Nashville Noir (22 page)

“Only had one or two beers,” Wally whined as he jumped down from the truck. “I ain’t drunk.”

“That remains to be seen,” the policeman said, holding up a Breathalyzer. “I’m betting you know how this here thing works.”

To my amazement, Wally passed the Breathalyzer test, barely, but there was no way I would allow him to drive me back to the hotel. The officer gave me permission to climb out of the truck while he ticketed Wally for several moving violations. “If I see you again,” he said, poking a finger in the younger man’s chest, “I’ll haul you in, test or no test. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Wally said, working to put on a serious face. But he was clearly delighted that he’d not only made it through the alcohol test, he’d terrified an annoying woman who’d been a thorn in his side.

“Seems to me, ma’am, that you could use a lift to wherever you’re going,” the officer said.

“That would be very much appreciated,” I said.

During the ride to the hotel the officer asked what I’d been doing in a truck with a young guy who was close to being arrested on a DUI.

I laughed, more from nerves than in reaction to anything funny. “I suppose I just wanted to see another side of Nashville,” I said.

“Mind a piece of advice?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“Stick to the side of Nashville where you belong. We’ve got a nice, safe city here, but things do happen.”

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks for the ride and the advice.”

I
was surprised to find Jamal Washburn at the suite when I returned. He was dressed casually in tan chino pants, a blue button-down shirt, and a multicolored, patchwork V-neck sweater, and he sat on the couch while Cyndi performed.

“Hi,” he said when I walked in. “I’ve been treated to my own personal concert.”

“Lucky you,” I said, taking off my cowboy hat and fluffing my hair. “Is everything all right on the legal front?”

“Sure,” he said, turning away from Cyndi so she couldn’t see his face. He gave me a small smile, but it was apparent he preferred not to discuss in front of Cyndi whatever it was that had brought him to the hotel so late.

Cyndi put down her guitar and stifled a yawn. “I can’t believe I’d ever say this, but I’m too tired to play anymore. Would you excuse me? I can barely keep my eyes open,” she said sweetly.

“Of course,” I said, looking at my watch. “It’s late. But before you go to bed, I wanted to ask: Do you remember who introduced you to Wally Brolin?”

“I think it was Alicia. Alicia Piedmont, from the rooming house. That’s right. We were at Douglas Corner Café and he walked in with some friends. That’s where I met him. Why did you want to know?”

“No special reason. Just curious. Sleep tight.”

When she was gone from the parlor, I took a seat opposite Washburn. “This is pretty late for a visit,” I said. “You must have something important on your mind.”

“I told Cyndi that you and I needed to discuss her next court date, but that wasn’t true,” he said. “I’m here because I had a strange call this afternoon.”

“Oh? From whom?”

“Marker’s son.”

“Jeremy,” I said.

The attorney’s eyebrows rose. “You know him?”

“I haven’t met him, but he spoke at his father’s memorial service. Why did he call you?”

“He read my name in the paper, in some article that mentioned I was the lawyer defending Cyndi. Said he wanted to talk, that he had important information that might help my client.”

“And did he?”

“Maybe. He came to my office, stayed about a half hour. He’s a strange young guy, very full of himself in a superficial sort of way, but it’s a show. He’s like other kids I’ve met who live off a parent, unsure of themselves and of who they are. Anyway, he told me he suspected that Marker’s wife, Marilyn, his stepmother, killed his father.”

“Ooh,” I muttered. “Does he have any proof of that?”

“Well, he claims that he wasn’t entirely truthful to the police when they questioned him.”

“Detective Biddle said they spoke to Jeremy in the hospital waiting room before Marker passed away. What did he say that wasn’t truthful?”

“Apparently Marilyn claimed she was home at the time of the attack on her husband. That’s what she told the cops when Jeremy was standing right there. He didn’t contradict her. But now he says he was home Friday night around that time, and that Mrs. Marker wasn’t there. He says he knows that because her Jag wasn’t in its usual parking spot in the circular driveway, and that he saw her pull in at around six thirty that evening, later than what she’d led the police to believe.”

