"Very well."
"Rumblings are that Jeff Standard is trying to sign her."
Boy, this guy had done his homework. How had he gone from reporting on the murder at Colgate to snooping into Serene's record deals?
"I can't talk about that."
"Then you confirm it?"
He was good. "No, I don't confirm it. I simply don't feel comfortable talking about Serene's career with a stranger."
"And here I thought we were friends."
"You Brits have a funny way of looking at things."
He laughed. "Touche. You're very clever, you are." He glanced toward the counter. "Can I buy you a scone? A muffin?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm good."
"You're not on one of those starvation kicks like so many of the girls in the entertainment field, are you?"
She wanted to ask him if she looked like she was starving, but she knew his answer might crush her ego. "No, I eat when I'm hungry."
"Unlike your friend, Serene."
She frowned. "What?"
"Oh, come now. I've seen the girl in concert. She's practically skeletal, she is. Anorexic, isn't she?"
That was enough. Parker pulled her coat back on and got to her feet. "I'm sorry, I have to go."
He looked wounded. "Did I offend you? I'm very, very sorry if I did."
"I have things to do." She took her coffee and started for the door.
"May I talk with you again? Dinner, perhaps? Not for an interview, but just two people enjoying one another's company? I don't know many people here, after all."
Was he asking her for a date? "No, I don't think so." She pushed through the door, leaving him standing there.
As she got into her car, she looked back. He was still at the glass, hands in pockets, watching her. Either he was captivated with her, or he saw her as a source of information.
She would Google him when she got home, and see who this Nigel Hughes really was.
Google confirmed that Nigel Hughes was a staff writer for the New York Times. Parker looked at some of his stories over the last few months. He seemed to be fascinated with celebrity scandals. His column appeared in the Entertainment Section.
He'd been one of the first reporters to dig up compromising photographs of one of the hottest Disney teen stars last year, and when Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan were suffering the indignities of their DUI scandals, he'd written about it extensively.
The fact that he was interested in Serene's eating habits worried her. Why would he even care about a star in the Christian arena? One song on the Billboard charts wasn't enough to warrant such scrutiny, was it?
If it was, maybe Serene could get her act together before he uncovered too much.
Resolving not to talk to him again, she went to the American Idol website to see if they'd posted any information yet about this summer's auditions. Two years in a row, she'd stood in line with thousands of people and hadn't made the cut, even past the producers who screened the singers. She had never even seen Randy, Paula, and Simon in person. She was neither bad enough to get on camera, nor good enough to go to Hollywood. It would have discouraged her, if not for all the fabulous singers she'd seen turned away.
Her latest idea for a shortcut to fame was through Christian music festivals that drew thousands to hear the most popular Christian bands play. Some of them had contests for new singer/ songwriters. She'd submitted demos to all of them.
No word from any of them yet.
She was also considering other reality shows than American Idol. She'd written off Survivor because she didn't think she could ever do anything athletic without losing an arm or a leg. So she'd applied to be on Big Brother, hoping that being trapped in a house with a bunch of others for six weeks might give her some notoriety. They always needed a guitar-playing Christian to mock, didn't they? She hadn't gotten a reply from her application or the video she'd sent in, though.
So lately, she'd thought of trying to get on a decorating show. She'd applied for Trading Spaces and convinced her mother to trade houses for a weekend to decorate a room in each other's home. If she could just have a camera crew here for the weekend, she would paint like a screaming banshee and sing her original songs while she did it. She'd get a decorated living room to boot.
But none of them had responded. There were fifteen emails from people who'd heard she was dead, then subsequently found out it was all a mistake. They gushed as though she'd been their best friend. Though she saw the irony in their emailing instead of calling, she was glad they hadn't added their voices to her growing voice mailbox.
Besides the condolence/praise emails, she had a dozen e-cards she didn't want to take the time to open. She wondered if Day Spring Cards had come up with a So Glad You're Not Dead card, but she didn't want to take the time to find out. She hit the delete key on each of them.
Familiar anxiety swirled up in her stomach, starting a bitter churning. She realized she hadn't eaten lunch, so she went to the pantry and pulled out a bag of caramel rice cakes she'd bought on one of her health kicks. The idea was that one or two would assuage her hunger when she was trying to lose a few pounds. Instead, she binged on them and ate the whole bag. Unlike Serene, she didn't purge. No, she preferred to let her calories go straight to her thighs.
Her father had aptly named her. Parker was the name of a guitar that was handcrafted and unusually shaped. What could be more fitting? Not her jeans, that was for sure.
Who did she think she was kidding? She wasn't skinny enough to be a star.
Now that she'd finished the bag of rice cakes and the email, she still felt uneasy. Sick, almost. Her anxiety was pushing toward panic. There was only one remedy for that.
She went to her bedroom and got her Bible, which sat on her nightstand, on top of her workbook on James. Crawling onto her unmade bed, she opened the Bible to where the ribbon marked her place and began to read. As always, when she got into God's Word, she felt sucked in, totally absorbed, fascinated by the living words that had such application to her life.
