by Lisa Wysocky
Buffy and Augie whispered in seats in front of Davis. Martin and the red-headed Bobby Lee arrived a few minutes after I did and sat down next to me. In front of me were two people I did not know, two men in their forties who looked as clean cut as Howdy Doody. The other person I did not know was a blond, heavy-set woman in a gray pantsuit who sat on the right side of the front row. At the last minute Bill Vandiver sailed in. He waved his fingers at the room and sat down near Buffy, who by way of hand motions near her hair, looked like she had quickly pulled Bill into a hair consultation.
Other than the new, whispered talk between Buffy and Bill, no one said a word. There was an expectant hush to the room and my stomach started doing uncomfortable little flip-flops.
At the stroke of eleven, three people carrying thick files walked into the room through a side door that I had not noticed. One was Scott Donelson, Melody’s attorney. The other two were a tall, thin woman with short red hair, and a short, balding man in an expensive suit. I had never seen either before. All sat behind the long desk and opened their files.
“We’ll go ahead and get started,” said the short man. “My name is Frank Barwell and I am the attorney for the estate of Melody Ray Cross. To my left is Scott Donelson, Miss Cross’s entertainment attorney and general counsel. To my right is Cindy Johnson, a California attorney who consults for my office here in Nashville.”
People in the room began to stir, as everyone, myself included, paid close attention to Frank Barwell’s words. Next to me, Martin and Bobby Lee watched the crowd.
“As background, Miss Cross updated her will on September thirty of this year. The year or so previous to that had shown a quite a large spike in her career, and she wanted to be sure her assets were distributed exactly according to her wishes.” The attorney scanned the room and his eyes seemed to make contact with every person in it.
“One of Miss Cross’s wishes was that no one contest her will. She selected her beneficiaries only after long and careful thought, and was quite sure that this is what she wanted to do. If,” he paused, “any beneficiary wishes to contest any part of Miss Cross’s will, then he or she will forfeit their portion of the assets, and those assets will be distributed proportionally to the other beneficiaries.
“In addition, before any beneficiary receives their portion of Miss Cross’s estate, he or she will have to sign an agreement regarding the non-contest clause. Is that clear?”
The stirring turned into full-fledged rustling and I had a sense that some people would not be mighty happy when they walked out of here. Who those people would be, I hadn’t a clue. But I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“Here is the list of disbursements that Miss Cross wished to make,” continued Frank. “First, to the Country Music Hall of Fame, six stage, video, or red-carpet outfits of their choice, along with accessories and two of her stage guitars.”
The woman in the gray suit started writing and I assumed she was with the Hall of Fame, especially as Frank addressed his next words to her. “Please get with my staff to make arrangements to choose the outfits, the sooner the better.”
I saw her nod.
Claudine addressed the lawyer in dismay, “But what if she takes somethin’ I want to remember my little girl by? Raylene was my baby. Her clothes and them guitars ought to belong to me.”
“Hush, Momma,” said Brandyne. “Let’s hear the man out.”
“To Davis Young, Buffy Thorndyke, and Augie Freemont, Miss Cross wanted each of you to have four months of commissions or retainers, with those commissions or retainers being averaged out over the past twelve months. There is also a personal letter from Miss Cross to each of you, and a bequest to Mr. Young giving him all of her musical equipment, including the rest of her guitars. Mr. Young is also to serve as executor and will manage Miss Cross’s song catalog, and future licensing, merchandising, and royalties.”
I glanced to my left. Buffy looked happy, Augie looked disgruntled, and Davis had an impassive look on his poker face.
“Four months!” exclaimed Claudine. “What was my baby thinking? That’s money should have gone to her family.”
“Momma,” warned Brandyne. “Hush up.”
“Mrs. Potts, I suggest that you listen to your daughter.” Cindy Johnson spoke for the first time. “In fact, let’s have no further comment on the disbursements until Mr. Barwell is finished. Thank you.” She went back to reading her file.