I fell silent as I processed what I’d just heard. Finally, I said, “It’s my understanding that Jeremy wasn’t close to his father but didn’t get along with his stepmother at all. Do you think he’s saying this to get even with her, to hurt her? ”

Washburn shrugged and smiled. “I’d like to think he’s telling the truth,” he said. “It’d be good for Cyndi if the police had another suspect to go after. I don’t really know the kid, Jessica, so I can’t say whether he’s being truthful or not. He’s not the sort of guy you automatically believe. Then again, all we need is a reasonable doubt.”

“How will you follow up on it?”

“I’m not sure. I suggested that he go to the police and correct his statement.”

“Will he?”

“He didn’t commit to it. I told him that I’d give him a day to do that before I mentioned it to them myself.”

I was silent again for a moment. “It seems to me, Jamal, that the only motivation he would have to put himself in possible jeopardy for having lied to the police is to hurt Marilyn Marker. Otherwise, why bother? They accepted his original statement.”

“I don’t care if he’s just getting his jollies by accusing his stepmother. If it’s the truth—”

“You’re right,” I said. “He can’t simply be written off. Have you told Cyndi about your conversation with him?”

“No. Didn’t want to get her hopes up. She’s a charming young woman, Jessica, if a bit naive. Also very talented. It would be a terrible waste if she’s convicted.”

“A waste in so many ways.”

“And how’s your investigation coming? I’m sorry I’ve been tied up in litigation. I came to see you earlier but you were out. What’s happening? Do you have anything else I can follow up on?”

“I just came from meeting with Wally Brolin for the second time,” I said. “He’s the musician who sheltered Cyndi when the police were looking for her.”

“Find out anything useful?”

“Maybe.” I gave him a rundown of my talks with Brolin and told him of having attended Sally Prentice’s recording session, and my surprise at seeing Brolin there leading her band. “I have this nagging feeling, Jamal, that he’s involved more than by having provided her with a place to stay. I find it interesting that he refers to Marker by his first name when he’d told me originally that he barely knew him, and had bad things to say about him. Now, he’s ‘Rod.’ ”

Washburn stood, stretched, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “Cyndi’s not the only one who’s sleepy. It’s been a long day. Want me to follow up on Brolin in some way?”

“I can’t think of anything at this moment. But you can do something else for me.”

“Name it.”

“Can you gain access to records of parking tickets issued over, say, the past two weeks?”

“Sure. If the Traffic Violation Bureau won’t cooperate, I can have the records subpoenaed. Why?”

“Marilyn Marker has a reputation for getting parking tickets.”

“She does? How the devil did you find that out?”

“I have my sources,” I said, smiling. “Anyway, I’d like to know if she received any summonses on the day of her husband’s murder.”

He returned my smile. “I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Jamal. Call me when you have the information?”

“Shall do. Get some sleep. You look beat, too.”

He was right. A wave of fatigue had swept over me while we were talking, and the idea of climbing between the sheets was compelling.

But I didn’t go to bed right after he left. I sat by the window in the parlor and stared down for a long time at this place called “Music City.” Out there were thousands of songwriters, singers, and musicians, some more talented than others, and each clawing for fame and recognition, seeking success and the riches that follow. Chasing that gold ring was certainly exhilarating, but failing to grasp it could be equally depressing. Was it worth it? Who was I to judge? Pursuing a dream, no matter how elusive, was what made life exciting and fulfilling. It didn’t have to be the dream of success in show business, or writing, music, or art. Every dream matters, regardless of the arena in which it flourishes.

I thought of Cyndi sleeping in the next room and of the man she thought to be her friend. The prosecution would argue that she’d wanted so desperately to capture her dream that she’d lost her balance. And Wally, who’d originally given her a place of refuge, had suggested just that. But I didn’t believe it. Even considering for a moment that she might be guilty of killing Roderick Marker was a breach of my belief in her.

But
someone
murdered Marker.

I went to my room and read through the notes I’d been making ever since I’d arrived in Music City, and added the day’s events to the tally. For the first time, I fell asleep that night feeling that I might finally be making progress in determining who the murderer was.

