Nashville Noir (2 page)

“I’m circling the room to make sure I don’t miss anyone,” she said. “How can I ever thank you for what you’re doing for Cindy?”

“You must be one proud mom,” Shevlin said.

“Oh, I certainly am,” Mrs. Blaskowitz said, beaming. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry,” she said through her smile. “I’m such a waterworks tonight.”

“Were you surprised she was chosen?”

“Not really. I don’t mean to sound immodest, but I knew she’d make good from the time she was three, picking out songs on our old upright and making me play my old country tapes by Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline over and over
and over
again. Even though I loved their albums, I thought I’d go mad if I heard them one more time. But look where it’s led.”

Shevlin laughed. “Just make sure we get a copy of her first platinum CD to display in city hall.”

“You can be sure of that,” she said, the joyous smile seemingly permanently affixed on her face.

Janet Blaskowitz and her four daughters had lived in Cabot Cove all their lives. They’d had a tough time making ends meet after Janet’s husband died. Gabe Blaskowitz had been a private pilot who ferried sport fishermen into remote areas of the backwoods between the United States and Canada. His sixty-year-old float plane had gone down when the wing tip caught on a stone outcropping as he tried a tricky landing on a lake without a name. The wealthy angler who had offered to double the fee if Blaskowitz would agree to fly out that windy day had perished as well. Cindy, oldest of the four girls, had been just eleven at the time.

With little money saved and no life insurance, Blaskowitz had left the responsibility to care for his family solely on his wife’s shoulders. Janet had done an admirable job of raising the girls while holding down two full-time jobs. Her daughters were well-mannered, intelligent young women with sunny dispositions despite the hardships they’d endured. Cindy possessed those attributes, but she had also been born with musical talent—loads of it. She played piano and guitar, and had a lovely singing voice that was at once lilting and earthy. She’d won the lead in our high school musicals for the past three years, and those in attendance never failed to comment on her professionalism, the sort of poise and talent that might one day help her achieve success in show business. She also wrote country-and-western songs, some of which she’d performed this evening. Her lyrics were mature for someone so young, speaking to heartbreak and strife, as well as to soaring spirits and overcoming adversity. An impressive musical package.

“She must be thrilled about going to Nashville,” I said.

“She tries not to show it,” said her mother, “but I know inside she’s bursting with excitement. What you and the others in the CCC have done over the years for young people like Cindy is so wonderful, Jessica.”

“All we’ve done is to give special youngsters a chance to develop their talents, Janet. I can’t imagine a more worthwhile thing to do.”

 

 

CCC stood for Cabot Cove Cares. When the organization was first established nine years ago, someone protested the name: “It sounds like the work-relief program Roosevelt put in before the war,” Spencer Durkee had said. “Didn’t you ever hear of the Civilian Conservation Corps?”

But he was overruled. “No one but you remembers the Civilian Conservation Corps, Durkee,” another had said. And CCC began raising money for its mission: to financially back one young person each year who’d shown considerable talent in one of the arts—painting, dancing, music, writing, or acting. The recipients of the yearly grant used the money to travel to a larger venue, where they could receive more advanced professional training—which generally meant New York City or Boston. They were given enough money to live on in those cities for four to six months, and to pay for their lessons. In Cindy’s case, Nashville was the logical place for her to put her songwriting and singing talents on display, and to learn more about the business of writing and performing country-and-western music.

I’d been on CCC’s committee since its inception, and was active in fund-raising, donating a percentage of my book royalties each year to the organization. I took immense pride in the accomplishments of those talented young men and women who’d benefited from it. This year, we’d decided on Cindy Blaskowitz early on, and had done research into Nashville and whether that was where she should go.

I’d had no idea how popular country music was across the U.S. and Canada, nor what a dominant role Nashville played in it. I’d been there once to record one of my books, and again some years later to visit an old friend, although both visits were brief, and details about the city had been regrettably eclipsed in my memory by my involvement with a murder investigation. But that was many years ago. I knew that Nashville was called “Music City,” and of course I’d heard of the Grand Ole Opry, but I was surprised to learn, as another committee member airily informed me, that Nashville was to country-and-western music what Hollywood was to the movies.

