When the service broke up, LesPaul leaned into Parker. "Way to go, Parks. Nice ringtone. Everyone liked it."
She glanced around. "Maybe nobody knows it's me."
"Oh, no, they don't know. Your answering the phone didn't tip anybody off."
She wanted to cry.
"It wasn't that bad, Sis," Gibson said as LesPaul scurried off to talk to more friends. "Forget it. Are you going to the graveside service?"
"Yeah, you want a ride?"
"No, I'd rather go in my own car, so I can hang back and watch." Relieved, she headed out to her car and closed herself in. As she waited for the procession to line up, she called Serene back.
"You hung up on me!" her friend said as soon as she answered.
"I had to. I was at Brenna's funeral."
"Don't you know you're supposed to turn the ringer off?"
"When someone answers the phone and says, 'I can't talk right now,' you're not supposed to start talking."
"It's an emergency," Serene said. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're my best friend and I wanted to tell you. Are you in with me or not?"
Parker pulled into the procession of Hummers and Beamers, feeling insecure about her Bug. "I don't know. I need to call you back. I'm going to the gravesite."
"No, don't call me back. Tell me now! I need to get into the studio today."
"You can't. It's still sealed by the police."
"Then I'll find another place to record. Work with me here, Parker."
She felt cornered. "Did you try telling Jeff Standard why you went into Christian music in the first place? Did you remind him that it's those songs about Christ that have gotten you where you are?"
"Parker, let's not do this again."
"Okay, let's not." She hung up, then held the button until the phone powered down. Tossing it onto her passenger seat, she whispered, "That should take care of that."
Up ahead, the hearse turned into the graveyard. She slowed as car after car turned in behind it. She followed them down the winding road leading to a tent.
She got out of her car and stepped across the moist earth, walking between graves and headstones toward the tent. She paused as the pallbearers got the casket out of the hearse. Her gaze landed on Brenna's mother. Tiffany was beautiful in a nip-and-tuck, ageless kind of way. Parker wondered how old she was. Normally, Tiffany could hold her own with most of the twenty-something stars with whom she competed. But today her eyes looked glassy and distant, her swollen eyelids heavy. She'd been sedated after hearing about the murder, Gibson had said. She still looked sedated today.
"Hello again, Parker."
The whispered greeting turned Parker around. Nigel Hughes. "You know," she said, "it's in really bad taste to show up at a teenaged girl's funeral looking for dirt."
"Why do you suppose I'm looking for dirt?"
"Because that's what you do. See, I do my homework, too."
"Ah, you've read some of my articles."
"And I don't want to see any more." She started to walk away.
"Your brother's working on the case, isn't he?"
"I told you, I'm not talking to reporters about the murder."
"No, no, I quite understand. That's perfectly fine. But I would imagine it's occurred to them how strange it was that Nathan Evans's daughter would be working at Colgate Studios. Makes one a bit suspicious, doesn't it?"
Parker's attention was snagged. "Suspicious of what?"
"One would simply wonder if Brenna had been sent. You know, to spy."
She grunted. "You're amazing. You take a girl's death and try to manipulate it into one of your hack stories. I have nothing to say."
"Well, it isn't outside the realm of possibility, now, is it? Word is that your boss didn't even know Brenna was Nathan Evans's daughter. Why do you suppose she would have kept that little tidbit of information private?"
"Maybe she wanted to make it on her own."
He breathed a laugh. "Come now. Filing and reception work is hardly making it. Nothing against what you do, love, but it would hardly be a draw for a young woman wanting to climb the proverbial ladder, now would it?"
"She was eighteen. She probably didn't even know yet what she wanted to be when she grew up."
"Ah, you could be right. But Nathan Evans is known to be a ruthless man."
Parker walked away, not looking back. She was sure he'd find someone else to pump for information. And they would, no doubt, give it to him.
