Double Minds (2 page)
Authors: Terri Blackstock
“We’ll have an officer go.”
She ran her fingers through her hair. “What about her roommate and the people who know her at school?”
“We only notify next of kin.” He clicked off his camera. “I’ve got to get back in.”
She stood frozen in the cold night and watched her brother cross the yard back into the building. The night strobed with blue-and-white lights. The media snapped pictures of her, like she was somebody. She didn’t want to talk. If they didn’t have Brenna’s name yet, maybe the parents could be notified first. She thought of Brenna’s roommate and boyfriend. They would hear it on the news, probably soon.
Parker thought of going to Belmont, less than a mile away, to notify them herself. But she didn’t even know which dorm Brenna lived in. She’d never asked Brenna her roommate’s name. Brenna’s boyfriend had come by once or twice to bring her lunch when she was working during the day. He looked young and untarnished. Almost innocent. Way too innocent to have a murdered girlfriend. What would it do to him?
On the other hand, maybe
he
was the killer. Maybe this was about a failed relationship. She turned on her phone and pressed her brother’s number again.
He answered quickly. “Yeah?”
“Gibson, I just remembered she has a boyfriend. His name is Chase something. Kind of an Irish last name. Mac-something.”
“Okay, we’ll talk to him.”
“It shouldn’t be hard to find him. Check her phone’s speed dial.”
“Parker, I know how to do my job.”
“I know. It’s just …” She knew she’d better just let him handle it. But he could be flakey sometimes, and he was new at this. Since he’d been promoted to Homicide, he’d only had to solve three cases, all of them pretty cut and dried. This one might be different.
She turned off her phone and stood there a moment, unable to move or think. Tears rushed to her eyes and she put her hand over her mouth. How could this happen? She’d never dreamed Gibson would be investigating the death of someone she knew.
Turning, she walked through the night of blue strobes, cameras flashing like paparazzi.
“Ma’am, could you tell us your name?”
“Did you know the victim?”
“Do the police know who killed her?”
She ignored the reporters and ducked under the tape, and went back toward her car. Tomorrow she’d wind up in the paper with a caption that said “Unidentified Woman Weeps at Door of Colgate Studios.”
“Ma’am, can you confirm the victim’s name?”
Parker looked at the reporter dressed in a black Armani suit, his face painted for his close-ups. She wiped her eyes. “Please don’t give her name tonight. Just keep that out of it until her family and friends are told.”
The man kept pressing. “We’re told that it’s Parker James in there. That she’s the receptionist at Colgate. Can you confirm that?”
Parker’s heart jolted, and she opened her mouth to correct them. But then she thought of Brenna’s eighteen-year-old friends watching the news while waiting for David Letterman, and learning that she’d been murdered on Music Row. What if Brenna’s parents weren’t notified before newscasters began broadcasting her name? Would people call them, crying, wanting to know if it was true?
No, she couldn’t let that happen, not if she could help it. Brenna had been at Parker’s desk when she died. The least Parker could do was to confuse the media’s reporting. She cleared her throat. Her voice sounded far away. “I can confirm that Parker James is the receptionist.”
Gleefully, the reporter backed away, ready to do his standup for the audience at home. He would probably broadcast that Parker had been murdered. Soon the other channels would be announcing that, too.
What a mess.
She got into her car, sick with the thought that
her
family and friends would be devastated now. What had she been thinking? She clicked on her phone, pressed her mother on speed dial. Her voicemail quickly took over, which probably meant she was on the phone. Lynn James couldn’t abide Call Waiting.
“Mom, this is Parker, alive and well.” She sniffed and looked around her car for a Kleenex. “I wanted you to know that the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Her mother would love that she’d quoted Mark Twain. Parker found a tissue and dabbed at her nose. “Seriously, I’m alive. Don’t believe what you see on the news. It wasn’t me who was murdered. It’s just a stupid …misunderstanding.”
She hung up and sat for a moment. Her mother would let LesPaul, her other brother, know. But Parker would need to call her dad.
A reporter knocked on her window, and others began to surround her car. She punched the lock button, then dug in her purse for her keys and couldn’t find them. A camera flashed through the windshield—as if they thought
she
was the murderer, or maybe Brenna herself, risen from the dead after dusting herself off.
How could she get rid of them? She thought of all the ways she’d managed to help her famous friend Serene avoid reporters. A flash of brilliance struck her, and she rolled her window down. “They’re going to be moving the body out in the next few minutes,” she yelled.
Suddenly she was history. They lit out for the story unfolding at the door of Colgate—hounds on the scent of a corpse.
