Nashville Noir

by Jessica Fletcher

  I changed into a favorite soft, comfortable, pale blue two-piece pantsuit and rejoined Cyndi. She’d stopped playing and had turned on the large, flat-screen TV on which a country music singer was performing.

  “Country music certainly is popular,” I commented, joining her on the couch.

  “I wonder if I’ll ever end up on TV singing my songs,” she said to no one.

  “Let’s assume that you will, Cyndi. You have to think positive at a time like this.”

  We consulted the room service menu and I called in our selections. Cyndi picked at her food, leaving half of it uneaten. We kept the country-and-western music channel on during dinner, which covered frequent lulls in our conversation.

  “I’m going to Roderick Marker’s memorial service tomorrow morning,” I said when we’d retreated again to the couch. “And I’ll stop by Mrs. Granger’s to see if I can pick up what things of yours are still there.”

  “I feel bad for Mr. Marker and his family,” she said, “even though he broke his promises.”

  “Your friend Wally told me that he encouraged you to go to the police. Why didn’t you listen to him?”

  “He said that?”

  I nodded.

  “He never said that to me.”

  I covered my surprise. Had I misinterpreted what Wally said? I thought over our conversation. No, he was very clear. His words to me were “I tried to convince her to go see the cops.”

  “What else did he say?” Cyndi asked.

  “Well—he said that your audition at the Bluebird Café went well. They want to book you.”

  It was as though I’d punched her. She squeezed her eyes shut and doubled over.

  “I’m sure they’ll still want you when this whole legal mess has been straightened out,” I said.

  “The Bluebird,” she moaned, sitting up, her eyes moist. “Do you know what a gig at the Bluebird means, Mrs. Fletcher? It’s like . . . it’s where . . .” She groped for words. “It’s such an honor, and great things can happen to a singer who gets to perform at the Bluebird. People have gotten record deals after playing at the Bluebird.”

  “So I’ve heard. But as I said, they’ll still be there when you’re free to take that job. Or I should say gig.” I quickly changed the subject. “Tell me about friends you’ve made here other than Wally Brolin.”

  “I haven’t been here that long,” she replied. “I met some great people at NSAI.”

  “The Nashville Songwriters Association.”

  “Yes. Everybody there really wants to help young songwriters.”

  “What about the other boarders at Mrs. Granger’s? Alicia?”

  “Oh, her,” she said in a dismissive voice.

  “You don’t sound very positive about her.”

  “Alicia is okay, I guess, but she’s not really a friend. She likes to play at knowing a lot more than you do. Look what she did to my hair.” She pushed her hand into the pile of curls and made a face. “Plus, she has what my mother would call an ‘active imagination.’ ”

  “You mean she lies?”

  Cyndi shrugged. “I didn’t want to say that.”

  “Hard to be friends with someone who lies,” I said. “Did you go out together, double-date, things like that?”

  “I haven’t had any dates since I’ve been here,” she said through a small laugh. “That’s been the last thing on my mind.”

  “I just thought that you and Wally might have been dating.”

  “No, nothing like that. He’s just a good friend who has my best interests at heart. Besides, he has girlfriends.”

  “Plural?”

  She nodded.

  “Did he warn you at all about Roderick Marker? He said he had a bad reputation with young girls, and also told me he knew musicians who hadn’t been paid, at least in a timely fashion.”

  She got up, went to the window, and stared through it. I joined her and placed an arm over her shoulder. She turned to face me and said, “He kind of did. And Alicia did, too. She told me not to be in a room alone with Marker if I could help it, that he was a notorious womanizer. I thought she was jealous that I knew him and she didn’t. I thought she was just trying to scare me off.”

  Alicia’s advice to Cyndi made me wonder if indeed the young woman was simply parroting what she’d heard about Marker’s reputation. Or had she learned about his inclinations from firsthand experience?

  “In any case, I didn’t pay any attention to what either of them said. If I had, I’d never have been at his office after hours, and I’d never have walked in on . . . on . . . What a mess I’ve made of things.”

  “I agree that you’re in a mess, Cyndi, but it wasn’t your doing. Have you called your mother or sisters?”

  She lowered her head and slowly shook it.

  “Let’s remedy that right now,” I said, leading her to the phone, where I dialed Seth’s number. When he answered, I put Cyndi on. She asked about her mother, was reassured that she would be all right and would be coming home from the hospital in a few days, and was given the number of a direct line to Janet’s room. I went back into my bedroom to afford her privacy, but could hear what sounded from Cyndi’s end like a tearful, then cheerful conversation. Her sisters were at the hospital, too, and the girls chatted for almost a half hour. When I heard silence from the living room, I returned. Cyndi’s mood had brightened considerably.

  “Feel better?” I said.

  “Much. I’ve been so stupid avoiding calling. Thanks for getting me to do it.”

  A few minutes later, I picked up the ringing phone.

  “Jessica Fletcher? This is Brian Krupp of the Tennessean .”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Krupp. What can I do for you?”

  “I understand that you’ve joined Cyndi Gabriel’s legal defense team.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve joined it, Mr. Krupp. It’s more a matter of—”

  “It’s unusual having a murder mystery writer helping defend an accused murderer in court, isn’t it?”

