Nashville Noir (6 page)

Twenty-eight steps later—I counted—she unlocked a room labeled “Patsy Cline” and handed me the key. “There’s a sink in your room, but the toilet’s down the hall,” she said. “Shower, too.”

“Where is Cindy’s room?” I asked.

“Two doors down on the left. She’s in ‘Tammy Wynette.’”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions in the morning, if I may.”

“Sure. Anytime after ten. I sleep in whenever I can.”

I bid Mrs. Granger good night and unpacked a few things, ignoring the few wire hangers that dangled from hooks on the wall and behind the door, and slipping the clothes I’d worn that day into a wooden dresser that doubled as a nightstand. The room was not much, as she’d said, but it was homey, with a wide-board wooden floor, iron bed, and battered desk in the corner. There had been an attempt to decorate; a cream-and-burgundy-striped paper covered the walls, the desk chair had a thin cushion in maroon, and the chenille bedspread was dark red. The room was clean, if uninspiring.

Since most of the day had been spent waiting at airports, I’d had plenty to eat from food concessions in the terminals, so I wasn’t hungry. After washing up and visiting the facilities down the hall, I tumbled into bed exhausted, only to awaken to an argument in the hall outside my room. It must have been two or three in the morning. The slit of light seeping through the bottom of my door was not enough to read my watch, but the gap was more than sufficient to allow me to hear the voices of a man and a woman, young if I had to guess.

“You promised you’d be there,” the man said.

“I got held up. It’s not like you were waiting around for me.”

“But I was. I told them you’d be there. And everyone kept asking me where you were and I couldn’t answer them.”

“So what? It’s not such a big deal.”

“You were with someone else, weren’t you?”

“I don’t have to account to you for my time.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying that. What am I, just a guy you see when no one else is around? Are we together or not?”

“Look, I don’t care to be on a leash.”

“Leash! How dare you say that? I should have known better. She warned me; she said you were just a user. Leash? I can’t believe you said that.”

“Aw, c’mon. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“You use everyone you meet, you know, and where’s it gotten you? You any closer to the big-time?”

“C’mon, babe, let’s not argue. We can do better than that.”

“I don’t want to argue either, but you left me looking like a fool.”

“You look pretty good to me. Do you still have that half bottle of Jack? We could share a drink. And then . . .”

“It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Just one little nip? We’ll drink to better days.”

The voices softened to a murmur and I heard a door close.

I’d been tempted to get out of bed and open the door to see who they were, but two a.m. was not the time to introduce myself. Morning would come soon enough, and my hope was that Mrs. Granger’s tenants would be as willing to talk to me as they were to carry on a conversation in the hall in the middle of the night.

L
ynee Granger poured coffee into a large brown mug shaped like a Western shirt, complete with pearl buttons down the front, and dropped in three heaping spoons of sugar. I took a sip from my yellow mug and poured in a little extra milk to counter the industrial-strength brew. It wasn’t any worse than the coffee in the Cabot Cove sheriff’s office, but it wasn’t any better either.

I’d waited until ten to knock on her door, but I’d been up since seven, showered and dressed. I was half expecting, half hoping to encounter one of her tenants as I’d padded down the hall to the bathroom, but apparently no one had to get up early to go to work. The third floor was deathly quiet, the only sound the creaking of the worn wooden boards beneath my feet. I had paused at the Tammy Wynette room, pressed my ear to the door, and knocked softly. I’d even tried turning the knob, but the room was locked. I planned to ask Mrs. Granger to let me look around and hoped she wouldn’t be offended by the request.