Lynn James wasn’t aging well. Her fiftieth birthday was on the horizon, but she wished she could slide under it without a mention. Why celebrate a day like that with gifts? It was a day when she needed condolences. People coming by with meals. Sympathy cards. Whispered lies, like I-know-how-you-feel and you-don’t-look- half-as-bad-as-you-think.
She transferred the cheese and crackers to the platter, wondering how much more the girls of her Bible study could eat. They’d ripped through her meatballs and finger sandwiches like death-row inmates at their last meal. Oh, for the metabolism of the young!
One day she’d been cute … and the next, her jowls were sagging and her eyelids were heavy and loose. In pictures, her features looked blurred and hangy, like someone had taken a clay sculpture of her and slid their fingers down it.
What she hated most about herself was her vanity. Why did she care how she looked? Her beauty should have nothing to do with outward adornment, at least according to the apostle Peter. But tell that to the other hip middle-agers in Nashville, who’d begun nipping and tucking when they were thirty-five.
If she could just lose ten pounds, maybe her skin would tighten up. Her double chin wouldn’t need liposuction. Her knees wouldn’t sag.
Or maybe they still would. Why eat healthy for no good reason?
It was ridiculous, dwelling on her appearance like a twenty-year-old. She had seventy-year-old friends who would kill to look like her. By the time she was seventy, her chin would be slapping her knees.
Maybe if she invited women her own age over instead of her former college students, she wouldn’t be having these thoughts. But the girls seemed to enjoy the weekly Bible studies.
The phone rang as she pushed through the door into the living room, where the noise level reminded her of a wedding shower. Whoever was calling would have to leave a message. She set the platter down. “Sorry about the phone. I forgot to turn the ringer off.”
“Don’t you want to answer it?” Sarah Stover, her favorite ex-student, asked.
It stopped ringing and went to voicemail. “Too late now. Kristy, will you check the caller ID?”
Twenty-five-year-old Kristy, sitting next to the phone, lifted it from its charger. With the technical savvy of a ten-year-old, she quickly found the name. “It was your daughter, Parker.”
Lynn smiled. “She had a concert tonight. She probably wants to tell me about it. Anybody need more tea?” Several of them had empty glasses, so the peach-flavored iced tea was a hit. She pushed back into the kitchen, but before she grabbed the pitcher, she picked up the phone and punched the numbers for her voicemail.
Parker’s voice came across the line. “Mom, this is Parker, alive and well.”
She sounded stopped up. Was she crying? Lynn forgot about the pitcher. Her daughter had her full attention now.
“I wanted you to know that rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Seriously, I’m alive. Don’t believe what you see on the news. It wasn’t me who was murdered—”
Lynn’s heart stumbled. Still clutching the phone, she went back into the living room. Sarah looked up at her. “Dr. James?”
She swallowed hard. “Turn on the TV. Someone’s been murdered.” Forgetting her guests as the television came on, Lynn dialed Parker’s number.
Her mother’s phone call came as Parker turned onto Wedgewood.
“What do you mean,
rumors of your death?
Why would someone think you’ve been murdered?”
As Parker related the night’s events, she felt her mother’s fear rippling like static through the phone line. “Parker, that could have been you!”
One of her mother’s true gifts—stating the obvious. “Tell me about it. Did you know her, Mom? She went to Belmont.”
“No, she wasn’t in any of my classes. Do you have any idea who did it?”
“No. But Gibson’s working the case.”
Her mother didn’t sound comforted by the thought. She’d never warmed to the idea that her firstborn was a cop, and the idea of him chasing killers kept her up nights. “You shouldn’t have lied to that reporter. Now everyone’s going to think you’re dead. My phone’ll ring off the hook. That’s a little creepy, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it was creepy. But I didn’t lie; I just confirmed that I was the receptionist. I know it was stupid.” Someone beeped in, and she glanced at the phone. “Mom, I have to go. Dad’s on the other line, and he probably just heard the report.”
“Oh, God help him. This’ll drive him to drink.”
“Yeah, well—everything does. I’ll call you later.” She glanced down at the Answer and Ignore buttons, and clicked Answer. “Dad?”
“Parker? Parker, is that you?” His tongue sounded thick. There was crowd noise behind him, a Garth Brooks song wailing in the background.
“Yes, it’s me, Dad. Where are you?”
“At home.”
She knew it was a lie. He was obviously sitting at some bar that happened to have the news playing on its television.
“The press is wrong. Really, I’m okay.” She went into the story again—knowing he couldn’t hear it all. Still, she heard relief and joy in her father’s voice.
“Actually, this is genius. Think about it, Parker. Now the press will be digging through their files to find out who you are. People will know your name.”
“Yeah, as a dead person. I don’t think that kind of publicity will do me a lot of good.”
