Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain
Page 22
“She won’t?”
“No. She came to the conclusion—with a little encouragement—that the song was bad luck for her. She gave it back to Cyndi.”
There was some thumping on the sound system and we looked over to see a man with a long gray beard tied like a ponytail waving at the musicians. They sat in a ring of folding chairs at the center of the room, facing each other, a microphone in front of each one. Three songwriters holding guitars were performing this night, and three other musicians—a bass player, a young woman on a fiddle, and a fellow sitting on a cajón, a boxlike drum—were accompanying them. There was only one empty seat in the house, and it was at our table.
“We can’t talk during the music,” Lynee said. “House rules.”
“I’ve had enough talking to last me a long time,” Janet said. “Everyone has been asking me questions ever since I arrived. I’m ready just to listen.”
Just before the house lights dimmed, the last one in our party slipped into his seat. “Sorry,” Brian Krupp said, “got stuck over at Marilyn Marker’s house doing an interview for an upcoming feature.”
“Is she going to take over her husband’s partnership in the firm?” I asked.
“If she can get it,” he replied. “Her stepson is suing her for half of her share of the business. Anyone want to wager on who Whitson would prefer to work with? Never a dull day in Music City, USA.”
A voice came over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat tonight, a young songwriter in Nashville who’s ready to make a new name for herself.” There was a ripple of laughter. “She’d already passed one of our auditions, but was unfortunately delayed. She’s ready now. And we’re delighted to have her here. Please give a warm round of applause for Cindy Blaskowitz.”
I looked at Janet, who couldn’t take her eyes off her eldest daughter. “Blaskowitz?” I whispered.
Janet nodded, tears streaming down her smiling cheeks. “She decided she didn’t want to change her name after all,” she whispered back. “I’m so proud of her.”
“As well you should be.”
Cindy tapped the microphone in front of her and dipped her head. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here,” she said, grinning. “A little later, I’m going to sing a song I wrote that many of you have heard about, but I’d like to open up with something different. This song is not mine, but it was written for and about me by the songwriter David Stewart. It’s a cautionary tale for every young country performer who comes to Music City. I hope you like it. It’s called ‘Nashville Noir.’ ”