Nashville Noir

by Jessica Fletcher

  After our drinks were delivered and we’d had some idle conversation about Nashville and his favorite places in the city, I raised the subject of Cyndi Gabriel. “I didn’t have much time with her, and I have so many questions.”

  “I’ll be happy to answer the ones that I can, only you’ll have to respect the attorney-client privilege.”

  “Of course. But if Cyndi were to waive that privilege—”

  “That would change things.”

  “The police were looking for her for three nights and two days following the assault. I’m wondering if she was with this musician, Wally Brolin, the whole time. I assume you’ll be getting in touch with him.”

  “Soon as I can.”

  “I’d like to be with you when you visit him.”

  “Absolutely, partner.”

  I smiled. “From the looks of Cyndi’s room at Mrs. Granger’s house, it’s unlikely she returned there during the time she was missing. Somehow, I think that if she really meant to run, she would have found a way to take her guitar, if nothing else.”

  “What do you know about her claim that Marker had ripped off some of her songs?”

  “Just that,” I said. “Marker had arranged for this up-and-comer, Sally Prentice, to record a song that Cyndi was counting on performing herself. I don’t really know much beyond that.”

  “He took away her opportunity for stardom, huh? Makes for a strong motive, unfortunately. Explaining her running away is tricky, but the big problem may be the cease-and-desist letter with her signature on it that was found on Marker’s desk.”

  “Yes. Detective Biddle told me about that. Why is that a big problem?”

  “Tends to confirm that motive. Proves she was angry with the deceased, maybe angry enough to kill him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I have something to admit. I’m afraid I may have complicated things.”

  “How’s that?”

  I recounted for him Cyndi’s tearful call to her mother, my consultation with an entertainment lawyer, and the advice I’d tried to give. “I saw a draft of that letter in an envelope in her room,” I said. “The police have it, too. Even though we have to assume she was upset when she delivered the letter, she agreed to meet with him later to discuss it. That’s a good sign. You can make the case that she hoped that she and Marker would be able to come to some sort of agreement without her resorting to legal means.”

  “Or violent ones.”

  “I just don’t believe it’s in Cyndi’s nature to be a violent person.”

  “I happen to agree. I think that’s a fair assumption, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Jessica. After all, we are partners.”

  “Right, Jessica,” he said through a gentle laugh.

  “There’s something that’s puzzling me,” I said. “Maybe you can explain it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They say the fingerprints on the murder weapon match hers,” I said. “How could they have determined that before they arrested her? As far as I know, she’d never been fingerprinted before. What were they comparing the prints on the murder weapon to?”

  Jamal gave me a wry smile, and cocked his head. “Yeah, well, the police can be pretty cagey at times. From what I understand, during their initial questioning—before I was assigned to the case, I might add—they offered her a can of Coke. She was obviously nervous and dry-mouthed. So, of course, she accepted. Also, she’s pretty naive and wouldn’t have suspected anything. They took her prints off the can so they would have a set to compare to those on the murder weapon. When it came back positive, they made it official and arrested her.”

  “Sneaky,” I said, “but clever.”

  “Very. And perfectly legal.”

  “What happens now? Has she been arraigned?”

  “Tomorrow. Technically it’s called a jail docket,” Jamal said, “part of the General Sessions Court. I’ll ask for a reconsideration of her bail, but it’s unlikely the judge will grant it, not in a murder case. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “I’d like to be there, too.”

  A nod from the young attorney. “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” He took a sip of his drink and set the glass down. “I have something to ask you, Mrs. Fl . . . I mean, Jessica.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How long do you intend to stay around Nashville?”

  “I want to stay as long as it takes to see Cyndi walk free. I feel responsible for her being here in the first place.” I told him about CCC and how we’d raised the money for her to come to Nashville to pursue her dream.

  “That’s an admirable project, Jessica. It’s a shame it’s ended up like this.”

