Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  It was almost impossible to make conversation, so we just sat and listened. Randy and Stick occasionally raised an eyebrow or nodded over an impressive riff or run.

  About midnight, as their next to last song, Alternative Music City did an arrangement of Jake Miller’s “Saturday Night in Town.” Oddly, the song fit their style, or maybe it’s just that a really good song is bigger than any one style.

  When they finished their last song and started to pack up, Stick turned to me. “Now what?”

  “Now I’ll just ask him a few questions—and hope he doesn’t turn and run.” I was counting on Jay’s investment in his equipment to keep him from running. I knew what mattered to musicians.

  We walked over to the stage, and I approached Jay from behind. He was bending over, unplugging cables.

  “Excuse me,” I said as nonthreateningly as I could.

  He turned as he straightened up. He could hardly have run when he saw me without falling into expensive equipment. The alarm I saw in his eyes, though, was unmistakable.

  “What do you want? And who are you?”

  I heard an echo of the anger I had heard and seen in his grandmother’s driveway.

  “My name is Campbell Hale.” I was speaking very calmly, glad to know that Stick and Randy were standing right behind me. Jay looked over my shoulder and nodded at Stick. Anybody in the music business would recognize Randy and Stick. If you were trying to make it in this town, you wouldn’t want to make enemies of guys that successful and well liked. That fact, more than the mere physical presence of two men, gave me confidence and made me feel safe.

  I spoke without taking a breath. “I was at your grandmother’s house the afternoon she died. I wanted to talk to you about it. I liked your music, by the way. You’re good.”

  “For what that’s worth in this town.” I couldn’t help wondering what had made Jay Miller so bitter so young. “So what? What business is it of yours?”

  “Not much, I guess, except that I was there that day, and I’ve been questioned by the police. I’m just trying to put it all together in my mind.” I didn’t mention that I’d actually seen his grandmother. “I didn’t know who you were when I saw you, but I know Lewis wasn’t about to let you in. I’d say that clears you. I, on the other hand, was inside the house that afternoon, and part of the time I was alone.”

  As I had hoped, he softened some after that, but I could feel Randy and Stick staring at me.

  “Yeah, well, Lewis had no right to keep me out. Hazel’s my grandmother, was my grandmother, and I had every right to see her, a lot more than some paid flunky.”

  “Did Lewis usually control who saw your grandmother?”

  “Not like he did that day. Sometimes I’d go by, and he or the maid would say she was asleep or didn’t feel like seeing anybody, which usually meant she was drunk or stoned. But nobody had ever tried to keep me out of the house before.”

  “Why were you there that day?”

  He looked at me for a long minute. “I needed Hazel’s help. I’m this close to a record deal.” He held up his thumb and index finger. “The head of the label is an old friend of Jake and Hazel’s. I knew Hazel could talk him into the deal. But she had to talk to him then—before somebody made a different decision.”

  “But you were already mad when you got there.”

  “I called first. I don’t usually, but I needed to know if she was conscious. Lewis told me I couldn’t come, couldn’t see her. I went anyway.”

  “So what happened? After I left, I mean?”

  “I didn’t get in. I yelled some more and stomped around, and then I left. I decided it was pointless trying to yell my way in. If Hazel was drunk or doped up, which was what I figured, she couldn’t help me right then anyway. If Lewis and I had a fight, Hazel would be upset and not in the mood to do a favor. I decided I’d come back the next morning, take her to the Pancake Pantry for breakfast. She’d see people who knew her, people from the business. Somebody there would recognize her. She’d feel like a celebrity, and she might want to prove she could still move and shake a little.”

  “You didn’t try to go around to the back?”

  He looked sideways and noticed a band member packing up. “Man, be careful with that. I get that guitar neck sprung, I’ll never get it back right. Just leave it. I’ll get it myself.” He turned back to us. “That’s one of Jake’s guitars, an old Martin. It has the sweetest sound. You can’t find anything like it now.” He shook his head. “Hazel gave it to me.”

