Lost Melody (30 page)

Melody wanted time to find herself,
and he intended to let her have it, but she couldn’t keep shutting
him out. His actions today staked his claim. Now it was up to
her.

Would the song bring her to him, or
was he destined to see her in court when she sued him for breach of
contract? Either way, he’d done what he had to do.

* * *

Melody spent her last few weeks in
Willowbrook in a frenzy of activity. She wrote for hours at a time,
pausing only to eat so she could continue. She arranged interviews
in Boston, and when she should have been sleeping, she laid awake,
thinking of Hank. And in the deepest part of the night, she sat at
the kitchen table with her laptop and made a list of questions she
wanted and needed to ask her mother.

She jumped for joy when an agent in
New York called and asked to see her. She scheduled her trip to
Boston via New York, turned the house over to Jonathan, and left
Willowbrook.

The trip proved even more difficult
than she had imagined. In the small world of New York publishing
houses, her name was instantly recognized, and it didn’t take long
for the tabloid media to find her. Everywhere she went a horde of
paparazzi and RavensBlood fans followed her. On the advice of her
agent, she moved from her hotel to an apartment owned by the agency
in a high-security building on the Upper West Side.

She watched the daily spectacle with
cool detachment. She’d done nothing to earn her celebrity status.
But by accident of birth—and accident it truly was—she was
newsworthy. The fact she’d been virtually off the planet for the
last sixteen years added to the insane curiosity surrounding her
re-emergence on the world stage.

Her book sold to a publisher
quickly—perhaps in part because of her name. But as it turned out,
an authorized book on BlackWing, and Hank Travis in particular, was
marketable. If millions were willing to buy their music, it
followed those same people would buy the book.

She left the details to her agent and
snuck out of the city on a commuter train headed for Boston. She
took a cab from South Station to her hotel and from there,
contacted the people on her list. Having sold the book, she needed
to finish it.

She spent the next several weeks
interviewing Harvard professors and administrators who remembered
BlackWing in their early years. She visited clubs and venues where
they appeared, and interviewed other members of the fraternity
where they got their start. Boston was unfazed by her celebrity
status. No one alerted the media of her presence even though they
were aware of the attention she’d drawn in New York. Her face was
on every tabloid at every newsstand. If she’d seen it, she knew the
people she interviewed had seen it, too.

The last person on her list to
interview was BlackWing’s agent and promoter, Guy Nichols, and he
was in New York. She caught the midday train to the city. As
always, when she stopped working, her thoughts were with
Hank.

He would be in the studio tracking
“Melody.” A flutter of unease tripped through her system, but she
fought for control and won. Closing her eyes, she rested her head
against the seat back and remembered those panic-filled minutes in
the studio months ago when he presented his two versions of the
song for her. Her mind played the lover’s version over and over.
The rolling rhythm of the rails lulled her, and she
slept.

She took a cab from Penn Station to
the apartment where she greeted the doorman warmly before taking
the elevator to her floor. She checked her watch and decided it was
still early enough to contact Guy Nichols. To her surprise, he
answered the call himself.

“I’ve been expecting your call. Hank
told me about the project and insisted I cooperate fully,” he said.
He agreed to meet her at the apartment the following day and asked
for her address, which she gave. “You’re not in the
penthouse?”

She laughed. “I wish! No, I’m in
apartment 10D,” she reiterated. “Tomorrow at noon. I’ll provide
lunch for your trouble.”

* * *

“Glad to have you back, Mr. Travis.”
Jimmy, in his elaborate navy blue doorman’s uniform, held the heavy
glass door open for Hank and followed him into the lobby. “I
figured you’d be coming into town pretty soon.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Word on the street is there’s a book
coming out about you, and since you have an aversion to reporters,
I figured you’d be here soon to put an end to it.”

Whoa! Had he missed something? “How do
you know about the book, Jimmy?”

“The author’s been in all the papers,
Mr. Travis. She blew into town a couple of weeks ago, and next
thing you know, the rumor mill has it she’s shopping a book around
about you. She says you authorized it, even cooperated with her. I
wouldn’t blame you if you did. She’s a looker all
right.”

“Where did you see her? Did they print
her picture?” Warning bells clanged in his head.

“Yeah, she’s been in the paper, and
she’s staying here in the building. She was gone for a week or two,
but she came back a few minutes ago.”

His heart skipped into an irregular
beat. “You didn’t let her into the penthouse did you?”

“Oh no, Mr. Travis. No one gets up
there except the people on the list, and Ms. Ravenswood isn’t on
it,” he assured Hank.

“Which apartment is Ms. Ravenswood
in?”

“10D.”

Hank peeled a hundred dollar bill off
the stack of currency in his pocket and, smiling, pressed it into
Jimmy’s palm. “Thanks for the information. I’d appreciate it if you
didn’t tell anyone I’m here, especially Ms. Ravenswood.”

He received the assurance he expected
and headed for the private express elevator that would take him to
his apartment. As the cubicle ascended to the top floor, he cursed
his luck. He knew Melody had planned a trip to Boston, but he’d
never considered she would come to New York.

The elevator door opened into the
apartment. He went straight to the telephone and rang
Jimmy.

“Is everything okay in your apartment,
Mr. Travis?”

“Everything’s fine,” he assured, “but
I need a favor.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I need everything you can dig up for
me on Melody Ravenswood since she came to New York. Maybe you could
find some old newspapers lying around? There’s an extra hundred in
it for you, and did I mention I want it all ASAP?”

“No problem, Mr. Travis. I’ll get
right on it.”

