“The accident in the parking lot?”
“My, my, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re in the wrong field. Ever considering writing for a newspaper? What did Buddy tell you?”
“What did he tell you?”
He shook his head. “I heard it years ago. Supposedly, she’s related to Marker in some second- or third-removed sort of relationship. Cousin? Sister-in-law? Not sure. She got into a messy legal jam somewhere out west—California, Oregon, someplace like that. Seems she killed some guy—I think she was charged with manslaughter—but beat the rap. Another guy here in town who was writing for one of the tabloids—the Star, I think—tried to nail it down but hit a brick wall, records sealed—unclear why—and dropped the story. She moved home to Nashville and when Marker and Whitson opened, the family prevailed upon him to give her a job. That’s all I know except that she’s a little weird.”
“Well,” I said, not anxious to add my own evaluation of Edwina Anderson to his tabloid view, “thanks for sharing all this with me.”
“I hope you succeed in coming up with Marker’s killer, Mrs. Fletcher—even if it turns out to be Cyndi Gabriel. It’ll make a great story.”
Chapter Twenty-three
I was tempted to stay at the Bridge, sit by myself in a secluded corner and gather my thoughts over a quiet glass of wine. My adrenaline level had risen after talking with Brian Krupp and Biddle, and I felt a need to slow things down, at least for the moment.
Instead, I boosted my energy level by stopping at a Star-bucks just off the lobby and ordering a “Grande Latte”—I’ll never understand why they don’t just call their drinks small, medium, and large—and carried it up to the suite. As I fumbled for my card to open the door, I heard two voices from inside, one female, one male. The female was obviously Cyndi. Had Washburn decided to return to spend time with her?
I opened the door. Before I took one step into the suite, the source of the male voice was visible. It was Wally Brolin, who sat with Cyndi on the couch. He tensed as I walked in, and stood.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I said.
“Oh, how do, ma’am. Just stopped up to see Cyndi.”
“I thought you understood that it wasn’t a good idea for you to come here.”
“I know, but—”
“I’m happy he came,” Cyndi said. “I can’t go anywhere or see anybody.”
“I understand that, Cyndi,” I said, “but you’re in a very precarious situation.”
Brolin went to where he’d tossed his jacket on a chair, picked it up, and started for the door.
“As long as you’re here,” I said, “I need to speak with you. Please sit down.”
“Were you with that newspaper reporter?” Cyndi asked. “Wally is upset at what he wrote about him in the paper.”
“I just left him,” I replied. “I know he’d like to interview you, Wally.”
“I have no interest in seeing the guy,” was his response.
“I wouldn’t worry so much about him,” I suggested. “However, the police are looking for you, too. They went to your house and—”
“They did? When?”
“Earlier today. A woman there told them that you weren’t home.”
Cyndi shot Brolin a questioning look.
“Must have been a neighbor,” he said weakly. “They borrow stuff sometimes.”
“Maybe it was,” I said. “You know, Wally, when we first met you gave me a primer on how the Nashville music scene works. I appreciated the education, but I obviously have a lot to learn. I still don’t understand how Cyndi’s song ended up being recorded by Sally Prentice, and how she receives credit as a cowriter. You told me that there’s this ‘in the room’ notion, that if someone is present when a song is being composed and makes a suggestion, it’s not unusual for that person to claim a writing credit.”
Brolin nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “I told Cyndi about that when we first met.”
“He did,” Cyndi chimed in, obviously eager to provide positive reinforcement for him.
“Is that how Cyndi’s song, ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears,’ ended up with Ms. Prentice?”
“I—I don’t know exactly. That’s something you would have had to ask Rod.”
“Just how friendly were you with Roderick Marker, Wally?”
His shrug was exaggerated. “Not friendly exactly. I mean, I knew the guy and—”
“I suppose what I’m trying to figure out is why he would do that, take Cyndi’s song and give it to someone else. Cyndi wrote it by herself. Sally Prentice wasn’t even ‘in the room.’ Was he doing a favor for a singer he’d already signed? Everyone says she’s about to become a star. Do you think that was his motivation?”
