Nashville Noir (8 page)

“Wasn’t me. Must’ve been the witch.”

“The witch?”

“Heather Blackwood, the ‘Goth country singer.’ She thinks she’ll start a new trend in country music, raccoon eyes and black lipstick. I told her that her looks are fine for metal, but she’ll never get by in Nashville. Those ol’ country boys like to see us all-American scrubbed. Red lipstick—like mine—and flirty eyes. Glam is okay—Taylor Swift uses a lot of silver—but you shouldn’t look like you just climbed out of the grave. Know what I mean?”

“I haven’t met her. You’re the first one to introduce yourself,” I said, “apart from Mrs. Granger.”

“Stranger Granger, the bitter ranger,” Alicia sang. “I wrote a song about her. Well, you’ll get to see them all by and by, I ’spect,” she said, putting on an even deeper Southern accent. “We’re all one happy family.”

“How many people live here?”

She screwed up her face in exaggerated thought. “Six now, not counting the Stranger.” She counted on her fingers. “Me, Cyndi, Brandon, Heather, and two more on my floor, Barrie and Sammy. They’re a duo; they’re on the road right now. Got a job in Branson for two weeks. They have the best luck. Oh, did you see Cyndi’s new look yet?”

“What new look?”

“She’s got curly hair now,” she said, checking herself in the mirror again. “I gave her a permanent, and showed her how to use makeup. We had a ball at the drugstore, picking out all kinds of goodies. She looks amazing. Wait till you see.”

I was sure that Cyndi looked anything but glamorous in her cell. “Your water is boiling,” I said.

“Oh, right.” Alicia unplugged the electric coil and dropped it in the sink. Dunking her teabag in the water, she sashayed to the door. “Gotta go now. Nice meetin’ ya, as they say up here.” She adopted a look of extreme anguish and caring. “You be sure to say ’lo to Cyndi when you see her. Tell her that I’m thinkin’ about her. Who’d have ever thought? Oh, I’ll replace the teabag soon as I can.”

“And the mug,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, and the mug.”

I shut the door behind Alicia, locked it, and shook my head to clear it of the confusion Alicia had created in me. What a strange, callous young woman, I thought as I swept crumbs from the dresser into my palm and dusted my hands over the sink, washing the scraps down the drain. I returned the cooled electrical coil to where Alicia had found it, wrapped the crackers in the piece of foil, and eased the open drawer closed. I smoothed the wrinkles on the bed where she’d flopped down. On a whim, I lifted the corner of the mattress and pushed my hand between the mattress and the springs. My fingers felt a hard edge. I lifted the mattress higher and pulled out a manila envelope. The flap was open, and I sat at the desk to examine its contents.

It was the paper trail I’d advised Cyndi to keep, showing the dates she’d composed her song, the one Sally Prentice was to record, and when she’d sent it to Marker. There were notes in Cyndi’s handwriting from our telephone call, including instructions on how to find a sample cease-and-desist letter, and a copy of one she may have downloaded from the Internet. There was also a calendar page with last Friday’s date circled. “Mr. Marker 5:15,” it said.

I pulled out the letter and scanned the lines. Written in strong language, it cited a paragraph and section of the law, and threatened damages of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I had recommended that Cyndi send such a letter to Roderick Marker to demand that he stop using her songs without permission. Had she sent him this letter? Or had she delivered the final draft to him personally? Had he become angry at being handed such a document? Had they argued about it? Worse, had the police found the original and decided it was a motive for murder?

An involuntary shiver slithered up my back, and a fearful thought raced through my mind.
Please let me not have given Cyndi the wrong advice.

I admit to being tempted to take the envelope with me, but thought better of it. According to Mrs. Granger, the police were coming to the house that day and would want to examine Cyndi’s quarters. It was bad enough that I’d already been rummaging around the room of an accused murderess; removing anything that might be considered evidence was a definite no-no. Sighing, I slid the envelope back under the mattress and left, locking the door behind me.

