Cover Your Eyes

by Mary Burton

  He’d worked this area several times when he’d been undercover. In those days his hair had been long, his beard thick, his T-shirt and jeans dirty, and his leather jacket beat up.

  At Rudy’s he looked through a large glass window past the CLOSED sign toward the bar where he saw an older man polishing glasses. Standing over six feet, the man sported a gray beard that reached a barreled chest and salt-and-pepper hair slicked back into a ponytail. Rudy Creed.

  Forty years owning a honky-tonk, Rudy had seen the area go from near slums filled with drug dealers and drunks to a bustling tourism center that brought a lot of money into the city. Rudy’s was a legend in this town, known among the elite of country music for putting the best on fortune’s road to fame.

  Deke rapped on the window with his knuckle and held up his badge.

  The old man raised his head, gray eyes narrowing. Slowly he set the glass down and moved from behind the bar. Rudy wore a blue western style shirt, and jeans and red cowboy boots.

  He moved with the unhurried gait of a man who’d seen more than his share of cops. This wasn’t the first time the police had visited his place and likely not the last. He unlatched the dead bolt and pushed open the door. He smelled faintly of soap and whiskey.

  The morning light cast a harsh glare on the bar’s scarred tables and scuffed floors. Pictures of singers covered every square inch of the wall. He recognized some images. Small cocktail tables clustered in front of the stage.

  A chandelier hung from the center of the room, its crystal teardrops catching the morning light. An anomaly in the rough country interior, the fixture had been a gift from a country music star who’d promised Rudy a chandelier if she’d made it big.

  “Mind if I come in? Got questions for you about one of your singers.”

  A frown deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth as if he’d bitten into a bitter apple. “Who did what to whom?”

  Deke held up the victim’s motor vehicle picture. “Dixie Simmons. What can you tell me about her?”

  He shoved out a sigh, closed and locked the front door. “She sang last night until about two. She’s good. Got a Patsy Cline sound that the folks like. She get herself into trouble?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  The question sparked amusement in his gray eyes. “Officer, you would not be here if there wasn’t trouble.”

  “Dixie Simmons was murdered last night shortly after she left here.”

  Tension darkened his expression as he rubbed the back of his neck with a large calloused hand. “What happened?”

  “We’re still trying to figure it all out.”

  Rudy moved to the bar and reached for a bottle filled with a honey-gold liquid. He poured a glass, offered it to Deke and when he declined drank it in one shot. He winced slightly as it burned his throat. “Any ideas who did it?”

  “No, sir. That’s why I’m here. When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Last night. Two thirty a.m. I always open and close the place. Fact I walked her out and locked the door behind her. There was another bartender, Jim, but he left an hour earlier. Jim’s been with me a couple of years. I closed the joint right after she left.”

  “She have any issues with anyone last night?”

  “No. I mean she had some of the boys riled up with her dancing and flirting on stage, but that’s Dixie. Knows how to work a crowd.”

  “No one in the crowd gave you cause to worry?”

  “Not last night. A lot of out-of-towners.”

  “I found a napkin in her purse and there’s a number scrawled on it.”

  “You call it?”

  “A couple of times on the drive over. No answer.”

  “Not the first wrong number given out here.” He studied the bottom of his empty glass before carefully setting it on the bar. “Dixie wasn’t the brightest girl in the world but she could sing and she was willing to work hard. And the crowds loved her. Don’t see talent and drive in one package too often. But she had a weakness for men.”

  “What can you tell me about Dixie’s personal life?”

  “As long as my singers show up on time, give me their best and leave their issues at home, I don’t ask questions.”

  “I’m willing to bet not much gets past you.”

  A half smile tipped the edge of Rudy’s lips as if he agreed with Deke’s assessment. “No, not much gets past me. Bad for business to let too much slip.” He stood straighter, recapturing the energy Deke’s news had stolen. “Dixie liked the men. Liked them a lot. Rarely did she go home alone. Last night was one of the rare exceptions.”

