Nashville Noir (25 page)

My raised eyebrows said that he’d captured my interest, although a breach between the partners didn’t come as a complete surprise. Whitson had moved into Marker’s office with unseemly haste, in my view, even before its previous occupant had been buried.

“A couple of months ago,” he continued, “Whitson and Marker actually got into a shoving match at a local bar. According to someone who was there, Whitson—he’s bigger than Marker—knocked his partner down.”

“Were the police called?”

“Yeah, they were, but neither of them brought charges. But my informant says Whitson accused his partner of skimming funds from the company and potentially putting it in hot water with the IRS. Once they’d officially parted, Whitson would have been left holding the bag.” Now Krupp’s eyebrows were raised. “Motive for murder?”

“Yes.”

“And—” He paused when the waitress came to the table and set down his bottle of beer. “As I was about to say, there’s more to the bad blood between Marker and Whitson than business dealings. I pick up on scuttlebutt around town—that’s my job, been doing it a long time.”

“Which I understand you’re very good at,” I said.

“I have my moments. Anyway, rumor has it that Whitson and Marker’s wife, Marilyn, are—how can I put it delicately?”

“You don’t have to put it delicately,” I said.

“Okay. Whitson and Mrs. Marker have been having an affair, which Marker learned about.” He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “Interesting?” he said.

“So far. Go on.”

“On top of that, Marker was an inveterate groper.”

“Groper?”

“Liked groping pretty young women. The guy is a serial adulterer, according to those in the know. He’s had a number of extramarital affairs, including—”

“Including?” I urged, wondering if his tabloid snapshot of Nashville matched Detective Biddle’s suspicions.

“Well, there’s talk about Nashville’s up-and-coming country music star, Sally Prentice, but she adamantly denies it. Methinks she doth protest too much. And Whitson was the one who introduced her to Marker.”

He sat back, took a long swig of his drink, and smiled smugly, as though he’d just delivered a knockout blow.

“This is all very interesting,” I said, “but it doesn’t point a finger directly at Whitson as a murderer.”

He came forward again. “If I were looking for who killed Marker,” he said, “I’d put my money on a greedy business partner.”

I chose to file away his conclusion and asked whether he had information about anyone else closely associated with Marker.

“Isn’t this enough?” he said.

“That’s another question,” I said.

He snorted. “Sorry.”

“What you’ve told me is interesting, nothing more. Just how do I apply it to solving Marker’s murder, and exonerating Cyndi Gabriel?”

“That’s your problem,” he said.

He was right. It
was
my problem, and Cyndi’s.

“Let me ask
you
a question,” I said. “Why did you decide to share this with me?”

“Because, I happen to know you’re an honorable woman—I’ve done the research—so if you use what I’ve given you to break this case open, I figure you’ll owe me first crack at writing about it.”

“That seems fair enough, Mr. Krupp.”

“My friends call me Brian.”

I smiled. “All right, Brian, you’ll be the first to know if I accomplish what I’ve set out to do. The first reporter to know, that is.”

He insisted upon paying, grabbed his hat from the chair, and we went to the lobby.

“Thanks for your time,” he said, shaking my hand.

“And thank you for the information. Oh, since you seem to have learned a great deal about the victim, Roderick Marker, what have you uncovered about others at the firm, a fellow named Buddy, or Mr. Marker’s secretary, Edwina Anderson?”

His grin was devious. “Buddy? Where do you think I got a lot of this information? Buddy’s a character, loves scandal and juicy, inside stuff. He’s been fueling my column for a long time. As for Eddy Anderson, she’s harmless enough unless you believe Buddy’s story about her.”

“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.”

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 returned, “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.”