Nashville Noir (11 page)

“Remember, Cyndi,” Washburn added, “anything you tell me is confidential, and I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher will respect that, too.”

“Of course I will.”

Cyndi slowly shook her head before drawing a deep, pained breath. “Wally,” she said so softly that I barely heard her.

“Who’s Wally?” Washburn asked.

“Wally Brolin.”

“Is he a friend?” I asked.

She started crying again as she said, “The only real friend I have here in Nashville. He’s a musician. He let me stay with him after I went to Marker’s office.”

“And he lives where?” Washburn asked.

Cyndi gave him an address in East Nashville.

Washburn jotted down the information on a legal pad, returned it to his briefcase, and made a show of looking at his watch. “Time to go,” he said, standing.

“Will I see you again?” Cyndi asked as the officer stood and walked toward her holding the handcuffs.

“You bet you will,” Washburn said. “We’re a team now.”

“You, Mrs. Fletcher?” Cyndi asked as she extended her slender wrists to the officer.

“I’ll be here every chance I get,” I assured, “and I’ll be working on your behalf when I’m not here.”

Once back in Washburn’s car, I asked, “I will be allowed to see her again, won’t I?”

He nodded. “As long as we’re together. Sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”

“Frankly,” I said, “I’d prefer it that way.”

“Welcome to the Washburn defense team,” he said lightly.

“Thank you,” I said, “for everything. You know, I think I know the key to defending Cyndi.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

“The key,” I said, “is to discover who really killed Roderick Marker, and to find out fast.”

“W
ould you like me to drop you off at your hotel?” Washburn asked as we headed back to the city.

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “I’m staying at the Renaissance Hotel downtown.”

“I know it well. It’s my mother’s favorite place when she visits from L.A.”

“So you’re not from here. How did you end up practicing law in Nashville?” I asked.

“Well, it’s really just a short story. I came here for Vanderbilt’s law school, ended up clerking with a local judge, liked the city, decided to stay, passed the Tennessee bar, and here I am.”

“A nice concise tale. What appealed to you about Nashville?”

“It’s a little like Los Angeles in a way, in the sense that it’s mostly a one-industry town. That’s not to say that there aren’t lots of other corporations and businesses here, but country music is at the heart of Nashville, and everything revolves around it in the same way Los Angeles is all about the film business. The local media cover the industry. Many of the people here come from somewhere else. Yet everyone I’ve met, from my local dry cleaner, to the lady in the bank, to the guy who picks up the trash is a country-and-western fan, and some are remarkably knowledgeable about country music. The fellow who set up my computer can tell you the difference between the original Jimmie Rodgers and the one who had a TV show, that Loretta Lynn was the first female country singer to have a gold album, and even who Vernon Dalhart was.”

“Who
was
Vernon Dalhart?”

“Vernon Dalhart was one of over one hundred names used by a Texas singer named Marion Try Slaughter, back when country was known as hillbilly music. He’s in the Hall of Fame.”

“Does that mean you’re a lover of country music, too?”

He laughed. “I wasn’t when I first came here, but I’m a convert now.”

He dropped me at the front of the hotel, where a bellman relieved me of my rolling suitcase. “Thanks so much, Mr. Washburn,” I said through the open window of his car.

“It’s Jamal. You up for dinner, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Why yes, I am. And it’s Jessica.”

“I thought we should get to know each other a little better and see how we can work together to help Cyndi.”

“I like that idea.”

“My treat,” he said. “I have a favorite place I think you’ll enjoy.” He consulted his watch. “It’s almost four thirty. Shall I pick you up at six? Will that give you enough time?”

“Make it six thirty,” I said.

“I’ll be back at six thirty.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

My room at the hotel was a far cry from the one I’d slept in at Mrs. Granger’s rooming house. I pulled back the drapes to uncover an expanse of glass and a lovely view of downtown Nashville. I quickly unpacked, put everything away, and checked out the bathroom. It was spacious and nicely appointed; a terry-cloth robe hung on the back of the door. I was tempted to slip out of my clothes and bundle up in the robe, but I had things to do. Before I got to them, however, I called Seth to see how Janet Blaskowitz was faring.

