Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain

by She Wrote 33 - Nashville Noir (v5) Murder

  “Did you come to get her things?” she asked, crossing to the board on the wall that held keys to all the rooms. She lifted the one from the hook labeled “Tammy Wynette” and handed it to me.

  “Yes,” I said, “whatever’s left there.”

  “How’s she doin’?”

  “Considering all she’s been through, not too bad.”

  “Had some guy from the Tennessean stop by yesterday, askin’ me all sorts a questions about her. Told me she got out of jail. That was a pretty piece of work you and the lawyer pulled off. Read about it in the paper this morning.”

  “The judge is letting her stay with me at the hotel, pending the grand jury proceedings. Once that’s over, the court will reconsider whether she can remain out of jail. But she’s not allowed to leave the hotel other than for special circumstances. Since we don’t know where she’ll end up, I thought it best to collect her belongings. We discussed it and agreed that we didn’t want to delay you in case you found another tenant for her room.”

  “Appreciate that. Not that I have anyone in mind right now,” she said, tucking a wayward strand of hair under her scarf, “but this old house is my income as well as my home. I like to keep it filled up.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Are the police sure she’s the actual killer? She’s such a skinny thing, you wouldn’t think she’d have the strength to lift that big award, much less bash someone’s head in with it.”

  I winced at the image. “They’re going forward with the case,” I said, “so I have to assume they believe she’s guilty. But I’m hoping to prove them wrong.” I put my hand on the doorknob. “I won’t keep you any longer. Would you like me just to put the key back on the board when I’m finished?”

  “That’ll be fine. You say hi to her for me, now.”

  “I’ll do just that.”

  I climbed the stairs to the third floor, pausing at the first landing to peer down the hall on the chance Alicia was about. She wasn’t, and I continued up. I wasn’t exactly eager to see her, but I thought if we happened to meet, I’d ask her whether she knew any of Cyndi’s friends, including Wally Brolin.

  I reached the third floor, unlocked Cyndi’s room, and began to gather whatever the police had left behind. Her computer and guitar were gone, of course, as was her backpack, but her clothing was still hanging in the closet and folded in the dresser drawers. I opened a plastic laundry bag I’d taken from the hotel and placed her clothing in it along with toiletries. After a struggle to open them, I emptied the dresser drawers and noticed that the roll of crackers and boxes of tea were gone.

  The police had taken Cyndi’s small storage device from the desk—I believe it’s called a flash drive—as well as her song notebook, but had left the two unused spiral-bound books. I took those, the picture from home, and Emily’s letter.

  The packing didn’t take me more than ten minutes. I looked around the empty room to see if I’d missed anything. Something was nagging at me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I rechecked the desk, pulling out the drawers to see if any papers had fallen behind them, and did the same with the dresser. I got down on my knees and peered under the bed. Not even a dust bunny.

  I hoisted the full laundry bag, took another fast look around Cyndi’s space, and retreated to the hall to lock the door.

  “Hi! Are you related to Cyndi?” said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see a pale young woman holding a canvas laundry bag. Several inches shorter than I, she had straight black hair reaching to her shoulders, black bangs on her forehead, and eyes outlined in black pencil, making her appear not unlike the depictions of ancient Egyptians I’ve seen in museums. From Alicia’s description, I assumed this was Heather Blackwood, the “Goth country singer.”

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m an old family friend of Cyndi and her mother. Do you live here, too?”

  She introduced herself and confirmed my guess as to her identity.

  “I stopped by to pick up Cyndi’s things for her,” I said.

  “Oh, is she moving out?”

  I hesitated. “Yes, at least for now,” I said. “You didn’t know?”

  “Nobody tells me anything. I just got back from Jacksonville, visiting the folks, so I haven’t seen anyone yet.”

  “How long were you in Florida?” I asked.

  “Just a week. Enough time to remind me why I left home.” She tilted her head and gave me a wry smile. “I’m on my way to the Laundromat. Do you want me to throw in some of Cyndi’s stuff with mine? I don’t mind.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” I said. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Where is she, by the way?”

  “She’s staying at my hotel with me while I’m in town,” I said, wanting to avoid a long conversation.

  “Wow! Lucky her. It’s nice to get time in more posh surroundings, huh?”

  “Not precisely, but it’s a long story, and I’m afraid I have to get back.” I lifted the bag and headed for the stairs.

  “Sure. Didn’t mean to keep you.”

  “You haven’t,” I said, feeling regretful that I was brushing her off. I turned at the last minute. “I’m sorry to be in such a rush. Alicia will fill you in, I’m sure,” I said. “Ask her.”

  Heather gave a half laugh, half snort. “She who leaves no truth unmauled? You can never get anything reliable from her, but okay, I’ll ask Alicia. Say hi to Cyndi for me.”

  As I walked down the stairs, it occurred to me that if she’d been absent from the rooming house for the past week, she couldn’t have been the one I’d heard in the hall in the middle of the night, despite Alicia’s claim. Who was it, then? I’d thought it had been Alicia. Now I was convinced of it.

  When I reached the downstairs hall, Lynee Granger was coming out of her apartment. She’d changed into a blue denim skirt with a wide flare, a multicolored patchwork shirt, and cowboy boots.