Our research showed that country music sales topped all other genres, outselling pop, urban-contemporary, rap, and jazz by a wide margin. Country radio leads all formats, with more than two thousand radio stations in the United States that program the music, with an estimated audience in excess of fifty-six million listeners. I admitted to my fellow committee members that country-and-western music wasn’t my cup of tea, my musical tastes running more to Sinatra and Tony Bennett, Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman, and maybe a good Irish folk song. But once we’d chosen Cindy, I made a point of listening to her style of music on a local radio station that featured such stars as Garth Brooks, Reba McEntire, Brad Paisley, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Shania Twain, and Taylor Swift, and my appreciation of the genre grew.

 

 

“I’m so pleased that Cindy has someone in Nashville who’s already impressed with her talents,” Janet Blaskowitz said.

“You mean that fellow Marker?” said Seth Hazlitt, who’d joined our little group.

Janet nodded. Roderick Marker was a music executive in Nashville with whom Cindy had struck up a long-distance relationship. She’d gotten his name from a directory of Nashville song publishers—his firm was Marker & Whitson—and during her senior year in high school had sent him some of her compositions. He’d responded enthusiastically, telling her that if she ever made her way to Nashville, he would assemble a top-notch band of studio musicians to back her recorded demos, and work on her behalf to see that her songs were published, and to help advance her performing career.

Seth and I had checked him out and he seemed legitimate. Marker & Whitson was listed as having been in business for almost twenty years, and its catalogue of published songs was extensive.

“Cindy told Mr. Marker about her grant from CCC, and that she’d be coming down to Nashville after graduation,” Janet said. “He sounds like a nice man, although his secretary is very rude. But he’s promised to do everything he can to help Cindy along. At least she’ll know one person.”

There was concern, of course, about Cindy traveling alone to an unfamiliar city and being on her own there. Her mother would have liked to accompany her, but with three younger children to care for, and two jobs to maintain, she couldn’t break away.

“I understand Susan Shevlin found Cindy a place to stay,” I said. Susan, the mayor’s wife, was also the town’s leading travel agent.

“Yes. I’m so grateful to her. She was in Nashville on business and took the time to scout out possible places for Cindy to live. As far as I’m concerned, she couldn’t have found a better one.”

“It’s a small apartment building, as I understand it,” I said.

“Actually, it’s a converted house with six rooms to rent. And here’s the best part. The building owner, a Mrs. Granger, only wants to rent to girls like Cindy who’ve come to town to pursue a music career. She told Susan that she’d been a country singer in the Grand Ole Opry herself, although that must have been some time ago.”

“Interesting career move,” Seth said. “Being a landlady is a far cry from singing at the Opry, but it sounds like a good location for Cindy. Not too overwhelming, considerin’ she’s coming from a small town.”

“This Mrs. Granger probably never intended to end up a landlady,” Janet said. “I figure she invested in the building as a stopgap—you know, something to support her in case her career never took off. It turned out to be a lucky choice.”

“Lucky for Cindy, anyway,” Seth said.

“I understand that Nashville is fairly safe for a big city,” I said, “but of course Cindy will still need to be careful.”

“Oh, she knows that. And Susan said she heard that Mrs. Granger keeps an eye on her tenants. As a mother, that sets my mind at ease. I think it’s lovely that she’s looking out for these girls.”

Susan had reported her discovery to CCC’s committee, and with Janet’s approval, a room with a shared bath had been leased for Cindy’s stay, with a promise of extending it should she find work and decide to remain there.

With everything in place, Cindy was scheduled to leave in a week. Jed Richardson, a former airline pilot—and old friend of Cindy’s father—who operated his own small charter air service in Cabot Cove, would fly her to Hartford, Connecticut, where she would catch a bus to Tennessee. Jed wasn’t charging for the flight, his contribution to CCC and in memory of Cindy’s father.