Time passed before she knew it, and just as she'd hoped, the churning in her stomach stopped. The anxiety level went down. She didn't feel like she was going to explode.
She heard a door and looked out the window. Gibson's car sat in the driveway. She slid off the bed and met him in the front room. "Did you solve the case?"
She'd never seen her brother look quite so tired. "Not yet."
"I saw Chase this morning, and Brenna's roommate Marta."
He opened the fridge and shot a look back at her. "You need to stay out of this, Parker. I'm serious. You don't have any business interrogating witnesses."
"I didn't. I just wanted to tell them how sorry I am."
He closed the refrigerator door. "You ought to go to the grocery store."
The nerve. "I wasn't planning for company. I have rice cakes." She grabbed the bag off her computer table. There were mostly only crumbs left, but she tossed it to him. "I'll make you a sandwich. I have bread and some ham."
"How old is it?"
She grunted. "Would I offer you something spoiled?"
"I don't know. I get you and Tom mixed up." Tom was his lazy, inconsiderate, womanizing roommate.
"Yeah, I see how that could happen."
So Gibson and his roommate hadn't yet reconciled. Which meant Gibson would be staying awhile.
"So how did Chase seem?" Gibson asked. "I have to go talk to him again today."
"Sad. Upset."
"Did you see his hand?"
"Yeah. He put it through the wall when he heard about her murder."
He shook his head. "Something's not right about that."
She got the ham out of the fridge and checked the expiration date, just to make sure. "What do you mean?"
"Well, her roommate said Brenna was studying at Colgate Studios last night because she--Marta--was rehearsing in her room."
"Right."
"And she said Brenna didn't go to Chase's because he was in clas
s."
"Yeah," she said, looking for the mayonnaise in the refrigerator door shelf.
"He had that swollen hand when he went to class that night."
She found the jar and looked back at him. "Are you sure?"
He nodded. "And that was before the murder. I talked to his professor to verify his story, and he'd noticed it."
Parker sucked in a breath. "But why would he lie about that?"
"Why do you think?"
No, that couldn't be right. She didn't see murder in Chase's eyes. "Gibson, don't waste time pursuing him. He's a nice guy."
"Parker, most killers don't act like killers. He's also a liar. You should stay away from him."
That churning in her stomach began again. "Maybe there's some other explanation. Maybe it has nothing to do with the killing. Did he have gun powder residue on his hands?" Her eyes widened. "Or in his car. Did you check his car?"
Gibson rolled his eyes. "I should've never let you help me study for that exam."
"You didn't let me. You begged me."
"But I didn't expect you to memorize the textbook. Yes, we checked all those things. No gunpowder residue."
"Well, there you go."
"He still lied. That's suspicious. I'm telling you, something stinks."
She opened the mayo and sniffed the contents. She put the sandwich together on a plate, then shoved it across the counter. "He didn't kill her," she said. "He's so distraught he can't even think straight."
"I mean it, Parker. Whether you've exonerated the guy in your mind or not, don't go near him again. You're going to make me lose my job."
She thought of taking the sandwich back. "Me? How?"
"You're intimately involved in the case, which gives me a conflict of interest, according to the chief."
"So did he take it away from you?"
"No, he gave me a few days. He'll renege on that if he finds out my little sister is going around trying to solve the stupid case for me."
"I'm not trying to solve the case. You don't have to worry."
She saw the despondent slump of Gibson's shoulders as he dropped to the couch, his plate on his lap. He bit off a third of the sandwich, as if he hadn't eaten in days. Maybe she should make another one.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. Fox News came on with a report about a tamed alligator somewhere in Florida. "Look at this," he said. "Maybe I'll get some pointers for dealing with my roommate."
"You should move out."
"Can't. The lease is in my name."
"Then lay down the law. Tell him his girlfriend can't live there. Make him move out. It's ridiculous that you can't sleep in your own place."
"You talk tough, Parker. But you'd do what I'm doing. I'll deal with it as soon as I have time to think. Subject closed."
"A little defensive, aren't we?" Parker muttered. "Okay, how about a new subject? Confidentially, Serene had some news last night. Apparently, Jeff Standard is considering buying out her contract. He wants to cross her over."
She had his attention now. "Are you kidding me? That's great!"
"Not so great," she said. "They want her to tone down all the songs on her new album."
"The songs you wrote."
"That's right."
"And what does 'tone down' mean?"
"Just what you think it means. Take out the Christianity and make them love songs. She's all gung ho about giving Standard what he wants, lock, stock, and barrel. The musical tracks won't have to be changed. Just the lyrics and vocals."
"No hill for a climber."
She sighed. "I don't know. It goes against my grain to make my songs superficial." She went back to the kitchen to make him another sandwich. "I want them to make people think of God, not some fictitious boyfriend out there in Billboard land."
"Are you crazy? What good is it to have all these great songs if nobody ever gets to hear them? You could make so much money, Parker. Your songs are great. This could be your ticket."
She stared at him over the counter. "You think I should do it?"
"It's a no-brainer, Sis. Why wouldn't you do it? You could buy a bigger place."
"So I'd have a room for you?"
He ignored the barb. "You could travel. You've never even been out of the country."