A
lthough I’d gone to bed feeling somewhat more confident that progress was being made, I awoke groggy and out of sorts. I slipped on the robe provided by the hotel, and slippers I’d brought with me from Cabot Cove, and padded into the parlor. Cyndi was still asleep, which suited me. I wanted some time alone to clear my head and to plan the day.

At my request, a copy of the
Tennessean
was now left outside the door each morning, and I retrieved it. Before starting to read, I called Room Service and ordered up a basket of breads and muffins, some fruit, juice, and coffee, figuring Cyndi would also be hungry when she woke up. While waiting for our meal to be delivered, I settled in a chair by the window and scanned the front page. There was nothing there about the Marker murder—a blessing—and I went on to page two. Nothing there either. But when my eyes moved to page three, a photo stopped me cold. It showed me getting out of Lynee Granger’s car outside the BIGSound Studio, and the caption below the picture said: “Mystery author Jessica Fletcher traded her typewriter for a Stetson. The Nashville newbie is getting her country on while in town to defend a hometown young’un accused of murder. Next thing we know, she’ll be eating roasted possum with sweet potatoes.” The picture ran above a column by Brian Krupp, who wrote what amounted to a speculative piece about my movements in Nashville, and what they might mean to the Marker murder case.

 

 

“Last night, this reporter decided to see what famed mystery writer Jessica Fletcher was up to in Music City. As readers of this paper know, Mrs. Fletcher has traveled to Nashville to help exonerate Cyndi Gabriel, a young singer from Cabot Cove, Maine, who came here seeking fame and fortune as a songwriter and performer. Not long after Ms. Gabriel arrived, she was arrested and charged with the murder of Roderick Marker, a well-known music publisher and a partner in the firm of Marker & Whitson.

“General Session Court Judge Candice Grimes surprised everyone by releasing Ms. Gabriel into Ms. Fletcher’s custody without posting bail, and she’s been living with Ms. Fletcher in the writer’s suite at the Marriott Renaissance Hotel in downtown Nashville. Nice digs for an accused murderess.

“Ms. Fletcher also has managed to get herself a place on Ms. Gabriel’s legal defense team headed by a court-appointed attorney, Jamal Washburn. In other words, this famed writer of murder mysteries, who hails from Ms. Gabriel’s hometown in Maine, has found herself smack dab in the middle of a
real
murder mystery, and apparently not for the first time. Besides writing bestselling books, Jessica Fletcher has been known to involve herself in real crimes, sometimes to the annoyance of local law enforcement officials. So far, however, Nashville’s finest don’t seem to mind; a recent query elicited a ‘no comment.’

“To see how a famous mystery author would go about trying to solve an actual murder case, this reporter took it upon himself to join Mrs. Fletcher on her jaunts last evening, although from a distance.

“Mrs. Fletcher’s first outing was to BIGSound Studios. She was driven there by Lynee Granger, a local songwriter who also owns the boardinghouse where the accused had been staying prior to her arrest. Although I wasn’t in the studio to see what transpired, sources who were there tell me that Mrs. Fletcher had a heated confrontation with up-and-coming songstress Sally Prentice, who was recording a song allegedly written by Ms. Gabriel, and given to Ms. Prentice by none other than the late Roderick Marker. The ‘theft’ of her song is what police say was Ms. Gabriel’s motivation for killing him. My sources also inform me that Mrs. Fletcher was particularly interested in the musician in charge of the band, Wally Brolin, a veteran Nashville guitarist, and that they made a date to meet later that evening.

“Sure enough, Mrs. Fletcher was picked up by Mr. Brolin back at her hotel and driven to Down Home, a venerable club frequented by local musicians. After a few beers, the couple took off in Mr. Brolin’s pickup, perhaps to another watering hole. This reporter tried to get a comment from Mr. Brolin, but efforts to reach him were unsuccessful. Should he return my call, I’d like to know what role he has played in this intriguing murder case that has all of Nashville talking and speculating. Will Jessica Fletcher solve the crime, absolve her ward of guilt, and have yet another bestselling story to write?