Cindy tugged at her mother’s sleeve and smiled shyly at the rest of us. “Excuse me,” she said.

Janet turned to her firstborn with a warm smile. “Yes, dear?”

“A couple of the kids want to give me a going-away party. Is it okay if I go over to the Carvers’ house?”

“If you take your sister. Emily is worried she’ll never see you again.”

“That’s silly. I’ll call or e-mail every day. Besides, it’s not like I’m overseas or anything. She can come to the party, but please, not the little ones.”

“I’ll take Liz and Mia home. Just make sure you and your sister aren’t back too late. We have a lot to do this week before you leave.”

The prospect of her oldest chick leaving the nest in such a short time must have struck Janet at that moment. Her eyes lingered on Cindy as the young woman gathered her sister and joined her friends. Janet watched as they left for the party, their excited chatter and laughter echoing down the hall. She turned back to us.

“I keep telling myself it’s such a wonderful opportunity. I know it is. It’s her dream to go to Nashville. Every child should be able to follow her dream. But she’s not even gone and I already miss her. She’ll be okay, won’t she?”

“She’ll be just fine,” I said.

But later, after Seth had dropped me off at home, I thought about my reassuring words and wondered if I’d said the right thing. It was natural for a mother to worry about her child leaving home for the first time, moving to a strange city, living alone. It would be a concern for any loving parent.

I took that thought to bed and awoke at two in the morning with an unfathomable nagging sense of foreboding.

You’re being silly, Jessica,
I muttered, and willed myself back to sleep.

The feeling was gone the next morning. But it returned three weeks later when I received a call from Cindy’s mother.

“G
ood morning, Janet,” I said. “What do you hear from Cindy?”

“That’s why I’m calling, Jessica. I need to talk to you.”

I knew immediately that something was wrong.

“Could I stop by later this morning?”

“Of course. Has something happened to Cindy?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you, Jessica. I can take an early lunch hour at eleven thirty.”

“I’ll be here waiting.”

We sat at my kitchen table, the trouble in her voice on the phone mirrored by the concerned expression on her face. She passed on my offer of a sandwich and got right to the point. “Cindy has called every night since she got to Nashville,” she said.

“So I hear,” I said. “Good for her. Young people too often forget to stay in touch.”

“She’s been using the phone card I gave her.”

“A wise move.”

“I didn’t want any of this e-mail nonsense. I wanted to hear her voice. That’s how I know my children are okay. I can hear it in their voices.”

“Is she okay?”

“Her calls were so upbeat the first few weeks. She sounded happy.”

“I hear a very large ‘but’ in there, Janet.”

She lowered her head and slowly shook it. When she looked up, her eyes were distressed. “But her call last night was—how should I put it?—it was anything but happy.”

“What happened?”

“Well, she managed to make contact with Mr. Marker. He was difficult to get hold of. That secretary of his didn’t want to put her through.”

“That’s the music publisher who’s so high on her songs.”

“Yes.”

I had a sense of what would come next. This fellow, Roderick Marker, had brushed her off, hadn’t offered the sort of support he’d promised.

It was worse.

“Cindy told me that he took one of the songs she’d sent him, her favorite, and gave it to another singer to record.”

“Is that a bad thing? I thought she wanted to sell her songs.”

“She does, but she knew nothing about this. He never asked her permission. She says he’s publishing the song with the other singer’s name on it as the cowriter. Cindy’s never even met this other singer. ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears’ was the song she was convinced would be her big hit, her best chance to become a star.”

“That’s outrageous,” I blurted, “to say nothing of illegal. It’s fraud. It’s theft. It would be like taking one of my novels, putting another writer’s name on it along with mine, and publishing it without my knowledge or approval.”

Janet sat back and let out a sustained, pained sigh. “She was so upset and crying on the phone, Jessica. I had to ask her a few times to repeat what she’d said because I couldn’t understand her.”