  I glanced over at Cyndi, who’d picked up her guitar and softly strummed it.

  “Mr. Krupp, I appreciate that you have your job to do as a reporter, but I don’t think that it’s appropriate for me to comment on an ongoing case.”

  “Suit yourself, Mrs. Fletcher, but I really would appreciate being able to ask you a few questions about your connection with the accused. I’ve already spoken to people in Cabot Cove so I know all about that association you have there that sent her to Nashville, and how you’ve come here to help her out.”

  I was tempted to ask to whom he’d spoken back home but didn’t want to prolong the conversation.

  “Do you believe she’s innocent?” he asked.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Rod Marker was an important part of the music scene here, Mrs. Fletcher. This story won’t go away anytime soon.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Krupp, but I really must go. Someone is—someone is waiting for me.”

  “If you play ball with me, maybe I can help you. Can we get together? Buy you dinner, lunch, whatever?”

  “I really don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said.

  “Thank you for calling.”

  “Okay,” he said, “but I hope you enjoy my piece in tomorrow’s paper. Have a good night.”

  His call ensured that the night would be anything but “good.”

  Much of the night had been spent listening to Cyndi play and sing some of her compositions. That she was a talented young lady was beyond debate, but then I already knew that from hearing her perform back in Cabot Cove. She shared with me her turmoil over not being able to pursue her career in Nashville aggressively because of this unfortunate, tragic event that had intruded into her life. I had the feeling she didn’t have a firm grasp on how precarious her future actually was. I kept reminding myself that I was there to prevent an innocent woman from being convicted and sent to jail for a crime she hadn’t committed, and therefore it was imperative that I remain optimi
stic.

  The following morning, I walked from our hotel to where the memorial service was being held for Roderick Marker at the national historical landmark and Mother Church of Country Music—the Ryman Auditorium. Perhaps the most famous home of the Grand Ole Opry until it moved to its custom-built quarters on the outskirts of Nashville at Opryland USA, the Ryman first opened its doors in 1892. A beautiful redbrick and white stone building, it had been constructed by a riverboat captain, Thomas Ryman, as a tabernacle for one of the early revivalists, Sam Jones. As a consequence, the elegant auditorium includes pew seating and stained-glass windows, an appropriate backdrop for those mourning the passing of Roderick Marker, who’d spent his life developing country stars with ambitions to perform at the Ryman.

  An usher handed me a program as I entered the hall, and I walked down the aisle. There were too many attending Marker’s service to hold the ceremony on the stage, but far too few to fill the seats of the main floor, much less the balcony. The four sections in the front had been left open, but the eight sections in the rear had been roped off to ensure the seats closest to the stage were filled before any additional rows were released.

  I took a seat on the aisle in the last row and studied the program, which included a history of the auditorium. Marker’s was hardly the first memorial service the Ryman had hosted. A full house, more than two thousand people, had turned out for the funeral of Bill Monroe, hailed as the father of bluegrass. And Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, and Tammy Wynette had been memorialized there, among many others. With acoustics second only to the home of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in Salt Lake City, Utah, Nashville’s Ryman had been voted among the top five places to hear live music in America in a national poll conducted by Citysearch.com. There wasn’t any live music at the moment, but a recording of a female country music singer wafted over the hushed conversational buzz in the room.

  I stood when someone asked to sit in my row and was surprised to find Detective Biddle taking the seat next to mine.

  “You’re quite the celebrity,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “This morning’s paper. Nice picture of you.”

  “I haven’t seen it.”

  “Looks like it might have been taken a few years back.” I laughed softly. “You certainly know how to compliment a woman, Detective.”

  “Just an observation. The article says you’re here in Nashville snooping around to find Marker’s real killer.”

  “That’s quite an assumption on the part of the reporter who wrote the piece. But I would like to find out who murdered Mr. Marker, as I’m sure you would. I don’t believe for a moment it was Cyndi Gabriel.”

  Biddle didn’t rise to my bait and I directed my attention to the area in front of the stage, where a small, somber group had gathered.

  “Is that Mr. Marker’s wife?” I asked, referring to a striking woman dressed in a snug black sheath, with a large gold and diamond broach on her shoulder. Her platinum-blond hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, exposing earrings to match her pin, and she wore a pillbox hat with a dotted veil that covered half her face. Even through the veil, I could see that she was carefully made up including pale pink lipstick, which gave her a delicate and serious appearance. She carried a black snakeskin clutch and an embroidered handkerchief, edged in lace.

  “Yup, that’s her,” Biddle said. “The grieving widow.”

  I turned to him. “Are you suggesting that she isn’t grieving?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

  But of course he had.

  “Are you here because you’re grieving?” I asked.

  My question brought a smile to his lips. “Nope. Just figured I’d like to see the rest of the players in Marker’s life close up.”

  His response gave me a momentary glimmer of hope that he was, in fact, continuing to investigate the murder without having prematurely settled on Cyndi to the exclusion of others.

