The Strangers On Montagu Street Part 32

She nodded eagerly. "I know her Facebook pa.s.sword, if you think that will help." She was already running upstairs.

When she returned she led us to the kitchen, where she placed the laptop on the table, the Facebook home page already showing. She sat in front of it and typed something before Nola's home page filled the screen. Her profile picture surprised me; it was a photo of her, Jack, and me at my birthday party that Alston had taken using Nola's iPhone. I felt the now-common p.r.i.c.k of tears in the backs of my eyes and quickly blinked them away.

"Can you go to her messages?" Jack asked.

Alston nodded and made a quick click to the message page, where a single name appeared: Rick Chase. She clicked on it and a string of messages, the last one from the previous day, ran down the screen.

Jack cursed under his breath and leaned forward to read them.

Alston vacated the seat. "Sit here, Mr. Trenholm, so you can see them better."

Jack sat and began scrolling through the messages. Without looking up, he said to Alston, "It doesn't look like she's been using Facebook since I told her not to-at least until last week. I'm guessing that's why you know her pa.s.sword-so you could let her know when she had a new message?"

Slowly, Alston nodded. With her gaze firmly glued to the floor, she added, "The last time she spoke with him on the phone, she told him to message her on Facebook, since you wouldn't have access to that."

"But what would they have to talk about?" I asked, leaning forward and squinting but still unable to read the screen.

"Bonnie," Jack said. "And the unt.i.tled song she was working on when she died." He leaned forward, his finger hitting the down arrow b.u.t.ton harder than necessary. "According to his messages, Rick apparently has it and wants to give it to Nola, but first he wants to hear her play it for him on Bonnie's guitar. He's coming to Charleston."

He was silent for a while as he continued to read. "d.a.m.n," he said, pus.h.i.+ng back the chair with sudden force. Glancing at his watch, he said, "They were supposed to meet at the John Calhoun statue in Marion Square half an hour ago." He stood, then turned to Alston. "Call me if you hear from her; do you understand? No matter what she says, call me."

"Yes, sir. I promise this time I will." She blinked rapidly, but not fast enough to stem the flow of tears that poured down her cheeks. "Is Nola going to be okay?"

I squeezed her arm and gave her a rea.s.suring smile before racing after Jack, who was striding quickly out of the house toward his car. I followed while my mother hesitated. Calling out to Jack, she said, "I'll go back to the house and wait there in case she comes home. Let me know if you need backup and I'll send James."

Jack nodded, then sent a glowering look in my direction. "Go with her, Mellie."

"As if," I said, using my favorite Nola expression as I opened the pa.s.senger door of his car and stepped inside.

CHAPTER 30.

The first bubble of nausea hit me as Jack's car crossed Broad Street. I wasn't sure whether it was the breakneck speed and two-wheeled turns as he hurtled down Meeting Street that started it, or the two Twinkies I'd bought at the drugstore because I'd been so hungry. Either way, I found myself with my eyes closed as I prayed I wouldn't throw up in Jack's Porsche.

I swallowed heavily, then turned to Jack. "What did you mean-about songwriters only wanting their songs out there if they're paid for it?"

"I found something out about Mr. Chase. I flew up to New York last week to have a little discussion with my agent before firing him. As a parting gift, he got me in touch with an old friend of his who's an agent in the music business who happens to know Jimmy Gordon's agent. He made a few calls for me and I got three minutes on the phone with Jimmy himself."

I sat there for a moment, trying to digest the Twinkies and what he was telling me at the same time. "What did he say?"

"That when he met with Bonnie and Rick, it was because she was the known writer of 'I'm Just Getting Started.' Just her. No partner or anything. Jimmy wasn't even aware that Bonnie wasn't getting credit for it after he recorded it."

"So how come the song is credited to Rick Chase?"

Jack sped through a red light, narrowly missing a cl.u.s.ter of women carrying shopping bags. "Think about it. Bonnie was an addict. Rick would supply her until she was barely coherent, maybe make her sign papers giving up her rights to the song. I think that's how he stole it from her. From Nola." I watched him swallow. "He probably killed her, too. In a way. The disappointment and sense of betrayal she must have felt when she heard the song on the radio and knew she hadn't received any credit for it must have devastated her."

