Family Fortune. Roz Fox Denny

Can’t you phone the Sinners’ PR department?”

      The boys exchanged worried looks. “Pablo’s just back from therapy. He heard a tech say the Sinners won’t renew Cale’s contract because his knee ain’t gonna heal. Would Nate Fraser know if that’s true?”

      Crystal glanced up from opening her instrument case. Nate Fraser, WDIX-TV’s sports director, could find out if he didn’t know. Even though Crystal passionately disliked Tanner’s choice of career, she experienced an unexpected surge of compassion. She knew how she’d feel if she had to give up her music.

      “I’ll ask Nate tomorrow. If the story’s true, maybe we should wait on that autograph. Tanner might be having a hard time dealing with the news.”

      “Yeah,” Skipper said, suddenly empathetic. “But maybe hearing that some kids still think he’s number one will cheer him up.”

      “It might at that, Skip. Hey, not to change the subject, but would you like me to play some tunes?”

      “Yeah!” the boys exclaimed as one. Next to watching TV and talking endlessly about sports, they liked listening to Crystal belt out jazz.

      She ran through a few warm-ups. Before long, nurses, residents and interns drifted in to listen. Patients on crutches and in wheelchairs lined the walls.

      She didn’t think any audience appreciated her more.

      

      THE MUSIC, AS IT HAD on other nights, filtered into Cale’s private room and shaved the edge off his pain. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine the talent it took to make an instrument sob and wail like that. A seductive sound. His blood pulsed as the beat possessed him. N’Awlins blues certainly made a man feel... something. Any kind of feeling was preferable to the terrifying emptiness he’d plunged into earlier.

      Why had he let the doc’s words get to him? This wasn’t his first injury. He’d always bounced back; he would this time, too. Yeah! He let those deep, shivery notes absorb his anger.

      Ordinarily, when it came to music, Cale could take it or leave it. He knew when it was too loud at a party or too fast if he was trying to seduce a new lady with slow dancing. The music tonight lit a fire in his soul. But he couldn’t put into words how it touched him, couldn’t explain the way it made him feel. That was why he’d never asked the phantom soloist’s name. Knowing the nurses, they’d parade the guy in here and expect Caleb to give him all kinds of flowery compliments.

      Well, he couldn’t. He could rattle off plays in a year’s worth of football games, but he got tongue-tied trying to express the stuff he felt inside.

      When fans waylaid him to praise a great pass, he loved it. He frowned as it occurred to him that musicians probably liked praise, too.

      The distant beat slid like silk into a bossa nova, and Caleb felt a sudden urgency to connect with the artist whose music pounded through his veins. He fumbled to locate his call bell, then pushed it repeatedly. He’d just give the dude a locker-room clap on the back and tell him man-to-man that his playing had balls. Yeah. He drummed his hands on the bed covers. Where in hell were all the nurses? He pressed the button again.

      A timid aide opened his door. “You rang, Mr. Tanner?”

      Caleb had discovered that if you didn’t speak with authority in this place, requests got ignored. “Tell that musician to stop by and see me. Tonight,” he ordered.

      “Is that it?” The aide sounded relieved and at his nod rushed out, leaving Cale to contemplate what an asshole he’d been the past few days. That was the word, all right. He’d heard it muttered by one of the nurses. Tomorrow he’d apologize. To the nurses, to Leland and maybe even to that pushy TV reporter.

      The telephone beside his bed rang. “Hiya! Hey, Patsy...I’m doing great. Improving every day,” he fibbed to his sister. One of the three girls called every night to check on his progress. No sense worrying them.

      “The bridesmaids’ dresses cost how much? Whatever you decide, kitten. Sure. If you want buckets of mums at the church, fine. Have ’em send me the bill.”

      Caleb tucked the phone into the hollow of his shoulder. “Of course I’ll walk you down the aisle. Who said I wouldn’t? Gracie? She called Doc Forsythe?” Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “Quit crying, puddin’. Listen to me. You know doctors are full of double-talk. Have I ever lied to you girls? That’s right. Never.”

      Easing back, Caleb listened to additional plans for the late-October wedding and injected appropriate responses. It was now September 5. His head spun. A few minutes later, the excited twenty-one-year-old rang off. Cale gripped the receiver for a long time, attempting to add in his head the costs she’d listed. Patsy, his middle sister, a homebody who’d practically been their mother’s shadow, had been the most affected by her death. Patsy did poorly in school. Having a husband and a house of her own was all she’d ever wanted. He wouldn’t let his troubles affect her heart’s desire.

      It would be all right. By her wedding, he’d be good as new. Better than new. His contract would be signed and money wouldn’t be an issue. Replacing the receiver, he lay down and let the throaty notes of the saxophone transport him to a zone free of stress.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE NEXT MORNING, Crystal hopped off the streetcar at the end of its route, near the heart of the business district. Juggling her purse and saxophone case, she waved goodbye to the regulars and prepared to walk the two blocks to Lyon Broadcasting. She could have driven to work. For that matter, she had access to a chauffeur-driven limo. She happened to believe that one less car on the congested roads kept at least a trace of hydrocarbons out of the environment. Besides, she loved the eclectic group of people who used public transportation.

      Margaret sometimes teased her saying she ought to write a book about the offbeat assortment of daily commuters. Crystal responded by suggesting Margaret do an exposé on the family. That reminded her—at their last meeting, Margaret had given her the key to a safe-deposit box. She said it contained her will and other documents important to the family. Her instructions were that Andrbé given the key in the event of Margaret’s death.

      Crystal recalled thinking that Paul’s death had sparked a morbid sense of urgency in Margie. She’d been adamant that the contents of the box be made public only if she, André and Gabrielle died simultaneously. A thought as gruesome as it was unlikely.

      Crystal opened the wrought-iron gate that had guarded Lyon Broadcasting for fifty years. Dam, she wished Margaret would call home! Her continued absence was disturbing everyone.

      Going directly to her office, Crystal breathed easier once she determined there’d been no further activity in the bank account. Then she set to work compiling reports for the end-of-the-month board meeting. Margaret would surely return for that.

      As Crystal came to the figures from the sports department, she remembered the promise she’d made Skip—to call Nate Fraser and check on Tanner’s retirement.

      If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have verified the rumor with Tanner last night. Certainly he’d provided an opportunity. At the end of visiting hours, a nurse’s aide had flagged her down and said Tanner wanted—no, demanded she stop by his room.

      Crystal had declined. She wasn’t a masochist. But after she’d boarded the streetcar home, it struck her that maybe he wanted to break the news of his retirement. She’d told him she worked for WDIX, and maybe he wanted to arrange an interview to announce it. In that case, Nate would have her head for missing out on a real coup. Hmm. She’d better go see Nate right now and in person. She didn’t stop to wonder how Tanner knew she’d remained in the hospital.

      Entering the noisy newsroom, Crystal wove her way among the cubicles to Nate Fraser’s domain. His four walls were weighted down by sports memorabilia. Crystal knew he’d once played for the Vikings and had won a Heisman trophy, which impressed most people. Crystal and Nate didn’t have a lot in common, unless their endless arguments over his expense