Nashville Noir (16 page)

He excused himself and walked to another part of the auditorium. I looked to my right and saw Buddy, Marker & Whitson’s jack-of-all-trades, standing alone in the aisle.

I got up and greeted him. “Hello,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. How’d your meeting with Whitson go?”

“About as you predicted.”

“How come you’re here?” he asked.

“Just paying my respects,” I said.

“That’s funny, seeing as you never even met him.” He looked around as the seats began to fill. “But I guess there’s a lot of people here never met the guy.”

“I imagine you’re right,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes and looked intently at me. “Hey, I saw your picture in the paper.”

“Yes, I heard it was in this morning’s edition.”

“I didn’t read the piece, but it was a nice picture.”

“It was taken a while back.”

After further scrutiny of me, he said, “Yeah, I guess it was.”

“Who are the people up there at the front of the auditorium?” I asked. “I know that the blond woman is his wife.”

“Madame Marker,” Buddy said, his brows rising and falling in an expression of disgust.

I let it go and asked about a tall young man whom I judged to be in his early twenties.

“Him? Jeremy, the wayward son, Marker’s kid from his first marriage. There was no love lost between him and his old man, or with Madame.”

“How unfortunate,” I said.

“Money never did buy happiness for anybody, that’s for sure.”

“Which one is Eddy Anderson? Can you point her out to me?”

“Eddy? Oh for goodness’ sake, there’s too many people down there for me to find one. She must be somewhere up front, and I’d better make myself seen. You didn’t come here just to make a contact, did you? I thought you were classier than that.”

“No. Of course I didn’t,” I said, but he had already moved away, walking down the aisle toward the seats nearer the stage.

Fifteen minutes later, the distinctly nonreligious service started. Whitson, whom I recognized from our brief encounter the other day, spoke about losing a treasured business partner—and dear friend. He introduced a young woman with a guitar, Sally Prentice, as “Rod’s brilliant pick as our next big country star.”

Sally was a pretty blonde, but apparently unsure how to dress for a memorial service. She wore a full-length beaded gown in a teal green with a slit down the front revealing a blue lining, something more suitable for a concert, I thought, but perhaps in Nashville these things were done differently than in Cabot Cove. Of course, we didn’t have a theater or auditorium anywhere near the size of the Ryman. Maybe Sally’s choice in dress was acknowledging the historical importance of the venue rather than the purpose of the observance taking place. Whitson had set a standing microphone in front of her, and she played and sang “Amazing Grace,” with many in the audience humming along.

I listened carefully, trying to gauge why Marker thought it was better for Sally to present Cyndi’s song rather than the singer/songwriter herself. In my admittedly biased view, Sally’s voice was pleasant, but not as distinctive as Cyndi’s, and I also thought that Cyndi’s looks were at least as appealing as Sally’s, who resembled every pretty face in the department store flyers that accompanied my Sunday newspaper.

After Sally sang, a few people I didn’t know also weighed in with platitudes for the deceased. Marker’s wife, Marilyn, spoke for only a minute, citing the years of bliss they’d enjoyed together. The final speaker was the son, Jeremy. Without mentioning their relationship, he focused on his father’s devotion to business, his canny musical ear, and the hours he spent promoting his country music favorites. The implication was that the father had found little time for his son, whose talents, if any, lay elsewhere. Jeremy’s tone was matter-of-fact, at times bordering on belligerent. He finished reading off cards he’d carried to the lectern and walked away from the others, his stride purposeful and with anger in each step.

Outside, the crowd lingered as the principals climbed into waiting limousines. I was walking up the block toward Commerce Street when I heard someone call my name. It was Detective Biddle.

“Hello again,” I said, tipping my head to the side.

“Won’t hold you up. Figured we, you and me, could sit down sometime today and, I don’t know, maybe compare notes.”

I thought for a moment before saying, “I’d like that very much, Detective. Yes, I would like to do that very much.”

“I’ll be in the office from three on, Mrs. Fletcher. Swing by if you have a minute.”

“You can count on my being there, Detective.”

L
ynee Granger’s stereo was pumping out Reba McEntire’s “I’m Gonna Take That Mountain” at an earsplitting level when I knocked on her door.

“Just go on in. She’ll never hear you,” said a young woman wearing a backpack, who rushed past me in the hall and bounded up the stairs, two at a time, before I had a chance to see what she looked like.

