by Vicki Vass
Chapter Sixteen
CC pulled the bus into the small parking lot in front of the Bluebird Café. The small storefront music venue was known worldwide for launching the careers of some of country music’s biggest stars. There was already a line out the door waiting to get in. CC maneuvered the VW into a tight parking space. Holding the door so it wouldn’t hit the car next to her, Anne slid out onto the pavement. They walked up to the door. The bouncer stopped them and said, “Sorry, we’re full. You can stand outside and listen.”
“We’re on the guest list,” Anne said as she poked her head inside the door.
After searching the guest list and finding CC’s name, he led them into the crowded space. It was small, and the chairs had been arranged in a circle around the little stage for Songwriter’s Night. Waitresses weaved through the crowd.
Brent was standing by the bar. He recognized them and walked over. “Hi, I’m glad you came. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having,” CC said.
Anne hesitated and thought. What sounded good? A margarita, a daiquiri? Then she said, “I’ll have a sea breeze.”
“I’ll be right back,” Brent said. He walked over to the small bar in the corner and then returned to them balancing two drinks. “I’m going on next,” he said.
CC smiled and watched Brent walk away. His jeans were tighter than what she’d remembered. She thought of a country song she’d heard some years ago. The line went something like, “I hate to see you leave but I love to watch you walk away.” They sat at the tiny table. CC was not a fan of the new country music. She preferred classic country like Hank Williams, Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn. She appreciated the simple structure of their songs and the storytelling.
Brent sat down on the stool on the small stage. He picked up his Gibson Hummingbird Acoustic and adjusted the mic. “How are ya’ll today? I’m Brent Wilkins. I’d like to play a song that was my dad’s favorite.” He played the old George Jones’ classic, “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” CC got chills. His beautiful baritone voice filled the crowded room. Brent finished his three songs and walked back over to their table.
“You were great,” CC said.
“Thank you. I’m playing at the Opry on Thursday night. I’d love to have you as my guest.” Brent sat down at the table with them.
Anne wondered if the invitation included her. It would give her a chance to wear her new red cowboy boots that she’d found at Boot Barn after they’d left the tattoo parlor. “Excuse me,” Anne said before walking away.
CC and Brent didn’t notice her leave. “That’s great, Brent. I’d love to hear more of your originals.” CC leaned on her elbows and stared at him. “We’ve got a favor to ask you. Is there a quiet place we can talk?”
“My house is ten minutes from here. It’s quiet.”
Anne returned from the washroom and sat back down. “What’s going on? What are you doing?” she asked when she saw CC standing up.
“We’re going back to Brent’s house.”
Anne looked around the room, scanning the standing-room only crowd. “We’ve got a table.” She checked her phone. “Plus, Nigel just texted me. I told him to come by.”
“Excuse me,” CC said to Brent. She grabbed Anne by the hand, pulling her into the corner. “Remember the whole point of coming tonight is to have Brent play the song for us.”
“Why don’t you go with Brent and have him play the song? I’ll wait here for Nigel. We’ll meet up later.”
CC agreed and left with Brent. Anne ordered another seabreeze and pulled out the journal pages. She was intrigued by the continuing saga of Private Bement. She began reading, “While the Cherokee have been granted permission to stay in North Carolina, the chief is still concerned for his people. I’ve grown very close to his daughter. I must confess my love to her, but I must keep it secret. I will meet her tonight during the ceremony of the new moon. I will tell her of my love and ask the chief for his permission for us to be wed. I fear that the townspeople will object––whites and Indians are not allowed to marry. I will take her across the Smoky Mountains into Tennessee to keep her safe.” Anne paused and said out loud to herself, “Ohmigod, it’s a love story.”
Chapter Seventeen
CC followed Brent to his little single-story house. He waited for her at the top of the steps on the porch. When she pulled up, he ran down the stairs and opened the car door. “Welcome.” He took her hand as she got out of the VW. She was enjoying his attention.
