by Bill Noel
Charles reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Notes I took when talking to her lawyer,” he explained. “Let’s see. Yeah, the Top Tan, no, Top Ten Bar, three blocks off Broadway.” He looked around and pointed to the opposite side of the street from his apartment. “That way. The bartender’s name’s Rod, umm, can’t read my writing on his last name. Doesn’t matter, bartenders don’t need last names.”
“Let’s get a drink.”
The festive sights and sounds on Broadway faded as we walked the three blocks. Lively, music-filled venues gave way to an empty lot, a medical supply house, and a vacant warehouse with a for sale sign in front that looked like it had been there forever. The Top Ten Bar was in a deteriorating brick building with the name Top Ten painted on the brick. It didn’t get its name for being one of Music City’s top ten watering holes.
We stepped in the cave-like dark building and once my eyes adjusted to the near-black environment, I was surprised how large it was. In its previous life, it must've been a storage building or factory. The structure wasn’t wide, but was deep. A rustic bar was along the back wall and we had to walk past fifteen tables before reaching it. I thought Cal’s Bar had seen its better days, but it was ultra-modern by Top Ten standards. This place’s better days hadn’t been in the last twenty years. I was also surprised to see how many customers there were. It was nowhere near the constant flow of visitors to the city, but there must have been fifty people enjoying libations and the rock music blasting from the speakers.
There were nine bar stools in front of the waist-high bar; three were occupied. The bartender had his back to us and was pulling beers out of a large cooler. We sat at the stools farthest from the three men and Charles swiveled back toward the tables we had passed on the way to our seats.
“Why in holy Hell would Heather have been here with Starr? For that matter, why would Starr have been hanging around this dungy place?”
I was wondering the same thing and told him I didn’t know.
The beanpole-thin, six-foot-tall, mid-thirties bartender gave the beers from the cooler to a bored looking, middle-aged woman who appeared to be the sole server. He came over and asked what we needed. Charles said Budweiser and since I didn’t figure there was an extensive wine list, I said white wine. He brought the drinks and said his name was Rod and for us to yell if we needed anything. Charles sat up straight and started to say something. I grabbed his arm and turned to the bartender. “Thanks, we will.”
Rod left to do bartender things, and Charles leaned closer. “Why’d you stop me? I was going to make him say he was lying about Heather.”
I looked at Rod who was at the far end of the bar and turned to Charles. “That’s why I stopped you. We can’t come off strong or he’ll clam up. Give it a few minutes, order a second drink, and we’ll strike up a conversation.”
I sipped my drink and wondered what possible motive Rod could have for lying about Heather. Charles, as impatient as an expecting father in a maternity ward, huffed, took a gulp of beer, and said, “Drink fast.”
I patted him on the shoulder and swiveled the barstool so I could get a better look at the rest of the room. The customers at the tables closest to us were in their thirties or forties. They were casually dressed and several shared something on their tablet computers with their tablemates. A few of them wore headsets attached to laptops. They didn’t look like salespeople but seemed to be working. I squinted to see the rest of the people in the room but it was near impossible. The room was dark and a couple of the overhead lights were burned out making many of the customers silhouettes.
Charles finished guzzling his beer and waved for Rod to bring another. Impatience at its finest. Rod returned with a Bud for Charles and although I hadn’t asked for it, another wine for me. The three men from the other end of the bar left cash on the counter and told Rod they’d see him later. He waved bye, took off his glasses and threw them on the back bar. He wiped his face with the towel he had over his shoulder, and said, “I hate those damned things. Sweat and eyeglasses don’t mix.”
Charles said, “Know what you mean, Rod.”
To my knowledge, Charles had never worn glasses. In addition to impatience, he had an innate ability to mimic those around him, putting them at ease, and getting them to talk about things they wouldn’t think of telling their priest. Heather had once said, “Chuckie would make a chameleon turn whatever color envy is with envy.”
“This is our first time in,” I said to break the ice. “Looks busy.”
“Welcome. Music biz?”
“Tourist visiting my friend.” I tilted my head toward Charles. “Most of your customers in the music industry?”
“Mostly.” Rod wiped his eyes again. “Back of the house guys: production, engineers, songwriters.” He chuckled. “Not quite Blake Shelton’s go-to drinking spot.”
“Why here?” Charles asked.
Rod put his elbows on the bar and lowered his voice. “They can get away from the tourists on Broadway—no offense—and far enough away from Music Row to be able to let their hair down, sip a brew, and get work done while doing it, without the suits looking over their shoulder.”
Charles shook his head. “Was Kevin Starr one of your regulars?”
Rod gazed at the counter, frowned, and looked at Charles. “Tragic about what happened. Was he a friend?”
“Nah. Met him a time or two.”
Rod leaned closer to us. “He was here right before he was killed.”
“Wow,” Charles said. “That had to feel weird.”
“What’s weirder, he was with the gal who killed him.”
Charles hands balled into fists.
“How do you know?” I said before Charles could climb over the bar and grab Rod’s throat.
Someone at a nearby table hollered for more beer. Rod said he’d be back.
“You hear what he said?” Charles said through gritted teeth.