I swallowed down a ball of nausea. "Poor Bonnie," I said. "And poor Nola. All this time thinking it was Jimmy Gordon who stole her mother's song. Rick must have fed Nola some story to make her believe that-you don't have to look very hard on the Internet to find the writer of a song. But Rick must be feeling some guilt. Don't you think that's why he wants to give Nola the new song-so that he can make it up to her?"

Jack shot me a look. "The guy's a slime bucket, Mellie. My guess is he doesn't have the song but thinks Nola does. He lied that he had it to get her to meet him. I bet he's planning to take it from her."

"But she doesn't have it, or at least doesn't know she does." I thought for a moment. "He's come all the way from California. What do you think he'll do when he finds out she doesn't have it? Maybe we should call the police."

Jack responded by pressing harder on the accelerator. "I can get there faster."

I closed my eyes, not wanting to register how fast we were going. "Why would Rick ask her to bring the guitar?"

"Knowing what I know about him, he probably wants her to sing it while he videos her on his phone or something so he can re-create it. That's a.s.suming she even knows it."

I looked at him, my eyes wide. "She knows it-or at least part of it. I've heard her singing it in the shower when she thought n.o.body was listening. But she sings the same part over and over, like she doesn't know what comes next." I paused for a moment, remembering. "It's haunting, and beautiful. Sort of Joan Baez at her best. Bonnie sings it, too."

He sent me a sidelong glance just as the light turned red on Calhoun. Instead of stopping, he sped up to make it through the intersection, narrowly escaping being clipped by a delivery truck. He slid into a spot just vacated across from the Francis Marion Hotel, and we both raced from the car toward the iconic statue inside the square.

The park was almost deserted, the outline of the old statesman on his column highlighted by the bruised sunset sky. As we approached the square white granite base we didn't see anybody. We slowed, looking down the other paths in case Rick and Nola were heading away from the statue.

I heard the quiet crying first and reached for Jack's arm in alarm. "Over here," I said, pulling him to the other side of the granite. We stopped suddenly, our eyes trying to make sense of what we were seeing.

Nola sat in the gra.s.s with her back against the white granite, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head lowered as her shoulders shook with each sob. Bonnie's guitar case lay nearby, splayed open, the remains of the guitar sprinkled over the ground like confetti in front of the crying girl. The neck had been separated from the body of the instrument, the soundboard crushed flat, as if somebody with a large foot had simply stepped on it. The broken strings sprang up in spindly, wild abandon, splattered over the splintered, pale wood like petals from a dying flower.

"Nola!" Jack rushed to her side and knelt in front of her. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head without lifting it.

Jack placed his hand gently on the back of her head. "Tell me what happened. I promise I won't get angry-I just want to know the truth."

She sniffed, then raised her head. "He didn't hurt me. But . . . but look what he did to Mom's guitar. It's ruined!" She began to sob again, her young world seemingly in as many pieces as her mother's instrument.

Jack gathered her in his arms and she didn't protest. "It's okay, Nola, as long as you're all right. We can get another guitar. It won't be the same, but it's replaceable. You aren't."

She pressed her face into his neck and put her arms around him as she cried harder. Jack patted her back as if he'd been comforting her hurts since birth, and I had to turn away so I wouldn't start crying, too.

"Where did he go?" Jack asked.

Nola looked up, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands, and I noticed she wasn't wearing any makeup. She shook her head. "I don't know. He left after he broke the guitar."

Jack ran his hand through his hair, turning his head as if trying to determine the direction in which Rick Chase had fled, and I could tell he wanted to go after him. Instead, he looked back at Nola and his face softened. "Don't worry about that jerk-I'll deal with him later. But why was he here?"

With a loud sniff, Nola said, "He kept asking me for the music my mom and I were working on when she died. He wouldn't believe me when I told him I didn't know, and that we hadn't even finished it. All I know are the first couple of lines-but I didn't tell him that. I'm not that stupid. Especially after he told me that he was the one who sold 'I'm Just Getting Started' to Jimmy Gordon."

"He admitted it?" I asked.