The inside of the house looked like Brent––simple, efficient. She liked it. The couch was old but in good condition. The guitars were on stands throughout the living room. The house smelled like guitar polish and coffee. Not unpleasant, CC thought.
She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. Brent plopped down next to her. He grabbed the guitar leaning up against the couch, a well-worn 1962 Martin tobacco sunburst. “This was my father’s guitar. He toured with members of the Grand Ole Opry.”
“Anne and I have tickets to see Thompson Square tomorrow. Holly Williams is opening for them. I loved her grandfather Hank. She’s amazing too. She tours with John Hiatt. I love John Hiatt.”
“My grandfather played with Hank Williams, Jr. He played backup to a lot of country legends. He played on the Opry stage, the original stage before the fire.”
As Brent spoke, CC realized for the first time in a long time that she had feelings for another man besides Tony. Maybe it was more lust than love but either way she was attracted to him. Maybe it was his tight jeans. Maybe it was his music. CC broke her trance. “Oh, Brent.” She reached into her purse, pulling out the crumpled papers. “We found this sheet music in a guitar case at West End Studios.”
Brent took a look and recognized the scrawled signature. “I haven’t seen that name in years.”
“You can read it? Is he famous?”
“To Nashville people he is. He was a songwriter in the early days of the Opry. He was a street musician. I guess you’d call him homeless. I used to hear my grandfather talk about him; he was really talented. His name was Clarence Riddle.” He put the sheet music onto the coffee table and picked up his guitar. Brent started playing a beautiful tapestry of sound. It was a haunting melody that felt familiar to CC.
“It’s beautiful,” CC said.
“It’s a simple chord progression but it’s really well written,” he said. “Where’d you say you found this?”
“At the West End Studios.” CC paused. “How come I’ve never heard of Clarence Riddle?”
“He disappeared back in the 1960s.”
Chapter Eighteen
Anne dug deep into her large orange Prada bag. A lot of the journal pages were missing. She skimmed through the uneven handwriting, searching for anything about the officer and his Cherokee bride. “I arrived at the ceremony of the new year too late. My Cherokee friends had been killed by masked cowards. My love was dead.” Anne stopped reading. Oh, no, this is so sad, she thought. Her eyes watered. She sipped her third sea breeze and then continued reading, “With her, dies my heart. The chief is mortally wounded. Right then, I swore my oath to avenge him and his daughter and his people. I will track these cowards down and justice will be delivered! The chief has entrusted me with his people’s greatest treasure––the seven-pointed crystal of the morning star that is used for the holiest of ceremonies.”
Anne stopped. She had to catch her breath. “He’s talking about the original crystal that John Blackbear said was lost,” she said out loud. Several people at the table next to her looked at Anne, sitting alone talking to herself. They inched their chairs slightly away from her. Anne downed her seabreeze and continued reading. All she could find in the remaining pages were more details of the killings.
The end of the journal––the last page––dated 1890, was hard to read. It was written in the shaky hand of an elderly man. “I lie on my deathbed with not many regrets. I’ve lived a good full life with a wife who was true. My son has g
rown to be a good Christian and has started his own family. I’ve watched Nashville grow from the small town I helped start into a thriving metropolis. My last words are ‘I’ve kept my promise to my Cherokee brothers. I killed the man who killed my true love.’”
Anne looked up. “He lived in Nashville. I wonder if there is any record of him or his family.” She walked out into the early evening air. The sun was setting. She dialed John Blackbear. “John, it’s Anne. I’ve got information about the morning star crystal.” As she spoke, the very tall and very British cowboy, Nigel Towers, appeared. Anne hung up the phone. “Nigel, it’s so exciting! This journal is really a love story and––guess what?––I’ve got a clue on where to find the crystal.”
Nigel listened politely not having a clue what she was talking about.
“I just told John Blackbear,” Anne said with a giddy smile.
“Who?”
Anne realized that she couldn’t put off this talk any longer. “You see, Nigel, I think you’re great. Sweet. Funny.”