I
rolled my suitcase out of my room and lugged it down the two flights of stairs. Mrs. Granger met me in the foyer.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” I replied, “but I appreciate your courtesies. And, of course, I’ll stay in touch.” I leaned my rolling bag against the wall and rummaged in my bag to find my notebook. I tore out a piece of paper. “Here’s where I’m staying.” I’d written down the name of the hotel and my cell phone number. “In case you need to reach me.”

I was eager to get settled before facing the situation. I had considered calling Detective Biddle to set up an appointment but decided instead just to show up at his office later that day. It’s easy to put someone off on the phone, but not so easy when you’re staring them in the eye. Besides, Mrs. Granger had said he’d be stopping by sometime to interview her. I probably wouldn’t have been able to reach him by phone anyway.

“What about her things?” she asked, referring to Cyndi’s belongings.

I started to respond when the ringing doorbell interrupted us. Mrs. Granger opened the door. Two men stood on the porch, one in uniform, the other in plainclothes. I looked beyond them to where a marked police cruiser sat at the curb.

“Mrs. Granger?” the man in civilian clothing asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Detective Biddle. Called yesterday.”

“Sure,” she said. “Come on in.”

As they stepped into the foyer, Biddle eyed me.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Yes, ma’am, I remember,” he said.

“I was going to stop in later this afternoon to see if I could speak with Ms. Blaskowitz, or rather Ms. Gabriel.”

“Had a hunch you’d be showing up,” he said, not sounding pleased. “That sheriff of yours is a persistent sort.”

I smiled. “He is when he wants something.”

“Called twice this morning about you. Says you’re a good friend of the kid’s family and that you’d be the only friend she has here in Nashville. Mother’s in the hospital and all that.”

“Yes, it’s a sad situation,” I said. “I hope you’ll let me speak with Cyndi.”

“You’re pretty persistent, too, Mrs. Fletcher.” He shrugged. “But in any case, it’s not up to me. It’s up to her, and the sheriff’s department that runs the women’s prison out in Antioch. They’ve got their rules. Besides, heard she refused to put any names on her visitor list. She’s got a lawyer now. I’ll get you the name. Why don’t you take it up with him?”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.”

He turned to Mrs. Granger. “In the meantime, I have some questions for you.”

“Do you mind if I sit in?” I asked.

Detective Biddle rolled his eyes and looked at me as though I’d uttered a crude four-letter word.

“I’d like her with me,” Mrs. Granger said. “She’s a famous mystery writer.”

“So I hear,” he said.

“I’ve already been through Cyndi’s room,” I said, “and—”

Now his expression said I’d come out with a string of expletives.

“I stayed here overnight and—”

“Touch anything in her room?” he asked.

“A few things. It’s not taped off as a crime scene. I didn’t see anything wrong with looking around and trying to understand what led up to what—well, what she’s accused of doing.”

His long sigh said many things, none of them favorable. “Stay out of her room, okay?” he said. “Leastways till we get finished with it.”

“Certainly, if you wish.”

Although he’d not responded to my request to join them, I followed anyway into the kitchen, where he and Mrs. Granger sat at the table. The uniformed officer stood near the door; I chose an inconspicuous spot on the opposite side of the room. If Biddle realized I was there, he didn’t say anything. He asked Mrs. Granger a series of questions that didn’t elicit any useful information as far as I was concerned. When the questioning was concluded, Mrs. Granger led Biddle and the uniformed officer up to the third floor, where they spent a half hour in Cyndi’s room. I stayed in the kitchen until they returned carrying Cyndi’s laptop computer, guitar case, backpack, and an evidence bag holding whatever else they’d taken from the room.

“Doubt if we need to tape off the room,” Biddle announced. “We did a thorough search, got everything there was to find.”

“Did you look under the mattress?” I asked.

He chuckled. “You read too many mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher. Nobody hides things under their mattress these days.”

I raised my brows but didn’t say anything. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

A look of consternation crossed Biddle’s face. He turned to the uniformed officer. “Go on up again and look under the mattress,” he said.

The officer returned a few minutes later, waving the manila envelope.

Biddle scowled at me, and I feared that I’d made an enemy.

I’d hated to have to tell them about the envelope. But if Cyndi was guilty, the police were entitled to see it, and if she was innocent, well, the same still held true. The fact of the matter was, I couldn’t live with myself if I’d been responsible for knowingly withholding evidence.

