“He gave it to her. Pretty simple. Happens all the time.”
“What happens all the time?”
“People taking other people’s songs. Ever heard of ‘bein’ in the room?’ ”
“No.”
“A performer or a musician happens to be in the room when some songwriter is working out a tune. You hear it, you like it, it sticks in your head, and you end up putting some finishing touches on it, and you get a share of it; it’s yours. You just happened to be in the room.”
I shook my head. “You make it sound so normal and legitimate. It isn’t.”
A twisted smile could be seen behind his beard and mustache. He drank and wiped his beard with the back of his hand.
“Maybe you can educate me about the Nashville music business,” I said. “You seem to have gotten what you claimed you wanted, to play on Sally Prentice’s CD. It looked to me as though you were the leader of the band. How did that come about?”
He sat back and narrowed his eyes, which were surprisingly small for such a large face. “I got the gig because I’m good.”
“Had you been close to Ms. Prentice before? You seem to be, well, how shall I say it?—you and she seem to be very close friends.”
“You know,” he said, coming forward and placing his elbows on the table, “I’m beginning to resent your questions. They sound more like accusations. Okay, I know you mean well where Cyndi’s concerned. I really like her and I hope she comes out of this okay. But I gotta tell you something else. How you want things to be don’t necessarily mean they’ll end up that way. Between you and me, I think that Cyndi did kill Rod because she was angry at him over her song. I hate to say that, but that’s how it looks to me.”
“You don’t sound as though you hate to say it, or hate to think it. That’s quite a switch from when we first talked.”
“I’m just trying to be realistic, that’s all. Maybe you should be, too.”
“Realistic in the sense that I should give up trying to prove Cyndi’s innocence?”
He shrugged, finished his beer, and motioned for another. Mine sat virtually untouched.
“Wally,” I said, “when we first spoke at that Irish pub, you said that another woman had introduced you to Cyndi. At that point, she’d only been in Nashville for a few days and wouldn’t have known many people. Who was it that introduced you to her?”
“I don’t even remember,” he said in such a way that I didn’t believe him.
“I’m guessing that it was a young woman from Lynee Granger’s boardinghouse who made the introduction. You know Alicia Piedmont, of course.”
He feigned puzzlement. “I’ve heard the name.”
“Did you know that she’s moved out of her rooming house?”
“Really? No, I didn’t know that.”
“Skipped out owing a week’s rent to Lynee.”
“No kidding?”
We were interrupted by the old singer, who’d completed his set and staggered to our table. “Hey, Wally, you ol’ coot,” he said with a deep twang. He noisily pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and sat next to me. A pungent smell of alcohol came with every word. “Leave it to you to be with some fine-lookin’ chick,” he said, leaning against me. “This gal is more my style than yours. Whaddya say, darlin’? Wanna do a two-step with me? I’m a purdy good dancer, Wally can tell ya. Bet you are, too.”
“I think it’s time I left,” I said, standing.
“Just when we’re about to get a real nice party goin,’ ” he said.
I looked at Wally, who hadn’t moved.
“Will someone call a taxi for me?” I asked, looking around.
“You don’t have to get a cab,” he said, disgusted. He threw a few bills on the table and stomped outside, leaving the drunken cowboy listing in his chair.
“You get the answers you wanted from me?” he asked as we exchanged the smoky air inside for smoky air outside.
“Frankly, no, but I thank you for your time.”
“Well, I just don’t think you should be snoopin’ around like you do and getting people all riled up.”
We walked to where he’d parked the truck; he held open the passenger door, and I climbed in.
“It’s certainly not my intention to rile anyone up, Wally,” I said, as he started the engine, “but Cyndi’s defense depends on the answers to these questions. You do want to see Cyndi go free, don’t you?”
He seemed stunned by the question. He stuttered a bit before agreeing. “Well, um, o’course. Sure.” He put the truck in gear.
But I wasn’t so sure he was sure. And it gave me something to think about.