“But . . .” Nigel interrupted.
“But I want us to be friends.” She put her hand on his arm. “We are friends.” Anne paused. “Just friends. I don’t want anything to change our friendship. You’re very dear to me. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, but I don’t have romantic feelings for you. I thought I did. You are so kind and funny and I love being with you. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s us. I don’t know but I can’t make you wait around while I figure it out.”
Nigel’s face turned crestfallen. His question mark stature as he had bent down to be close to Anne became an exclamation point to accent the crushing news. He took his cowboy hat off suddenly feeling silly. “Anne, can I drive you home?”
“Don’t you want to stay and hear the music? I have a table.”
“I don’t feel much like listening to music anymore.”
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, Anne awoke on her down-feathered custom-built five-diamond Hermitage luxury bed. At the sound of the room door opening, she looked over to the undisturbed queen bed next to hers. CC tip-toed into the room, closing the door quietly. Her walk of shame became a shuffle so as not to awake her friend. She took off the cowboy hat, revealing her disheveled soft brown hair. She was humming softly to herself.
Anne sat up in her bed, not wanting to ruin the show. She had never seen CC wear a cowboy hat.
CC’s sundress was half unzipped in the back and she was carrying her high heels. Anne pulled the blanket up over her head not wanting to see the rest. She giggled under the sheets and pretended she was sleeping.
It was late afternoon when CC finally woke up. Anne was sitting in a lounge chair reading through the journal papers trying to find more information on the lost crystal. Bradley, the wonderful concierge, was standing next to her, pressing the French press coffee pot and pouring her a fresh cup. Anne had decided the day after they had arrived at the Hermitage that this was the lifestyle to which she was entitled. Unfortunately, she’d been born a hundred years too late. She was now living her gilded age; the Hermitage was frozen in 1910s opulence and gentility. Anne craved both. She also craved breakfast. She had grown hungry waiting for CC to wake up.
CC rubbed her eyes. “Oh, hi, Bradley.”
“Ms. Muller, would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, that would be divine.”
Bradley poured a cup into the Royal Doulton china and served CC in bed. “Ladies, will there be anything else? Late breakfast, early lunch?” he asked.
Before Anne could answer, CC said, “This will be just fine, Bradley. Thank you.”
He exited through the door, carrying the silver coffee service.
After Bradley left, Anne said, “How’d things go at Brent’s last night?” She held back her grin.
“Brent played the song on the sheet music. He recognized the signature of the songwriter too––Clarence Riddle. He was a street musician in Nashville in the 1960s. Brent’s grandfather played with him when he was a budding songwriter.”
“Oh, yeah, the song. How was the song?” Anne asked, sipping her coffee that she’d filled with fresh cream and four sugar cubes.
“It’s a beautiful song. I can’t help but feel I’ve heard it somewhere before,” CC mused, sipping her coffee.
“Don’t all country songs kind of sound the same?” Anne posed the rhetorical question. “Oh, CC, I forgot to tell you. Exciting news! I finished reading the journal. It’s a love story. Well, a sad love story. Private Bement fell in love with the chief’s daughter. She was murdered during the new moon ceremony. Remember? John Blackbear was telling us about the ceremony. It seems the chief gave Private Bement the crystal for safekeeping. After his the princess was murdered, he tracked down and killed her killer. He wound up moving to Nashville and dying here in 1890. We have to track down what happened to the crystal.”
‘Let’s start with the archives at the Nashville Tennessean,” CC said. “We can look up information about Clarence Riddle and Private Bement.”
Chapter Twenty
The girls quickly dressed. The newspaper office was a few blocks away from the Hermitage. Bradley offered to walk with them and bring an umbrella in case it rained. “No, thank you,” CC said before Anne could accept his help. CC was starting to worry about the bill and how much Bradley would cost by the time Anne was done. Then she wondered if Anne would ever be done with him.
