Nashville Noir (14 page)

“To stay put? She’s a smart girl. Let’s hope she doesn’t decide to do anything stupid, like running the way she did last time.”

Yes, please don’t let that happen
, I silently thought.

The recording studio where I was to meet Wally Brolin was on a block of small houses, most of them craftsmanstyle bungalows. It was a two-story, yellow stucco home with a front porch atop a gray stone wall. Four stone pillars held up the roof of the porch, two at either end, and a pair flanking the steps up to the front door. An old green metal chair and a dead potted plant were the only outside furnishings on the wood planks. A sign next to the door said WHIZSTUDIOS. Standing next to it was a five-foot-tall plastic purple-and-white guitar sculpture. I knocked. There was no answer. A shade had been drawn partway down the glass panel of the door. I bent down and peered beneath the shade. The room appeared to be a reception area, so I walked in. As I stood there alone, I heard the faint strains of music emanating from somewhere to the rear of the house. I doubted if it was being played by Wally Brolin. I’d gotten to the studio in less than an hour.

The source of the music was evident ten minutes later when a door opened and three people joined me in the anteroom: a pretty young woman with very long brunette hair carrying a guitar, an older man wearing a large black Stetson hat and also with a guitar in his arms, and a painfully thin middle-aged man with thick glasses and a large pair of earphones draped around his neck. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back into a ponytail that reached halfway down his back. The two musicians ignored me and left.

“Can I help you?” the skinny fellow asked in a nasal voice.

“I’m here to see Wally Brolin,” I said.

“Here he is now.”

The front door opened and a bearded, roly-poly bear of a man entered carrying a coffee container and a guitar. He, too, wore a black Stetson hat. A scuffed pair of tan cowboy boots protruded from the bottom of his faded jeans. His shirt was a lighter shade of blue denim with a garland of tiny red-and-white horses embroidered on the chest.

“Mr. Brolin?” I said.

“This woman says she’s waiting for you,” the thin fellow said.

He crossed the room and extended a beefy hand, which I took. “Name’s Wally Brolin.”

“And mine is Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I know I got here early, and I don’t want to get in the way of your recording. I’ll just wait, if you don’t mind.”

The door opened again and a middle-aged woman entered wearing jeans, boots, and a denim jacket with her name stitched on the back. “Hey, Wally B., mah main man,” she said in a heavy Southern accent.

“’ Lo, Millie,” Brolin said. He turned to me. “Millie and I are recording a demo of a coupla tunes she’s written. No problem if you want to come on in and listen.”

He introduced me to the thin man with glasses. “This here’s Jack. He’s the engineer.”

I followed them into a small but cozy studio in what would have been a living room if the house were set up as a home. Two microphones were on stands in front of chairs that faced each other. I was given a seat in the “control room,” which must have formerly been a bedroom, where Jack-the-engineer fiddled with his equipment until he said into his own microphone, “All right, let’s rock ’n’ roll. Take one. Wally B. and Millie Travis.”

I spent the next forty-five minutes listening to them do multiple takes of three songs. Millie had an appealing husky voice that spoke of having lived a hard life that included plenty of cigarettes. The guitar looked ridiculously small against Brolin’s large chest. He hunched over the instrument, his body moving as though trying to wring a more mournful sound from it. To my untrained ear, Millie’s melodies sounded similar to me, and her lyrics weren’t very different, either, all lamenting the loss of a lover, how she yearned for him to go, and now wished he’d return.

When they were finished, Brolin and Millie came into the control room and heard the recordings played back. “I like that third take on number one the best,” Millie said, and Brolin agreed. She gave Brolin a hug as she left. After saying goodbye to Jack, Brolin and I walked out to the street.

“Can we sit down somewhere and talk?” I asked. “Coffee? Something stronger?”

“I wouldn’t mind a beer,” he said. “Dan McGuinness’s over on Demonbreun is close.”

“Wherever you say.”