We were about halfway to the hotel when I noticed Wally glance in the rearview mirror several times. He pushed his boot down on the accelerator and the truck sped down the empty streets of Nashville.
“What are you doing?” I asked, grabbing the top of my hat as he took a corner on what felt like two wheels.
“We’ve got a tail,” he said. “Anyone threaten you lately?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but I have the hotel screening my calls.” I turned in my seat and tried to see around the gun rack to who might be following us. “Is it a car? What’s it look like?”
“Light blue. An American model, maybe a Ford, ten, twelve years old.”
“Sedan?”
“Yeah. Know it?”
“I think he was following me earlier tonight.”
“Well, he’s back. Let’s see if we can lose ’im,” he said, careening around a corner down a one-way street.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, thinking the person in the car behind us knew very well where I was staying. “Please, Wally. Slow down. Let’s get there in one piece.”
But he wasn’t listening. “This sucker doesn’t have a chance,” he growled. “Hang on, ma’am. Now you’ll see what good Tennessee drivin’ is all about.”
Wally accelerated even faster while I frantically grappled for a nonexistent seat belt. We roared down one street after another; the blue car had no chance to keep up.
“He’s gone, Wally. You can slow down now,” I shouted over the gunned engine.
“Havin’ too much fun,” he yelled as the truck dipped into a pothole in the pavement and I bounced off the seat, the crown of my cowboy hat hitting the roof.
I grabbed a hook on the gun rack with one hand and pulled off my hat with the other, crushing the brim with my fist. “Wally, please stop! This is dangerous.”
The sound of a siren cut through the air, loud enough to override the engine’s growl. I risked a look behind and saw flashing lights. “Wally, it’s the police. You have to stop.”
“I boosted the horsepower on this baby. She can whip those guys any day.”
“I don’t care about that,” I yelled. “What I do care is that I get out of this truck alive.”
“Aw, yer a sissy,” he said, grinning, as the patrol car drew alongside us.
A voice came over the loudspeaker: “Pull over immediately and turn off the engine. Do not exit the truck. Roll down the window. I want to see both hands on the wheel.”
Wally did as instructed and I heaved a sigh of relief, collapsing back in the seat to catch my breath.
“Have yourself a good time there, boy?” the officer said as he approached the open window.
“Just showing this lady what a souped-up Chevy can do,” Wally said, chuckling, his daredevil driving apparently having released a good dose of adrenaline to course through his veins.
The officer peered over at me. “You all right, ma’am?”
“I think so, Officer, but I’d like to get out of the truck.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere with you. C’mon, son, I want to see if you can walk a straight line.”
“Only had one or two beers,” Wally whined as he jumped down from the truck. “I ain’t drunk.”
“That remains to be seen,” the policeman said, holding up a Breathalyzer. “I’m betting you know how this he
re thing works.”
To my amazement, Wally passed the Breathalyzer test, barely, but there was no way I would allow him to drive me back to the hotel. The officer gave me permission to climb out of the truck while he ticketed Wally for several moving violations. “If I see you again,” he said, poking a finger in the younger man’s chest, “I’ll haul you in, test or no test. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Wally said, working to put on a serious face. But he was clearly delighted that he’d not only made it through the alcohol test, he’d terrified an annoying woman who’d been a thorn in his side.
“Seems to me, ma’am, that you could use a lift to wherever you’re going,” the officer said.
“That would be very much appreciated,” I said.
During the ride to the hotel the officer asked what I’d been doing in a truck with a young guy who was close to being arrested on a DUI.
I laughed, more from nerves than in reaction to anything funny. “I suppose I just wanted to see another side of Nashville,” I said.
“Mind a piece of advice?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
“Stick to the side of Nashville where you belong. We’ve got a nice, safe city here, but things do happen.”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks for the ride and the advice.”
Chapter Nineteen
I was surprised to find Jamal Washburn at the suite when I returned. He was dressed casually in tan chino pants, a blue button-down shirt, and a multicolored, patchwork V-neck sweater, and he sat on the couch while Cyndi performed.