Nola nodded. "He was proud of it. Said my mother wanted more time with the song to make it better, but he knew it was ready to be a hit, so he made Mom sign over the rights to him, the fu . . . stupid jerk. He told me Mom wasn't interested in the money anyway, so what he did wasn't so wrong. That she should have been happy that he was responsible for making the song so popular." She started to cry again and Jack folded her in his arms. "I'm so stupid. He came to see me the night Mom died, and he told me that she'd been afraid she was going to jail on drug charges and had asked Rick to put the song in his name so that any money it earned wouldn't get confiscated. The jerk even said that he was going to give every penny to me. But then he said that Jimmy Gordon had cheated us and was making sure we weren't going to get paid. And I believed him. I'm such an idiot." Fresh sobs erupted as she buried her face in Jack's neck.

Jack smoothed the hair on the back of her head. "No, Nola. You're just young, and Rick Chase took advantage of that. And he's the only idiot here thinking he's going to get away with it."

I bent over to pick up a piece of the guitar, trying to hide a wave of nausea. "Why would he do this?"

With another sniff Nola said, "I think he was trying to find the music-like Mom had hidden it in there, since I said I didn't know where it was and that the guitar was the only thing of hers that I took with me. He didn't find anything, though. He just . . ." She hiccuped loudly. "He picked it up and swung it against the bottom of the statue just to make sure." Her face wore a mask of abject despair, the tears dripping down her cheeks.

I sat down next to Nola and Jack with my back pressed against the granite, hoping the stone held enough chill to tap down the building nausea. "The song is called 'My Daughter's Eyes.' Did you know that?"

Nola turned her tear-streaked face to me and shook her head. "How do you know?"

I smiled softly, pressing my hand against my stomach. "Bonnie kept telling me to find 'My Daughter's Eyes.' I didn't figure out until today that she was talking about a song. She's been singing it to me for some time now." I closed my eyes and swallowed. "And I've heard you singing parts of it. It's beautiful-especially when you sing it. I'd really like to hear you sing the whole thing."

Nola started to cry again. "I don't know it. I only worked on the first verse with her and the melody line. If she finished it without me, she must have worked on it while I was at school or something."

"But when you were packing your things to come to Charleston, did you find any part of it?" Jack asked.

"No. I remember looking for it, and when I didn't find it I figured she thought it was garbage and had thrown it away." She squeezed her eyes tightly, as if trying to stem the flow of tears. "Like our lives together," she added quietly.

Jack pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head again. "That can't be true, Nola. I knew your mother, and I know you. There might be a thousand reasons why she did what she did, but I know that's not one of them."

I pressed my hand against my forehead, my skin clammy and beading with sweat now. I closed my eyes, remembering the night Jack had brought the scared yet defiant Nola to my door with everything she owned in a small backpack and her mother's guitar. Bonnie had been there, making sure that Nola was going to be okay. I faced them, glad for the dim light of dusk that would hide any green tinge to my skin. "I've known from the start that your mother loved you. She didn't destroy that song. I know she finished it, and I know it's even better than that song Rick stole, because I've heard it dozens of times and it gets more and more beautiful each time I hear it. Your mother named it 'My Daughter's Eyes' because it's her legacy to you. She's hidden it from Rick in a place she knew you could find it. Someplace we haven't thought to look."

We were silent as we considered the possibilities, the only sound that of pa.s.sing cars on the nearby street.

Finally, Nola spoke. "Dad? How did you know how to find me?"

I watched Jack swallow slowly and I realized he'd heard the word "Dad," too.

"Facebook," he said, his voice stern.

She groaned. "I'm in big trouble, aren't I?"

"You could say that. I might ground you for life-I haven't decided yet." He hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head. "I was sick with worry, you know. Promise me that you will never do anything so stupid again. That you'll talk to me first and we can come up with a plan of action together."

She nodded, then looked up at me. "Why is Mellie with you? I thought you weren't speaking to each other."

Jack glanced in my direction. "You know how she is-can't stand to be without me. I didn't have the heart to leave her behind. She's worse than General Lee with that sad puppy-dog face she does. I couldn't take it."

Nola giggled while I pressed my back against the stone, searching for any remaining coolness. Jack was spared a searing look from me by another wave of nausea. Swallowing it back, I said, "What he meant to say is that I care about you, Nola, and I wanted to make sure you were okay." I closed my eyes, trying to picture floating, weightless clouds and a cool stream. Instead I found myself seeing Nola again the night Jack brought her to my house, the guitar, and her backpack with the improbable face of a teddy bear poking out of the zipper.

