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
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
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