“I’m Jessica Fletcher.” I said, extending my hand.
She took my hand tentatively. “How do, ma’am. Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“She should,” Lynee put in. “Her face was all over the newspaper this morning.”
I ignored Lynee’s comment. “I’m here in Nashville helping Cyndi Gabriel fight the murder charges against her,” I said. “I know you were close to Mr. Marker. I saw you sing at his memorial service this morning.”
Her face fell. If she’d thought at first I was a member of the press after a story about this rising young star, she now understood that I was something else altogether.
“What do you want from me?”
“Just a few minutes of your time. I have some questions for you and—”
“Excuse me,” she said, and turned to leave.
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your recording, but I would be sincerely appreciative if you’d grant me a moment to talk with you.”
She struck a pose, hand on hip, her pretty red lips curled into what I can only describe as a snarl. “Look,” she said, “I’m not interested in your friend Ms. Gabriel and whether she goes away for life. She deserves it. She killed Rod in cold blood and—”
“You were interested enough in her to steal her song!”
She jerked her head, setting her platinum hair in motion. “How dare you?” she said.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” I said. I was aware that the engineers seated at the console had stopped adjusting their equipment and were taking in our confrontation. “Cyndi wrote ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears.’ You didn’t, yet your name will appear on it as a cowriter. That doesn’t strike me as fair.”
I hadn’t realized that Wally Brolin had entered the room. “Is there a problem, Sally?” he asked.
“You bet there is,” she said. “This—this person is accusing me of stealing a song by . . . by . . . by that girl who killed Rod.”
Brolin faced me. “I don’t know what you’re doin’ here, Mrs. Fletcher, but this is not the time to air your theories on who killed Rod. We’re workin’ here. You want to watch, fine, but don’t go riling up Ms. Prentice, ’cause she had nothing to do with that.”
“Maybe we should have this conversation in less public circumstances,” I said.
I looked at Lynee Granger, who motioned for me to take my seat again.
“Get her out of here,” Sally said, stamping a foot. “I want her to leave.”
When I didn’t budge, they both stormed from the room.
“You always rub people the wrong way like that?” Lynee asked, her eyes merry and her voice hinting that she wasn’t being accusatory or critical.
“I try not to,” I said.
A voice through a speaker in the control room said, “Are we set in there?” I recognized it as belonging to Wally Brolin.
“Anytime you are,” an engineer replied.
I turned my attention to the studio, where Brolin seemed to be in charge of the other musicians. “Can we get Sally to do a scratch track?” he asked.
Sally walked up to a microphone.
“Hey, you okay, doll?” Brolin asked.
“I’m just fine,” she replied in a hard voice that didn’t support what she’d said. “Let’s do it.”
“Take One,” an engineer said, “ ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears.’ ”
Sally talked the lyrics more than sang them, consulting a sheet of paper on a music stand.
It was distressing to hear that song being rehearsed and featuring someone other than Cyndi Gabriel. I thought back to that night in the Cabot Cove High School auditorium when, as Cindy Blaskowitz, she brought down the house with her rendition of it, playing and singing alone onstage, her voice plaintive and sincere, the chords from her guitar rich and raw. Janet Blaskowitz had once told me that Cindy sometimes practiced the guitar for such long stretches that her fingers bled. I’d heard Sally’s playing that morning at the memorial service. She was competent but uninspiring. I hoped that she would give more to the song she was claiming was hers.
A man entered the control room and motioned for Lynee to join him outside. When she returned, she whispered to me, “That’s Hal. He owns the place. He wanted to know what was wrong. I told him there’s nothing wrong, just a slight misunderstanding.”
“I can stay?”
“Long as you don’t get into another fracas with somebody. ’Course, I don’t mind if you do. I’m having me a good time.”