At eight, I’d let myself out the front door and wandered the neighborhood until coming across an open coffee shop. A pile of newspapers had been left in a recycle bin in the corner. I pulled out as many copies as I could find of the
Nashville Tennessean
and settled in a booth, where a waitress took my order of a bowl of fruit and a narrow wedge of buttermilk chess pie, a tasty but very sweet Southern specialty she’d recommended. An update on Roderick Marker’s murder was on the front page of the previous day’s edition. Seeing Cindy’s name as the suspect in his murder sent a chill up my spine. She was described as an aspiring young songwriter and singer who’d recently come to Nashville from Cabot Cove, Maine. The police refused to comment on the case, according to the reporter, but there was a quote from Cabot Cove’s mayor, Jim Shevlin, who briefly described how CCC had chosen Cindy and provided financial support for her trip to Nashville. A photograph of Marker accompanied the article, and it ended on an inside page with a description of his career. He’d won myriad music awards, was a member of numerous city organizations, and was widely respected in the industry. His personal background included two previous marriages, and a son, Jeremy, from one of them. His widow, wife number three, was Marilyn Marker of Brentwood, Tennessee. A memorial service would take place Friday.

I made my way back to Mrs. Granger’s to wait for our appointment time.

“More coffee?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said.

Standing at the kitchen counter, Mrs. Granger took several gulps from her mug and dropped two slices of bread in the toaster. Catching sight of herself in the reflective side of the appliance, she leaned forward, licked her thumb, and swiped it under each eye to rub away a smudge of mascara that had accumulated there.

“Do you remember the last time you saw Cindy?” I asked.

“Sometime last week. Might’ve been on Wednesday or Thursday.” She settled in a chair opposite me and pulled her pink silk kimono across her knees. “She was rushin’ outta here with a bag of clothes. I figured she was going to the Laundromat—that’s a big social thing with some of ’em—but maybe she had other plans. By the way, I told a few folks last night about you arriving and stayin’ at my place, and somebody said you’re a big-time mystery writer.”

“Yes, I do write mystery novels.”

“Is that why you’re here, to write about Cindy and what she did?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Granger. I came to Nashville because I was instrumental in sending her here.” I explained what the CCC was and how it raised money to support Cindy’s aspirations to become a successful songwriter and performer. “Her mother is in the hospital right now, and Cindy’s alone here in Nashville. I wanted to show her my support.”

“That’s real nice of you,” my landlady for one night said.

“You mentioned that you knew Mr. Marker.”

“’Course I did! We lived ’round the corner from each other for years.”

“Really?”

“Sure thing, sugar. Rod was a good ol’ Southern boy. Smart. We didn’t go to school together. His mama didn’t trust her boy to the local schools. Probably right. There was a lot of gang activity then, but different gangs than they have now. He was a skinny little thing. He could take care of himself though.” She sucked air through her teeth. “Too bad about him,” she said, looking down. Then her eyes opened wide. “You got a mouse in your pocket?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She pointed to my hip. “Your jacket. It’s moving.”

“Oh!” I said, patting my pockets. “You startled me. That’s my cell phone. I put it on vibrate when I don’t want to be interrupted.” I pulled out the phone and glanced at the screen. It was Mort Metzger. “I can return the call later,” I said. “Now, where were we?”

“We were talkin’ about Rod Marker.”

“Right. It’s my understanding from Cindy’s mother that Mr. Marker had taken one of Cindy’s songs and given it to another singer, and that he put this other singer’s name on the song as having written it. Did Cindy ever mention that to you?”

“No, can’t say that she did, but I wouldn’t put much stock in that, Mrs. Fletcher. Young girls always have excuses for why they’re not making it. They all dream of being the next Carrie Underwood or Taylor Swift, dolled up in heavy makeup and expensive dresses, chattin’ up anyone they think can help them along. Most of ’em get disappointed and go home real fast. Good riddance, I say. You gotta make sacrifices for success. If you don’t, you got nothin’ to sing about. Impatient for stardom, all of ’em. Don’t want to work at it like the rest of us.”

“It sounds like you haven’t stopped working at it,” I said, smiling. “Do you still write country songs, and sing?”

“I put pencil to paper every now and then, but the only performing I do’s on the demos. Got a writing partner up north, but don’t tell no one about that. It’s okay ’cause he’s got a Southern soul. We write together whenever he comes into town. We’ve sold one or two, but nothin’ much came from it. Nothin’ big anyways. But I don’t mind. I get by, and I can still go out and party.”