The noise behind him faded, and she imagined him stepping outside. “Of course it will. The name will stick with them. That’s why I named you Parker. People don’t forget it.”
Parker braked at a stoplight. “So, you think I should just roll with it and accept the posthumous fame that will come with being murdered?”
He was silent for a moment. “No, I’m not saying that.”
“Whew, that’s a relief. I was thinking I’d have to go into hiding. Do they have some kind of murdered-person-protection program?” Another creepy thing to say. Why did she joke when she was squinting through tears? Brenna was dead.
She heard his deep raspy chuckle. “Good one. But seriously. Even one mention on the news will do you good. Any idea what TV exposure like that would cost if you had to pay for it? I hope your website is up to date.”
Holding the phone with her shoulder, she turned off West End onto Murphy Road. “I didn’t really want them to learn about me this way.”
“Doesn’t matter how they learn your name. Just that they do. You’re not getting any younger.”
Her dad always said just the right thing. “Yeah, I know. Twenty-six. I’m almost ready for dentures.”
“Passes faster than you think.”
Pete James’s life had passed him by, that was for sure. He’d missed most of it in a drunken stupor. He’d spent his life chasing dreams, then sabotaging them. Now he dreamed of his children’s musical careers as if he were their manager. Even in their mother’s womb, he’d named them after guitars. Parker was glad his hobby wasn’t reptiles. She might have been named Iguana.
His marketing zeal was inappropriate now, so she managed to wriggle off the phone, then retreated into silence for a moment. But the image of the dead girl was still in her head when she got home. She pulled into her carport as the motion light came on. Sitting in the car for a minute, she stared at a bird spot on the windshield and wondered if Brenna had suffered. Had she endured moments of agony before her life bled out of her? Had she prayed?
Parker’s phone buzzed yet again, startling her. She pulled it out of her pocket and saw Serene’s pampered made-for-TV face. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to her needy friend right now. But she’d probably seen the news, too. She clicked it on. “Hello?”
“Parker, where are you?”
“In my carport. I guess you heard about the murder.”
“What murder?”
And Parker was off again, repeating the story for the third time. About halfway through, she realized Serene was talking to someone with her, relaying the conversation to them.
“Serene? Serene!”
Serene checked back in. “I’m here. Listen, are you sure you want to be alone tonight? I mean, what if they meant those bullets for you?”
Parker hadn’t wanted to dwell on that thought. She didn’t have any enemies. Was there someone out there who wanted her dead? She looked at the door to her house, suddenly aware that she was vulnerable sitting here in her open carport. She checked her car door. Still locked.
“Just come sleep over at my house tonight,” Serene said. “I’d feel better knowing you were safe.”
Good idea. She thought of going in to get a few things first, but now she was too frightened. “All right,” she said. “I’ll come. But why were you calling?”
Serene hesitated. “We’ll talk about it when you get here.”
“No, go ahead. I want to know.”
Serene paused and Parker grew uneasy. Serene’s pauses usually bulged with unasked favors. “I need your help.”
“Help with what?”
“Long story. I’d rather talk to you in person. It’s
huge
. We have some decisions to make.”
“Decisions? About what?”
“About my album. Please, Parker.”
She sat a moment, then shifted her car into reverse. “All right, I’m coming.”
“Great. Butch wants to talk to you.”
She waited as Serene’s manager got on the phone. “Hey, Parker, on your way would you swing through Wendy’s?”
She mashed the volume button on her phone. Had she heard him right? He wanted her to make a food delivery?
“She hasn’t eaten in a couple of days,” he said. “She says if you bring her something, she’ll eat.”
Without doubt, Serene was malnourished. The idea of getting her to eat moved the favor into the life-or-death category. “She only eats protein bars. What will she eat from Wendy’s?”
“Just get two number-one combos with Cokes.”
Two? So Butch was hungry too. She wondered if Serene had really agreed to eat such a high-fat meal. If she ate it, she’d go purge within minutes. But if there was a possibility that her friend might get
some
nourishment … “Okay, I’ll bring it, but she has to digest it.”
She clicked her phone off. To calm her nerves, she used her thumb to navigate to her iTunes. She found her Parker Playlist, all songs she’d written and sold to Serene. She clicked on the rough cut of the song she’d most recently recorded—“Double Minds.”
Serene sang it well in her belt-out voice, even though Parker doubted she grasped all its meanings. It had come from the passage in James 4:
Draw near to God and He will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners; and purify your hearts, you double-minded. Be miserable and mourn and weep; let your laughter be turned into mourning and your joy to gloom. Humble yourself in the presence of the Lord, and He will exalt you.