  “On your way out?” I asked.

  “My cowriter is in from Rhode Island. We’ve booked a writing room at the Music Mill. He’s got some song ideas, bless his Yankee heart.”

  “I hope you end up with a gold record,” I said. “Do you happen to know a musician named Wally Brolin?”

  Her laugh was gentle. “Sure I know Wally,” she said. “Wally the bear. He’s a good man and a damn good guitar picker. Got a temper, too, that sometimes keeps him from gettin’ the gigs he deserves. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just that he and Cyndi were friends.”

  A sly smile crossed Granger’s face. “Ol’ Wally may not look like some leading man movie star, but the girls sure go for him. I suppose they like that macho spirit; he don’t take no guff from nobody. Hard to find a man like that these days.”

  “Interesting. He didn’t strike me that way,” I said. “He seemed very laid-back.”

  “Maybe he’s a whatchamacallit, a multiple-personality,” she said. “Anyway, glad to have met a famous writer like you. You tell your friend to keep her chin up and hope things work out. And if she wants to move back, just give me a ring.”

  She called a taxi for me, and I directed the driver to stop at the hotel, where I gave a bellman the bag of Cyndi’s clothes to deliver to the suite. Then we continued on to Music Row to the offices of Marker & Whitson Music Publishers.

  Since my last visit to the scene of the murder, something had been circulating around in my brain that I couldn’t pin down. But it came to me as I was packing up Cyndi’s things. Marker’s office had two doors, which as Buddy had told me was to allow him to come and go unnoticed. Buddy had also subtly indicated with a wink and a nod that the second door was used on those occasions when Marker was entertaining a female other than his wife, and Brolin, too, knew about this aspect of Marker’s personal life. Not that I cared whether he was a man who arranged for trysts in his office. But that second door was likely the one through which his killer had fled. Cyndi had said she’d heard Marker arguing with someone on the phone, but perhaps he’d been talkin
g to that someone in person. Of course, conjuring this scenario didn’t help identify who’d been in the office while Cyndi waited outside in the reception area, but it was a place to start.

  I was taking a chance that the office would be open, since the service for Marker had been only that morning. But sure enough, when I stepped out of the elevator, ahead of me was a woman seated behind a desk in the reception area of Marker & Whitson. She was in her midfifties with short wispy hair, a sallow complexion, and thin lips set in a hard line. Narrow reading glasses were balanced on the tip of her pug nose. I wasn’t certain if this was Marker’s secretary, Edwina Anderson, whom Buddy had referred to as “a battle-ax,” but I could see how a man his age might describe this woman that way. Marker had wanted someone more attractive in her position, and while I objected to the idea of discarding an efficient and loyal worker because time, and perhaps genetics, had not been kind to her, this lady certainly made no effort to be welcoming. A smile would have gone a long way to overcoming her deficiencies.

  “May I help you?” she said, barely looking up from some papers on her desk.

  “Yes, I hope you will. My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

  A ray of recognition crossed her face. “Oh, yes, the writer. I read about you in the paper this morning.” She removed her glasses and folded her hands on the desk.

  “And you’re Edwina Anderson, I presume.”

  She didn’t reply, simply stared at me.

  “Well, I’m—as you probably learned by reading the article, I’m working with the defense team for Ms. Gabriel.”

  “Yes, I did read that. Frankly, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m not of a mind to cooperate with anyone looking to get that young woman off the hook.”

  “Even if she’s innocent?”

  “But she’s not. I’ve read the accounts of Mr. Marker’s death. She’s obviously as guilty as sin, if you’ll pardon my use of a cliché.”

  “Pardon granted,” I said, “but I strongly believe that Cyndi has been wrongly accused.”

  “Just because you believe it doesn’t make it so,” she sniffed.

  “That’s true,” I said, “but it would be a travesty of justice if a thorough investigation were not conducted, taking into account a history of the victim and all the people he knew who may have had issues with him. Everything is not always as clear-cut as it appears initially.”

  “Are you questioning the authorities? Nashville has an excellent police department.”

  “I absolutely agree,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean they can’t use a little extra help from time to time. I’m simply hoping to point out possibilities they may not have considered.”

  “Well, what do you want from me?”

  “I understand on the night Mr. Marker was attacked, you saw Cyndi coming into the building when you were leaving for the day.”

  “That’s what I told the police.”

  “So I heard. Had Cyndi made her appointment to see Mr. Marker through you?”

  “She did not have an appointment.”

  “Was anyone with Mr. Marker when you left the office?”

  “No.”

  “At least not that you knew about,” I said. “But Mr. Marker didn’t always tell you about everyone he saw in his office, did he?”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information,” she said.

  “I stopped in the other day and had a brief conversation with Mr. Whitson, and with Buddy.”

  She rolled her eyes at the mention of Buddy. “Really?” she said in a stern, haughty voice. “I don’t have time to deal in innuendo and rumor. Is there something specific you want?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. I wanted to take another look at Mr. Marker’s office.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’d like to examine the other door in the office and where it leads.”

  “And if I say ‘no’?” she said with a smirk.

