar sound of her brother LesPaul dropping his keys into a bowl on the kitchen counter.
"Les, is that you?"
Her younger brother peered around the doorway. "Hey, Parks. What're you doing here?"
She told him about the phone call. He stiffened and went to the window to peer out. Apparently satisfied that there was no one there, he came into the music room, eating peanuts, and plopped down onto a couch. "So what're you working on?"
"Just doing a little surgery on some of my songs."
"Yeah, I heard about that. Gibson told me."
She sat down on the piano stool. "So what do you think? Am I making a big mistake?"
He popped a nut into his mouth. "Are you insane?"
She sighed. "Maybe."
"The sooner you rewrite the lyrics, the sooner you can finish the songs on your own album."
"I'll need a band."
"Well, I work cheap."
She grinned. "You'd go on the tour with me?"
"Sure. Gibson, too, if he can take off work. Maybe we could sign on as Serene's roadies, to help pay our way. And then there's Dad. He would love to be a part of this."
Just what she needed. "I can't take Dad on tour. That would be a disaster."
"He's a good guitar player, Parker. And it would do him good." She leaned toward her brother. "Read my lips. I cannot take Dad on this tour."
"Whatever. I understand. I'm just saying." He got up and started for the door. "I'm going to bed. Long day."
She watched her brother head for his room. Then she turned back to the piano. Just do it, she told herself again. Write a stupid poem. Words ... they're just words. Get them down, and then you can make them brilliant.
She clicked her pen and started to write replacement words that fit where "Lord" and "Christ" and "Father" used to go. Her heart wasn't in it. But she had plenty of skill, and she needed every bit of it as she took her songs apart and put them back together.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
It was two a.m. when Gibson came in. He called from his cell phone first, warning Parker that he was coming so she wouldn't panic when she heard him, then came in looking more exhausted than she'd ever seen him. "I got the phone record. The call you got was from a pay phone at the BP convenience store on 12th Avenue South."
"Great. So we have no idea who it was?"
"I went by there to see if they had security cameras that might have caught the guy. They didn't have a camera near the pay phone, but I was able to see the tape of the store the few minutes before and after the call. There was a guy. He had long dark hair, but a Volunteers baseball cap hid his face. Probably five-ten, 175 pounds."
"That describes half the men I know."
"Yeah, me too. He was in a light-colored four-door sedan. The image was black and white and a little blurry, but could have been a Corolla or Civic or one of those little cars. We can't say for sure if he's the one who made the call, but from the tape, it looks like his were the only headlights lighting up the store around the time the call was made."
"I want to see."
He opened his binder and showed her a picture. The angle showed only the top of his head. The picture was black and white, and she couldn't see his face. In the first photo, he was buying a pack of cigarettes and a drink. In the next, he was heading out.
"You recognize him?"
"Not at all." She studied his clothes. Jeans, clean white sneakers. No visible tattoos. No distinguishing characteristics at all. He didn't look like either a killer or a protector.
"Did he buy gas? Give a credit card?"
"Nope. Paid cash. No gas."
"Then we're right back where we started."
"Not necessarily. I'll keep these pictures, just in case something comes up."
"Meanwhile ..."
"Meanwhile, you let me know if you hear from him again. Since he said he would protect you, it's possible he's not the killer, but that he knows who is. Or he thinks he knows."
"And he knows whoever it was, was after me."
He turned to his notes in the binder. "He said it was about you. Not that you were the target."
"He also sounded crazy. You know. Making himself my protector."
"Did Mom get out her revolver?"
"Uh ... yeah. But I wouldn't count on her skill. We could both use some instruction. If we ever figure out how to load it, we're liable to shoot our own feet off. But it's okay. You're home now."
"Yeah, but just for tonight. I evicted Tom. Told him he had twenty-four hours to get out."
"Girlfriend going with him?"
Gibson managed to laugh. "If she doesn't I'll arrest her for trespassing."
"Way to go. I didn't think you had it in you."
"I finally got tired enough. Your couch isn't all that comfortable."
"Yeah, sorry about that." She got up and punched him on the arm. "I have to get back to rewriting my songs."
"So you committed. When do we start recording?"
The "we" made her smile. She knew she could count on him. "You tell me. When are you unsealing the studios?"
"We need a few more days, and then we'll get the crime-scene clean-up crew in."
"The longer you force us to stay closed, the longer it'll be before I can get studio time."
"Doing the best I can, Sis. Trying to solve a murder here."
She didn't have to be reminded.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
When the police department unsealed the studios a few days later, Parker met George Colgate there to assess what needed to be done before they opened back up for business. She and her boss stood in the lobby, surveying the plywood that boarded the windows. The company contracted to clean up crime scenes had gotten Bren-na'sblood out of the carpet and off the walls. Parker was glad of that--still, she didn't think she could sit at her desk as if nothing had changed.
George seemed uneasy, too. "Call Jarailly Glass and see if you can get that pane replaced ASAP. It's the strongest, most secure kind they have. They probably have our original order on file. If they have something bullet-proof, go with that."
She looked at the window, trying to imagine the angle of the bullets from a car driving by. At least with the plywood no one could see through it to shoot her. They'd have to come inside.
Somehow, that didn't ease her tension.
George seemed to read her thoughts. "Hey, if you want to reorient your desk so you're not sitting right there ... where she sat ... we can move it right now."
Her eyes grew misty. "Yeah, okay. Let's do that."
They each got on one side of the heavy desk. "Where do you want to put it?" George asked.
She looked at the wall where the window was. Not there. She'
d never rest knowing her back was to the glass. There was only one other place, catty-corner to where it was before. It would have to do for now. "Right there, I guess. We can move it back when we get everything ... back to normal."
"If you want."
"Where's my chair?"
"They must have taken it."
Of course. Brenna had fallen with it. It probably had blood ...
"I'll get you the one in my office." A couple of minutes later, he rolled his executive desk chair to her desk.
"Where are you going to sit?" she asked. "You are gonna be here when we open tomorrow, aren't you?"
"Yes. I'll bring the chair from my study at home until I can get a new one. The security guard will be here at eight a.m."
She swallowed. Maybe the guard's presence would calm her tripping heart.
"You gonna be all right, Parker?"
She wanted to say yes, but that would be a lie. "I'll survive," she said.
She hoped it was true.
The next morning, Serene and her people showed up at eight--an unheard-of hour for musicians, who rarely went to bed before dawn. But there was much left to do on Serene's records, so they'd taken any and all hours they could get. Parker went into the studio with them and listened as Serene belted out the new lyrics in her unique, powerful voice. The new verses weren't half bad, she had to admit. If she wanted a career in secular songwriting, she could probably have one. She could be like Dianne Warren, who had her own star in the Hollywood Walk of Fame. She'd read that her music catalogue was worth over a billion dollars. Or Dolly Parton, who'd written three thousand songs, recorded by countless artists.