  He seemed more at ease, talkative and cooperative. I took a risk. “What about the estate? There must be a lot of money involved if some of those assets were sold. That could stake a struggling new band.”

  Randy put his hand on my arm. Stick stepped closer to me. I saw sudden fire in Jay Miller’s eyes.

  “Just what are you trying to pull, lady? Hazel was my grandmother, my family! I wouldn’t kill her for money. There’s only one Hazel Miller. And anyway she was worth a lot more to me alive than dead. What do you want here anyway?”

  “I’m sorry,” I placated. “I can see that, and surely the police can, too. What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to pin it on Lewis. He was right there; he controlled who saw Hazel and who didn’t. He’s a self-important little jerk. I could never stand him, and I guess he feels the same about me. But I don’t know. I think he really cared for her. He really thought he was protecting her all these years.”

  “From whom? You?”

  “Lawyers who wanted to steal her paintings, maybe?”

  He had me there. “Maybe,” I conceded. I guess someone had told him who Doug and I were and why we were there. “What about your mom? How did she and Hazel get along? Did she ever say anything about Rosie Layne? I heard she sang backup for your grandfather for a while?”

  “You don’t really think I’m going to talk to you about my mother, do you? Look, I don’t know who killed Hazel, and I’m tired of people gettin’ off on talking about my family. My mom’s had to put up with this all her life. I’m sick of it. You people are like vultures. Get out of here.”

  We took his advice. I always seemed to go one question too far. As we crossed the street to the vacant lot where we had parked, I thought I saw the dark sedan again.

  “Satisfied?” Stick looked disgusted.

  “I guess. I think I believe him, but I’d hate to be a sick and drunk old lady who made him mad. He has some serious anger issues.”

  “Did I miss something? Did somebody make this your business? One woman is dead. Are you trying to double the stakes?”

  “Stick! I just wanted to talk to him. And I don’t really think he did it.”

  “Well, somebody did it, and you’re out there stirring things up. That’s stupid!”

  “Thank you for going with me.” I was contrite; I was apologetic. I was glad I had done it.

  “Count me out of your schemes next time.”

  “Okay.” I was meek. Stick was unconvinced. Randy was quiet.

  We drove back to the Bluebird, where I had left my car. Randy walked me to the car. Stick was still fuming.

  “Will you be okay?” Randy asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Really. Thanks for going.”

  “Anytime. Well, actually, I think Stick’s right. You don’t need to put yourself in danger.” Changing the subject, he said, “But I would like to go out again—without a murder suspect, I mean. Okay if I call you?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you, then. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Nice car. How long have you had it?”

  “For years, since college. It was my first car.”

  “I like it.” He stood there smiling as I drove off.

  Was he smiling at me or the car? He’s a nice guy. Just have fun being with a nice guy. How many times had I told myself that?

  Had Jake Miller had two old Martin guitars? Because I was sure I’d seen
one in Jake’s shrine room that could have been the twin of the one Jay had played tonight. If it was the same guitar, when could Hazel have given it to him? He would have had to have stolen it at some point after we left the house. And he never did answer my question about the back entrance.

  Chapter Nine

  There’s a time in the night that won’t listen to lies,

  A time when your heart waits for mine.

  —Jake Miller, “The Sound of My Heart Breakin’”

  I slept in Saturday morning, missing my weekly HGTV fix. Watching HGTV makes some people feel guilty, guilty because even when they manage the time to cook something, it isn’t from scratch. Their herbs aren’t fresh because they haven’t grown them from seed. If they’re using cloth napkins, it doesn’t count because they didn’t hemstitch them personally from Irish linen and monogram them by hand.

  It’s different for me. It’s like taking teenagers to night court to scare them away from dangerous behavior. It’s like seeing the terrible damage of alcoholism and vowing never to take a drink. Thirty minutes of HGTV every Saturday morning, and I can use paper plates to serve microwaved food without a lick of guilt.