He nodded three or four times, another exaggerated response. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”
“I imagine that many people would try to get close to an emerging star like Ms. Prentice, impress her, you know, provide her things to help her career.”
Brolin became overtly uneasy, fidgeting in his chair and playing with his fingers.
I continued. “I remember you telling me that you hoped to get a gig with her band. Remember?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And you certainly succeeded. It looked to me as though you ended up leading her band.”
“Yeah, well, I got lucky I guess. I think I’d better go. I’ve got a gig.”
“With Sally Prentice?” I asked.
“What? No. Just some local group. Look, I’m sorry I came here when you said I shouldn’t.” He put on his jacket. “I just wanted to make sure that Cyndi was all right.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” I said, hoping that the edge in my voice wasn’t too apparent. “I’ll walk you down to the lobby.”
“No, that’s okay, I—”
“I need the exercise anyway,” I said.
“Goodbye, Wally,” Cyndi said. “Thanks for being such a good friend.”
“Yeah, well, you take care, Cyndi. I’ll be in touch.”
As we rode down in the elevator, that same perfume that I’d smelled in Wally’s truck permeated the small space. It was on his clothes.
“Is Alicia staying with you, Wally?” I bluntly asked as the doors slid open at the lobby level.
“What? Alicia?”
“Yes, Alicia. I asked if she’s staying with you.”
“No, of course not. You said she’d skipped town.”
“No, Wally. All I said was that she’d left the rooming house. I’m asking because I recognize the perfume that Alicia sprayed herself with in Cyndi’s place at the rooming house, and that was missing when I went back there to collect Cyndi’s things. It’s all over your clothing. Was she wearing your jacket?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Then I take it that the woman the police said was at your house isn’t Alicia.”
Up until that moment, he’d maintained a pleasant facade, nervous to be sure, but pleasant. Now his face turned hard and his lips curled beneath his mustache. He said, “You’re nothing but a busybody and a troublemaker, Mrs. Fletcher. All you want to do is make trouble for everybody. I’ll give you some advice.”
“I’m listening.”
“Pack up and go home. Let Cyndi’s attorney handle things for her. I’m just a guitar picker trying to make a living, and you’re doing everything you can to foul things up for me. You don’t know zilch about how things work here in Nashville, zippo, how tough it is to make your mark and go after the gold. Go back to your pretty little town in—where is it, someplace in Maine?—and write your books. Just leave me alone!”
I watched him storm through the door and out onto the street. It was okay that I’d angered him. I’d intended to. I felt it was time to put pressure on those people who’d been involved with Cyndi and Roderick Marker. When people feel pressure, they tend to do irrational things, and I was hoping that would be the case with Wally Brolin.
“I know he wasn’t supposed to come here,” Cyndi said when I retu
rned, “but it was so sweet of him to do that. Like I told you, he’s really the only friend I have here in Nashville, except you, of course, and Mr. Washburn. But Mr. Washburn’s my attorney, so he’s supposed to be a friend.”
I saw nothing to be gained in challenging her assessment of Brolin. But the truth was that I’d come to the conclusion, albeit reluctantly, that he was involved in the misfortunes that had befallen her since coming to Nashville. But how? What had he done?
I went to my bedroom, put my feet up, and picked up where I’d left off in that day’s newspaper. Again, it was an item on the entertainment page that caught my eye. Sally Prentice was performing that night at a place called the Douglas Corner Café. I seemed to remember Cyndi telling me that it was where she’d been introduced to Wally Brolin shortly after arriving in Nashville.
“Cyndi,” I said, “what was the name of the club where you met Wally?”
“Douglas Corner. Why?”
“I see in the newspaper that Sally Prentice is appearing there tonight.”
A shadow of anger fell across her pretty face.