  “Why was that?”

  “She said she had a man waiting for her. Said they’d been seeing each other on and off for months and she liked him.”

  “He have a name?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  Deke cocked a brow. “No matter what your rules about not bringing the personal to work, words and conversations get overheard.”

  He peered back into the empty shot glass. “We had two other singers here last night. Chic Jones and Rennie Forest. You can ask those gals about Dixie. If she did any talking they’d have heard it.”

  “Contact numbers would be appreciated.” Rudy reached under the bar and removed a black Rolodex stuffed full with cards. “If she was into this guy, why’d she take the number of another guy?”

  Calloused fingers flipped through worn cards. “Hedging her bets, I reckon. Always good to have options.” He plucked a card from the Rolodex and then fished for the second.

  “Names of recent hookups?”

  “Like I said, I don’t ask a lot of questions as long as it don’t spill into my place. Ask Rennie and Chic.”

  Deke scrawled the two women’s names and their contact information in his notebook. “Dixie have any confrontations that you remember recently?”

  “No. Not a one. I had to give it to Dixie, when it came to work she was all business. She wanted stardom so bad she could taste it. Wanted to be on the top ten charts and land in the country music Hall of Fame. And she’d have done whatever it took.”

  “How’d she get along with the other singers?”

  “From what I saw polite but not overly friendly. By her way of thinking they were her competition and after the recording contract she wanted.”

  “She get a contract?”

  “Not yet. But it would have been a matter of time. Word was getting around about her. That’s why I let her sing last night even though she wasn’t on the lineup.”

  “What happened?”

  “Said she received a text telling her to sing at midnight. She arrived early, dolled up and ready to work. I’ve had other singers pull that trick before but never Dixie. I cut the scheduled singer short and let her sing.”

  “Who lost stage time?”

  “Dude by the name of Harrison Franklin. He wasn’t happy but it’s my way or the highway.”

  Deke asked for and received Harrison’s contact information.

  Rudy carefully replaced the cards on his Rolodex as he shook his head, his frown deepening with each moment. “Dixie was good with the customers. Could whip them up and bring them to their feet or have them crying in their drinks. She soaked up the attention like booze.”

  “She craved attention?”

  “Just about.”

  A bucket rattled in the back of the bar. An older stoop-shouldered woman gripped a mop, a curtain of long gray hair covering her face.

  “Cleaning lady,” Rudy said. “Rattles around here in the daytime.”

  The woman vanished into the back. “Did she know Dixie?”

  “No. She’s day crew. They stop work at four in the afternoon, about the time the night crew comes in.”

  “And you work both shifts.”

  “As long as I’m behind the bar there ain’t no trouble so I’m always behind the bar.”

  “Rough schedule.”

  “I don’t notice anymore. And there’s no better place than here as far as I’m
concerned.” He recapped the whiskey bottle like he must have done a million times. “Another gal who might help too is Tawny Richards. She and Dixie shared an apartment. They lived in east Nashville.”

  He wrote the name. “She a singer too?”

  “Aren’t they all?” He rubbed calloused hands over the scrubby beard on his chin. “Tawny did sing here. She’s not as good as Dixie but she did all right. I used her as a last minute fill-in last August. She’s better than an empty stage.” He flipped through more cards and rattled off names and addresses.

  Deke jotted down the information.

  Rudy put the Rolodex back behind the bar. “You never said how she died.”

  “Beaten to death.” He didn’t mention Dr. Heller’s theory of a tire iron, knowing some details he’d share after he had a killer in custody.

  Rudy blanched. “Dear Lord. No girl deserves that.”

  The show of shock, Deke guessed, was rare for a man like Rudy who no doubt revealed as much as an iceberg’s jagged tip. “Whoever killed her wasn’t looking for money or sex. This was about rage.” Recognizing a weakening in Rudy’s tough exterior he added, “We confirmed her identity by her fingerprints.”