We drove to the Irish pub in Brolin’s pickup truck, a well-worn Chevy with plenty of discarded food wrappers and other debris on the floor, and a gun rack behind our heads. Once there, we took a tall table with stools in a far corner near a window. He ordered a draft beer; I had lemonade.

“I don’t know where to start,” I said. Cigarette smoke wafted in our direction, and, surprised, I turned to see that it came from another table.

“Places that don’t allow customers in younger than eighteen can have smoking,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“You Cyndi’s lawyer?” he asked.

“No. I’m working with her attorney, however,” I said, purposely leaving my “official” capacity vague. “Did you visit Cyndi in prison, Mr. Brolin?”

“No. She didn’t want me to get involved.”

“But you
were
involved. It’s my understanding that she was with you for those days after the murder of Mr. Marker, before the police caught up with her.”

He nodded ruefully and sipped his beer. “So she told you that, huh?”

“After a lot of convincing. Tell me, how did that come about?”

He took another swig before replying. “Cyndi showed up at my door that Friday night. She was in a panic, crying, hysterical. I got her to calm down and tell me what happened. She was a mess, a real mess.”

“For good reason,” I said, “finding a man she thought had been murdered.”

“Yeah, sure, of course. I tried to convince her to go see the cops—I said I’d go with her—but she kept saying they’d think she killed him.”

“And she stayed with you on those nights?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where?”

“At my house over in East Nashville.”

“Were you and Cyndi, well, boyfriend and girlfriend?” I asked, realizing as I did that my phraseology might be old-fashioned.

“No. Just good friends. We met the first night she was in Nashville, at a club. A gal I know introduced us. We got to talking and started hanging out together, writing a few songs, you know, just making the Nashville scene. I’ll tell you this. She was some talent.”

“She still is.”

“Right. How’d she get out of the slammer?”

I explained what had happened at court that morning, and how we’d moved in together at the hotel.

“That beats all! She’s lucky to have a friend like you, ma’am.”

“And you, too, Wally.”

“You say she can’t leave the hotel,” he said.

“That’s right, except for very special needs.”

“That’s a bummer.”

“Better than a jail cell.”

“I mean ’cause of the Bluebird gig.”

“The nightclub,” I said, remembering that Mrs. Granger had mentioned it the night I arrived.

“I got her into one of the auditions there and they loved her. They called yesterday. I guess they don’t read the papers. Anyway, it’s
the
place to get your name known, really tough to get a gig there.”

“Do you mind if I tell her that she passed the audition?”

“No, except it’ll break her heart.” He smiled for the first time since we’d met. “She’ll probably write a song about it.”

He asked if he could visit her at the hotel, but I said the judge didn’t want her to have any visitors before her next court appearance. He ordered a second beer

“Did she tell you about her belief that Mr. Marker had taken one of her songs and given it to another singer?” I asked.

“Yeah, she did. He gave it to Sally Prentice.”

“You know her?”

“Sure. I played on some of her early demos. I’m hoping to get called to play on her CD. She’s movin’ up fast.”

“From what Cyndi told me, this Sally Prentice will be credited as cowriter of the song.”

“That’s the way it usually works,” he said. “Sally’s headed for the big time. She’s got it all—looks, a great voice, terrific stage presence. I told Cyndi to let it go, take the cowriter credit and use it to help build her career.”

“But Cyndi didn’t see it that way.”

“She’s young, Jessica. I probably would’ve felt the same way when I first came to Nashville fifteen years ago. But you mellow out after a while, roll with the punches, take the bitter with the sweet, if you know what I mean.”

“Not an easy thing for a young girl like Cyndi to do,” I said.

“I suppose not. You hungry?”

“No, but you go ahead and eat. My treat.”

He ordered a corned beef sandwich on rye, with a side of fries.

I asked him what Cyndi had told him about discovering Marker’s body, and his response matched what she’d told me, the police, and Jamal Washburn. His sandwich arrived and he ate with enthusiasm after slathering on a lot of mustard. The conversation drifted to him, his background, musical experiences, and aspirations. He was originally from New Jersey, although he’d moved frequently; his father was in the military. He started playing the guitar while living in Texas, and decided to make it his career. A friend suggested they travel to Nashville together, and at the age of eighteen he headed for Music City with his eye on a successful career in country music.