“Doing all right,” Seth said, “but there has been a complication. The cardiologists are working on it now.”

“Seth, is this complication life-threatening?”

“Doesn’t appear to be. Why do you ask?”

“First, because I’m concerned about Janet, and second, because I haven’t been able to convince her daughter to call yet. I think it would be healing for both of them to speak with each other.”

“I take it that means you’ve gotten in touch with Janet’s daughter. How is she?”

“I just left the jail where she’s being held. I’m having dinner tonight with her court-appointed attorney. He’s a nice young man who I believe has Cyndi’s best interests at heart.”

“And how does it look to you?”

“How does
what
look to me?”

“Her predicament. Do you think she’ll be found guilty of murdering that man?”

“I certainly hope not. I don’t think she killed him, but I’ll have a better grip on her chances for acquittal after dinner. Everything all right at home?”

“Fine, just fine, busy as ever. Mayor Shevlin was askin’ after you. He’s concerned about the girl. Told him we’d be speaking soon. Think he wants to talk to you about fund-raising for the legal defense.”

“That’s very generous of him, but I can’t call him right now. Would you mind giving him an update for me, Seth? I’ve got to run out.”

“Will do. Soon’s I get off with you.”

After hanging up, I jotted down notes from my visit with Cyndi, my conversations with Detective Biddle, and everything I could remember of what Cyndi had said. The notes didn’t amount to much. I’d had abbreviated time with her, and she’d basically told me what I’d already learned from Biddle. The only revelation was the name of the person with whom she’d holed up after running from Roderick Marker’s office, a Nashville musician named Wally Brolin, and his address. I’d follow up with him at the first possible opportunity. But what was on my agenda at that moment was to go to the scene of the crime, Roderick Marker’s office.

 

 

The cabdriver dropped me off in front of Marker & Whitson Music Publishers. A large banner fluttered from the top floor of the modern tan stone building, congratulating SALLYPREN-TICE, NASHVILLE’S RISING STAR.

I waited while a flow of people exited the building, and entered when a gentleman held open the large glass door for me. No guard was on duty in the lobby. I could have asked someone for the location of Marker’s office, but the few people crossing the marble floor looked to be in a hurry. A wall directory told me the firm I sought was on the third floor. When the elevator opened, I stepped into a carpeted hallway, which extended in both directions. Ahead of me was a huge circular glass partition—to suggest a record or CD, perhaps—with a glass door in its center. The name of the firm was spelled out in gold letters in an arc over the entrance; an M&W logo, also in gold letters, was on the door. I could see the reception desk and waiting area, but no one was there, and the door was locked. I looked at my watch. It was after five. I wandered down the hall to my left, looking for another door to knock on in case someone was working late. A man came around the corner from the far end, a pile of cardboard file boxes cradled in his arms, obscuring his vision. He almost knocked me over, sending one box sliding from the pile, hitting the floor, and spilling some of its contents.

He slammed himself against the wall, and peered at me over one shoulder. “Oh, sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Are you all right? I didn’t see you.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said, bending to pick up the papers. “I’m fine, but that’s quite a load you’re carrying.”

“You don’t have to pick those up, ma’am,” he said, juggling his cargo to keep from losing another box. “I’ll just collect ’em on my way back. Don’t trouble yourself. I was carrying more than I should.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” I said, picking up the box. “Where were you going with all this?”

“Just around the corner at the end of the hall. Typical of him, waiting until after business hours to make the move. I could have done this anytime today and gotten some help, but no, God forbid we disturb the staff people during work time—except, of course, for this staff person. I’m Buddy, by the way, chief cook and bottle washer for all things no one else wants to do at Marker & Whitson.”

He walked past the glass entrance to the other end of the hall and turned left. I followed him. “Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of a door next to the fire exit. He leaned back, the boxes in his arms sliding into his cheek as he groped for the doorknob with one barely free hand.

“Here, let me get that,” I said, putting the box I held on the floor and opening the door for him.