  But this Saturday, having slept too late for my fix, I got up and decided to make eggs Benedict.

  Eggs Benedict is my favorite breakfast food, and I keep trying to find the perfect hollandaise recipe. Give me a double boiler and a decent balloon whisk, and I can give you a hollandaise, but I have trouble with consistency. The story of my life.

  First, of course, I toast the English muffins. Good quality sliced bread, toasted, will even do in a pinch. When I saw there were no English muffins, I knew I was in a pinch. I toasted the bread and slipped it into the oven to stay warm.

  I poured orange juice into a champagne glass to sip while I cooked. The sun was shining; little, colorful birds of whose names I was clueless were stuffing themselves at the feeder. My mockingbird was on duty in his dogwood. I put a couple of slices of Canadian bacon on top of the toast in the oven to take the chill off. I could hear the distant hum of a motorboat on the river, its hull slapping the water. I put egg yolks, melted butter, and lemon juice in the top of the double boiler. I began to whisk. No problem. I can do this, I told myself. I put a little more lemon juice. I whisked.

  The biggest problem I have is poaching eggs. Martha Stewart says you should have fresh country eggs, but I’m stuck with whatever’s at the grocery store. Sometimes my poached eggs break, or the whites mush out in the water, or they’re too hard. I’ve tried poaching rings, poaching spoons, poaching pans. I’ve tried gently swirling the eggs as I delicately slide them into the water. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. Kind of like life.

  One time, though, I saw an episode where Martha poached eggs. She used a piece of bread, an end slice, to blot the water. My mother would have been horrified at the idea of such waste. Then Martha trimmed the edges of the egg whites. She trimmed the edges! I could have even edges if I trimmed them!

  Today everything worked. A good omen. I slid the unbroken eggs on top of the Canadian bacon, and all was well with the world. I spooned the hollandaise on top, a dash of paprika for color, and I took my breakfast and the paper out on the patio. This was what Saturday morning was supposed to be.

  I was finishing the sports section of The Tennessean when the phone rang.

  It was Mark. “Just thought I’d warn you. There’s going to be a feature in Metro/State tomorrow on the Miller thing.” The Metro/State was the news section of The Tennessean. “It’ll talk about the grandson’s being there that afternoon, attributed to unnamed sources. I don’t think your name will be mentioned, but I’m not sure about Doug’s. Thought you’d want to know. There’ll be a lot of background stuff—Jake’s career, his and Hazel’s marriage. There’s some stuff about their art collection, Doug’s brother’s gallery. You know, ‘surprisingly cosmopolitan collection for a country-music singer,’ that kind of thing.”

  “Great.” My voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Doug will love that. Will it be in the early editions?”

  “Yeah. You can get a copy at Walgreens about midnight.”

  “Thanks. I think I’ll do that. Thanks for the heads-up, Mark.”

  “Anytime, kiddo.”

  A cloud of little cedar waxwings descended on the dogwood. The mockingbird went berserk, screeching first at one, then another. He could scare off one or two at a time, but there were too many for him, and he was overpowered. He whooshed by my chair, still screeching. Demanding my help, maybe?

  “Sorry,” I shrugged. “You’re on your own.” I went inside.

  * * *

  MaryNell came by later that day.

  “You need a dog,” she announced.

  “No, I don’t. Why?”

  “You wouldn’t live alone if you had a dog; you’d have a companion. Besides, men like dogs. They find women with dogs very attractive.”

  I opened my mouth to answer that, but too many bad and cynical jokes were competing. I shut it. Then a light dawned. “Your dog’s having puppies?”

  She looked at me. “Well, yes, but that’s beside the point.”

  “I don’t want a dog.”

  “You need a watchdog.”

  “I have an alarm system, and I’ve practiced dialing nine-one-one very fast.”

  “Wait until you see how cute they are. I won’t even say I told you so when you change your mind.”