“What about Mr. Marker? Did he have a reputation for ripping off young songwriters?”

Her smile was small but telling. “He probably cut a few corners to get ahead. Rod had a big ego for a small guy,” she said, “but no more so than a few others I know. Most publishers in town are legit. The good ones don’t need to rip anybody off to be successful.”

“You said a detective was coming here today to interview you. That wouldn’t happen to be Detective Biddle, would it?”

“I believe that’s the name he gave. You know him?”

“We’ve spoken on the phone. I’m going to police headquarters today in the hope of seeing Cindy. Did Detective Biddle say what time he’d be here?”

She shook her head, got up, and placed her empty cup in the sink.

“I don’t want to take any more of your time,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see the room Cindy stayed in.”

“Sure. She won’t be needin’ it anymore. Maybe you can figure out what to do with her things. I’ll be wantin’ to rent that room out to somebody else.” She took a key from the board and handed it to me. “You’re on your own, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve got some errands to run. Sure you don’t want to stay more than one night? I could let you have the room for a little longer. Give you a good deal on the rent, better than any hotel.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’ve already made plans. What about the other tenants in the house? Was Cindy friendly with anyone in particular?”

Mrs. Granger stretched her arms up and cocked her head from side to side. “’Scuse me,” she said around a yawn. “There’s four other girls in the house, plus my nephew, Brandon, who’s got a couple of rooms in the back. I guess they were friendly. They’re all in the same boat, career-wise, that is. Probably tradin’ tips, but not enough to give anyone an edge. Got to protect your contacts.” She yawned again, more prolonged this time. “Sorry. We closed the place last night.”

“Tootsies?”

“You know about Tootsies?” she said.

“Not really. You mentioned that you were going to see a former tenant sing there.”

“Did I? I forgot. I’m not a fan of her writing, but she’s a pretty good performer when she covers the big names.”

“Covers?”

“When she sings their songs. Her own stuff is only so-so. In Nashville, it’s the songs that count, the story they tell. We’re a real lyric city.”

My puzzled expression prompted her to explain.

“The lyric’s the thing,” she said. “There’s just so many chords a guitar picker can use, so the song’s got to tell a story, a real story that a listener can grab on to.”

“I think I understand,” I said.

“Good.”

“May I see Cindy’s room?” I asked again.

“Sure,” she replied. “Go on up and look around all you want. I figure you’re trustworthy.”

With that vote of confidence for my character, I headed for the stairs.

T
he third-floor hallway was still deserted when I inserted the key in the lock of Cindy’s room and opened the door. What was I hoping to find by examining this young woman’s few belongings? Could I get a sense of how she’d lived her life the past weeks and what may have led her into the mess she was in? Had her experience with Roderick Marker so dashed her dreams of stardom, had it been so hurtful that it tipped her over the edge?

The Tammy Wynette room was slightly larger than the Patsy Cline but with the same sparse furnishings. Cindy’s neatly made bed, with its blue spread, stood in a corner alcove. A bottle of perfume, a few magazines, and a book on songwriting sat on the combination dresser/nightstand, a match to the one in my room. Her desk and wooden chair—and mine—were identical as well.
Lynee Granger must have gotten a bargain on duplicate furniture.

But unlike my room, Cindy’s had a worn armchair upholstered in a blue plaid. Drawn up to it was a wooden stool that could serve as an ottoman, or extra seating. She also had a closet. The door was missing, but the opening was covered by a curtain that had been fashioned from a sheet. I pulled it aside. Cindy had carefully hung up her clothing, including two pairs of jeans, assorted T-shirts, and a rain slicker. The backpack that had contained the clothes she’d carried to Nashville sat on the floor next to a pair of ballet flats. A guitar case leaned against one wall. I picked it up. Judging from its weight the guitar was still inside.

The shelf above the hangers held a Grand Ole Opry ball cap and a pair of plastic bags. I held one up; it was filled with the usual toiletries, a comb and brush, deodorant, a nail file, shampoo. The other contained quite an assortment of makeup, some of it still in boxes and all purchased recently, if I had to guess.