I turned the knob, poked my head in, and called out, “Hello!”

Mrs. Granger was vacuuming and singing along with the CD. Her dark hair was up in rollers, covered with a scarf tied behind her neck, and she had on the same pink kimono she’d worn the morning we’d first sat down to talk. I waited until she turned the vacuum cleaner in my direction, then waved to capture her attention. She motioned me in, clicked off the machine, and lowered the volume on Reba. “Sorry,” she said. “I get carried away when I’m listening to music.”

“I understand,” I said. “I tried knocking. Sorry to disturb you, but I need the key to Cyndi’s room.”

“Did you come to get her things?” she asked, crossing to the board on the wall that held keys to all the rooms. She lifted the one from the hook labeled “Tammy Wynette” and handed it to me.

“Yes,” I said, “whatever’s left there.”

“How’s she doin’?”

“Considering all she’s been through, not too bad.”

“Had some guy from the
Tennessean
stop by yesterday, askin’ me all sorts a questions about her. Told me she got out of jail. That was a pretty piece of work you and the lawyer pulled off. Read about it in the paper this morning.”

“The judge is letting her stay with me at the hotel, pending the grand jury proceedings. Once that’s over, the court will reconsider whether she can remain out of jail. But she’s not allowed to leave the hotel other than for special circumstances. Since we don’t know where she’ll end up, I thought it best to collect her belongings. We discussed it and agreed that we didn’t want to delay you in case you found another tenant for her room.”

“Appreciate that. Not that I have anyone in mind right now,” she said, tucking a wayward strand of hair under her scarf, “but this old house is my income as well as my home. I like to keep it filled up.”

“Naturally.”

“Are the police sure she’s the actual killer? She’s such a skinny thing, you wouldn’t think she’d have the strength to lift that big award, much less bash someone’s head in with it.”

I winced at the image. “They’re going forward with the case,” I said, “so I have to assume they believe she’s guilty. But I’m hoping to prove them wrong.” I put my hand on the doorknob. “I won’t keep you any longer. Would you like me just to put the key back on the board when I’m finished?”

“That’ll be fine. You say hi to her for me, now.”

“I’ll do just that.”

I climbed the stairs to the third floor, pausing at the first landing to peer down the hall on the chance Alicia was about. She wasn’t, and I continued up. I wasn’t exactly eager to see her, but I thought if we happened to meet, I’d ask her whether she knew any of Cyndi’s friends, including Wally Brolin.

I reached the third floor, unlocked Cyndi’s room, and began to gather whatever the police had left behind. Her computer and guitar were gone, of course, as was her backpack, but her clothing was still hanging in the closet and folded in the dresser drawers. I opened a plastic laundry bag I’d taken from the hotel and placed her clothing in it along with toiletries. After a struggle to open them, I emptied the dresser drawers and noticed that the roll of crackers and boxes of tea were gone.

The police had taken Cyndi’s small storage device from the desk—I believe it’s called a flash drive—as well as her song notebook, but had left the two unused spiral-bound books. I took those, the picture from home, and Emily’s letter.

The packing didn’t take me more than ten minutes. I looked around the empty room to see if I’d missed anything. Something was nagging at me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I rechecked the desk, pulling out the drawers to see if any papers had fallen behind them, and did the same with the dresser. I got down on my knees and peered under the bed. Not even a dust bunny.

I hoisted the full laundry bag, took another fast look around Cyndi’s space, and retreated to the hall to lock the door.

“Hi! Are you related to Cyndi?” said a voice behind me.

I turned to see a pale young woman holding a canvas laundry bag. Several inches shorter than I, she had straight black hair reaching to her shoulders, black bangs on her forehead, and eyes outlined in black pencil, making her appear not unlike the depictions of ancient Egyptians I’ve seen in museums. From Alicia’s description, I assumed this was Heather Blackwood, the “Goth country singer.”

“Hello,” I said. “I’m an old family friend of Cyndi and her mother. Do you live here, too?”

She introduced herself and confirmed my guess as to her identity.

“I stopped by to pick up Cyndi’s things for her,” I said.

“Oh, is she moving out?”

I hesitated. “Yes, at least for now,” I said. “You didn’t know?”

“Nobody tells me anything. I just got back from Jacksonville, visiting the folks, so I haven’t seen anyone yet.”

