by Vicki Vass
“Ladies, are you all right?”
“No, no, we’re not,” said CC.
After the police left, Anne and CC sipped their tea in the lobby. When they had finished their tea, Bradley escorted them up to their suite. The hotel had upgraded them to compensate for their ordeal. There were fresh cookies and chocolates from the turndown service. Bradley ran a bath for Anne. As she soaked in the tub with classical music wafting over her, she inhaled the scent of burning sandalwood candles. The spicy fragrance relaxed her. She slid down the edge of the tub until her nose was just above the lavender-scented water.
While Anne bathed, CC sat at the writing desk, opening her iPad mini to review her photo gallery, trying to find a good photo for her blog. She wanted to keep her mind off the attack. There were plenty of shots from the Tobacco Barn, the Smoky Mountains and the Cherokee village. When she reached the end of the gallery, she stared at photos from the Naperville Last Fling. It made her sad thinking of the young Dave Southwell on the album cover she’d just purchased and remembering seeing the dead Dave Southwell on the stage. The last photo in the Naperville file was Roger’s arm knocking down her camera. She enlarged the photo and saw a tattoo peeking around his elbow. It was a quarter note. As she enlarged it further, she could see there was something in the center of the note but she couldn’t make it out. She ran to her bag and pulled out the Dave Southwell EP. On the back cover, the engineer’s arm in the photo bore the same tattoo.
CC tapped on the bathroom door. “Anne, come out; I have to show you something.”
Anne ignored her as she hummed along with Schubert’s Fifth. She was thinking about Nigel. His British accent gave way to the beat of war drums. She thought about John Blackbear and slid her face under the water. Finally, Anne pulled herself out of the tub and put on the soft fleece bathrobe. She thought she could get used to living here. She liked being pampered.
She opened the door, stepping back into the room. “CC, I was trying to relax.”
“Anne, you didn’t hear me. Look at this. Dave Southwell’s roadie Roger has the same tattoo as the sound engineer in this photo on the album I bought.” CC handed Anne the album and her iPhone.
“So?” Anne sat down on the couch. “This is Nashville. I’m sure lots of people have music tattoos.”
“Look closer. You can see a face in the note,” CC said, pointing at both pictures again.
“So what?” Anne said, picking at the bonbons on the bed. “They both worked with Dave Southwell.”
“Yeah, and Dave Southwell’s dead,” CC said. It might not be Pulitzer-worthy but she had sunk her teeth into a story and couldn’t let it go.
“If you want to find out more, we can check out the two tattoo parlors on Broadway. I saw them when I was shopping earlier,” Anne said, reaching for the fresh chocolate cookies. She took a nibble.
CC stared at the picture of Dave Southwell, rising country star, lead guitarist, singer, Nashville hunk––and now ghost.
Chapter Fifteen
The next day, they walked the now familiar three blocks from the Hermitage Hotel to Broadway. It was still early in the morning, and the streets were deserted. A street sweeper cleaned the debris from the night before. The Open sign in the 24-hour tattoo parlor window was flickering. CC opened the door. Taking out her handkerchief, Anne held the doorknob and closed it behind her. A young girl in short Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots decorated with sequined, brown crosses, sat in the barber-like tattoo chair. The tattoo artist was finishing the pink hummingbird tattoo on her shoulder.
He looked up at them and said, “I’ll be right with you.”
CC sat down in one of the chairs and watched him work. While she did not have any tattoos, she admired the art form. She turned to Anne and said, “He’s really good. That hummingbird appears to be flying off her shoulder. It’s almost 3D.” CC stood up and stared at the images on the walls. “I wonder what kind of tattoo I would get.” Nothing struck her fancy.
When the artist finished the girl’s shoulder, she admired it in the mirror before paying him.
“Where’d you get those boots?” Anne asked the girl as she reached for the door handle.
“Down at Boot Barn. They were on sale.” The girl smiled at Anne, before walking out the door.
“What would you like?” The artist handed them a black binder, which held pictures of tattoos encased in plastic sleeves.
