“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.”
“Is Mr. Whitson moving into Mr. Marker’s office?”
Buddy did a double take. “Why, o’course! Why else would I be hauling all these files up and down the hall and putting them in this cabinet?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just arrived.”
“Oh, ’scuse me,” he said. “Where are you from?”
“Cabot Cove, Maine.”
“A Yankee! Well, we all have burdens to bear. Who were you looking for before I banged into you?”
“Actually, I think I was looking for Eddy.”
“Well, you’re too late for her. She’s out of here like a shot on the dot of five. I might be able to find someone else for you, but it’s probably better to come back tomorrow. Are you a writer?”
He must’ve seen the surprise on my face because he chuckled.
“How did you know?” I asked.
He flapped a hand at me. “I can always spot a writer, but I gotta tell you, you can’t just waltz up to a publisher and expect anyone to help you.”
“I can’t?”
“Nope. You need a plugger.”
“A what?”
“You are from out of town. A song plugger. The publishers don’t listen to just anyone who shows up. It’s the pluggers who have access. They bring them all the good CDs from the songwriters they represent, and the bigwigs here and sometimes the performers—names you would surely know—sit ’round the table in the conference room and play, maybe ten seconds from each cut before they turn them down.”
“Ten seconds. That’s not very long.”
“Maybe it’s a little longer, but not much. You gotta be good right from the first word and first note. Anyway, get a plugger if you want Mr. Whitson to hear your song, but make sure you get a good one. Some of them are unscrupulous.” His rolled his eyes and cocked his head in the direction of the desk. “Speaking of—” He shook his head. “Forget what I said. My mama taught me not to speak ill of the dead.”
A man’s voice boomed from down the hall. “Buddy, where the hell are you?”
“My master’s voice,” Buddy said, picking up two boxes he had already emptied.
“Do you mind if I follow you and meet Mr. Whitson?” I asked.
“Honey, he won’t talk to you, believe me. But you can try. It never hurts to try.”
I trailed down the hall in Buddy’s wake. He held an empty box in each hand, and cursed each time he banged them into the walls, which was often. Rounding the corner, I nearly collided with him again when he stopped before an open door.
A tall, handsome man with dark hair slicked back on the sides and pulled forward a bit over his forehead—reminiscent of Elvis—stood behind a desk littered with piles of files and a jumble of office materials: a tape dispenser, rubber bands, a stapler, boxes of paper clips, pens and pencils, sticky note pads, paperweights, a calculator, CDs, and who knows what else. It looked as if he’d taken out a desk drawer and simply upended it over his desk.
“I can’t find the key to the other file cabinet,” he complained. “Did Eddy go home?”
“Gone at the stroke of five,” Buddy told him, flinging the empty boxes to one side of the room.
“She knew we were moving the office tonight. Where could she have put it? I don’t want to start again in the morning. I want everything in place, and it will be in place if it takes all night. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Buddy said with a mock salute. “I’ll check her desk.” He turned and saw me. “Oh, by the way, this lovely lady came to see you. This is Mr. Whitson.”
“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, moving around Buddy and extending my hand to his boss, who took the tips of my fingers as if afraid I might contaminate him. “It’s a pleasure. I can see I’m getting you at a difficult moment, but I was hoping you might give me a few minutes of your time.”
“She’s a songwriter,” Buddy said as he left the room.
“Well, that isn’t quite accurate,” I began.
Mr. Whitson came from behind his desk and took my elbow. “Ms. Fletcher, as you can see, I really don’t have any time to spare.” He steered me toward the door.
“But it’s terribly important. A young woman’s life is at stake, and—”
“I’ve heard that before. If you’d like to make an appointment tomorrow, I’m sure we can work something out.”
“But, Mr. Whitson, I don’t want to talk to you about songwriting. Actually, I wanted to ask you some questions about your partner.”
“Of course you do. Call Ms. Anderson. She handles the press. She’ll be very helpful, I’m sure.”
“Mr. Whitson, it’s not what you think.”
“It never is. Goodbye, Ms. Fletcher.” He pushed me into the hall and closed the door. I heard the snick of a lock.
Well, I thought, that was quite the bum’s rush. I haven’t been thrown out of an office in some time now. I was tempted to pound on Whitson’s door and tell him I’d be back, but of course I didn’t. Instead, I tugged at the hem of my jacket, smoothed down my hair, straightened the strap of my bag on my shoulder, and retraced my steps to the elevator. At least I had a dinner date with someone who did want to talk to me.
Chapter Eleven
I was tempted to take a nap when I got back to my room at the hotel. I was feeling jet-lagged although there’s only a one-hour time difference between Nashville and Cabot Cove. Maybe “travel-tired” is a better way to describe it. But I knew that if I fell asleep, I’d be groggy when it was time to meet Washburn. Instead, I took a quick shower, relying on it to wake me up, dressed in an outfit that I felt would be appropriate for any restaurant setting, and was waiting for him in the lobby when he arrived.
The restaurant was only a short ride from the hotel, in an old, three-story brick building on Broadway. A sign announced that it was called Merchants.
We passed through an attractive grill downstairs and were escorted to a second-floor dining room, where a pianist played show tunes on a small, white grand piano. Our ta
ble was nicely set on a sparkling white tablecloth. Jamal ordered a perfect Manhattan; I opted for a glass of house white wine.
Our waiter left us menus and a sheet recounting the history of the building before it was a restaurant and during the time when lower Broadway was not the flourishing neighborhood it is now.
Built around 1870, it originally housed various businesses, including a drug company that advertised “blood medicine,” a concoction of alcohol and opium. A pharmacy on the first floor dispensed ice cream sodas, which contained, among other things, cocaine.
When a hotel was added in 1892, Nashville was booming. Steamboat trade on the Cumberland River opened up the town to a post-Civil War prosperity, providing plenty of customers for Merchants Hotel, who paid twenty-five cents for a night’s lodging, and twenty-five cents for a meal. With the launch of the Grand Ole Opry at the Ryman Auditorium across the street, all the greats of country-and-western music stayed at the Merchants Hotel—Roy Acuff, Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, and Hank Williams, to name a few. Will Rogers often stayed there; so did Wild Bill Hickok and the James boys (one of them shot someone dead outside).
The hotel deteriorated. During the Roaring Twenties, it became a speakeasy, one of Al Capone’s places. It became a brothel in the 1940s and a “dive bar” in the seventies. The building was about to be demolished in the 1980s, but the owner of the current restaurant, Ed Stolman, and the Nashville Arts Commission saved it by arranging for it to be listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Stolman opened the restaurant in 1988, a time when lower Broadway wasn’t an especially nice, peaceful neighborhood. All that has changed now, and it’s become the core of Nashville’s vibrant nightlife scene.
“I latched on to this place while I was a student at Vanderbilt,” Jamal said with a chuckle. “Of course, I couldn’t afford to come here very often, but I always liked it. I’m not a big fan of down-home Southern cooking. This place is more straight ahead.”
“I’m sure I’ll like it,” I said.
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