“Hi,” he said when I walked in. “I’ve been treated to my own personal concert.”
“Lucky you,” I said, taking off my cowboy hat and fluffing my hair. “Is everything all right on the legal front?”
“Sure,” he said, turning away from Cyndi so she couldn’t see his face. He gave me a small smile, but it was apparent he preferred not to discuss in front of Cyndi whatever it was that had brought him to the hotel so late.
Cyndi put down her guitar and stifled a yawn. “I can’t believe I’d ever say this, but I’m too tired to play anymore. Would you excuse me? I can barely keep my eyes open,” she said sweetly.
“Of course,” I said, looking at my watch. “It’s late. But before you go to bed, I wanted to ask: Do you remember who introduced you to Wally Brolin?”
“I think it was Alicia. Alicia Piedmont, from the rooming house. That’s right. We were at Douglas Corner Café and he walked in with some friends. That’s where I met him. Why did you want to know?”
“No special reason. Just curious. Sleep tight.”
When she was gone from the parlor, I took a seat opposite Washburn. “This is pretty late for a visit,” I said. “You must have something important on your mind.”
“I told Cyndi that you and I needed to discuss her next court date, but that wasn’t true,” he said. “I’m here because I had a strange call this afternoon.”
“Oh? From whom?”
“Marker’s son.”
“Jeremy,” I said.
The attorney’s eyebrows rose. “You know him?”
“I haven’t met him, but he spoke at his father’s memorial service. Why did he call you?”
“He read my name in the paper, in some article that mentioned I was the lawyer defending Cyndi. Said he wanted to talk, that he had important information that might help my client.”
“And did he?”
“Maybe. He came to my office, stayed about a half hour. He’s a strange young guy, very full of himself in a superficial sort of way, but it’s a show. He’s like other kids I’ve met who live off a parent, unsure of themselves and of who they are. Anyway, he told me he suspected that Marker’s wife, Marilyn, his stepmother, killed his father.”
“Ooh,” I muttered. “Does he have any proof of that?”
“Well, he claims that he wasn’t entirely truthful to the police when they questioned him.”
“Detective Biddle said they spoke to Jeremy in the hospital waiting room before Marker passed away. What did he say that wasn’t truthful?”
“Apparently Marilyn claimed she was home at the time of the attack on her husband. That’s what she told the cops when Jeremy was standing right there. He didn’t contradict her. But now he says he was home Friday night around that time, and that Mrs. Marker wasn’t there. He says he knows that because her Jag wasn’t in its usual parking spot in the circular driveway, and that he saw her pull in at around six thirty that evening, later than what she’d led the police to believe.”
I fell silent as I processed what I’d just heard. Finally, I said, “It’s my understanding that Jeremy wasn’t close to his father but didn’t get along with his stepmother at all. Do you think he’s saying this to get even with her, to hurt her? ”
Washburn shrugged and smiled. “I’d like to think he’s telling the truth,” he said. “It’d be good for Cyndi if the police had another suspect to go after. I don’t really know the kid, Jessica, so I can’t say whether he’s being truthful or not. He’s not the sort of guy you automatically believe. Then again, all we need is a reasonable doubt.”
“How will you follow up on it?”
“I’m not sure. I suggested that he go to the police and correct his statement.”
“Will he?”
“He didn’t commit to it. I told him that I’d give him a day to do that before I mentioned it to them myself.”
I was silent again for a moment. “It seems to me, Jamal, that the only motivation he would have to put himself in possible jeopardy for having lied to the police is to hurt Marilyn Marker. Otherwise, why bother? They accepted his original statement.”
“I don’t care if he’s just getting his jollies by accusing his stepmother. If it’s the truth—”
“You’re right,” I said. “He can’t simply be written off. Have you told Cyndi about your conversation with him?”
“No. Didn’t want to get her hopes up. She’s a charming young woman, Jessica, if a bit naive. Also very talented. It would be a terrible waste if she’s convicted.”
“A waste in so many ways.”