“Have a car here in Nashville, Mrs. Fletcher?” Biddle asked, interrupting my thoughts. He seemed to have gotten over his pique at me.

“No. I’m afraid I don’t drive.”

A prolonged sigh. “Come on, then, I’ll give you a lift down to headquarters. Get you her lawyer’s name. Maybe he’ll agree to let you see the accused, but he’ll have to convince her that it’s okay.”

“I understand perfectly, Detective Biddle, and I very much appreciate what you’re doing.”

When we arrived at the Nashville Metropolitan Police Department’s central precinct, a fairly new redbrick building on what’s called James Robertson Parkway in downtown Nashville, he led me to an office on the top floor of the building. “You can park your bag over there,” he said, pointing to an empty space next to a bookcase. “Have a seat. I’ll be back.”

I followed his instruction and swiveled in my chair to take in my surroundings. Mort Metzger’s office is fairly organized, although on occasion it looks as though a whirl-wind has hit it. No one would ever accuse him of being naturally neat. Biddle’s environment, on the other hand, reflected someone who might be obsessive-compulsive. Every piece of paper was squared on the desk, and pens and pencils were lined up evenly. No photograph or citation hanging on the walls was even slightly crooked. Books on a series of shelves behind the desk stood neatly in rows, not one protruding farther out than any other.

I was perusing the books on Biddle’s shelf when he returned. He took a candy bar from his pocket and put it on the desk, then removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it over the back of his chair. He was a short, stocky man with a thick neck, large chest, and muscular arms that were evident beneath his shirtsleeves. He wore a starched pale yellow shirt with a purple tie and suspenders to match. He was a fussy dresser, if not one I would describe as particularly stylish.

“This isn’t my office,” he declared. “I work out of the west precinct. We cover Music Row, where the murder took place, but we’re undergoing renovations of the building so I hang out here.” He grimaced for a moment against an unspecified pain and said, “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, here’s the deal. Just talked to the DA’s office. As it happens, Ms. Gabriel’s court-appointed attorney is in the records room now, going over some reports. When he comes out, you can ask him about putting you on the young lady’s visitor list. Judging from the way she’s been acting since we picked her up, she might not want to see you. Don’t be insulted if she stiffs you.”

“I hope she doesn’t,” I said, “but that’s her decision. I won’t be offended if she declines to talk with me.”

“I’ll say this for her,” he said, “she aced the alcohol and drug screenings. Clean as a whistle. Hasn’t seen the shrink yet, though. We put in for it, but the guy’s so busy he can’t do her until tomorrow. That’s what happens when you have all these whackos on the streets. We arrest one hundred and forty people a day in this city. Hard to keep up.” He ran a hand over his bald spot, a circle of pink scalp peeking out from beneath brindle-colored wavy hair.

“And the charge against Cyndi is murder?” I asked.

“The prosecutor will probably go for murder-two, unless her lawyer can negotiate it down to manslaughter.”

“Has she admitted to the assault?”

“No, ma’am. Says she saw him there, got scared, and ran out to call the cops. Of course, she never made that call. She just disappeared.”

“Did she give a reason for why she was there in the first place?”

“Says she had an appointment, but he kept her twiddlin’ her thumbs. Said she went in to tell him she couldn’t wait around anymore and found him on the floor. That’s her story, but we don’t believe it’s how it went down.”

“So far it sounds pretty circumstantial to me. Have you looked into any other possible suspects?”

Biddle picked up the candy bar he’d left on the desk and tore open the wrapper. “Want one?” he asked. “Got another in my jacket pocket.”

“No thanks,” I replied.

“It’s a Goo Goo Cluster,” he said, eyeing me.

“Should I know what that is?”

“Made right here in Nashville. Can’t call yourself a Southerner if you’ve never had a Goo Goo.”

I smiled. “I’ll have to try one some other time.”

He shrugged and leaned back, his leather chair squeaking under his weight. He munched on the candy bar, his face thoughtful. Finally he sighed and said, “We’re professionals, Mrs. Fletcher. Fact remains, your girl was at the scene, and her prints are on the trophy she used to kill him.”