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.
Chapter Two
“Good 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.”
“She must have been devastated when she found out.”
“I don’t know what to do. I urged her to come back home, but she refused. She says she has another meeting set up with Mr. Marker.”
“She needs a good lawyer,” I said.
“There’s no way we can afford a lawyer, Jessica. But maybe there’s somewhere I can report this man for what he did. I suggested that to Cindy, but she begged me to not do anything until she’s had a chance to talk with him again. There must be some kind of mistake, Jessica. He’s been in business for a long time. You read some of his letters and e-mails to Cindy, so warm and encouraging. I can’t believe he would do something so mean to a young girl.”
I didn’t debate it with her, although I knew from having been around the entertainment business that there are some people, who despite having impressive credentials and a pleasing manner, are sharks, out solely for themselves and without conscience no matter who they hurt. But I wasn’t about to lump this Roderick Marker into that unsavory group. Maybe Janet was right, that a mistake had been made. It was best to allow Cindy to try and work it out on her own. If she failed, then it might be time for some sort of intervention by others.
“Let’s see what comes from Cindy’s meeting with him,” I counseled. “She has a good head on her shoulders. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding between them of what he would do for her. She will be getting paid for the song—won’t she?”
“Cindy said she thinks she’ll get something for the song, but Mr. Marker won’t be specific.”
“Well,” I said, “let him make his case. Then, if she’s not satisfied with his explanation or with what he’s offering, there’s time to take other action.”
Janet stood and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure you’re right, Jessica. I really appreciate being able to speak with you about this.”
“I’m glad you came,” I said, walking her to the front door. “Call me as soon as you hear from her again.”
“It’s not as unusual as you might think, Jessica. There have been a lot of composers whose songs were published under another name. It’s musical ghostwriting.”
I was having tea at Mara’s Luncheonette with Peter Eder, the conductor of our local orchestra and another member of the CCC committee. I had called him after Janet’s visit. If there was anyone in town who could give me some perspective on Cindy’s situation, it was Peter.
“Of course, it’s happened many times in classical music,” he said, warming to the topic. “Mozart used to write pieces that his wealthy patrons would pass off as their own. It wasn’t enough to be rich. They also wanted to be admired for their culture and talent.”
“Did they pay him?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, if they wanted him to continue to provide works for their masquerade.”
“Well, I don’t think Cindy has been offered any money yet.”
“In years past, putting another name on a song was the only way some black composers could get their works out to the public,” Peter continued. “The early output of jazz great Duke Ellington was published by Irving Mills, who put his name as cowriter on a lot of Ellington’s famous songs—‘Sophisticated Lady’ for example.”
“I didn’t know that. Did Mills really write the songs with Ellington?”
“No, but he shared the proceeds fifty-fifty with the Duke. At the time, the word was put out that he contributed to the lyrics, but a lot of people have disputed that.”
“Did Ellington?”
“Dispute it? I don’t think so. It was to his advantage to have Mills promote his career, which indeed he did. Later, ironically, Ellington put his own name on some Billy Stray-horn songs. The practice was fairly common.”
“Is it acceptable in country music?” I asked, trying to get the subject back to Cindy’s predicament.
Peter shrugged. “There are an awful lot of songwriters working in Nashville trying to sell their work to country artists,” he said. “In country, it has more to do with how the performers present themselves. If a publisher wants his artist to appear to be the complete package—singer, songwriter, guitar player—then yes, I suppose they do put their names on songs that they didn’t really write. There’s a lot of collaboration involved in writing country-and-western songs, at least as I understand it, lyricists teaming up with musicians. But in Cindy’s case, she’s the only writer. I would certainly expect her to get something out of it, credit at least.”
“According to her mother, Cindy is receiving a cowriting credit, but she wasn’t even consulted about it.”
“That’s pretty shoddy,” he said. “But maybe it’s a harsh lesson. Cindy has to learn who she can trust and who she can’t, and how to protect herself and her songs.”
“I’m not ready to throw in the towel so easily. Isn’t there some way we can help, short of getting the law after him?”
“The CCC doesn’t have funds for anything like that, Jessica. Frankly, I’d vote against giving Cindy any more money. It would be taking it away from other deserving youngsters we want to help.”