“How long were you in Florida?” I asked.

“Just a week. Enough time to remind me why I left home.” She tilted her head and gave me a wry smile. “I’m on my way to the Laundromat. Do you want me to throw in some of Cyndi’s stuff with mine? I don’t mind.”

“That’s very generous of you,” I said. “Perhaps another time.”

“Where is she, by the way?”

“She’s staying at my hotel with me while I’m in town,” I said, wanting to avoid a long conversation.

“Wow! Lucky her. It’s nice to get time in more posh surroundings, huh?”

“Not precisely, but it’s a long story, and I’m afraid I have to get back.” I lifted the bag and headed for the stairs.

“Sure. Didn’t mean to keep you.”

“You haven’t,” I said, feeling regretful that I was brushing her off. I turned at the last minute. “I’m sorry to be in such a rush. Alicia will fill you in, I’m sure,” I said. “Ask her.”

Heather gave a half laugh, half snort. “She who leaves no truth unmauled? You can never get anything reliable from her, but okay, I’ll ask Alicia. Say hi to Cyndi for me.”

As I walked down the stairs, it occurred to me that if she’d been absent from the rooming house for the past week, she couldn’t have been the one I’d heard in the hall in the middle of the night, despite Alicia’s claim. Who was it, then? I’d thought it had been Alicia. Now I was convinced of it.

When I reached the downstairs hall, Lynee Granger was coming out of her apartment. She’d changed into a blue denim skirt with a wide flare, a multicolored patchwork shirt, and cowboy boots.

“On your way out?” I asked.

“My cowriter is in from Rhode Island. We’ve booked a writing room at the Music Mill. He’s got some song ideas, bless his Yankee heart.”

“I hope you end up with a gold record,” I said. “Do you happen to know a musician named Wally Brolin?”

Her laugh was gentle. “Sure I know Wally,” she said. “Wally the bear. He’s a good man and a damn good guitar picker. Got a temper, too, that sometimes keeps him from gettin’ the gigs he deserves. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just that he and Cyndi were friends.”

A sly smile crossed Granger’s face. “Ol’ Wally may not look like some leading man movie star, but the girls sure go for him. I suppose they like that macho spirit; he don’t take no guff from nobody. Hard to find a man like that these days.”

“Interesting. He didn’t strike me that way,” I said. “He seemed very laid-back.”

“Maybe he’s a whatchamacallit, a multiple-personality,” she said. “Anyway, glad to have met a famous writer like you. You tell your friend to keep her chin up and hope things work out. And if she wants to move back, just give me a ring.”

She called a taxi for me, and I directed the driver to stop at the hotel, where I gave a bellman the bag of Cyndi’s clothes to deliver to the suite. Then we continued on to Music Row to the offices of Marker & Whitson Music Publishers.

Since my last visit to the scene of the murder, something had been circulating around in my brain that I couldn’t pin down. But it came to me as I was packing up Cyndi’s things. Marker’s office had two doors, which as Buddy had told me was to allow him to come and go unnoticed. Buddy had also subtly indicated with a wink and a nod that the second door was used on those occasions when Marker was entertaining a female other than his wife, and Brolin, too, knew about this aspect of Marker’s personal life. Not that I cared whether he was a man who arranged for trysts in his office. But that second door was likely the one through which his killer had fled. Cyndi had said she’d heard Marker arguing with someone on the phone, but perhaps he’d been talking to that someone in person. Of course, conjuring this scenario didn’t help identify who’d been in the office while Cyndi waited outside in the reception area, but it was a place to start.

I was taking a chance that the office would be open, since the service for Marker had been only that morning. But sure enough, when I stepped out of the elevator, ahead of me was a woman seated behind a desk in the reception area of Marker & Whitson. She was in her midfifties with short wispy hair, a sallow complexion, and thin lips set in a hard line. Narrow reading glasses were balanced on the tip of her pug nose. I wasn’t certain if this was Marker’s secretary, Edwina Anderson, whom Buddy had referred to as “a battle-ax,” but I could see how a man his age might describe this woman that way. Marker had wanted someone more attractive in her position, and while I objected to the idea of discarding an efficient and loyal worker because time, and perhaps genetics, had not been kind to her, this lady certainly made no effort to be welcoming. A smile would have gone a long way to overcoming her deficiencies.