  “But that’s my whole point for being here, Jamal. I’m determined that it won’t end up this way. I can’t stay here months and months. I realize that’s unrealistic. But if we can learn enough to raise reasonable doubt in a potential jury, or better still, find out who really did kill Marker, we’ll have served Cyndi well.”

  “That’s for sure,” he said, opening his menu. “I hope you’re right for all concerned. Shall we order?”

  He steered me toward the Southern chicken cordon bleu, which the waiter indicated was breaded with pecans and stuffed with ham, Swiss cheese, and sage, sprinkled with a Dijon cream sauce, and served with sausage grit cakes and spinach. “I won’t be able to eat anything else for days,” I said, “but lunch was a long time ago and I’m hungry enough to eat a moose.”

  “I figure you’ll be busy enough to work it off,” he said, ordering Merchants’ meat loaf. “Comfort food,” he said with a laugh. “Got me through some tough law exams.”

  He offered to drive me to the court the following morning, but I declined. “I’m sure you have plenty to do,” I told him. “I’ll find my way there just fine.”

  His parting words as I got out of his car in front of the hotel were, “I’m glad you’re here, Jessica. You know the defendant well. You got her to answer a question that she wouldn’t answer for me. That was a positive development.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m hoping I can be of service.”

  “You already have. And believe me, in this case I can use all the help I can get.”

  Somehow, that didn’t sound terribly positive.

  Chapter Twelve

  I was forty-five minutes early for the General Sessions Court the next morning, but Jamal Washburn had beaten me there. He saw me walk through the door, got up from where he’d been sitting on a wooden bench outside the courtroom, and escorted me back outside.

  “I was hoping we’d have time before court convenes,” he said. “I have a suggestion to run past you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Getting a judge, especially Judge Grimes, to release someone charged with murder without bail is a stretch, a definite long shot. Usually, it’s the trial judge who hears pleas for reduced bail, but that will mean a long delay. I’m hoping we can present this judge with a creative reason for allowing Cyndi to go free without bond until her trial comes up.”

  “A creative reason?” I said.

  He smiled. “The law is pretty cut-and-dried,” he said, “but there’s always room for a little creative thinking. I asked around about Judge Grimes and was told that she’s a dedicated fan of murder mystery novels.”

  “That’s always good to hear.”

  “I’m sure she’s well aware of your stature as a writer.”

  “What are you getting at?” I asked.

  “There was a case a year or so ago where a young man charged with second-degree murder was released into the custody of his uncle, a well-known Tennessee businessman, no bail. The accused had to live at his uncle’s house, wear a monitor on his ankle, and wasn’t allowed to leave the house except for medical and court visits.”

  “Are you suggesting that—?”

  He nodded. “If you’d be willing to take responsibility for Cyndi here in Nashville, I might be able to persuade Judge
Grimes to release her into your custody, with the usual restrictions, of course.”

  “But I don’t have a home in Nashville.”

  “Home is a relative term. You are staying in a hotel. If you could arrange to keep her with you, it might fly.”

  “Oh, Jamal,” I said. “I just don’t see that working. Cyndi’s trial won’t be for months. I couldn’t possibly stay here that long. Certainly not in one room.”

  “I understand. But you did say that the key to saving Cyndi was to identify the real murderer. If we work on that together, it could only be days or weeks at the most. I did a little checking on you, too, Jessica. Your reputation precedes you, not only as a successful writer, but as someone who’s solved more than her fair share of real murders. I’m betting on you to do what you’ve done many times before, find out who killed Marker.”

  “It’s hardly a reputation I covet, Jamal. But what happens if we don’t find Mr. Marker’s murderer in days, or weeks?”

  “That’s a bridge we can cross when we get to it. The important thing is to get Cyndi out of prison. She’s a vulnerable kid. Prison can’t be good for her. If you have to leave, maybe the judge will allow her to stay at Mrs. Granger’s again. As I say, we’ll deal with that when we have to. Game?”