“I didn’t mean money, Peter. Is there anyone we can call, someone who could advise her on what she should do?”
“You know more people than I do,” he said. “But if you take my advice, I’d let her work it out herself.”
It was good advice, of course, but I didn’t take it at the time. Looking back now, it might have been better if I had.
Chapter Three
“I spoke with a friend of mine in New York who knows about copyright law,” I said. “There are things you can do that don’t require hiring a lawyer and that don’t cost very much, if anything.” I was sitting in Janet Blaskowitz’s house on a sunny afternoon. She had Cindy on the speakerphone.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cindy said, her voice hesitant. “He said this is done all the time and that I should trust him. If it becomes a big song, I can get a publishing contract and sell my other songs for a lot of money.”
“That’s a big ‘if,’ ” I said. “In the meantime, he’s gambling with your song, your creative work.”
“And he didn’t even let you sing your own song,” Janet put in, leaning closer to the telephone she’d placed in the center of the kitchen table.
“Mom! He said having a good song was only the beginning, that to make it a big seller is all in the marketing, the arrangements, and the performance. And name recognition. Sally Prentice, the girl he has singing it, has already had a music video shown on Country Music Television, and—”
Janet interrupted. “I’m sure your voice would sell better than hers, whoever she is.” She looked over at me. “It just burns me up, Jessica.”
“Thanks, Mom. It’s really great that you feel that way, but this singer is becoming a big name and I’m not—at least not yet.”
I leaned toward the phone. “Did Mr. Marker give you anything in writing that spells out what he told you, that you’ll be getting credit as the cowriter, and be paid?” I asked.
“No, but I didn’t ask,” Cindy replied. There was a distinct sigh in her voice.
“Do you think she should go back and make him put it all down in a letter?” Janet asked me, sliding a plate of cookies next to my teacup.
“Mom, I don’t want to do that.”
“Now listen up, young lady. Mrs. Fletcher went to a lot of trouble, and spoke to important people who know more than you do. You hear her out.”
“But, Mom, Mr. Marker is a good contact. A girl who lives here, Alicia, was impressed that I even knew him. I don’t want to make him angry.”
“Let him be angry,” Janet said. “I’m angry, too.”
I put my hand on Janet’s arm and shook my head. It wouldn’t do to have her upset her daughter even more. Then Cindy might not listen to my advice. “Cindy,” I said, “he’s not a good contact if he’s taking advant
age of you. Why don’t you let me tell you what my friend said, and then you can decide what steps you want to take, if any.”
“All right. Sure. Go ahead.”
I remembered what Janet had said, that she could tell how her children were doing by the sound of their voice. I envisioned Cindy with her head down, a picture of resignation as her mother and a meddling neighbor—me—told her what to do. But I wanted her at least to know her options. As a member of the CCC committee, I felt responsible for having sent her to Nashville in the first place. It was supposed to be a time for her to stretch her wings and learn more about the field she had chosen to pursue, and to improve her skills and develop as a performer and creative artist. It was supposed to be a positive experience. I didn’t want it to become a negative one.
While we’d been speaking, Janet’s younger daughters had edged their way though the kitchen door to eavesdrop on the conversation, taking glasses down from the cabinet next to the sink and getting a pitcher of water from the refrigerator. While Cindy had referred to them as the “little ones” on the night of the concert, Liz and Mia were thirteen and ten respectively, one on the brink of young womanhood, the other not far behind. They both had the same auburn-colored hair and freckled noses as their older sister. Only sixteen-year-old Emily, who wasn’t home at the time, had inherited her father’s flaming red curls.
Janet spotted the girls and got up from her seat to shoo them away.
“But, Ma, we were just getting a drink of water,” came the furious whispers.
“You can drink later,” she said as she escorted them from the room.
“Can we have a cookie, too?”
“Later.”
I scanned the notes I’d taken from my conversation with Bart Grossman, an entertainment attorney in New York who’d been recommended to me by my publisher, Vaughan Buckley.
“First,” I said, reading from my notes, “my friend said that a formal copyright is always nice, but that your copyright begins at the time you complete a song.”
“How much does it cost to copyright a song, formally, I mean?” Cindy asked.
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