Arriving at the newspaper office, CC explained their mission to the receptionist who led them to a small conference room, which contained microfilm of the newspaper’s archives. CC scrolled through them until she came upon the papers from 1890. She scanned through, stopping when she found a brief obituary dated June 16, 1890. The obituary read, “Local business owner Randall Bement died of natural causes. He is survived by wife, Ada, and one son, Randall, Jr.” There was no mention of his estate.
“When did his wife die?” Anne asked.
CC scrolled through the film looking for mention of Ada Bement. She found it in a later paper from 1901. “Look, Anne. Ada’s obituary said she was survived by her son, Randall, Jr., who lives in North Carolina. It says here her estate will be handled by the firm of Goodlet and Sons.”
“CC, keep looking; there has to be an advertisement for the estate sale.”
Searching through the microfilm, CC found the advertisement in a paper from a few days later. In the ad, Goodlet and Sons announced the auction of the estate of Mrs. Randall Bement. Items highlighted included silver-plate, bone china and Indian artifacts.
“Indian artifacts? That’s it!” Anne exclaimed. “That’s it. It’s got to include the crystal.”
“We should look up Goodlet and Sons,” CC said, making a note. She Googled their name. The company was still in business, advertising that they were a fourth-generation antiques and collectibles dealer with a booth at the Gaslight Antiques Mall near Vanderbilt University.
“We have to go,” Anne insisted. “We can find antiques for Betsy. We can track down the crystal for John Blackbear.”
“Hang on, Anne. Let me look up Clarence Riddle.” CC returned the microfilm from the nineteenth century and pulled up the ones from the 1960s. She searched for anything related to the Opry. There were hundreds of photos and articles but no mention of Clarence Riddle. “Let me try Brent’s grandfather, Wilkins.”
“This is taking so long. Isn’t this all computerized?” Anne asked, thinking about getting to the Gaslight.
“I like looking this way. It’s original. Something could have been lost when they scanned it. Plus, I like the feel of the machine.” CC spun the dial of the microfilm like a seasoned slot machine player.
She finally came to a series of black and white photographs from 1968. There were several musicians standing outside the Ryman Auditorium. The caption read, “Hank Williams, Jr., Johnny Cash, Dickel Wilkins.” “Hey, that’s Brent’s grandfather!” CC could see the family resemblance. The fourth person was named Clarence Riddle. “That’s him!” The pictu
re was grainy but she now knew what Riddle looked like. He looked familiar but she couldn’t place the face.
Anne peered over CC’s shoulder. “Hey, that looks like my guitar case. Does it say anything more about him?”
“No, just his name. That’s it. There’s no other information.”
“Can we go now? Can we go to the Gaslight?” Anne had already looked at the antique store’s website for its hours. She had put the address into her Google maps. She was primed and ready for the hunt. She had the scent.
“Let’s get something to eat before we head there. I’m starving,” CC said as she returned the microfilm to the receptionist.
“Bradley packed us a lunch,” Anne said as they left the newspaper office. They sat on a wooden bench outside. Anne pulled two elegantly wrapped paper bags out of her Prada bag. Bradley had taken fresh-baked bread and precisely cut the crusts. Inside the bread was honey-cured ham with Gouda and an herb-infused mayonnaise. There were also linen napkins encased in bone china napkin rings and a small bottle of sparkling water. CC just stared. “I love Bradley,” Anne said. CC thought about the bill once again.
After lunch, they walked back to the Hermitage and retrieved the VW from the parking garage. Bradley had the valet wash it and placed two bottled waters in the cup holders. Anne fought the urge to hug and kiss him. CC worried her friend was getting spoiled. She would be even harder to live with after this Bradley treatment.
They followed the GPS, which led them to a Staples parking lot. “This is strange,” Anne said. “I think the address must be wrong.” She looked around and around, craning her head this way and that until she caught a glimpse of an old fashioned gaslight and a sign with an arrow pointing around the corner. “There it is!” she proclaimed with a sigh of relief.