  I nodded, without conviction. Chances were that the judge wouldn’t go for this scheme anyway.

  “How about checking with the hotel to see if they have a two-bedroom suite available? It might help if the judge knows arrangements have already been nailed down.”

  I called the Renaissance Hotel, was told there were a few such suites available, and reported that to Washburn. As much as I wanted Cyndi released from jail, I wasn’t sure I was up to babysitting an emotional teenager, not to mention the time it would take away from any investigation.

  “If Judge Grimes even considers my plea, she’ll want to hear from you. Up for that?”

  “No, but let’s not let that stand in the way. I’ll do my best.”

  “Can’t ask for more than that.”

  Judge Candice Grimes was a no-nonsense woman with little patience for sob stories and less patience for bumbling attorneys. As we waited for Cyndi’s case to be called, the judge dispensed with several others, bringing her gavel down with a sharp crack as she set stiff amounts of bail and remanded prisoners back to jail. Not one to trust promises to show up in court without a monetary guarantee, Judge Grimes let no one out on their own recognizance, and chastised defense lawyers who tried to argue for a lower bond.

  Jamal and I sat in the back of the court until Cyndi and several other defendants were brought in by the marshals, and we moved up to the front row. As each case was called, the defendant rose, then sat as the judge and lawyers argued the merits of bail. Decision made, the gavel came down and the defendant shuffled out, escorted by a marshal.

  “The State of Tennessee versus Cindy Blaskowitz, aka Cyndi Gabriel. Accused is charged with murder in the second degree. How does your client plead, Mr. Washburn?”

  “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “I see you’re asking for her to be released on her own recognizance, Mr. Washburn.” The smirk on her face said volumes. “Does the prosecution have a comment on this?”

  “This is news to me, Your Honor,” the prosecutor, a rotund, red-faced, older gentleman said, the expression on his round face mirroring the judge’s. “Of course, considerin’ the charge, Judge, I don’t imagine this court would be comfortable havin’ a murderer runnin’ around loose in our fair city.”

  Judge Grimes picked up her gavel and was prepared to bring it down when Washburn spoke. “Your Honor,” he said, “I realize that asking for no bail for the defendant is unusual in such a case, but I also know that Your Honor has an open mind.”

  “Do I, Mr. Washburn?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been joined in my defense of the defendant by none other than Jessica Fletcher, an esteemed writer of bestselling murder mysteries and, I might add, a respected and upstanding member of the community from which the defendant has come. Mrs. Fletcher is here at her own expense because she believes, as I do, in the defendant’s innocence, believes in it to such an extent that she has offered to share a two-bedroom suite at the Renaissance Hotel with Ms. Gabriel, and to take full responsibility for her.”

  The judge lowered her chin and looked at me. “You are Jessica Fletcher?” she said.

  Washburn nudged me, and I stood. “Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

  “I love your books, Mrs. Fletcher,” Grimes said, “especially some of the more recent ones.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. That’s kind of you to say.”

  “Which is your favorite?”

  “That’s like asking a mother to pick out her favorite child,” I replied, smiling.

  The judge let out a belly laugh, drawing all eyes around us, and there was a discernible easing of tension in the court.

  Judge Grimes asked the prosecutor whether the defendant had any prior criminal history.

  “No, Your Honor, she does not, but that doesn’t mean that—”

  “I see that she’s eighteen years old,” the judge said.

  “That’s correct,” Washburn confirmed.

  “And you’re willing to take responsibility for the defendant, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  The words caught in my throat: “Yes, I am, Your Honor.”

  “Any final objections, Mr. Laidlow?” she asked the prosecutor.

  “I’ve plenty of ’em, Judge, but ah’ve got this feeling that you don’t want to hear ’em.”