Martin shifted beside me and I watched as he pointed his chin at Davis. Bobby Lee nodded.
“To the Fellowship of Christ Church, whose representatives drove in from Arkansas earlier this morning, Miss Cross leaves ten thousand dollars, her car, and a letter from her to the congregation thanking them for encouraging her music dreams when she was young.”
The two men in front of me smiled and nodded at each other. I heard a “humpf,” from the front row, but a look from Cindy Johnson ensured that the outburst occurred only once.
“To William Vandiver,” Frank paused as Bill straightened in attention, “Miss Cross leaves fifty thousand dollars toward the sports car of his dreams, along with a personal letter.”
All eyes were on Bill as he put his face in his hands. Buffy reached over to rub his back.
“To Mary Catherine Enright.” Without thinking I reached out to grab Martin’s hand. He squeezed it tightly. “Miss Cross leaves one hundred thousand dollars, a letter, and all of her journals, songwriting notebooks, and other handwritten materials. She also leaves Miss Enright her computers, iPad, phone, and other electronic equipment.”
“One hundred thou––,” cried Claudine.
“Mrs. Potts!” This was from Scott Donelson, who had yet to say anything.
“But––”
“Shhh.” This was from Brandyne, who I thought was showing remarkable restraint.
The flip-flops in my stomach went into overtime. One hundred thousand dollars! I had to remind myself to breathe. I couldn’t even fathom her other gifts to me.
“To her siblings, Brandyne and Bodine Potts, Miss Cross leaves each of them the sum of fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Fifteen––” An indignant Brandyne started to rise, then sat back down after looking at Cindy Johnson.
“To her mother, Mrs. Claudine Potts, fifteen thousand dollars, and the balance of her clothes and household goods.”
I could see that both Claudine and Brandyne were agitated to the point of explosion. Hopefully Frank was about done. I wasn’t sure how long the two could contain themselves.
“To the Holy Church of the Mighty Happy, and to the Mighty Happy Therapeutic Riding Center, Miss Cross leaves the balance of her finances, which after probate, should amount to about six hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
Brandyne clamped her hand over her mother’s mouth as Ruthie sagged into her brother’s arms.
“In addition, there are royalties, copyrights, and other intellectual properties to consider,” said Frank, eyeing Claudine cautiously. “Any future advances or royalties from record sales or songwriting, or sums from merchandise sales or licensing, or any other such income including the entire rest of her estate, will be divided as follows. Twelve percent each to Davis Young, the Fellowship of Christ Church, William Vandiver, and Mary Catherine Enright. Four percent to Claudine Potts, four percent to Brandyne Potts, and four percent to Bodine Potts, with forty percent to the Holy Church of the Mighty Happy.
“Regarding the notebooks and journals bequeathed to Miss Enright,” Frank continued, “the physical materials belong only to her. But, advances, royalties, and copyrights from unrecorded or unpublished lyrics within the notebooks that later become published or recorded will be split by the group of beneficiaries named earlier. Davis Young is appointed sole administrator.”
Brandyne by this time was holding her mother down in her chair. Guess I now knew who the unhappy people were. The small crowd began to murmur, but Frank quickly took control before he finished.
“Those of you who have received letters from Miss Cros
s, you can pick them up on your way out, but you will have to sign for them first. Miss Cross’s last mention is of her father, Cletus Bodine Billy Joe Potts, and she has specifically excluded him from receiving any portion of her estate.”
It was then that a tornado broke loose in the form of Cletus and Claudine’s daughter, Brandyne.
19
WHEN ALL WAS SORTED OUT, Cindy Johnson had a firm grip on the arm of a wailing Claudine, and Brandyne had been taken into custody for assault. Brandyne had first taken a swing at Scott Donelson and connected solidly with the side of his head. She then lit into Martin when he tried to calm her down.
Cindy handed Claudine off to Frank Barwell with a strong admonition to behave herself, then dusted her hands off on a napkin, picked up her files, and left the room.
“Her house,” I heard Claudine say to Frank. “What about my baby’s house?”