  I stood firm. I was resolute. She gave up, but I knew it was only temporary. The puppies weren’t even born yet. We talked over Mark’s heads-up about the article. MaryNell thought I ought to warn Doug, and I decided she was right. I thought it would be better to do it in person, and I stopped at The Food Company just before it closed to pick up a loaf of bread as a peace offering.

  After I rang his bell, I held up the bread so he could see it through the peephole. The security guard had called him from the lobby, and he hadn’t told the guy to throw me out. But I could feel him hesitating, wondering if opening the door was going to be a mistake. The trouble was, I knew that when I told him the news, he’d be sure of it. I did not enjoy being an albatross to this man.

  The dead bolt turned slowly. He opened the door but left the chain on.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Yeah?” This was uncharacteristic for Doug, almost rude.

  “If you leave the chain on, the bread won’t go through the door.” I tried to appeal to his logical side.

  “I know. I’m thinking.”

  “I could set it down out here and go away.”

  “That wouldn’t prove anything. The bread could be booby-trapped.”

  “It’s bread.”

  “It looks like bread. It could be a bomb.” Doug closed the door, unhooked the chain, and opened the door. “Is it a bomb or a bribe?”

  “I prefer to think of it as a peace offering. Seven-grain. Your favorite.”

  “Which act of aggression is this for? Or is it something I don’t know about yet?”

  “Sort of. But I don’t really think I can be blamed for this.”

  Doug’s eyes rolled. “You never can, can you?”

  “That really isn’t fair. I came to warn you.”

  “Warn me. About what?”

  “The Tennessean’s running a feature about the murder tomorrow—in the Metro/State section. Chronology, background, bios of all the players. You may be a player. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Thanks. Now I can lose sleep tonight wondering if I’m going to be implicated in a murder tomorrow.”

  “Well, we could get an early edition about midnight. The twenty-four-hour Walgreens has them.”

  “No, thanks. Oh, what the heck. I won’t be able to sleep anyway. Come on. Let’s go get some dinner, and we’ll get a paper later.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Have a seat. I’ll change shirts and be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  A football game—Vanderbilt and Ole Miss at Oxford—was on the T
V. Ole Miss was up by two touchdowns and had possession of the ball. The band played “Dixie,” but only in a medley with “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  Less than ten minutes later, just as Ole Miss scored, Doug came out in pressed khakis and a starched oxford cloth shirt. Pink. A lot of men don’t wear pink, but it can be a very becoming color. Doug looked really good in pink oxford. I wished he didn’t, wished I didn’t find him quite so appealing, but there it was. He shrugged into a navy blazer, asked if I was ready, and opened the door. I felt underdressed, but I nearly always felt a little underdressed around Doug.

  “I called Kenneth to let him know,” he said.

  “What’d he say?”

  Doug shrugged. “He didn’t seem too concerned. He said somebody had called the gallery this week. Of course, the newspaper isn’t going to place him at the scene of a murder. I told him I’d call him later and tell him what’s in the story.”

  We looked at the online edition, but we both wanted to see the actual paper. Online and print edition stories aren’t always identical, and we wanted to see what would be going out in print.

  We had time to kill (maybe time to spare would be a better choice of words) before the early edition of the Sunday paper would be out, so we went downtown to the Capitol Grille. One thing about Doug, he does choose great restaurants.

  The Capitol Grille is downstairs in the Hermitage Hotel, one of Nashville’s oldest hotels. It’s beautiful, ornate, and elegant, but also a place that makes you want to sit back and stay a while. I had something wonderful with a white-truffle sauce. Maybe anything’s wonderful with a white-truffle sauce. A pianist played quietly, and by unspoken mutual consent we ignored the murder. We talked about music, movies, a little politics, just small talk, really. I felt myself relaxing and realized this was the best time I’d had with Doug in a while. He seemed to be enjoying himself, too.

  Finally, after one last coffee, we left the Hermitage, drove out Broadway, and turned toward Green Hills on Twenty-first.