After the first run-through of the song, Brolin made suggestions to the other musicians about changes he wanted made. I kept my eyes on Sally Prentice, who’d taken a stool and looked bored. Brolin gave the downbeat and the musicians played without Sally’s participation. A third take included her. This time she did more singing than talking, and I had to admit that her voice was pleasant with a thick Western twang that added color. But of course I was biased in favor of Cyndi; as far as I was concerned, any singer I heard would pale in comparison.
I sat silently next to Lynee—I didn’t dare open my mouth and risk expulsion again—and took in the remainder of what I assumed was a rehearsal. But when the band called it quits, Lynee informed me that the musicians had recorded what would probably be the final track, and that Sally Prentice would return at another time to add her voice to “Talkin’ Through the Tears.”
“That’s how it’s done?” I said.
“Yes, ma’am. Used to be that the musicians and singer would record at the same time, but all this techie stuff changed that. They overdub the vocals after the music tracks’re finished. Gives the singer a chance to play with the music without holding up a roomful of musicians. They mix it together later for the master.”
The lights came up in the control room as the musicians, followed by Wally Brolin, came in to hear a playback. He watched me from the doorway. I waved. He halfheartedly returned it and lingered there, as though not sure whether to continue into the room, or back out of it.
“Hi again,” I said, getting up and going to him.
“I didn’t know you were goin’ to be here.”
“I came with my friend Lynee.”
“Oh.” He looked past me and returned Lynee’s greeting.
“You’ve recorded Cyndi’s song.”
As I said it, Sally Prentice came up behind. “It’s not her song,” she snapped. “I’m the one who’ll make it a hit, not her. Besides, she’s getting a writing credit. That’s more’n she deserves.”
“I’m not here to cause a problem, Ms. Prentice, but a talented young girl’s life is at stake. All I’m asking is that you spend some time helping me understand what went on after she arrived in Nashville. Is that asking too much?”
She drew a deep, exasperated breath and turned her back to me.
“What about you, Wally?” I said. “I need to know what role having Cyndi’s song given to Ms. Prentice might have played in Roderick Marker’s death.”
“If it played any role at all, it gave her a motive to kill him.”
“I thought you believed in her innocence.”
“You ready for playback, Wally?” asked an engineer.
“Look, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, “I have to listen to what we just laid down. How about we meet up later?”
“Anytime you say.”
“Give me an hour. I’ll come by your hotel.”
“One hour? I’ll be waiting.”
“Pallin’ around with you sure is excitin’, Jessica,” Lynee said, putting the Jeep in gear and roaring away from the studio. “Sure beats my quiet life. Only thing happens to rattle my cage is I get cheated by a tenant. Not much to chew on there.”
“Oh. Who cheated you?”
“Miss Alicia Piedmont. Never did trust that girl. Packed up and left. Owes me a week’s rent, too.”
“Not very considerate of her.”
She sighed. “Jilted my nephew, too. He thinks I don’t know he was stepping out with her. But not a lot gets past me. I
told him early on not to waste his time. She’s just looking for whoever can get her ahead. A manipulator. Just foolin’ herself, that’s all. She wasn’t going nowhere. Back home, they’re all big fish in a small pond—you know what I mean?—the best singer in their school chorus and all that sorta thing. But this is the big time, Jessica. Bein’ the star in your high school musicals doesn’t cut it here.”
Her assessment was hard-nosed and callous, and probably accurate. This was a woman who’d been around and had gone through the hoops. And I admit I wasn’t surprised that Alicia had vacated her room without paying. To be as candid as Lynee, I didn’t particularly like the girl either based upon our brief, disconcerting meeting.
“Don’t let Wally keep you out too late,” Lynee said when we pulled up in front of the hotel.
“I was surprised to see him at the recording session,” I said. “He and Ms. Prentice obviously work well together.”