  He excused himself and walked to another part of the auditorium. I looked to my right and saw Buddy, Marker & Whitson’s jack-of-all-trades, standing alone in the aisle.

  I got up and greeted him. “Hello,” I said. “Remember me?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. How’d your meeting with Whitson go?”

  “About as you predicted.”

  “How come you’re here?” he asked.

  “Just paying my respects,” I said.

  “That’s funny, seeing as you never even met him.” He looked around as the seats began to fill. “But I guess there’s a lot of people here never met the guy.”

  “I imagine you’re right,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes and looked intently at me. “Hey, I saw your picture in the paper.”

  “Yes, I heard it was in this morning’s edition.”

  “I didn’t read the piece, but it was a nice picture.”

  “It was taken a while back.”

  After further scrutiny of me, he said, “Yeah, I guess it was.”

  “Who are the people up there at the front of the auditorium?” I asked. “I know that the blond woman is his wife.”

  “Madame Marker,” Buddy said, his brows rising and falling in an expression of disgust.

  I let it go and asked about a tall young man whom I judged to be in his early twenties.

  “Him? Jeremy, the wayward son, Marker’s kid from his first marriage. There was no love lost between him and his old man, or with Madame.”

  “How unfortunate,” I said.

  “Money never did buy happiness for anybody, that’s for sure.”

  “Which one is Eddy Anderson? Can you point her out to me?”

  “Eddy? Oh for goodness’ sake, there’s too many people down there for me to find one. She must be somewhere up front, and I’d better make myself seen. You didn’t come here just to make a contact, did you? I thought you were classier than that.”

  “No. Of course I didn’t,” I said, but he had already moved away, walking down the aisle toward the seats nearer the stage.

  Fifteen minutes later, the distinctly nonreligious service started. Whitson, whom I recognized from our brief encounter the other day, spoke about losing a treasured business partner—and dear friend. He introduced a young woman with a guitar, Sally Prentice, as “Rod’s brilliant pick as our next big country star.”

  Sally was a pretty blonde, but apparently unsure how to dress for a memorial service. She wore a full-length beaded gown in a teal green with a slit down the front revealing a blue lining, something more suitable for a concert, I thought, but perhaps in Nashville these things were done differently than in Cabot Cove. Of course, we didn’t have a theater or auditorium anywhere near the size of the Ryman. Maybe Sally’s choice in dress was acknowledging the historical importance of the venue rather than the purpose of the observance taking place. Whitson had set a standing microphone in front of her, and she played and sang “Amazing Grace,” with many in the audience humming along.

  I listened carefully, trying to gauge why Marker thought it was better for Sally to present Cyndi’s song rather than the singer/songwriter herself. In my admittedly biased view, Sally’s voice was pleasant, but not as distinctive as Cyndi’s, and I also thought that Cyndi’s looks were at least as appealing as Sally’s, who resembled every pretty face in the department store flyers that accompanied my Sunday newspaper.

  After Sally sang, a few people I didn’t know also weighed in with platitudes for the deceased. Marker’s wife, Marilyn, spoke for only a minute, citing the years of bliss they’d enjoyed together. The final speaker was the son, Jeremy. Without mentioning their relationship, he focused on his father’s devotion to business, his canny musical ear, and the hours he spent promoting his country music favorites. The implication was that the father had found little time for his son, whose talents, if any, lay elsewhere. Jeremy’s tone was matter-of-fact, at times bordering on belligerent. He finished reading off cards he’
d carried to the lectern and walked away from the others, his stride purposeful and with anger in each step.

  Outside, the crowd lingered as the principals climbed into waiting limousines. I was walking up the block toward Commerce Street when I heard someone call my name. It was Detective Biddle.

  “Hello again,” I said, tipping my head to the side.

  “Won’t hold you up. Figured we, you and me, could sit down sometime today and, I don’t know, maybe compare notes.”

  I thought for a moment before saying, “I’d like that very much, Detective. Yes, I would like to do that very much.”

  “I’ll be in the office from three on, Mrs. Fletcher. Swing by if you have a minute.”

  “You can count on my being there, Detective.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lynee Granger’s stereo was pumping out Reba McEntire’s “I’m Gonna Take That Mountain” at an earsplitting level when I knocked on her door.

  “Just go on in. She’ll never hear you,” said a young woman wearing a backpack, who rushed past me in the hall and bounded up the stairs, two at a time, before I had a chance to see what she looked like.

  I turned the knob, poked my head in, and called out, “Hello!”

  Mrs. Granger was vacuuming and singing along with the CD. Her dark hair was up in rollers, covered with a scarf tied behind her neck, and she had on the same pink kimono she’d worn the morning we’d first sat down to talk. I waited until she turned the vacuum cleaner in my direction, then waved to capture her attention. She motioned me in, clicked off the machine, and lowered the volume on Reba. “Sorry,” she said. “I get carried away when I’m listening to music.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I tried knocking. Sorry to disturb you, but I need the key to Cyndi’s room.”

  “Did you come to get her things?” she asked, crossing to the board on the wall that held keys to all the rooms. She lifted the one from the hook labeled “Tammy Wynette” and handed it to me.