“Yes, but we knew that. Stay calm. Let’s see what else he has to say.”
Charles sighed, relaxed his fingers, and nodded.
Rod returned. “Sorry about that. Waitresses are getting sorrier and sorrier, and that’s if they show up at all. Where was I?”
“You were telling us how you knew the person with Starr killed him,” I said before Charles went off on a tangent.
“The police figured it out. They knew Kevin was in here before he was shot. Suppose I was the last person who saw him alive—other than that gal. The cops came in with a fistful of photos, those publicity shots singers pass out. Some of them looked almost alike, real young, big smiles, long hair. Two were older, not as old as you, but maybe in their forties, maybe fifty.”
Now I was ready to strangle him. “One of them was the person who was with Starr?”
“Yes sir. They were sitting back there, that table on the side of the room.” He pointed to a table at the far corner of the room where three men were focused on a laptop.
“Did you talk to her?” I asked.
“No, it was crowded when they got here and the waitress got herself sick and went home leaving me with a crowd. Most of my customers are regulars and understood so they came up here when they needed drinks so I didn’t have to leave the bar. Kevin got their drinks.”
“You’re certain it was the woman in the photo?”
“Looked like her. Why are you asking so many questions?”
Charles glared at Rod. “I’m—”
“We’re curious,” I interrupted. “It was good talking to you. How much do we owe?”
He told me and I paid and said we’d better be going. Charles gave me one of his patented evil looks and followed me to the exit. Sunlight assaulted my eyes and I had to squint to let them adjust from the darkness.
Charles barked, “Why didn’t you let me make him say it wasn’t Heather?”
“That’s her attorney’s job. You saw how dark it was. When we were sitting at the bar and he pointed to the table where Starr and Hea—where St
arr and whoever he was with were. Could you tell much about the guys in there today?”
“Not really.”
“He said he never went to their table and Starr went to Rod for their drinks, so he never got a close look at the woman.”
Charles looked at me and back toward Top Ten. “He also hates his glasses and probably didn’t have them on.”
“It wouldn’t do any good for us to try to get him to change his story. He has nothing to gain by lying. He saw what he thinks he saw. If Heather’s attorney is half as good as Sean says he is, he’ll tear Rod’s testimony to shreds. If Rod sticks to his story, because Heather was there arguing with Starr, it doesn’t mean she killed him.”
We were back on lower Broadway, surrounded by groups of people walking, and smiling as they listened to sad songs coming from multiple bars.
“Nothing personal,” Charles said. “This ain’t as much fun as it is with Heather. Let’s go home.”
We were headed up the steps to the apartment when Charles stopped. “Chris, I can’t shake it. I’m afraid she’s guilty.”
“I know. We can’t give up. Until I hear her confess, I’m assuming she’s innocent. Let’s say we find out who did kill him?”
17
Charles asked an excellent question before we had settled in the apartment. “How are we going to find the killer?”
Since I had known him, he prided himself on being an amateur detective. He’d considered doing it as a career until he learned he would have to have formal training and spend years apprenticing under a licensed investigator. He said that seemed like overkill and he had received years of “observational training” watching a plethora of TV detective shows and reading novels written by Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Erle Stanley Gardner. His detective career was mainly in his warped brain, although he and I had stumbled upon several untimely deaths and through luck, and being at the right place, or one could argue, wrong place at the right time, had helped the police. He kept forgetting we nearly lost our lives more than once in the process.
Charles had usually been the first person who suggested, or demanded, we get involved in what should have been none of our business. Today, he was reluctant to, or incapable of, pursuing what had occurred. His surprising belief she was guilty clouded his need to prove otherwise. Charles and Heather meant too much to me to let that happen.
When he asked how we could find the murderer, I hesitated, and said, “Motive. We know Heather had a motive. He also agented other people Heather knew. Wouldn’t they have the same reasons?”
“Yes, but they didn’t have the murder weapon in their car.”
I stood at the window and looked down at Charles’s Toyota. “Your door lock’s broken so anyone could have taken it out, shot him, and returned it.”
“I guess,” he said, with little enthusiasm.
“If Cal’s right, Heather and all of Starr’s other clients paid too much for their demos. Let’s find out who the others were. Do you have the name of the studio where she cut the demos?”
Charles went in the bedroom and brought back Heather’s business card folder and began thumbing through it. “Crap.”
“What?”
“The card’s not here."
"Can you find the building?"
"Maybe."
I reached for my Tilley. “What are we waiting for?”
“You mean now?”
“Why not?”
“What if it’s not open?”
“What else do we have to do?”
Charles shrugged, grabbed his hat and cane, and followed me out.
He drove since he thought he knew how to get to the studio. The trip to the Music Row area of Nashville was only a couple of miles from the apartment. Because of a wrong turn and a one-way street going the wrong direction, it took us twenty minutes to find what we were looking for.
The studio was a bungalow style house on Eighteenth Avenue South. If it wasn’t for the tiny DK Studios sign in the front yard, it could have been a well-kept middle-class brick house in most any city. The front yard was manicured and had three large landscape areas with shrubs and annuals which displayed their summer blooms.