CC skimmed through the book. She didn’t see anything similar to the quarter note tattoo. She opened the photo gallery on her iPhone and showed him Roger’s arm with the tattoo.
“I can draw something up like that.”
“I can’t make out the image on the quarter note,” CC said.
The tattoo artist peered at the photo again. “I recognize that sleeve. It was an artist at the Rising Phoenix. I trained under him. That image in the note is a face.”
“Whose face?”
He handed her back her phone. “I don’t know.”
“Whose the artist?” CC stuck the phone back in her backpack. “I’d like to know who to ask for when I go to the Phoenix.”
“You can’t. The Phoenix closed years ago. I don’t know what happened to the artist.”
Anne sat down in the tattoo chair. “I think I’d like something like an antique silver spoon.” Found at a sale last year, it was one of Anne’s most prized possessions.
CC shot her a withering look. “Not now, Anne, not now.” She turned back to the tattoo artist. “Thanks for your help.”
She pulled Anne out the door. Anne followed CC on the trek back to the hotel, planning her visit to Boot Barn later.
At the hotel, they retrieved the VW. “Betsy texted me about a music studio that’s closed. She wants us to check it out.” CC put the address in the GPS. It guided them to an industrial area that was surrounded by abandoned warehouses and factories. They pulled in front of the studio; the sign was falling off the brick front. It read West End Studios.
“Hey, Anne, this is where Dave Southwell recorded the album we bought,” CC said, growing excited. She could feel the Pulitzer growing closer.
Anne couldn’t imagine anything worthwhile inside. The building was dilapidated. It had been hit hard by the 2010 Nashville flood. The wooden door was warped, and the blue paint was peeling off. CC knocked and the door swung open by itself. The smell of mildew assaulted their nostrils.
On the floor was a crumpled up bright yellow condemned notice. “CC, do you think it’s safe to be in here?” Anne asked.
“It’s fine. Betsy wouldn’t send us here if it wasn’t safe,” CC said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Anne said, thinking about the china. Then she shook it off.
“The building’s empty. It’s going to be demolished. Betsy said that if we find anything, we can take it. Steven’s company owns the property.” CC paused a minute. “It’s another part of history being torn down. This studio was a legend back in the day. And now, they’re making room for multi-million dollar studios. The past is being torn down to make room for the future.”
Anne tentatively took a step as CC reached up and pulled the string on the hanging light bulb. It didn’t turn on. She made her way to the boarded up window and pulled on one of the 2 x 4 planks. “Give me a hand,” she said.
Anne looked around the room and picked up a microphone stand. They pried off the window planks, releasing light into the room. Dust and mice scattered everywhere.
The front office of the studio held a reception desk, stacked high with papers and albums. The small 10 by 10 foot room was filled with microphone stands and old broken amplifiers.
“Anne, I think some of these old guitar amplifiers could be restored. That’s a 1965 Fender blackface twin. It looks like it might have had some water damage but it’s salvageable. Look at these mic stands. These are original, probably dating back to the 30s and 40s. They’re rusty but we can clean them up.”
Anne walked over to the corner. There was a mahogany sheet music cabinet.
It had its original hardware but the Bakelite handle had been replaced with a mother of pearl knob shaped like a guitar. “I think this would be perfect for Steven’s music room,” Anne said. She’d even like it for herself.
She moved the cabinet back from the wall to check for the manufacturer’s label. Behind it, leaning up against the wall was an old, tattered guitar case. The brass buckles were tarnished and worn away; the black covering was frayed. There were stickers from local bars––past and present. She unbuckled the case. The smell of moldy velvet hit her. She backed up for a second before gathering it up and bringing it outside to the fresh air. Its orange velvet lining showed marks from where the guitar had once been. Darn, I was hoping the guitar would still be here, Anne said to herself. She opened up the storage compartment. There was a blue leather guitar strap, some crumpled up paper and a cassette tape. “This is interesting,” she said out loud. She left the guitar case outside and went back into the studio.