“I know how you must feel about her,” I said, “but I think I might go.”
“I envy her,” Cyndi said. “Douglas Corner is, like, one of Nashville’s top places to perform. They do songwriter nights when they don’t have a live band. That’s the night I was there, one of the songwriter showcases. It’s sort of like the Bluebird Café. Lots of writers and singers have launched their careers there.”
“Maybe that’s where you’ll launch your career,” I said.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to have a career,” she cried. “I’ll just stay cooped up here in the hotel and probably end up in jail for the rest of my life.” She took a pillow from the couch and buried her face in it.
I sat beside her and put my arm around her shoulder. “I don’t want to hear you talk like that, Cyndi.”
She sniffled, and I pulled her closer. “I know how difficult this is for you,” I said, “but things will work out. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that. You’re innocent. I know that and I intend to prove it. But sometimes these things take time. As hard as it is, you need to be patient, and to trust me.”
“I do,” she said. Her face was red and her eyes were wet. “It’s just—”
“I know.”
I waited for her to stop crying before returning to my bedroom. I’d put on my most positive persona for her, but now that I was alone I allowed my own pessimistic feelings to surface. As confident as I was that I was getting closer to the answer, there was a parallel sense of dread that was never far away. What if I failed? I’d steadfastly refused to ask myself that question out of fear that the answer was too shocking to consider. I knew that if I failed, what Cyndi had just expressed would become reality—no career and a young life wasted behind bars.
I banished those negative thoughts from my consciousness and set about getting ready to attend Sally Prentice’s performance at the Douglas Corner Café. I called and made a reservation. I’d no sooner hung up than my cell phone rang. It was Detective Biddle.
“I thought you were going to enjoy the rest of your day off,” I said.
“The best laid plans and all that. I swung back by headquarters after I left you. The phone records for Wally Brolin came in.”
“Oh? Anything of interest?”
“Probably not. He received a slew of calls that day. We traced the numbers back. Musicians, a couple of nightclubs, the sort of stuff you’d expect.”
“What about closer to the time of Roderick Marker’s murder?”
“Let’s see,” he said, muttering to himself as he consulted the report. “He got a call at five fifty-five that evening from a cell number assigned to someone named A. Piedmont.”
Soon after the estimated time of Marker’s murder, I thought. Interesting.
“He called that number back a couple of times, at six twenty-one and seven forty-two. This other party, Piedmont, called him at nine oh five and nine sixteen. Brolin made two more calls to that number later in the evening.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
“I don’t know what you’re thanking me for, Mrs. Fletcher. I’d be more interested in these calls if they involved Ms. Gabriel.”
“Frankly, I’m glad they didn’t,” I said. “I really appreciate you calling to tell me about this.”
“Hey, listen, I’ve let you get involved to this extent, might as well bring you in all the way. You have yourself a good night. I intend to. There’s a good game on TV tonight and I’ve got myself a new plasma TV. Nothing’ll drag me away from it.”
I jotted down the times the detective had given me and reviewed them. While they didn’t constitute direct evidence, the picture was beginning to form.
Cyndi and I had dinner sent up before I dressed for the evening. Although I seldom wear jeans, I’d brought a pair with me to Nashville, and put them on. I’d also packed a light blue shirt, hardly of the Western variety, but better than the print blouses in my traveling wardrobe. When Cyndi saw what I was doing, she gave me a red bandana to wear with the shirt, and offered her cowboy boots. I tried them on, but they were too small; I didn’t want to be limping around Nashville all evening. My flat black shoes had to suffice. My final preparation included wearing heavier makeup than usual, including bloodred lipstick. To top off my Nashville outfit, I donned the white Stetson Lynee Granger had given me. When I presented myself to Cyndi in the parlor, the sight of me brought forth a rare burst of laughter from her. “You look like you belong in Nashville, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, still giggling.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, “but maybe I look a little less alien. I’ll try not to be late. And, Cyndi, no visitors. Right?”