  Rudy unscrewed the whiskey bottle and again refilled his glass. He raised it to his bristled mustache with a trembling hand. “I liked Dixie. Liked her a lot. I should have told her she was dancing with trouble. Should have told her to ease up.”

  “Ease up on?”

  “The men. Sooner or later you’re bound to pick a crazy one.”

  The well-ordered row of booze bottles behind the bar and the freshly wiped countertop said this was a man who paid attention to details regardless of what he said. “How long had she been working here?”

  “About a year. She started waitressing and then asked if she could sing. She surprised me. In a good way. Like I said, she built a following. She was in the nine o’clock hour a couple of Saturdays ago. I don’t give that spot to just anyone.”

  Deke pulled a card from his pocket. “If you think of any helpful information, would you call me?”

  He took the card. “Sure, I’ll call.”

  Deke left the bar but glanced back to see Rudy drink the glass of whiskey. The old man shoved out a breath, as if expelling poison.

  October 22

  Sugar!

  I was surprised to see you waiting in the alley behind Rudy’s tonight. When you stepped out of the shadows you gave me a start. I told you to stay away but I’m glad you don’t listen so well.

  The gift was really not necessary. In fact I can hear my mother’s voice warning me against a man’s unexpected kindness. She’d fear you’d lead me down the road of sin. But I’m not afraid of sin.

  I smile when I look at the little diamonds that curve into a heart pendant and the genuine schoolboy kindness warming your eyes when you gave me the little black box. How can such a beautiful gift, given with such loving kindness, be wicked?

  A.

  Chapter Two

  Thursday, October 13, 6 PM

  You’re poking the bear!

  Rachel Wainwright ignored her brother’s unwelcome voice echoing in her head and resisted the urge to mutter back a rebuttal as she scanned the paltry collection of people gathering for her candlelight vigil at Riverfront Park near the banks of the Cumberland River.

  The idea of a public gathering had come to her in a moment of desperation. To promote the event, she’d called local civic groups, churches, and media. She’d feared she’d have no takers from the media, but a last minute call from Channel Five offered real hope. The reporter had confirmed she and her crew would arrive momentarily to cover the vigil. She’d organized the event with the intent of drawing attention to her newest client who’d been referred to her by the Innocence Project, a nonprofit group dedicated to clearing wrongfully convicted people.

  When she’d first read the summary of the Jeb Jones case, she’d quickly realized he’d been petitioning for the test for a decade. At the time of his arrest and trial, DNA had not been available and he believed DNA would once and for all prove he wasn’t a murderer.

  She wasn’t naïve enough to take her client’s word alone. But there was enough evidence to argue for DNA testing and once she had the DNA results she’d determine if she had a case. She’d sent her petition to the cops over six weeks ago and so far no word. She found out that the case had been assigned to a Deke Morgan and had gotten through to Morgan once. He’d barely said three words as she’d stated her case and demanded a time line for the test results. “When I know, you’ll know,” he had said before hanging up and cutting her off midsentence.

  Subsequent calls to Morgan had landed her in voice mail where she’d left message after message. But no callbacks. When word came from the prison that Jeb’s health had taken a turn for the worse, she’d decided to go public.

  The vigil had looked great on paper but now as she looked out over her paltry collection of followers hovered around a table she’d stocked with donuts and coffee, she had serious doubts. Had any of these people come for justice or was it all about the food? At this point, she hoped the food lasted until the television crews arrived.

  If the media took up her cause, as she hoped, they would videotape the crowd so that the event looked well attended. If they didn’t sympathize with her point of view, they’d angle the cameras so that the group looked even sparser.

  No telling with the media. They could be your best friend or your worst enemy.