Hmm, I wonder where CC is, Anne thought, tiptoeing around the debris scattered across the floor. She felt something under her foot. Looking down, she saw an orange prescription bottle. She picked it up.
CC opened the glass door into the control room. She was disappointed to see that the mixing board was already gone. The reel to reels and tapes were missing as well. The recording room was emptied out except for the egg crate Styrofoam stapled to the walls. A moldy Persian rug was on the floor. Sound cables, guitar cords and beer cans were piled up on top of it. The ceiling was rotted through, and rain, which had started again, was pouring through. That’s when she saw the cowboy boots sticking out from under the desk like the wicked witch except there were no munchkins around.
“Anne!” CC yelled.
Shoving the prescription bottle into her pocket, Anne ran into the room. She saw the man lying face down in a puddle. He had been dead for a while.
Anne ran out into the rain. Nashville wasn’t working for her. She was ready to head home. CC followed her out. “CC, I’m done. I’m out of here. Last night and now this. Someone doesn’t want us here,” Anne said, stumbling over the guitar case.
“Anne, we’re not going to be safe anywhere until we find out who that someone is.” CC put her arm around her friend to comfort her.
Anne called Nigel. He arrived before the police and took Anne in his arms. He rocked her. He was a very good Woody, she thought, a hero, a real cowboy. She was tired of playing cowboys and Indians. She kissed him. “Anne, I’m taking you and CC back home. I’ll handle the Nashville police,” Nigel said. “It’s not safe for you to be here anymore.”
Nigel said everything Anne wanted to hear. All she wanted was to be home with her fat, white Persian, checking out estate sales online, watching eBay, listening to Meet the Press and making tea in Aunt Sybil’s copper kettle. “Aunt Sybil?” she said out loud to Nigel’s surprise. “I came here on a mission, a mission to rescue orphaned artifacts. To find homes for needful things. Aunt Sybil taught me to appreciate antiques for their beauty and for their history. I came here to do a job, and I’m going to finish it.”
Nigel escorted them to the VW.
“Wait!” Anne said, pulling away. She grabbed the soaked guitar case, drained it and threw it in the back of the bus.
A short drive later, the cowboy, the chemist and the journalist sat together in the Nashville police station. “Trouble seems to follow you two around,” Detective Clark said as he took their statements. He had been on duty the night before and had had the pleasure of interviewing the Spoon Sisters after the attack in the alley. “What were you doing at West End Studios today?”
“We were there to see if there was anything left to salvage for our client,” CC said.
“We’re antique hunters,’ Anne interjected.
The police officer was not impressed. “That building is condemned. Everything of value has been removed. It’s being torn down next week. Why would you go there?”
“Our client, Betsy Buttersworth, hired us to decorate her fiancée’s house, and she overheard him talking about the studio and how items might still be left there. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“Who’s her fiancé?”
“Steven Kendall.”
Detective Clark appeared surprised. “You mean of Kendall Enterprises?”
Anne chirped up. “Yes, that’s him.”
Nigel put a hand on Anne’s shoulder, interrupting her, “I’m Nigel Towers with the Chicago Police Department. These ladies are friends of mine. They helped me solve a very important case. I can vouch for them. You can contact my captain who can vouch for them also. Everything they are saying is true.”
“I’ll make some calls, and we’ll verify. In the meantime, don’t leave town. I may have additional questions,” Detective Clark said, handing them a card with his phone number on it.
Nigel left the police station with Anne and CC. It was pouring rain again. They walked over to CC’s VW. “You two head back to the hotel. I’m going to stay here and make sure everything is cleared up,” he said, opening the door for Anne.
“Thanks, Nigel,” Anne said.
CC started the VW.
“What do we do now? What’s our next step?” Anne said.
“I think we need to talk to Steven Kendall.”
They headed to the downtown office of Kendall Enterprises, located in a large steel building on Music Row. They walked through the revolving door and up to the receptionist. “We’d like to see Steven Kendall,” CC said.