“Have you found it?” I asked. “A successful career?”

“I’ve managed to make a living as a studio musician, and helping lyricists develop their songs. I’m a good musician, Jessica, but the town is crawling with good musicians, four-thousand of ’em registered with the Nashville union. You grab what jobs you can get, mostly demos, and hope that some producer will hear you and decide to put you on his A-team. Those are the guys who’ve been around a long time and are always called for major recordings.” He grinned. “You keep waiting for one of them to burn out and decide to pack it in so you can take his place. Hasn’t happened to me yet. Meanwhile I keep at it, recording where I can, picking up an occasional gig at some of the smaller clubs, and practicing.”

“You said you thought that Cyndi has talent. Enough to make it big?”

He took the last bite of his sandwich, wiped the remnants of mustard from his mouth, and said, “With the right people to get her name around, and maybe a stylist to glam her up, she could’ve made it big, maybe really big.”

“And are you one of the ‘right people to get her name around,’ Wally?”

“I coulda been.”

“Why past tense?”

“Her name’s known in town now, but only because of this murder mess she’s in.”

“It’s a mess I’m determined to get her out of.”

“And how’re you gonna do that?”

“By finding out who really killed Roderick Marker.”

“Yeah? I didn’t take you for a cop or a PI.”

“I’m not a policeman, just a concerned citizen. By the way, did you know Marker?”

He winced before answering. “I met him a few times, did a bunch of demos with songwriters he had under contract. Not my favorite guy, that’s for sure. He’s a sleaze. Took advantage of the young girls, the vulnerable types, if you know what I mean. Plus, he was slow to pay. I know some musicians who’ve been stiffed by him.”

“Which means he had lots of enemies?”

“I don’t know about
lots
of enemies, but you probably could start with his business partner, Whitson, or his wife, Marilyn.”

“I have their names from the newspaper article about the murder. Tell me more about them.”

“I only know what I’ve heard. Mostly, that is. I’ve met Whitson, too slick by half, struts around like he’s the second coming of Elvis, but underneath he was just Marker’s lackey.”

“And Mrs. Marker?”

“I never saw Marker’s wife, except for in the papers. She’s his third. Apparently he liked ’em blond and . . . uh . . . with big—” He made a gesture with his hands.

“I get the picture,” I said.

“She’s in the gossip columns a lot. She’s big with the charities, but a classic gold digger, if you ask me. And I heard she’s a swinger. Lookin’ for her next mark, I bet.” He chuckled. “Hey, that’s funny. Marilyn Marker lookin’ for her next mark.”

“Not a very flattering view of either of them.”

“Just the way I see them. Look, I really should go. I’m meeting a lyricist in a half hour. Not much talent, but she’s got plenty of money from her daddy to cut demos until the cows come home. Thanks for the beer and sandwich.”

“It was my pleasure, Wally.”

I asked him to drop me at the hotel, which he did. As I climbed down from his truck, he called out, “Hey, tell Cyndi I’m thinkin’ of her, and hope everything works out. You let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“If there is, Wally, you’ll certainly hear from me.”

As I watched him drive away, I realized that I was quickly getting to know a lot about this place called Music City—for better or for worse. What was more important, however, was for me to get to know those things, and those people, who could lead me to Marker’s killer.

I knew one thing for certain: With the cost of a two-bedroom suite, and commitments back home that would start piling up, I’d better do it soon.

I
couldn’t help but smile as I approached the door to the suite at the Renaissance Hotel and heard the faint strains of a guitar, and a sweet voice emanating from inside. Jamal Washburn had obviously been successful in getting Cyndi’s guitar back from the police.

I opened the door and stepped inside. Cyndi, wearing one of the hotel’s fluffy robes, was seated in a large, overstuffed chair by the window. She’d propped up pieces of paper on a desk chair and leaned forward to read what was on them while playing the guitar. She was so engrossed in her task that she failed to hear me come in.