“Right. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be a good girl.”
The taxi driver dropped me off in front of the redbrick building housing the club. Neon beer signs created the appearance of a neighborhood bar. Across the street was a comedy club called Zanies, according to its sign. I paid the driver, pulled my Stetson down low over my forehead, and entered.
“Hi,” a waitress said. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know I’m early for the show.” I gave her my name.
“Better to be early,” she said. “We’re expecting a crowd. Sally Prentice is developing a big following.”
I chose a small table wedged into a corner near the bar at the rear of the room despite the waitress’s warning that it wasn’t the best vantage point from which to catch the act. As I sat and nursed a ginger ale, other tables began to fill up, as did the bar. I was halfway through my drink when Lewis Whitson entered the club, accompanied by Marilyn Marker. I kept my hat low as they passed and were shown to a prime table directly in front of the bandstand.
Minutes later, the musicians started arriving. As I suspected would be the case, Wally Brolin was among them. He and two other musicians went about their business rearranging the stage, plugging their instruments into amplifiers, and testing microphones. If my confrontation with Brolin earlier in the day had unnerved him, he didn’t show any signs of it. He seemed in good spirits, and exchanged jokes with the musicians, laughing loudly at their offerings.
Finally, almost an hour after I’d arrived, Sally Prentice walked in. She was dressed in a silver jumpsuit, her ample platinum-blond hair piled high on her head. Whitson stood as Sally approached his table and gave her a cursory kiss on the cheek. Marilyn offered her hand, which Sally took but dropped quickly. She left them and climbed up on the stage, where she gave Wally a prolonged hug and kissed the other musicians.
The lights were dimmed, and a young man wearing the requisite jeans and Stetson hat took the microphone.
“Hey, all you music lovers,” he said with a wide smile, his voice reverberating from large speakers, “nice you all decided to stop by because we have got one special, boot-scootin’ treat for you tonight. This little lady—and ain’t she a beauty?—is about to turn the country
music business upside down. I mean really turn it upside down! She’s recording her first CD right here in Music City, USA, and from everything this ol’ boy hears, it’s gonna knock everybody’s socks off—assumin’ you wear ’em. So come on now, let’s give her a real Douglas Corner welcome, Miss Sally Prentice!”
The room erupted in applause and whistles as Sally counted off her first number and the band launched into a spirited intro to her song. I listened intently. Although my exposure to country music was admittedly limited, I thoroughly enjoyed her performance. She was vivacious on stage, appearing to be singing directly to each person in the room. Wally Brolin played a chorus that blended country, rock and roll, and the blues, and Sally jumped in after it and ended the song to an enthusiastic response.
But my enjoyment of her opening number was dashed when she said into the mike, “Ah’d like to do a song for you now that I recently wrote especially for mah new CD. It’s a sad song, but the beautiful words say that somehow things’ll end up just fine. It’s called ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears,’ and I want to thank this here big hunk of a mountain man, mah favorite guitar picker, for encouraging me to put it on mah CD.” She mussed Wally’s hair. “Come on now, take a bow, Wally.”
He remained seated, grinned, and waved his hand to the crowd, which had now filled Douglas Corner to capacity, and beyond. Every seat was taken, and men and women clogged the aisles between them, making service tough for the waitresses. The air was thick with smoke.
I didn’t join in the applause. All I could see while she sang “Talkin’ Through the Tears” was Cyndi standing on the stage back home singing the song for her friends and family. Sally Prentice’s rendition, while professional, seemed to me to miss the heartbreak inherent in the lyrics and melody. Cyndi’s version would have been more low-key: a wistful, vulnerable girl trying to save a love affair by talking it out with her boyfriend despite the tears that kept getting in the way. I was also angry that Prentice had taken sole ownership of the song in front of all those people with not a word of credit to the person who had actually written it, Cyndi Gabriel, aka Cindy Blaskowitz from Cabot Cove, Maine.
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