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but he’ll see us,” Anne said. “We’re friends of his fiancée, Betsy Buttersworth.”
They sat down on the white leather couch, watching the beehive of activity. On the wall were pictures of country stars, authors, shopping malls, office buildings and hotels––a conglomerate of Kendall Enterprises’ vast holdings. A short while later, Steven Kendall’s assistant, a beautiful young brunette in a pencil skirt and silk blouse, walked over to Anne and CC.
“Steve said I should bring you up to his office. Follow me, please,” she said.
Steven’s office encompassed the entire twenty-second floor. The perky assistant opened the large double oak doors and ushered them into his office. “Mr. Kendall, they’re here.”
Anne wondered if she could ask the assistant where she got her blouse.
“Anne, CC, come in. What brings you to Nashville?” Steven Kendall put down the files in his hand, walking over to them. In his early fifties, he was distinguished with silver hair, a wide face and a chiseled jaw. He reminded CC of Betsy’s second, no third, husband, old enough to keep her in comfort but young enough to keep her happy.
“We’re doing some antique hunting for a client.”
Steven smiled. “I know Betsy is planning to surprise me by decorating the coach house. We can keep that between us for now.” His warm smile put both women at ease. He motioned for them to sit on one of the couches as he sat on the opposite one. His office had a southeastern motif with Native American artifacts. The dream catcher that hung next to the stainless fireplace was adorned with eagle feathers. Anne thought of John Blackbear and smiled.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Steven asked.
Anne was about to open her mouth, but CC spoke first. “I’m sure you heard about West End Studios.”
Steven’s smile turned sour. “Yes, the police contacted me. My attorney had told Mr. Walters that he had to leave the premises after it was condemned. I had no idea he was still living there.” Steven paused, and then said, “It must have been terrifying for you to find him like that.”
“Yes, it was.” Anne said with a little shiver.
“Walters? L. Walters?” CC asked.
“Yes, he owned West End Studios.” Steven crossed his legs, one over another. “The flood bankrupted him. I bought the building, hoping that the money would help him get a new start. Walters was a respected engineer at one time. He will be missed by many.” Steven sipped his coffee. “Are you going ba
ck to Chicago now?”
“We have more antique hunting to do,” Anne said.
“Let me make it easy for you. I’ve got a lot of connections and I can give you an idea of what I like.” He went to his desk and scribbled down some addresses and names. “You don’t have to let Betsy know how you found these. Let her have her surprise.”
Anne and CC thanked him and left. They sat in the VW bus, staring out the window. “Does it ever not rain in Nashville?” Anne asked.
She reached into her large orange Prada bag and pulled out some of the pages from the journal. “CC, I was reading this last night when I was in the tub.” She read from Private Bement’s journal, “As a private in the army, I was called upon in the relocation efforts to move the Cherokee from their home. Some attorneys argued to allow the Cherokee to remain in North Carolina. The friends I have made in the Oconfultee tribe of the Cherokee have been allowed to settle on a small reservation. There are many North Carolinians who are angered by this decision. I fear for my Cherokee friends. I fear what retribution may befall them.” Anne paused as she reached into her large orange Prada bag to retrieve the rest of the journal. “I can’t find where the next page of the story is. I’m going to have to sit down and put all the pages in order.”
Anne put her bag behind her in the passenger seat and stared at the guitar case. She climbed over the seat and headed to the back.
“What are you doing?” CC asked.
“I want to show you something.” Anne opened the case and took out the crumpled sheet music.
CC took the sheets of music from Anne and looked it over. “Most of these are ruined from the flood.”
“This one is in very good condition. It was protected inside the compartment in the guitar case.” Anne pulled out a piece of paper scribbled with musical notes. “There’s a signature on the bottom.”
CC took the pages from her. “This is all handwritten. I can’t make out the name at the bottom. It’s pretty badly smeared.” CC thought for a moment. “I wonder what song this is,” she said. “Brent’s at the Bluebird tomorrow. Maybe he can play it for us.”
