Nashville Noir (26 page)

“I do,” she said. Her face was red and her eyes were wet. “It’s just—”

“I know.”

I waited for her to stop crying before returning to my bedroom. I’d put on my most positive persona for her, but now that I was alone I allowed my own pessimistic feelings to surface. As confident as I was that I was getting closer to the answer, there was a parallel sense of dread that was never far away.
What if I failed?
I’d steadfastly refused to ask myself that question out of fear that the answer was too shocking to consider. I knew that if I failed, what Cyndi had just expressed would become reality—no career and a young life wasted behind bars.

I banished those negative thoughts from my consciousness and set about getting ready to attend Sally Prentice’s performance at the Douglas Corner Café. I called and made a reservation. I’d no sooner hung up than my cell phone rang. It was Detective Biddle.

“I thought you were going to enjoy the rest of your day off,” I said.

“The best laid plans and all that. I swung back by headquarters after I left you. The phone records for Wally Brolin came in.”

“Oh? Anything of interest?”

“Probably not. He received a slew of calls that day. We traced the numbers back. Musicians, a couple of nightclubs, the sort of stuff you’d expect.”

“What about closer to the time of Roderick Marker’s murder?”

“Let’s see,” he said, muttering to himself as he consulted the report. “He got a call at five fifty-five that evening from a cell number assigned to someone named A. Piedmont.”

Soon after the estimated time of Marker’s murder
, I thought.
Interesting.

“He called that number back a couple of times, at six twenty-one and seven forty-two. This other party, Piedmont, called him at nine oh five and nine sixteen. Brolin made two more calls to that number later in the evening.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“I don’t know what you’re thanking me for, Mrs. Fletcher. I’d be more interested in these calls if they involved Ms. Gabriel.”

“Frankly, I’m glad they didn’t,” I said. “I really appreciate you calling to tell me about this.”

“Hey, listen, I’ve let you get involved to this extent, might as well bring you in all the way. You have yourself a good night. I intend to. There’s a good game on TV tonight and I’ve got myself a new plasma TV. Nothing’ll drag me away from it.”

I jotted down the times the detective had given me and reviewed them. While they didn’t constitute direct evidence, the picture was beginning to form.

Cyndi and I had dinner sent up before I dressed for the evening. Although I seldom wear jeans, I’d brought a pair with me to Nashville, and put them on. I’d also packed a light blue shirt, hardly of the Western variety, but better than the print blouses in my traveling wardrobe. When Cyndi saw what I was doing, she gave me a red bandana to wear with the shirt, and offered her cowboy boots. I tried them on, but they were too small; I didn’t want to be limping around Nashville all evening. My flat black shoes had to suffice. My final preparation included wearing heavier makeup than usual, including bloodred lipstick. To top off my Nashville outfit, I donned the white Stetson Lynee Granger had given me. When I presented myself to Cyndi in the parlor, the sight of me brought forth a rare burst of laughter from her. “You look like you belong in Nashville, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, still giggling.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, “but maybe I look a little less alien. I’ll try not to be late. And, Cyndi, no visitors. Right?”

“Right. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be a good girl.”

The taxi driver dropped me off in front of the redbrick building housing the club. Neon beer signs created the appearance of a neighborhood bar. Across the street was a comedy club called Zanies, according to its sign. I paid the driver, pulled my Stetson down low over my forehead, and entered.

“Hi,” a waitress said. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes,” I said. “I know I’m early for the show.” I gave her my name.

“Better to be early,” she said. “We’re expecting a crowd. Sally Prentice is developing a big following.”

I chose a small table wedged into a corner near the bar at the rear of the room despite the waitress’s warning that it wasn’t the best vantage point from which to catch the act. As I sat and nursed a ginger ale, other tables began to fill up, as did the bar. I was halfway through my drink when Lewis Whitson entered the club, accompanied by Marilyn Marker. I kept my hat low as they passed and were shown to a prime table directly in front of the bandstand.