Already, the seeds he'd planted in her mind began to sprout. She tried to remember everything she knew about Evans Music. The record company was successful, though lately they'd been having problems. One of their unmarried big-ticket Christian artists, Alena Moore, had wound up pregnant, which put a hold on her career in Christian music. Now there was a story Nigel Hughes could sink his teeth into. Rumor was that Nathan Evans had taken a huge loss because of it. He'd had a ton of money invested in her promotion. Now he couldn't get any of the Christian stores to carry her most recent album. And because the songs were so blatantly Christian, they wouldn't cross over to the secular airwaves.
Parker had prayed for the young artist whose mistake had changed the course of her life. She couldn't help respecting her for the courageous decision to have the baby. Life was more precious to Alena than her career, apparently.
But Nathan was left holding the bag for an aborted career.
What would he have to gain by sending his daughter to work for the studios? Brenna might have picked up rumors of secrets about competing record companies--but then, no official deals were made at Colgate. Then again, the lounge at Colgate was often filled with artists and their people hanging out, talking, sharing industry scuttlebutt. Parker supposed if one were looking for secrets, they might find some at Colgate.
At the tent, Parker looked around the crowd, wondering if the killer had come. Some of the faces she recognized, some she didn't. LesPaul could have named half of them.
As Brenna's family filed in to take the chairs under the tent, a man entered with them--about Parker's age, hands in his pockets under a tailored suit coat. He paused as he waited for the parents and grandparents to be seated. As he waited, his eyes met Parker's. He was about five-ten, with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. He had the same jaw line and eyes as Nathan Evans.
He took a seat on the end of the front row. Her brother, Parker realized. Yes, he was the one in the picture in Brenna's dorm.
When the funeral was over, she waited on the outskirts of the crowd, hoping to get close enough to Brenna's parents to express her condolences. But it was impossible. There were too many people around them. She gave up and headed back to her car.
"Hey, Parker."
It was Brenna's boyfriend, Chase. He looked as bad as he had Thursday when she'd first met him. Gibson's warning about Chase's lies flashed through her mind. But a little compassion wouldn't hurt anything. She hugged him. "You okay?"
"No, not really." He seemed to stiffen under the sympathy. "My girl was murdered. I'll never be okay again." Tears welled in his eyes, and he rubbed his mouth. He made an effort to talk. "Her mom's begging us to get all her friends to come back to their house. Says having us around makes her feel better. There'll be food and stuff. You can come, if you want."
This would give her the chance to offer her condolences. Brenna's parents might have questions she could answer. Brenna had been killed at Parker's desk. She hadn't really been Brenna's friend, but she should have been. "Okay, I guess I can go for a little while."
As she got into her car, Gibson approached. "What did Chase say to you?" he asked in a low voice.
"He invited me to the Evans house."
"I asked you to stay away from him."
"It's not his house, it's theirs. I just want to tell them I'm sorry for their loss."
"Then take me with you. Maybe I'll learn something about the case."
Parker shook her head. "I can't do that! They know you're one of the detectives on
the case. They didn't invite you." She looked back at the family as they got into a limousine. "Look, I won't stay long. I'll let you know if I find out anything."
He sighed. "All right, but be careful."
"Do you think the killer was here?"
He shrugged and looked back at Chase, walking to his car. "Could be."
"Anybody you're going to follow up on?"
"You go do your thing, and I'll do mine."
He didn't have to be snooty about it.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The house that Brenna grew up in was among the mansions in Franklin, Tennessee, a well-to-do suburb of Nashville. Parker guessed it was about 10,000 square feet. She couldn't imagine how anyone could fill every room in a house this size. Feeling awkward, she pulled into the line of cars parked along the circular driveway and waited until she saw Marta and some of Brenna's friends getting out of their cars.
She slipped out and greeted Marta. "Chase asked me to come. Do you think it's all right?"
Marta looked rougher than she'd looked a couple of days ago when Parker had met her at the dorms. "You worked with her, so they'll want you here. They made us promise to come. Heads up, though--her mother's on something."
"On something? You mean, drugs?"
"Yeah. They must have tranquilized her for the funeral. Maybe that's what we all need."