We stepped on the wide front porch and I noticed something else that set it apart from most residences. There was a speaker box next to the door and a note under it that said to push the button and do not knock. There was a security camera looking down at us from the ceiling like a raptor eying a squirrel.
Charles saw me reading the sign “Noise from knockin’ can mess with recording in here.”
I looked at him.
He pointed to the door. “That’s what the guy told me.”
He pushed the button and was rewarded by a female voice asking if she could be of assistance. Charles said who he was, looked at the camera, and pointed at me and said I was his friend. He reminded her he had been there with Heather Lee.
The voice said, “One moment please.”
I don’t know the definition of moment, though I knew it should have been fewer than ten minutes, the time it took for the door to open.
We were greeted by a short, to be kind, full-bodied woman with long, stringy, gray hair, around my age. “Sorry for the delay. Got a phone call from one of our famous clients. Sorry, can’t disclose her name. You know how stars are. Think they come first. I’m Dale, by the way.”
I wondered if she said that to everyone who comes to her door so she can convey the feel of success. Regardless, she invited us in and pointed toward what once had been a living room. A residential couch and chairs had been replaced by what looked like used office furniture. Four side chairs bookended two tables holding copies of Rolling Stone, Billboard, and Country Weekly.
“Let me see if my husband’s finished with his session so he can join us.”
She was gone before she gave us a chance to respond. The most recent magazine was a year old and decades newer than anything else in the room. Charles shared that the studio was in the basement and they used the rest of the rooms for their offices and place for artists to rest while waiting to record. I heard several voices coming from the back of the house and a door slam. Dale returned followed by a man about her age. He was a few inches taller than Dale. What little hair he had left looked like it had been waxed with black shoe polish, and his face was pale like he had spent his life in a recording studio or a cave.
He introduced himself as Kelly Windsor, the much worse half of DK Studios. We smiled like we were expected to and Charles reintroduced himself and told them who I was and that I was visiting from South Carolina. We returned to our chairs and Dale and Kelly sat opposite us.
“Heather Lee, Heather Lee,” Kelly said. “Remind me again who she is.”
Charles frowned like he thought, who could possibly not remember Heather Lee? He held his thoughts and told Kelly that Heather recorded a demo there a few months ago. “Kevin Starr set it up. He’s her agent.”
Kelly leaned forward, his face turned red, Dale put her hand on his forearm, glanced at him before turning back to Charles. “Mr. Starr sends numerous singers to cut demos. I do believe I remember, Ms. Lee.” She described her.
Charles nodded.
Dale said, “Starr—”
“Ms. Lee,” Kelly interrupted, “had a rather distinct sound. If I remember correctly, she was here for our standard demo package with an electric guitar, bass, acoustic guitar, and drums. That’s all I recall.”
Dale’s face had returned to an ashen pale. “What about her?”
Perhaps word of Starr’s demise hadn’t reached DK Studios. I turned to the Windsor’s. “Are you aware Kevin Starr was found dead the other morning?”
Dale gasped and put her hand in front of her mouth.
Kelly made a slight nod and said, “Murdered, no doubt.”
“Why?” I asked and noted that I hadn’t said murdered.
Kelly said, “Because it’s long overdue.”
Dale said, “Now dear, that’s terrible. What happened?”<
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“And what’s it got to do with us?” Kelly said. “Why ask about this Lee person?”
Saddened about the death would be the opposite of how I’d describe Kelly’s reaction. “Why do you think it was overdue, Mr. Windsor?”
“Call me Kelly, please.”
“Kelly, what was wrong with Kevin Starr?”
He glanced at his wife and to Charles and me. “Let me make some guesses. Stop me if I’m wrong.”
Charles started to speak I held out my hand and told Kelly to continue. I didn’t want to cloud whatever he had to say with the thought Heather may be involved.
“First, I don’t remember her well. I’ll say Heather Lee wasn’t from around here. I’d guess Starr ‘discovered’ her singing in some out of the way place and told her he’d like to be her agent. She moved to Nashville to follow her dream. Starr told her he needed a demo to get her ‘unique vocal styling’—punctuated with air quotes—in front of the big recording companies. And, oh yeah, the demo would only cost a few thousand bucks.” He paused and stared at Charles. “How am I doing?”
“Not bad,” I said. “I take it Heather wasn’t the first to go down that path.”
“My friends,” Dale said, “it’s a path so worn and bumpy you couldn’t ride a bike down it.” She waved her hand around the room. “As you can see, DK Studios is not one of what would be considered Nashville’s biggest or most-prestigious recording venues. Our bread-and-butter is demo recordings and an occasional limited pressing product. We’ve owned the building for years and keep our expenses down.” She looked at Kelly, smiled, and once again put her hand on his arm. “Kelly gets riled when Kevin Starr’s name comes up. Don’t get us wrong, we’re sorry he’s dead, hmm, for more reasons than one.”
“What are they?” Charles said, asking the kind of question only he can get away with.
Dale shook her head. “We are saddened by the premature death of anyone.”
Kelly’s face turned red, and he blurted, “The bastard owes us seven-thousand dollars.”
“Why?” Charles asked, again skating on thin ice.