It was more a snort than a laugh from Lynee. “Wally, he’s like so many dudes in Nashville tryin’ to make it big. Of course, take it from me, it’s easier as a musician than a singer, more opportunities to perform provided you’ve got what it takes. Wally’s a hustler, Jessica. You’ve got to be to survive in Music City.” Another snort preceded “Music City.” “I suppose I shouldn’t be so cynical, huh? Here I am still tryin’ to make it with the songs I write with my partner up there in Rhode Island. I’ve still got the dream, Jessica, still think I’ve got what it takes to turn Nashville on its ear. I suppose I’ll meet my Maker thinkin’ that.”
I reached across and patted her arm. “I don’t doubt that when you meet your Maker, you’ll be carrying a gold record under your arm,” I said. “You’re a good person.”
“Thanks, darlin’. You’re a pretty nice gal yourself.”
I thanked her for bringing me to the recording session, and promised to stay in touch.
Instead of going up to the suite while waiting for Wally, I decided to stretch my legs. It seemed to me that even though I’d been moving from one place to another, I’d been sitting all day. My usual workout routine had been abandoned ever since I got to Nashville, and I was feeling stiff and eager to loosen my muscles. It was a pleasant evening; a short walk would accomplish two things: It would help me stay fit and would give me the chance to clear my brain and let me reflect on my experience at the recording studio that night.
I walked downhill from the hotel, breathing in the night air, reaching my arms overhead and out to the side before letting them swing naturally. I turned the corner, setting my steps in the direction of Broadway. The streetlights provided ample illumination, but the sidewalks were empty of other pedestrians with one exception. I passed one couple, clearly tourists, judging by their apparel; they smiled at me, their eyes raised, and I realized I was still wearing the Stetson Lynee had given me. I put one hand on top of the hat and snugged it down. When in Rome, I said to myself, pleased that I might pass as a native.
My thoughts turned to Wally Brolin. During my first meeting with him, he’d painted himself as sort of an outsider, not as wired into the music scene as he’d like to be. Yet on this evening, it was apparent that he was the leader of the band accompanying Sally Prentice, a far cry from the image of a struggling musician. Too, he’d had full command of the song “Talkin’ Through the Tears,” Cyndi’s song, as though he’d been working on the arrangement for a while. And there was his closeness to Sally that caused me to wonder. I had the feeling that Wally and Sally were intimately familiar with Cyndi’s song, that they’d probably been working on it together prior to the recording session. And he’d referred to Marker by his first name. That seemed to indicate he knew the man better than someone who’d simply “met him a few times,” as he’d told me.
I stopped at a traffic light at the next corner and became aware of an older, faded blue sedan standing several yards behind me in the street. Since there wasn’t another car at the light, it struck me as strange that the car would stop so far back. I entered the crosswalk and heard strains of music in the distance. A crowd was gathering on the next corner. As I approached, I saw that a group of older musicians in tight-fitting gray suits, snakeskin boots, string ties, and white cowboy hats were tuning up for an impromptu concert. There were five of them, two guitars, two bass guitars, and a fiddle. As I approached them, they broke into a song, their voices melding together beautifully and filling the previously silent street. Evidently they had played together for a long time, the band effortlessly featuring first one then another musician until each had had a chance to show off his skills in a solo. A soft round of applause greeted the end of the song. I stopped to listen, joining their temporary audience, until a police cruiser pulled alongside and encouraged the musicians to move along. The musicians and the crowd dissipated and I found myself alone on the street again, with several tall dark buildings ahead of me.
Instead of crossing the street as I’d initially intended, I turned the corner, aiming to circle around the block and head back to the hotel. Wally would be there soon, and I didn’t want him looking for me or going up to the room unannounced and seeing Cyndi without my being there.
There was no traffic, but the car I’d seen earlier made the turn, too, pulled up to the curb, and stopped, leaving the engine running. I looked around. The police car was at least a block ahead of me, and all the people I’d stood with listening to the musicians had drifted off in other directions. Cautiously, I walked past the car, noting that the man behind the wheel also wore a cowboy hat—hardly unusual in Nashville—but I couldn’t make out any other distinguishing features. I continued down the block, but had the uncomfortable feeling that the driver’s eyes were on my back. Increasing my pace, I groped in my shoulder bag for the flashlight I always carry. It was not much of a weapon, but it would do in a pinch.