I sat up, my head slos.h.i.+ng in a dizzy swim. "How long have you had your teddy bear?"

Nola frowned. "Since I was born. Mom bought it when she was pregnant with me, and I never spent a night without it. She named him Wolfgang, but he's always been Wolfie to me." She swiped a hand across her eyes. "Why?"

Without answering her, I said, "So if you were to travel anywhere, or move to a new place, you would take Wolfie with you? And your mother knew that?"

Nola nodded. "n.o.body knew that except my mom. The other kids would beat me up if they knew."

"And the new lettering on the jersey-when did she do that?"

Squinting in thought, she said, "About a month before she died, but she didn't tell me why."

I looked at Jack, but he was already standing. "Come on," he said, reaching for Nola's hand and pulling her up.

"Where are we going?" Nola asked.

They both turned to me as I struggled to a stand, leaning heavily on the statue's base. "I think I know where your mother hid the music." Then I turned around and emptied my stomach into the gra.s.s under the watchful eye of old John C. Calhoun.

Except for the sound of Jack's quick calls on his cell phone to his parents and mine to let them know we'd found Nola and everything was all right, it was oddly silent. I'd felt much better after throwing up and was now lying back as much as a person could in the reclined front seat of his Porsche while Nola was curled up in what s.p.a.ce remained in the backseat. It had taken a lot of convincing to persuade Jack not to take me back to the hospital; I told him it was a Twinkie-induced stomach upset and nothing more.

My parents met us on the front porch of my mother's house. As they helped Jack extricate Nola from the backseat, I ran inside and up the stairs. As I stood outside Nola's room, my skin erupted in gooseflesh as the hair rose on the back of my neck. The stairs creaked and I turned to see Jack and Nola looking at me.

"Is she here?" Nola asked.

I nodded, then tilted my head toward Nola's room, indicating that they should follow me inside. Cold air blasted my face as I pushed open the door, the light from the windows diffused by the condensation on the gla.s.s. The corner of the room s.h.i.+mmered with a pulsing glow, stronger than I'd seen it before, as if Bonnie had gained strength through our understanding.

I faced her, and she didn't disappear but stared steadily back at me. "Thank you," I whispered. "For saving me-twice."

She smiled, her light even brighter now. You know why.

Jack hesitated in the doorway, holding Nola back.

"It's okay," I said. "Bonnie's waiting for us."

Slowly, they entered. Jack moved toward the bed, where Nola had left the backpack, the top of the bear's head visible through the open zipper. Leaning over, Jack lifted Wolfie from his prison and held him toward Nola and me. Reading her expression, Jack said, "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll cut at the seam, and I promise to have it repaired."

Still frowning, Nola nodded. Jack reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. After gently pus.h.i.+ng the small football jersey up over Wolfie's face, he held the teddy bear facedown, then eased the knife into the back of the neck with what looked like practiced precision. Once again, I was reminded of Jack's military experience and his past that I knew so little about.

Jack looked up and met my gaze. "These st.i.tches are definitely handmade, and they don't match the machine-made st.i.tches on the rest of the bear. I think that's why she changed the jersey numbers-to draw our attention to the bear."

Nola sucked in her breath and turned away as Jack began to slide the knife down the seam that went from the neck to the bottom of the bear. When he was finished, he placed the bear on the bed, the fuzz-filled wound gaping open.

Slowly, Nola looked back at the scene of the crime, her eyes wide. "Can I do it?" she asked.

Jack nodded as Nola stepped toward the bed and very gently began pulling small tufts of fuzz from the opening in the seam, laying each white ball neatly on the bedspread. The fourth time she stuck in her hand, she paused. "I feel something-up here in the head." She pulled out one more small tuft, then reached her hand in one last time and pulled out what looked like several sheets of paper folded into a tiny, fat square.

We watched as she slowly unfolded three sheets of lined paper with black marks indicating musical notes, and a spidery handwriting-Bonnie's, I thought-under each line of music. Nola began to hum the first part of the song, so familiar to me now, but then stopped. "These aren't the words we wrote together." Her voice shook. "I can't . . ." She held out the music to Jack.

Clearing his throat, he began to read.

In my daughter's eyes, I see the best part of me,

The me with courage and strength and possibilities,