Parker's heart swelled for the broken mother. She turned back down the driveway and saw Chase walking toward the door. His nose was red and shiny; he'd probably been crying on the way over. What a day for him ... for all who'd loved this girl.
Parker followed Marta up the front steps. Stepping into the opulent mansion, she had the sense of stepping into greatness.
Brenna's mother was sitting in a throne-like chair in the parlor. For over a decade, she had been the top-selling Christian star in the US. Now, pushing fifty, her numbers had dropped, but Parker suspected that at least some of the opulence in this home had come from her income. She had her sunglasses on, no doubt to hide the grief in her eyes. She spoke with a slur and fawned over Brenna's friends as they leaned down to hug her. She seemed a little like Anna Nicole Smith in the days following her son's death.
When it was Parker's turn to greet her, she took the woman's hand in both of hers--brimming with sweet, comforting words. Instead, she got stuck on whether to call her Mrs. Evans or Ms. Teniere. She decided to skip her name, altogether.
"I worked with Brenna at Colgate Studies," she said softly. "I thought she was a wonderful person." She mentally kicked herself; that sounded so lame. And frankly, Parker didn't know whether Brenna was a wonderful person or a terrible person. She'd never taken the time to find out. "I'm so sorry about what happened."
"What's your name, honey?" Tiffany's hoarse voice had a drag to it, as if her tongue moved seconds behind her thoughts.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Parker James."
"Parker James," Tiffany slurred. "The songwriter."
Pride flooded her chest. "That's right."
"You wrote all the songs for Serene what's-her-name."
"Serene Stevens."
"That's right. You're a good writer, sweetie."
"Thank you. I worked with Brenna at Colgate."
"I remember her talking about you." She stroked the hair out of Parker's eyes. Parker wondered if Brenna really had spoken of her. She doubted it.
The crowd behind Parker pushed closer, so Parker stepped out of the way.
The thought that Tiffany Teniere knew who she was thrilled her. Then she slapped herself down. What was she doing, thinking of herself at a time like this? This wasn't a networking opportunity.
She looked around for Marta and saw her on the back sun porch with Chase, among Brenna's friends. She felt out of place, but something about this situation compelled her to stay. People here knew things. They knew of Brenna's enemies, her fights, her admirers. Maybe the gossip would reveal some clues to lead them to the killer. She stepped out onto the porch.
Across the pool stood a gazebo. Nathan Evans sat there with some record executives that Parker recognized but couldn't name. Nathan didn't seem to be grieving the same way as his wife. Instead, he looked angry. His lips were tight and his teeth bared as he bit out words. She wished she could hear the conversation.
After a few minutes, Tiffany came out to the sun porch. "Would any of you like to see Brenna's room?" She took Chase's arm. "Chase, sweetie, let me lean on you and I'll give you all a tour. I want you to see what a special and talented person my baby girl is ... was." As she corrected herself, Tiffany swayed. Parker wondered if she was about to faint.
"You sure you're up to this?" Chase asked her.
Tiffany seemed to rally. "Of course." Her voice was weak, nothing like the sound on her CDs. "I need to get away from all the well-wishers who didn't even know her. Wouldn't know her if she spat in their faces. Don't even know why they're here, except to see and be seen. Blood-sucking leeches."
Parker felt a rush of guilt, but Tiffany reached out a hand to her. "Come on, kids, let's go upstairs."
Feeling like a fraud, Parker took her hand and let Tiffany lead her up the grand staircase, down the wide hallway floored with rich mahogany.
They went past several beautifully decorated bedrooms and a big study with Brenna's portrait on the wall. Parker wanted to pause at each room and see how the upper class lived, but Tiffany kept walking.
Finally, they stepped into Brenna's bedroom suite. Why would the girl have chosen to live in a cramped dorm on campus when she had a home like this? The room had the look of a penthouse in a five-star hotel. Parker was afraid to touch the furniture.