Minutes later, the musicians started arriving. As I suspected would be the case, Wally Brolin was among them. He and two other musicians went about their business rearranging the stage, plugging their instruments into amplifiers, and testing microphones. If my confrontation with Brolin earlier in the day had unnerved him, he didn’t show any signs of it. He seemed in good spirits, and exchanged jokes with the musicians, laughing loudly at their offerings.

Finally, almost an hour after I’d arrived, Sally Prentice walked in. She was dressed in a silver jumpsuit, her ample platinum-blond hair piled high on her head. Whitson stood as Sally approached his table and gave her a cursory kiss on the cheek. Marilyn offered her hand, which Sally took but dropped quickly. She left them and climbed up on the stage, where she gave Wally a prolonged hug and kissed the other musicians.

The lights were dimmed, and a young man wearing the requisite jeans and Stetson hat took the microphone.

“Hey, all you music lovers,” he said with a wide smile, his voice reverberating from large speakers, “nice you all decided to stop by because we have got one special, boot-scootin’ treat for you tonight. This little lady—and ain’t she a beauty?—is about to turn the country music business upside down. I mean really turn it upside down! She’s recording her first CD right here in Music City, USA, and from everything this ol’ boy hears, it’s gonna knock everybody’s socks off—assumin’ you wear ’em. So come on now, let’s give her a real Douglas Corner welcome, Miss Sally Prentice!”

The room erupted in applause and whistles as Sally counted off her first number and the band launched into a spirited intro to her song. I listened intently. Although my exposure to country music was admittedly limited, I thoroughly enjoyed her performance. She was vivacious on stage, appearing to be singing directly to each person in the room. Wally Brolin played a chorus that blended country, rock and roll, and the blues, and Sally jumped in after it and ended the song to an enthusiastic response.

But my enjoyment of her opening number was dashed when she said into the mike, “Ah’d like to do a song for you now that I recently wrote especially for mah new CD. It’s a sad song, but the beautiful words say that somehow things’ll end up just fine. It’s called ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears,’ and I want to thank this here big hunk of a mountain man, mah favorite guitar picker, for encouraging me to put it on mah CD.” She mussed Wally’s hair. “Come on now, take a bow, Wally.”

He remained seated, grinned, and waved his hand to the crowd, which had now filled Douglas Corner to capacity, and beyond. Every seat was taken, and men and women clogged the aisles between them, making service tough for the waitresses. The air was thick with smoke.

I didn’t join in the applause. All I could see while she sang “Talkin’ Through the Tears” was Cyndi standing on the stage back home singing the song for her friends and family. Sally Prentice’s rendition, while professional, seemed to me to miss the heartbreak inherent in the lyrics and melody. Cyndi’s version would have been more low-key: a wistful, vulnerable girl trying to save a love affair by talking it out with her boyfriend despite the tears that kept getting in the way. I was also angry that Prentice had taken sole ownership of the song in front of all those people with not a word of credit to the person who had actually written it, Cyndi Gabriel, aka Cindy Blaskowitz from Cabot Cove, Maine.

The rest of the first set flew by with little attention from me—my mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts—but lots of cheers and foot stomping from the enthusiastic crowd. Prentice eventually announced that they were taking a short intermission but would be back soon. The management played a country CD over the PA system, and I took that as an opportunity to get some fresh air.

I didn’t want Lewis Whitson, Marilyn Marker, Sally Prentice, or Wally Brolin to see that I’d been in the audience and waited until I was confident I could make my exit without being noticed. I snaked my way through the maze of people and blue haze of cigarette smoke in the direction of the door, stepped outside, and drew in a deep breath. It had gotten colder since I arrived, and damp, the sort of chill that goes right through you, although the crowd outside milling about, waiting to get in, shielded me from the worst of the wind.

Loud laughter and squeals of recognition greeted the arrival of more of the club’s would-be patrons. Music from the sound system settled over the people’s conversations like a melodious cloud, forcing everybody to raise their voices to be heard. I edged toward a clearer area on the sidewalk, dodging knots of country music fans. It was then that I noticed Wally’s pickup truck. It was stopped in the driveway, facing nose-in to a parking lot next to the club, the motor running. I ducked back against the Douglas Corner building, peered around some people, and squinted. Sure enough, Alicia was behind the wheel, and Wally stood at the open passenger-side window.