He turned his body and sidestepped through the opening before squatting down and depositing his burden on a glass cocktail table in front of a long gray sofa.

I looked around the large office. Windows overlooked the street, which must have given the room a lot of light when the blinds were open. Several boxes sat atop the desk and matching credenza, and it appeared as though the original occupant of the office had moved out and someone new was moving in.

Buddy returned to the hall to kick the box I’d carried for him through the doorway, giving it a good shove with a green-sneakered foot.

“Is that table strong enough to hold all that weight?” I asked.

“Oh sure. It looks like glass, but it’s real thick, probably strong as iron. I’ve seen people climb up on it when one of our clients topped the
Billboard
chart for hot country songs.”

“Really? Who would take that chance?”

“The president. The president that was. You heard about what happened here, I suppose.”

“Um . . .” I started.

“’Course you did. It was all over the TV, the radio, the papers.”

“You’re talking about Mr. Marker.”

“The very same, killed right here in his office, this room, over there by the credenza. Well. Almost. Didn’t die right away, lasted a coupla days.” He pointed to an area behind a large mahogany desk. “Girl whacked him with one of his CMA awards. We haven’t gotten it back from the police yet, but we’ve got others on the shelf. See ’em? They’re the same thing.”

Buddy didn’t seem particularly sorry that the firm had lost its president, and I found that curious. I walked to a bookcase where two of the awards he’d pointed out were displayed. “May I?” I asked.

“Sure. Knock yourself out.” He winced. “I didn’t mean that literally.”

I picked up one of the awards. It was a very heavy piece of crystal in the shape of a flame, pointed at the top and mounted on a square base. It wouldn’t be easy to hold on to and swing, but it was certainly weighty enough to do some damage. I replaced it on the shelf.

“Did you know the young woman who was arrested?”

“Nope. Never met her, but it’s not surprising. There are people in and out of here all the time.”

“Were you here when he was found?” I asked, walking nonchalantly toward the desk.

“No, thank goodness. The security guard caught her. Careful now, don’t trip on that rug. Eddy put it there to hide the stain. Suppose they’ll have to replace it soon. Shame. This carpet cost a fortune.”

I stepped back from the small area rug.

“Didn’t mean to gross you out,” he said.

“That’s quite all right. Who’s Eddy?”

“Edwina Anderson, Mr. Marker’s secretary. She’s been here since the vinyl age.” He opened the top box and transferred its files into a tall cabinet near another door.

“I know the name,” I said.

“A real battle-ax. Rumor has it she was a wild teen—can’t quite envision it—and got into legal trouble.”

“What did she do?”

He shrugged. “I hear she ran over some guy in a parking lot. Went straight after that. Went rigid is more like it. Anyway, Eddy’s the only one knows this place inside and out, so they can’t fire her. He tried once or twice, and brought in a pretty young thing to sit at Eddy’s desk and smile at everybody coming in, but he had to hire Eddy back after his wife found out. He didn’t want an old bat out front, but Marilyn had a fit when she saw the new girl. A blond bombshell, to coin a phrase. Not that he was henpecked or anything, but their marriage wasn’t made in heaven, if you catch my drift. Can you pass me the next box?”

I lifted it off the pile on the table and handed it to Buddy. “Marilyn was his wife, I take it.”

“The queen of green, I call her. She spent it as fast as he could make it.” He held up one pinkie, miming someone drinking tea. “Rules were not made for the queen,” he said in a fake English accent, before lapsing into his Southern drawl. “She fritters away more on parking tickets than I make in a month.”

“Where does Eddy sit?” I asked.

“Out there in the reception room.” Buddy pointed to the door next to the file cabinet he was filling.

I looked behind me. “But we came in—”

“The other door,” Buddy supplied. “Mr. Marker liked to be able to come and go without anyone, meaning you-know-who, the wiser.” He pointed at the door through which he’d said Marker’s secretary sat. “And he had the occasional lady friend that he wasn’t eager for anyone else to see.” He gave me a wink. “So he had the second door installed. Mr. Whitson likes that, too.”