  She smiled sweetly at him before saying, “The defendant will be released in the care of Jessica Fletcher, and will be sequestered in accommodations provided by Mrs. Fletcher at the Renaissance Hotel in Nashville. Defendant will be fitted with an ankle monitoring device and shall wear it at all times, except for showering. She shall not leave her quarters at the hotel except for medical emergencies, or for matters relating to her case. Any meetings with her court-appointed attorney shall take place at the hotel. Anything else?”

  Laidlow, the prosecutor, glared at Washburn, who returned a wide, victorious smile.

  Judge Grimes instructed Cyndi, Washburn, and me to meet with her in chambers. We were there almost an hour. During that time, she gave Cyndi a harsh reminder of what would happen to her if she violated any of her instructions. As we were leaving, she said to me, “I’ve always enjoyed your books, Mrs. Fletcher, and I’m also aware that you’ve ended up solving real crimes during your long and illustrious career. I hope you don’t mind me saying that you’ve taken on a huge responsibility with serious legal consequences should things go awry. I hope you know what you’re doing!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jamal Washburn and I drove from the courthouse to the jail, where Cyndi was processed out. Her personal belongings and clothing, which had been secured in a locked blue hang-up bag, were returned to her, and she handed over her two-piece prison uniform to the female officer in charge.

  “You get to keep the underwear and the shoes,” the officer told her, as Cyndi opened the door to the changing room.

  “I don’t think I’ll wear them again,” Cyndi said.

  “Suit yourself, but those are quality goods.”

  It was almost one that afternoon before we left the facility and drove to the hotel, where an assistant manager showed us to the suite they’d set aside for me. If he noticed Cyndi’s electronic ankle bracelet, which had been attached at the jail, his expression didn’t reveal it. My belongings had already been transferred to the new quarters and my clothing neatly tucked away in the dresser drawers of the room with a king-sized bed. Across the living room, what the assistant manager called “the parlor,” was the second bedroom, which Cyndi would occupy, a room with two queen beds. We each had our own bathroom.

  Cyndi had said little during our drive from the jail to the hotel, but once in the suite she perked up. “This is beautiful,” she said, taking in the airy living room, and walking to the h
uge windows that flooded the space with filtered sunlight through gossamer drapes. She parted the curtain and looked at the view of downtown Nashville. “But it’s too bad I won’t be able to go outside.” She leaned her forehead against the glass.

  “You heard the judge’s rules,” Washburn said. “Violate any one of them and you’ll be back in prison. I’m sure you don’t want that to happen, or for Mrs. Fletcher to end up in trouble with the law. She’s really sticking her neck out for you.”

  “I won’t break the rules. I promise,” she said, turning away from the view. “I know how lucky I am to have people like you supporting me, Mrs. Fletcher, and you, too, Mr. Washburn. How can I ever repay either of you?”

  “You can start by telling us about this friend of yours, Brolin,” I said.

  “Wally?” She brightened for a moment before a cloud descended over her features. “He won’t end up in trouble, will he?”

  “Is there a reason he should?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I guess not, except that he helped me. He’s such a good friend, a sweet guy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I said, “but we have to talk. How do we reach him?”

  “I know his cell number.”

  I wrote down the number she recited.

  “He’s a musician,” she said, “and keeps really late hours. He’s a good guitar player, better than some of the others who get the gigs because they play up to the producers and studios.”

  My assumption was that Cyndi was parroting what this Wally Brolin had told her.

  “We were going to cut some demos together.”

  “I’m sure you will once we get your legal situation cleared up.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number she’d given me.

  “I hope he won’t be angry that I told you about him,” Cyndi said. “Could he be arrested for harboring a felon?”

  “I doubt it,” I said, listening to a series of rings on the other end of the line. I was about to hang up, but a sleepy male voice stopped me. “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Brolin?”

  A loud yawn preceded, “Uh-huh. Who’s this?”

  I introduced myself and said I was calling on Cyndi Gabriel’s behalf, which injected a semblance of life into him. “Is Cyndi okay?” he asked.