Hank took a hasty shower and donned
clean clothes from the wardrobe he kept there. Jimmy delivered a
stack of papers, promising to bring more as soon as he found time
to go through the ones in the basement destined for the
recycler.

Later in the evening, he brought up
another stack of back issues, and Hank made the grateful doorman
another offer. “I’ll make it worth your while if you’ll keep me
informed of the comings and goings from Ms. Ravenswood’s apartment.
I want to know who comes to see her, when she leaves, where she
goes, and how long she’s gone. I want to know anything you can find
out.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Travis,” he
agreed.

Hank made a mental note to see the
doorman received an extra large holiday bonus, including tickets to
their next New York concert. He could even throw in a few backstage
passes for good measure.

The next day Jimmy called to tell him
his agent was on the way to Melody’s apartment.

“Did you tell him I was
here?”

“No sir, but he asked if I’d seen you
today.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t exactly lie to
him. He asked if I’d seen you today, and I told him I hadn’t, which
is true. I haven’t
seen
you today.”

Hank laughed. “Good job, Jimmy. I
don’t want you to have to lie, but evasion is okay, I guess. If he
asks point blank if I’m here, don’t lie.”

Chapter
Twenty-eight

Melody arranged the sandwiches and
pasta salad on the dining table and tweaked the flatware into
soldier-straight lines while she waited for Guy Nichols. She
planned to feed him first—her preferred method of interviewing—and
ask questions after his stomach was full.

The doorman called to announce Mr.
Nichols was on his way up, so, when he rang the doorbell she was
prepared to meet him. She wasn’t prepared for the thunderstorm he
carried on his shoulders.

“Ms. Ravenswood.” His voice was cold,
far from the friendly person she’d spoken with less than
twenty-four hours earlier. “Where’s Hank?”

Her mouth dropped open, and she stared
at the middle-aged man bellowing in the entryway. He was well
dressed in a charcoal gray business suit with a striped tie. His
thinning hair was cut in a typical boardroom style. If not for the
angry flush of his face, he reminded her of Hank in an older sort
of way. He could easily pass as Hank’s uncle.

“I don’t know,” she stammered.
“Willowbrook, I suppose. Why?”

He took a step closer and wagged his
finger at her. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you know
where he is, you better tell me. You won’t get any interview out of
me until I know what’s going on.”

She edged around him cautiously and
closed the door before they drew attention from the neighbors. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about. Hank is supposed to be at the
farm tracking ‘Melody’. Isn’t he there?”

“No, he’s not. He left yesterday, and
no one knows where he went.”

Her heart skipped a beat before it
lodged in her throat. “Why did he leave? Where did he
go?”

His shoulders slumped, and he seemed
to crumple before her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ravenswood. I thought
you would know where he was. Apparently, Hank finished his part of
the tracking and just walked away. He said something about calling
in a few weeks. I need to find him, make sure he’s all right. I
don’t know what’s going on, but I feel responsible for these guys.
It worries me he just disappeared like that.”

He was right to be worried. It wasn’t
like ultra-responsible Hank to walk away from the recording, even
if he personally, was finished. “Do you have any idea where he
went?”

“My first thought was he’d come to the
penthouse, but the doorman says he hasn’t seen him. He could be
anywhere in the world. With that gosh-awful haircut of his and his
nerd clothes, he can go anywhere he pleases without anyone giving
him a second look.”

She smiled. “Don’t forget the reading
glasses.”

They shared a moment of laughter. “Are
you talking about the penthouse in this building? Is that why you
asked me yesterday if I was in the penthouse, because Hank owns
it?”

“BlackWing owns it. When you gave me
the address, I thought he might have let you use the
place.”

“I didn’t know about the penthouse.
Hank never mentioned it to me. My apartment belongs to my literary
agency. They suggested I use it because the paparazzi have been
hounding me since I came to the city.”

“I understand. Under the
circumstances, I can’t stay for lunch. I’ve got to see if I can
find Hank.”

She walked with him to the elevator.
“Please let me know when you find him.”

“I will. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s
fine. We’ll reschedule the interview once I find him.”

Guy stepped into the lobby. A delivery
boy walked past him and approached the doorman.

“Delivery for Hank Travis.”

He changed direction and told the boy,
“I’m Hank Travis. How much do I owe you?”

He paid the named amount, plus a
generous tip, and turned to the doorman. “Haven’t seen him? I hope
he ordered enough for two.” He headed to the private elevator,
turning before he stepped inside. “Don’t tell him I’m coming. I
want to surprise him.”

When the car reached the top, Hank
stood waiting in front of the elevator door.

Guy frowned “Damned doorman. I told
him not to call you.” He brushed past him and headed to the
kitchen.

Hank helped himself to the burgers and
fries in the bag. “Jimmy is loyal to the almighty dollar. You
should have tipped him better than I did.” He handed his uninvited
guest a burger in a greasy paper wrapper. “Have one. I was going to
eat them both myself, but I can share.”

Guy took the offered burger. “It’s the
least you can do. I turned down lunch with a damned fine looking
woman for you. You owe me a lot more than a cold, greasy
burger.”

Hank took a big bite, chewed and
swallowed. “How is Melody?”

“I suppose your damned nosy doorman
told you I went to see her. Does he tell you everything that goes
on in the building?”

“No. Only what goes on in regard to
Melody. So, how is she?”

He took a bite before answering. “As I
said, she’s a beautiful woman. Is she for real? I mean, she really
is his daughter, isn’t she?”

Hank wiped his hands on a paper
napkin. “Yeah, she is. She calls Sir Jonathan Youngblood, Uncle
Jonathan. Can you imagine?”