"Yes, I have. I went to Mexico on a mission trip."
He got up and came back to the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. "Parker, you can't say no to this. It's not like you're going to hit it big performing. Songwriting is your gift."
That stung, and Parker tried not to wince.
"Take this time off and hammer out those lyrics. It'll open all sorts of doors for you. I can see the charts now. Serene won't just have the number-one spot. She'll have five or six spots. And people will hear about Parker James, the songwriter. You'll be in huge demand. Other artists will start begging you to write for them. Big ones. This is your chance, Parker. Do it."
She went back to making another sandwich.
"Parker, look at me," Gibson said.
She looked up grudgingly, aware that her face was burning.
"I know you're trying to honor God. That's important. But God doesn't only call us to do things in Christian arenas. I'm not a Christian cop. I'm a cop who's a Christian. I don't just solve Christian murders."
She grinned. "Okay, I get your point."
"I'm just saying, no matter how big and famous you get, you don't have to write anything you don't want to write. You can let your Christian influence shine in your life and all you do. And the songs you perform can still be Christian songs."
She swallowed the urge to ask him why she'd perform at all if, in his opinion, she wasn't going to hit it big. But she didn't like sounding bitter. "But if I give her the songs, the original lyrics that I thought God gave me will be dead. I can't perform them. Who would want them if Serene's made the other ones famous? Those songs started out as acts of worship, Gibson."
"Hey, would God open doors that he doesn't want you to go through?"
"Maybe it's not God opening the door."
"And maybe it is. Just consider it, okay? Don't slam the door shut without at least peeking through."
She didn't want to talk about it anymore, so to shut Gibson up, she promised to give it more thought.
But later, when her phone began to ring, she didn't even check the caller ID. She decided to ignore it. It was probably Serene, and she didn't have an answer for her yet.
CHAPTER
TEN
The funeral was on Saturday at Two Rivers Baptist Church, which was packed to the gills with celebrity mourners. Parker and her brothers, who'd gotten there early, found a seat in the middle of the sanctuary. Gibson had come to get a look at the mourners, thinking the killer might show up, but LesPaul, her younger brother, came because he knew Brenna. LesPaul was one of Colgate's most in-demand studio musicians, as well as one of their house engineers.
LesPaul took the end of the row and spent most of his time on his feet, shaking hands of people he knew well from spending hours with them in the studios. Parker knew a lot of them, too, but she sat quietly, not feeling social at a time like this.
Her eyes scanned the heads in front of her, and she caught the eye of Nigel Hughes, the New York Times reporter. He played the role of mourner on the tenth row, but he sat sideways on his pew, taking inventory of the Chris Christian leaders in attendance who might wind up as stars in his upcoming articles. He smiled and offered her a wave.
Parker waved back, then quickly looked away.
When the Evans family was led in, she saw Tiffany, lookingas forlorn and heartbroken as a mother could look. She leaned on her husband, who seemed to support her weight as they slowly walked in. His face looked like granite, gray and hard, unreadable. Behind them trailed an entourage of family members--some who looked devastated, some who didn't. Funerals were funny things, she thought. People laughed and shook hands at them, told stories and laughed, and enjoyed seeing people they had
n't seen in years. But that buoyancy was never a barometer of their grief.
The funeral was long, complete with a compilation of videos of Brenna growing up. Had the parents chosen this, or had some well-meaning friend put it together? Whoever did it, Parker wondered whether it might shift the family's mourning into overdrive. It seemed to Parker that it might be horribly painful for the parents and friends, even if it was a precious tribute to the murdered girl.
As the pastor spoke, friends eulogized, and stars sang, she felt no celebration of Brenna's life--just a heavy, overwhelming sadnes sat the way she had died, a sense of despair that heaven couldn't assuage.
As the pastor wrapped up his sermon with Revelation 22, a piano riff began to play. Startled, she realized that it was her phone ringing. She'd forgotten to turn it off. She tried to find her phone at the bottom of her purse. Amid all the junk she kept there--hand lotion, a tape recorder, her appointment book, a small notebook to jot her song ideas in--the phone hid itself.
"Turn it off!" LesPaul whispered harshly.
The piano riff continued. Ta-dada-da-da, Ta-dada-da-da, like some burlesque orchestra backing up Gypsy Rose Lee. By the time she found the phone, people were turning to look. She couldn't remember how to switch the ringer off, so she answered and whispered, "I can't talk right now."
"You're not gonna believe this!" The voice was Serene's. "Jeff Standard is doing it for sure. This afternoon I'm signing the contract. He bought me out of my previous contracts and I'm on my way to my dreams coming true!"
"I'll call you back," Parker whispered.
"No, don't hang up. I need your commitment now. Will you rewrite the songs or not?"
On the phone, Serene's voice packed the punch that it had in a stadium full of twenty thousand people. Parker knew that everyone within several feet of her could hear the conversation. "Not now," she whispered through her teeth, and clicked the phone off.
Blood rushed to her face. Her skin was flaming. She hoped Brenna's family hadn't been distracted by the sound. Quickly she turned off the ringer and dropped the phone back into her purse.