“It was rented, Mrs. Potts,” Frank said. “Your daughter had not yet closed on the home she was purchasing. Miss Cross wanted you to have the fifteen thousand and all of her personal property, after her bequests to others. I suggest you be satisfied with that, as the intent of her will is clear. If you contest her wishes, you will forfeit your daughter’s bequest to you.”
I had to feel the teensiest bit sorry for Claudine. After all, she had every expectation that she or Brandyne would inherit the bulk of Melody’s estate. The news she received had to be a huge disappointment. On the other hand, if Claudine had not abandoned Melody for the party life when Melody was still a child, then Claudine might have had a very different morning.
“But if she had bought her new house, I would’a gotten that, too?” Claudine asked through her tears.
“Not necessarily. That would have been something called real property,” said Frank. “I can’t speculate on what your daughter might or might not have done with it, or about the terms of her purchase.”
Claudine sat, defeated, until the young woman who had checked my ID at the door came to escort her out. Just about everyone else was in the hallway by now and I followed Claudine out the door. We picked up our IDs, cell phones and other electronic devices, and signed for our letters. My hand shook as I reached out to take mine. What had Melody written to me? I’d have to wait to find out, because whatever it was, I wanted to read it in private. While we all waited for an unusually slow elevator I tucked the letter into my purse, then drifted toward Ruthie and Allen. They had been the big winners today, if you could call it that.
“I am stunned, just stunned,” Ruthie said, shaking her head. Her body posture was respectful of those of us who had not just walked off with more than half a million dollars, but standing next to her, I could tell that she was as happy as a pig in sunshine. “Many of our people leave us a little something when they pass on to glory, but nothing like this. You’ve seen our cemetery, Cat. There’s only a few dozen souls there. We haven’t had much experience with large bequests.”
“We will have to pray about how to put Melody’s gift to its highest purpose,” said Allen. “Praise God.”
“Praise Melody,” said Ruthie. “Of course we would so much rather have her bright spirit here with us. There was so much good she could have done.”
Ruthie was beginning to get emotional so I patted her on her shoulder, and moved away. What was I supposed to do? Congratulate her? “Gee, Ruthie, I’m so glad my best friend got whacked so your church could get a pile of cash?” Or maybe I should have commiserated with her. She did seem genuinely rattled about Melody. I am never good with overt displays of emotion and avoid them when I can. Like now.
I found myself next to Bill Vandiver, who was leaning on the wall next to the elevator. “Whenever she came in to get her hair done we’d talk about the sports car I was going to buy someday,” he said, tears glistening in his eyes. “I’ve always wanted a silver 1963 Corvette Sting Ray with a split window, and now that I can afford to indulge myself and get one, I’ll never be able to take her for a ride in it.”
I absolutely understood his feelings. I was a bit overwhelmed myself. One hundred thousand dollars! Not to mention all of the intellectual property stuff, which I didn’t even come close to understanding. I smiled ruefully, though, as I thought of all the electronic devices that Melody had left me. She certainly had a sense of humor, because she knew how technologically challenged I was.
I pictured my friend on her back porch, glass of her signature iced tea in hand, as she decided who would get which of her assets. In my mind’s eye, I could see her writing down names and bequests, then crossing them out and writing in new names and numbers. Certainly, Frank Barwell had been correct when he said Melody had only finalized her will after a lot of careful thought and deliberation. I wasn’t yet sure what I would do with the money, but whatever it was, I’d be sure to do something that Melody would have approved of.
“Cat?” I realized that most of the people had already gone down in the elevator, and just Bill, Martin, and Bobby Lee were still here with me. “I asked if you wanted to go get some tea or something.”
I looked at Bill as if I had never seen him before. My head was clearly someplace else. “Um, sure.” What the heck. I didn’t know Bill well and hopefully he wouldn’t feel the need to comment on my hair, but we had both been good friends of Melody’s. It was fitting that we spend some time together. Melody would have liked that.