I tried to come up with a way to get close enough to the truck to hear their conversation but that proved impossible, not if I didn’t want to be seen. But then Wally climbed into the passenger seat, and Alicia drove farther into the lot.

I waited to see if they would find a parking spot. The lot was full. They pulled up next to a Dumpster with a dozen garbage bags piled next to it. I waited until more people entered the lot and slowly trailed them, pulling my hat down over my brow and hiding myself behind first one and then another group of people going to their vehicles.

I could see the truck’s taillights and a plume of smoke from its exhaust pipe. I walked past the truck and circled around, skirting a cluster of trash bags and crouching behind them. The Dumpster was ahead; it was only eight or ten feet away from Wally and Alicia. I drew a breath, straightened, and moved along the border of the parking lot, my back to it, hoping that they wouldn’t see me. They evidently didn’t. I reached the Dumpster and concentrated on my hearing. Their voices were clear, and angry.

“. . . and you think I haven’t stuck my neck out for you, Alicia,” Wally said.

“You bet you did and for good reason,” she responded in her Southern drawl. “You got me into this mess with Marker. You owed me big-time.”

He uttered a string of four-letter words. Their conversation ceased. Then Alicia said in a voice that approximated the scratchy sound of a cat in distress, “You’re a dirty, rotten liar, you know that. You swore Marker would do great things for me.” Her laugh was sardonic. “Yeah, great things. You think I enjoyed that, Wally? How do you think that made me feel? You know what I felt like? I felt lower than pond scum. And what did I get for it? What did he ever do for me? What did
you
ever do for me?”

Now Wally’s voice rose in anger. “What did I do for you?” he snarled. “I got you off the hook, that’s what I did. You’re like all the rest of your type, thinking you’re so damn talented, thinking you can flirt your way to the top. Sally Prentice’s got more talent in her little finger than you have in your whole body.”

His stinging comment caused a halt in the conversation. As I waited for them to continue, I sensed something at my feet. I looked down and saw a large, greasy, black rat scurry beneath the Dumpster. The yelp that came from me was purely involuntary, and it was loud enough to cause Brolin to open the passenger door and look in the direction from which the sound came. The rat had not only caused me to shriek, I’d instinctively jumped a few feet away, just far enough so that I was now visible from the truck. I ducked back behind the Dumpster but heard the truck door slam shut and footsteps come my way. Seconds later, I was face-to-face with Wally Brolin, who didn’t look at all pleased to see me. Another door was shut with force, and Alicia came up behind him. I shivered, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold, or the rat, or the apprehension I felt facing these two.

“I don’t believe this,” Brolin said. “What are you doin’, following me?”

“I wasn’t following you, Wally,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “I came to hear Sally Prentice. You said you weren’t playing with her tonight. Evidently, you have trouble with the truth.”

Alicia stepped forward and stood next to him.

“Hello, Alicia,” I said, still trying to override my fear.

“She heard us, didn’t she?” Alicia said.

“What’d you hear, you old snoop?” Brolin asked, pushing me toward the back of the Dumpster.

“Enough to cause me to think the conclusions I’ve come to are good ones. Excuse me.”

I tried to walk around them, back toward the street, but Brolin blocked my path.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Wally,” I said, mustering strength in my voice. “You’re in enough of a mess as it is.”

“What are you going to do about her?” Alicia demanded of him.

“What am I going to do?” he said. “You’re the one in trouble, girl.”

I tried to assess my situation. The street and noisy crowd in front of the club were a good forty or fifty feet from where we stood. Would anyone hear if I screamed? My eyes darted about in search of something to use as a weapon. I saw nothing.

“Do something!” Alicia insisted, stamping a cowboy-booted foot on the ground like a petulant child.

“I’ll tell you what you should do, Wally,” I said. “You should go to the police and tell them everything you know. You don’t want to see an innocent girl spend her life in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, do you?”