  “Are they coming?” Her law partner, Colleen Spencer, arranged white candles in a wicker basket, which she’d soon distribute to the crowd. Colleen was petite standing barely an inch over five feet. Her small stature belied a tenacity that was earning her a reputation as a successful criminal defense attorney. A royal blue Chanel suit amplified long auburn hair that framed an oval face sprinkled with freckles.

  “Yes. Channel Five is sending a reporter and a camera. They should be here in about five minutes.”

  Rachel ran her fingers through her short dark hair. She shrugged tense shoulders under the pinstripe jacket, paired with a white blouse, dark pencil skirt, and heels she’d borrowed from Colleen. Successful lawyers, Colleen had often said, dressed the part, but dressing the part smacked of rules and Rachel hated rules. Rachel had conceded to the attire and to Colleen’s pearls “to soften you up a bit.”

  “The sooner, the better.” Colleen surveyed the collection of people who wouldn’t linger long. “I think we’ve scrounged up every friend and friend of a friend we know. And thank God for the donuts.” Colleen raised her hand to a group of guys she’d met at her local gym. “Here’s hoping the candles catch more attention and more people gather.”

  Rachel skimmed her prepared statement, which she’d restricted to key talking points. No one wanted a long rambling speech. They wanted impassioned words easily caught and carried away. “Maybe one of the tour buses will drop off nearby. I’d take hungry tourists now.”

  Diamond studs winked from Colleen’s ears. “One can hope.”

  “Go ahead and start handing out the candles. The sun will be setting soon and you can light the candles. It will look good for the media as well.”

  “Will do.”

  Rachel’s hands trembled slightly when she shuffled through her papers wondering again if she’d made the right decision. This night had a greater potential for disaster than success.

  Colleen nudged Rachel’s arm with her elbow. “Relax. This is going to go well.”

  Being right didn’t guarantee success. “Let’s hope.”

  “Keep it simple. You are a good speaker, you have passion and your supporters will respond.”

  “My supporters.” A survey of the crowd stoked her worry. “You mean the rag-tag bunch we’ve strong-armed or bribed?”

  Colleen laughed. “That’s right. They will make up for their numbers with passion.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No. But we can pretend.” Colleen moved toward her friend
, a smile on her face.

  Rachel dropped her gaze to her talking points. Stick to the facts. Add emotion. Eye contact.

  The facts were: thirty years ago a young mother, Annie Rivers Dawson, had been brutally murdered. Annie’s younger sister had arrived for a visit and discovered the house covered in blood and Annie’s newborn wailing in her crib. Police had been summoned. No body had been found but police concluded Annie could not have survived such blood loss. The case had gone unsolved for three months.

  The public had been in a panic knowing a young woman and new mother from a good neighborhood had been brutally murdered. The press had put tremendous pressure on the cops. There’d been extensive searches for the body until finally a tip led cops to the remains of a woman wearing Annie’s clothes and jewelry. The outcry for justice grew louder. Even the governor had weighed in on the case.

  Rachel’s client, Jeb Jones, had been a handyman in Nashville at the time of Annie’s death. He’d had an eighth grade education, was considered a good, if not, an inconsistent worker who drank heavily at times, and had been married with a nine-year-old son. He’d never made much money but he got by. And then one night cops, acting on a tip from a paid informant, had searched the trunk of Jeb’s ’71 Cutlass sedan and found a bloody tire iron. Jeb had been arrested. Under interrogation, he’d confessed, though within twenty-four hours he had recanted. The blood testing available at the time, crude by today’s standards, had indicated the two blood samples on the tire iron matched both Annie’s and Jeb’s types.

  Further investigation revealed that Jeb had known the victim. He’d worked in her apartment building and witnesses had later said he had been caught staring at Annie once or twice.

  His trial was set a month after his arrest and it lasted five days. Dozens testified that Jeb had a drinking problem and had cheated on his wife. Though Jeb had never denied he was a bad father and husband, he swore that he’d not killed Annie. He didn’t know how the tire iron ended up in his car.