Tiffany went to Brenna's bed and sat down. She grabbed a satin pillow and stroked it gently. Chase lost it--he covered his face and leaned against the wall. Marta and some of the other girls surrounded him, hugging him, trying to comfort him. Feeling like an intruder, Parker backed into the hallway.
She should leave, right now. She had no business here.
She heard footsteps on the stairs and saw Nathan Evans coming up with the three men she'd seen outside. Two of them she knew to be promoters. The third one was the guy with the ponytail, the one she had guessed to be Brenna's brother. His eyes met hers again, calm and familiar as if he knew her, as they went into the study and closed the door.
Quietly, she headed back to the staircase. As she passed the study, she heard angry voices and paused. "This didn't just happen by accident," she heard someone say. "This was deliberate and it's aimed at me."
"Let's not get carried away," someone returned. "It could have been a case of mistaken identify."
"You don't gun my daughter down by accident. It wasn't a mistake."
The voices grew more muffled and she stepped closer. She couldn't hear the words anymore, but the heated exchange sounded angry, bitter.
Maybe she should stay, after all. She might hear more. But she couldn't lurk outside this door. She went back to Brenna's room and, taking a deep breath, stepped back inside. Tiffany sat on the bed, leaning back against Brenna's ornate headboard, her vacant eyes locked on another portrait on Brenna's dresser.
"I told him," she muttered. "He has so many enemies. They finally got even."
Parker's heart slammed through her chest. She waited for someone closer to the family to ask what she meant, but no one did. So she did. "Enemies? What enemies?"
Tiffany looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. "My husband's enemies. She was his little girl. The thing that would hurt him most."
Parker had the strangest feeling that the identity of Brenna's killer might roll right off Tiffany's tongue. "You sound like you know who did it."
Tiffany seemed to snap out of it then. "Who knows? Dozens of people over all these years ..."
"But ... was there someone recently? Someone who made threats?"
"Not outright. Not that I know of." Tiffany's eyes fixed on some distant, unseen memory. "I don't feel well. I have to go lie down."
&nbs
p; Parker swallowed, wishing she could get more out of her. "But if you could think of a name to give the police, they could arrest him."
Tiffany got off of the bed and locked into Parker's gaze. "It could have been anyone. It could even have been you."
All eyes turned to her, inquisitive, accusing.
Horrified, Parker brought her hand to her chest. "It wasn't," she whispered. "You don't think I--"
"Of course not, sweetie." Tiffany touched Parker's face. "Thank you for coming. Give my apologies." Then she wandered down the hall and vanished into another room.
Brenna's friends were quiet as they went back downstairs. Parker didn't have the stomach for any more snooping. As the others headed back to the sun room, Parker stepped out the front door, glad for fresh air. She hurried out to her car and pulled out of the line of parked cars. Trembling, she powered on her cell phone and dialed Gibson's number.
He was quick to answer. "Hey, Sis. Whatcha got?"
"I was just at the Evanses' house," she said, "and I heard this weird conversation. Her father was talking to these guys. Promoters, I think. Nathan told them that he didn't think Brenna's death was random, that someone killed her purposely because of him."
Gibson was quiet for a moment. "What else did you hear?"
She related her conversation with Tiffany.
"I don't like this," Gibson said. "That she suggested the murderer could've been you. Brenna's friends will be talking. That'll get all over town."
"She didn't mean anything by it."
"Doesn't matter. It'll take on a life of its own."
"Well, should I be concerned? Is someone going to show up and handcuff me?"
"No. You have an alibi and no motive ... and a brother working on the case. But Parker, you've got to stay away from the investigation. Don't go near those people anymore." He paused, clearly waiting for her to agree. "Parker, do you hear me?"
"Yes, I hear you."
"This is not sister-brother stuff, Parker. This is police business. Your getting more involved could cost me the case, and maybe even my job. And worse, it could enable the killer to get away with it. You got that?"
"Yes, I've got it. Well, one good thing. If Tiffany and Nathan are right, the killer didn't intend to kill me. I'll feel safer."