What were you thinking? I chided myself. You’re all alone in a strange city. It’s after dark and you’re walking along a deserted street. What is this man doing? It feels like he’s following me. Why is he following me?
I reached the corner and turned right, walking uphill as swiftly as I could. This street was much darker than the broader boulevard I had walked down. I debated turning around and retracing my path on the streets with better lighting, but decided against it. I glanced over my shoulder. The sedan had also made the turn and was parked at the base of the hill. The glare of the headlights kept me from seeing the car itself, not that I was familiar enough with brands of automobiles to have been able to identify this particular one, should the need arise.
By now, my breath was coming fast and my heart rate had reached the level of a good cardiac workout. I hurried across the street, still walking uphill as fast as my tired legs could carry me. I gained the next corner and could see the bright lights of the hotel entrance halfway down the block. I took a deep breath and slowed my pace, figuring no one would try to wrestle me into a car in full view of the Renaissance doormen. Well, I’d wanted exercise and I’d gotten it. And I’d exercised my brain as well. Now that I felt secure approaching the hotel, I began to think my reaction to the blue car had been foolish. I’d been concerned for no reason. A man can drive a car without being a threat to a woman. Why would anyone want to kidnap me anyway? Unless it has to do with the murder, or with your notoriety, thanks to the newspaper column.
I removed the cowboy hat and fanned my damp face. Convinced my apprehension had been the product of an overstimulated imagination, I looked back in the direction I’d come from. The sedan was perched at the top of the hill facing me. The lights were off.
I lingered in the hotel lobby until I spotted Brolin pulling up in his pickup truck. I got in and he drove away without saying anything. There was a faint aroma in the cab of the truck that I recognized, that hadn’t been there the first time I’d ridden with him. Since he wore a beard, he was unlikely to use aftershave, and I hadn’t noticed that he was wearing cologne earlier in the evening. I leaned toward him and sniffed the air.
“You got a cold?�
��
“No. Just admiring the scent you’re wearing. What’s the name of it?”
“I don’t wear no perfume,” he answered, eyes straight ahead. “You’re imagining things.”
“Where are we going?”
“A little place I know.”
“A bar?”
“Yes, ma’am, a bar.”
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into a small strip mall and stopped in front of a narrow storefront. A crude sign over the door read DOWN HOME. A couple of men in cowboy clothes, including the requisite Stetson hats, stood with some young women similarly attired, all of them smoking and laughing. Wally got out and brusquely walked into the place, seemingly oblivious that I was with him. I followed.
There was obviously no need to go outside for a cigarette. The air inside was heavy with the blue haze of cigarette and cigar smoke, and I remembered what Wally had told me, that under Tennessee law if an establishment didn’t allow customers in under the age of eighteen they could allow smoking.
An older man with a scraggly red beard and wearing a greasy once-white cowboy hat sat at a microphone playing his guitar and singing in a deep, whiskey-and-nicotine-influenced voice. There were about a dozen customers, none of whom seemed to pay attention to him as they talked in loud voices at the bar and at the few tables that were occupied. We took a vacant table in the far recesses of the long, narrow room. A pretty young brunette wearing short shorts and a tight T-shirt took his order of a beer. I decided to have the same—when in Nashville—and was pleased that the Stetson Lynee had given me helped me to blend in with the other customers.
“Okay,” he said once we’d been served, “what made you decide to make the session tonight?”
“I was interested, that’s all.”
“Interested in what, how a CD is cut, or interested in me?”
I smiled and took a tiny sip of my beer. “I’m interested in everyone and everything that might bear on Cyndi’s predicament, Wally. Right now, I’d like to better understand how Cyndi’s song, ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears,’ got from Roderick Marker to Sally Prentice.”
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