“Martin, Bobby Lee?” I asked. “Do you want to come with us? There must be a coffee shop or a deli somewhere close by.”
Martin was rubbing his shoulder where Brandyne had connected. I wondered what her hand looked like. Martin was a beefy guy.
“No thanks, Miz Cat. We’d better get on back,” said Martin. “We’ve both got reports to write and I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Bobby Lee needs to get back out on patrol.”
He gave me a look that I knew meant he’d be by later to fill me in on whatever was running through his head. Martin was a lot like his brother, and by now I could read those Giles boys like a book. The elevator arrived and we all rode down in silence, lost in our own thoughts. At the lobby level I asked at the information desk and was directed to a small café a half block away.
Bill and I walked the short distance and after scanning a menu that was written on the wall behind the counter I ordered hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a huge, luscious brownie. Bill got a bowl of homemade chicken soup, two large slices of lemon cake, and a water. We took our food to a table in the corner, and I snagged napkins and silverware on the way.
My brownie was warm and melt-in-my-mouth delicious and I tried to eat it, rather than inhale it. While I was busy with my brownie, I studied Bill. Tall, thin, gray haired and goateed, he was fashionably chic in dark dress pants, light dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and unbuttoned suit vest. There was something inexplicably Nashville about him.
“That,” he said after eating his first slice of cake, “was quite the little scene in the lawyer’s office. Can you believe her family? I mean, Melody told me about them and why she stayed away, but I really wasn’t prepared for that.”
“It was interesting,” I agreed.
“So here’s what I think,” he said starting in on the other slice of cake. He noticed me staring at his untouched soup. “It’s hot. I’m waiting for it to cool off.”
Of course. Even if that wasn’t the case, I’d go for the cake first, too.
“I think,” he continued, “that Brandyne killed her sister.”
My thought processes about who had killed Melody were still so muddled that I stopped eating my brownie to listen.
“Cat, here’s what I saw at the lawyer’s office. Brandyne and her mother were fully expecting to inherit most of Melody’s money. Fully expecting to. There was no love lost between them and Melody. They didn’t care about her, and that Brandyne is a schemer. She saw the money, and she also saw the fame attached to being the sister of the tragically killed Melody Cross. Remember Nicole Brown Simpson’s sister, Denise? She was all over the
news for years after Nicole was killed. Years. I think Brandyne wanted that kind of fame, and her sister’s money, for herself.”
I went back to my brownie while I thought.
“You could be right,” I admitted. “But what about Davis Young? I was sitting next to the detectives from Cheatham County and I think they are interested in him.”
“Davis?” Bill asked. “Maybe, but Melody’s career was brand new. He could have managed her into being the next Taylor Swift. Melody had that kind of talent and appeal. Davis could have made a lot more money with Melody over the years than he got today.”
“But what if he needed the money now?” I asked. “As her manager, would he have had any knowledge that he was a beneficiary in her will?”
“Possibly. I will say this. Melody trusted Davis, and as you know, she didn’t trust many people. If Davis killed her, that would be a big abuse of trust.”
“I can’t imagine it being anyone,” I said. Suddenly I had a huge flash of anger toward whoever had killed Melody, and my entire body filled with tension. Annie told me that grief comes in stages and that anger was one of them. Guess I had reached that point. Sometimes when I was mad I said things I didn’t mean and I didn’t want to do that here. I took a deep breath and measured my words.
“I feel like I have been robbed of a life-long friendship.” I took another deep breath. “And Melody was robbed too, of a long and full life. And you, Bill, whoever killed Melody robbed you, too. You’d been friends for a long time. I swear that one day I will punch her killer in the face and spit in his eye.
I realized I was too worked up. My upper body had been swaying back and forth in my chair, and my arms had been flying all over the place. I was even in danger of knocking over my hot chocolate. Couldn’t have that. I took another breath.
“Sorry,” I said. “Probably, I wouldn’t spit.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Bill said. “All the people who loved her feel just like you do. Besides, I see you have a little fire in you. Melody needed that in a friend.”