  I decided I could be just as obstinate. I straightened up and said in my best schoolteacher voice, “You should know I’m not only working with Ms. Gabriel’s defense attorney, I’m discussing the case with the lead detective, Detective Biddle. You’ll only delay me for a short time. I’m sure I can arrange for a warrant to allow me to take another look at the crime scene.”

  I had no idea whether I could do as threatened, but it seemed an officious thing to say. It obviously had some effect, because her expression changed from abject defiance to something closer to reflection.

  “But Mr. Whitson isn’t in right now,” she said, a blatant attempt to shift the direction of the conversation.

  “That’s perfect,” I said. “I won’t take up a lot of your time. I need to spend only a few minutes in his office. There’s an emergency exit outside that door, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Where does it lead?”

  “To the parking lot in the back.”

  “And do people use that entrance to come into the building from the parking lot?”

  “No. The door is locked. Everyone comes in the front entrance.”

  “If the door is locked, then that implies a key. Can people with a key use that door?”

  Her sigh was dismissive. “I suppose so,” she said, “if they have one.”

  “Do you have one?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t use it. I come in and out the front entrance like everyone else.”

  “But if you have the key, I assume that others may also have a key. Perhaps Mr. Marker gave a key to someone who could then have access to his second door from the parking lot.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Just an assumption,” I said pleasantly. “Now, may I see the office again?”

  Another sigh, more prolonged this time. “Mr. Whitson won’t be pleased.”

  I said conspiratorially, “He never even has to know.”

  She got up from her chair with exaggerated effort and came around the desk. She was a tall, solidly built woman whose floral dress reached to her calves and came high up around her neck. She led the way into Marker’s office, which now belonged to his business partner, Lewis Whitson. Was gaining a larger, more elaborately furnished office—and one with a second door—motive enough to kill? The question crossed my mind. Marker’s partner had not wasted any time taking over the larger office, and I wondered if there were others who would have a claim on the partnership, if Whitson was marking his territory, so to speak. Then too, Whitson may have had a lot more to gain by Marker’s death than simply a more impressive office. Or could Edwina Anderson have secured her position by ridding herself of a boss who clearly wanted to fire her? I’d slipped into my “what if ?” frame of mind, which opened the door to any and all possibilities without self-censoring.

  The office looked markedly different than the last time I’d seen it, which was only two days ago. The rose-colored plush carpet was new. Marker’s desk was gone, replaced by a large glass one. Whitson’s high-back chair was red, as opposed to the black tufted seat I’d seen in the office before. An overstuffed green leather couch substituted for the long gray sofa, and where the glass coffee table had stood, there was now a series of three small tables—not one of them strong enough to support an exuberant dancer when the latest M&W talent topped the charts. I glanced at the walls. Many of the same photographs of their more famous clients were still there, augmented by a grouping of color shots that appeared to be family photos. Marilyn Marker wasn’t in those pictures; they must have been Whitson’s family.

  “I see that you’ve changed the decor,” I said.

  “Mr. Whitson wanted the office to reflect himself.”

  “And not reminders of his partner’s demise,” I added.

  “Satisfied?” she asked.

  “Almost,” I said, going to the second door and opening it. It was unlocked. I stepped into the hallway and looked at the fire door.

  “And these stairs lead to the parking lot,” I said to myself.

  “I al
ready told you that,” she said, making a point of looking at her watch.

  Back inside, I stood in the center of the room and tried to envision the murder scene. I saw someone—I wasn’t sure whether it was a man or woman—arguing with Marker over something. A business deal gone sour? Money promised and unpaid. A vow broken? A jealous competitor. A betrayal of a lover—or a wife? All possible motivations were on the table at this point.

  I turned and looked at the first door to the office, the one through which we’d just passed. I could see Cyndi, frustrated and impatient, waiting in the reception area to see the man she felt had taken away her best chance for stardom, hoping to change his mind. She comes through that door and looks for him, doesn’t see anyone. She spots the music award on the floor, picks it up to place it on the corner of his desk, puts it there, realizes there’s blood on it, wipes her hand on her jeans, and sees him lying facedown on the floor behind the desk, not moving.

  She panics, turns, and runs from the office into the arms of the building’s security guard, who pushes her down into a chair in the reception area. While he goes into the office to see what has happened, she panics even more and races down the main stairs, out into the street, and tries to think of a safe haven where she can stay until she decides what to do next.

  I wiped that vision from my mind and looked at the second door again. Cyndi had heard Marker arguing with someone while she waited to see him. No, that wasn’t entirely accurate. She thought he was on the phone, which meant she hadn’t heard a second voice. Was he on the phone? Possibly not. Maybe he was talking in person with the man or woman who would murder him. I made a mental note to encourage Cyndi to try and remember whether she ever heard a second voice through the closed office door.

  “You’ve had enough time to do whatever it is you’re doing,” Ms. Anderson, better known as Eddy, said sharply.

  “Yes, and thank you for your courtesy,” I said. “I think I’ll leave by the fire door, if that’s all right with you. Is it alarmed?”

  “Should be. I’ve told Buddy it should be, but he functions in his own little world. They all do.”