“And how’s your investigation coming? I’m sorry I’ve been tied up in litigation. I came to see you earlier but you were out. What’s happening? Do you have anything else I can follow up on?”
“I just came from meeting with Wally Brolin for the second time,” I said. “He’s the musician who sheltered Cyndi when the police were looking for her.”
“Find out anything useful?”
“Maybe.” I gave him a rundown of my talks with Brolin and told him of having attended Sally Prentice’s recording session, and my surprise at seeing Brolin there leading her band. “I have this nagging feeling, Jamal, that he’s involved more than by having provided her with a place to stay. I find it interesting that he refers to Marker by his first name when he’d told me originally that he barely knew him, and had bad things to say about him. Now, he’s ‘Rod.’ ”
Washburn stood, stretched, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “Cyndi’s not the only one who’s sleepy. It’s been a long day. Want me to follow up on Brolin in some way?”
“I can’t think of anything at this moment. But you can do something else for me.”
“Name it.”
“Can you gain access to records of parking tickets issued over, say, the past two weeks?”
“Sure. If the Traffic Violation Bureau won’t cooperate, I can have the records subpoenaed. Why?”
“Marilyn Marker has a reputation for getting parking tickets.”
“She does? How the devil did you find that out?”
“I have my sources,” I said, smiling. “Anyway, I’d like to know if she received any summonses on the day of her husband’s murder.”
He returned my smile. “I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Jamal. Call me when you have the information?”
“Shall do. Get some sleep. You look beat
, too.”
He was right. A wave of fatigue had swept over me while we were talking, and the idea of climbing between the sheets was compelling.
But I didn’t go to bed right after he left. I sat by the window in the parlor and stared down for a long time at this place called “Music City.” Out there were thousands of songwriters, singers, and musicians, some more talented than others, and each clawing for fame and recognition, seeking success and the riches that follow. Chasing that gold ring was certainly exhilarating, but failing to grasp it could be equally depressing. Was it worth it? Who was I to judge? Pursuing a dream, no matter how elusive, was what made life exciting and fulfilling. It didn’t have to be the dream of success in show business, or writing, music, or art. Every dream matters, regardless of the arena in which it flourishes.
I thought of Cyndi sleeping in the next room and of the man she thought to be her friend. The prosecution would argue that she’d wanted so desperately to capture her dream that she’d lost her balance. And Wally, who’d originally given her a place of refuge, had suggested just that. But I didn’t believe it. Even considering for a moment that she might be guilty of killing Roderick Marker was a breach of my belief in her.
But someone murdered Marker.
I went to my room and read through the notes I’d been making ever since I’d arrived in Music City, and added the day’s events to the tally. For the first time, I fell asleep that night feeling that I might finally be making progress in determining who the murderer was.
Chapter Twenty
Although I’d gone to bed feeling somewhat more confident that progress was being made, I awoke groggy and out of sorts. I slipped on the robe provided by the hotel, and slippers I’d brought with me from Cabot Cove, and padded into the parlor. Cyndi was still asleep, which suited me. I wanted some time alone to clear my head and to plan the day.
At my request, a copy of the Tennessean was now left outside the door each morning, and I retrieved it. Before starting to read, I called Room Service and ordered up a basket of breads and muffins, some fruit, juice, and coffee, figuring Cyndi would also be hungry when she woke up. While waiting for our meal to be delivered, I settled in a chair by the window and scanned the front page. There was nothing there about the Marker murder—a blessing—and I went on to page two. Nothing there either. But when my eyes moved to page three, a photo stopped me cold. It showed me getting out of Lynee Granger’s car outside the BIGSound Studio, and the caption below the picture said: “Mystery author Jessica Fletcher traded her typewriter for a Stetson. The Nashville newbie is getting her country on while in town to defend a hometown young’un accused of murder. Next thing we know, she’ll be eating roasted possum with sweet potatoes.” The picture ran above a column by Brian Krupp, who wrote what amounted to a speculative piece about my movements in Nashville, and what they might mean to the Marker murder case.
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