She’d told a story in the song—the story of a man who’d lost his way and groped blindly through life, looking for light in dark bars, while his spirit longed to find the path he’d once been on. Two people in one, fighting over the same spirit, sharing the same double-mind.
Only when she’d finished writing the song did she realize she’d told her father’s story. In fact, he was the subject of a lot of her songs.
Serene loved it and planned to release it as the first single from her new album.
Draw near to God and He will draw near to you …
The words of the chorus warmed her spirit like a balm. And tonight, when she couldn’t escape the reality of the murder, she needed that balm.
It could have been her. She could have been sitting there behind that counter, talking on the phone or tweaking her latest song on her MacBook. She could have looked up and seen headlights through the window, slowing down as the killer took aim …
Gibson could have been investigating
her
death on the floor of Colgate Studios. Her gratitude at being spared battled with her sorrow that Brenna hadn’t been. Aware that her guilt was irrational, she tried to chase it away.
At Wendy’s, she circled the building to the disembodied voice and ordered two number-one combos. She thought of ordering herself something, as well, but she couldn’t focus enough to decide what she wanted. She was thirsty from crying, but she’d just get water when she got to Serene’s house.
The line was long for this time of night, but Nashville wasn’t a town that retired early. With four colleges in a ten-mile radius, West End was just coming alive at ten p.m. She looked at the people standing in the parking lot, students mostly. She imagined a murderer walking up to her car and lifting his gun. Had the killer been expecting to find her? Or had he known she wouldn’t be there?
Maybe it had been someone specifically targeting Brenna. But if so, why had he done it on the rare night she was working at Colgate, especially when she wasn’t even scheduled to work?
Her mind rolled through tapes of people she’d seen over the last few weeks. She knew of at least four people who were angry that they hadn’t been able to book adequate studio time. One guy had bolted in last week demanding to see George Colgate, but after he’d stormed through the building and looked in George’s office, the man had finally accepted that he wasn’t in.
Not that that was unusual. The CEO of Colgate owned several record labels, so he was hardly ever on site. Some claimed Parker ran the place, since she booked all the sessions and assigned house engineers. But she got along with most of the clients and had an uncanny knack for diffusing tense situations. She couldn’t think of anyone angry enough to murder her.
The car in front of her moved up, so she took her foot off the brake and rolled forward. This could be a long wait. She dialed George Colgate’s cell number, doubtful that he’d answer. But he did.
“Colgate.” His voice was subdued. She could hear voices around him.
“George, it’s Parker.”
“Did you hear what happened?” he asked.
“Yes, I just left there. They wouldn’t let me in. Are you there?”
“Yeah, in the building, sitting in the lounge. They’ve been questioning me since I got here.”
The cars moved again, and she made her boss hold while she placed Serene’s order. He would think she was callous, popping through a fast-food line after something so life-shattering. “Sorry,” she said as she rolled her car forward. “Serene gave me a life-or-death request for food. She probably hasn’t eaten a bite in days.” That didn’t need explaining. It was clear from Serene’s frightening thinness that she had a problem. “George, do you have any idea who did this?”
“None.”
“Do you think he was after one of us?”
“I don’t know,” George said, “but I think I’ll get a hotel tonight. If it’s me he’s mad at, I don’t want to be home. By the way, did you know the press thinks it’s you who died?”
She moved up and paid at the first window. “Yeah, I know. They’ll figure it out eventually.” She rolled to the second window. Whispering thanks, she dropped the bag on her passenger seat, then reached for the drinks.
When she hung up, she turned the stereo back up and listened as Serene belted the words of another of Parker’s songs—one she’d written the night of September 11
th
. She’d lain awake, listening to her mother down the hall, quoting Psalm 46 like a prayer: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, and though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea; though its waters roar
and
foam, though the mountains quake at its swelling pride …”
Scripture wove itself into her song, as it so often did. That chorus had become famous; now it was sung in multitudes of churches on Sunday mornings.
My refuge, my strength, my helper, my King
Cease striving and know forevermore
That I am Lord, That I am Lord.
The chorus wasn’t one of her flashes of brilliance, but the songs that made it seldom were. It had been a flash of brilliance for King David, who’d penned it. She had just reframed it. Serene had decided to record it after hearing it just once. The song propelled her to the top of the Christian Top 20 for thirty-two weeks. It had made her more money than any of her other songs. Now Serene lived among the wealthy in the Franklin area.
Parker still lived in her little home in West End, but she wasn’t complaining. She loved her house with all its charm and age. She’d bought it three years ago at the age of twenty-three, an act that had taken her from childhood to adulthood in one fell swoop, all financed by the selling of a few special songs. She loved all 700 square feet of it.
She only hoped the killer didn’t have her address.
