by Vicki Vass
CC parked the bus and Anne jumped out of it. They entered the building. Anne immediately felt at home. She thought to herself, Nashville isn’t that bad. The antique store was on the second level. Portraits were displayed on the wall of the staircase. She could feel the eyes follow her as she made her ascent. Anne stopped to admire them. Then she continued her climb up the stairway to heaven. She stopped at the top to catch her breath. In a raspy voice, she said, “Treadmill.”
“What? What did you say?” CC asked.
Anne waved her off. “Nothing.” She scanned the row after row of cluttered antiques. This was definitely familiar territory. The first booths held enormous collections of jewelry, silver-plate and rare Rookwood pottery.
As she moved farther into the mall, she found themed booths. One booth held all music antiques. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a turn of the century music stand that had a twisted wrought iron base and a solid oak top. A brass bar used to hold the sheet music in place was absolutely gorgeous. “CC, come here. This would be great for Betsy,” Anne said, looking at the price tag.
In the same booth, there was a 1920s Zenith tabletop radio. There was a Gibson resonator guitar in excellent condition with mother of pearl fret inlays. “Look at this, CC.” Anne pointed out all the items, including an oil painting of some of the Grand Ole Opry stars. In a glass case, there was a signed letter from Johnny Cash to an old friend. The first paragraph was the actual lyrics to “I’ve been Everywhere.” “We have to buy this booth, CC,” Anne enthused.
“Anne, calm down; we don’t want them to know that we’re excited,” CC said.
“Oh, look! There’s an old cassette player. Let’s get that, too, so we can listen to the tape.” Anne pointed to a corner where the small cassette deck sat.
“What cassette tape?” CC asked.
“The one that was in the guitar case.”
The girls negotiated with the store manager to purchase the whole booth. They then continued browsing up and down the aisles. Anne wandered to whatever caught her fancy but was still careful not to miss anything. CC went in a more precise line. She found the Goodlet and Sons booth. It filled a whole corner of the room with a large black and white sign that read, “Goodlet and Sons, Fine Antiquities.” She called Anne over.
The booth contained all of Anne’s favorite things––fine china, silver and beautiful crystal. Anne’s eyes were drawn to a low art deco brass planter still with its original insert that matched the one that she carried in her purse, now for protection. It had served her well. She admired the gilded lady who adorned both sides and felt its heavy weight under her hand. This would have to be added to her personal collection.
Next she found a matching set of 1920 brass Viking book ends depicting ships at sea. She had been watching a similar set on eBay but these were in great condition and better priced. She picked those up, too. Her arm was starting to get heavy from the weight of her large bag. She looked around for help but couldn’t find any. She thought about calling Bradley, but CC would probably yell at her.
Just when she thought she’d seen every item in every nook and cranny, she saw something sparkle in the corner cabinet where the sunlight burst through the tempered glass skylight. She moved three large rolled-up oriental rugs that were leaning against a small curio cabinet. And there it was––unassuming, underpriced, perfect. The tag read simply, “Crystal, $5.” Anne picked up the seven-pointed morning star crystal. She closed her eyes; she imagined Private Bement under a full moon, his saber drawn fighting off masked marauders, defending his Indian princess. She felt the power of the morning star crystal that she was holding––the most sacred artifact of the Cherokee people. She felt John Blackbear’s strong arms around her. The rapid beating of her heart sounded like the beating of war drums in her head.
Chapter Twenty-one
CC pulled the VW in front of Brent’s house and parked on the street. He was sitting on the porch playing guitar. As they sauntered up the walkway, Anne whispered, “He is really cute.”
“Sshh,” CC said, balancing the cassette deck in her arms.
“Come on in.” Brent stood up and took the deck out from CC. He opened the door with his foot. CC walked in followed by Anne.
Anne looked around the small house. It was serviceable.
Brent set the cassette deck on his dining room table and grabbed two bookshelf speakers and a small power amp. After he was done setting everything up, CC handed him the cassette tape. He held it for a moment. “I haven’t seen one of these in a while. You found it in the guitar case with the sheet music?” He turned the cassette over in his hands; it said, “West End Studios” with the initials CR added. He took a pencil and unwound the tape, straightening out the tangles and then tightened it again. He put it in the tape deck, turned it on and sat down next to CC at the dining room table. They all stared at the tape deck as if they were watching a show on the television, waiting for something to happen.
The tape hissed and popped. After several seconds, they heard Clarence Riddle talking to Walter, the sound engineer.
“Walter, can you bring the guitar up a little louder in the headphones?” they heard.
“Will do, Clarence,” was the reply.
Then Clarence played “Young Hearts.” After three and a half minutes, the tape hissed and popped, then tangled and locked. Brent stopped the tape deck. Anne, CC and Brent stared at each other, not speaking. After what seemed like hours, Brent pulled the tape out and eyed it again. “This says 1968,” he said. “That’s almost 50 years before Dave Southwell wrote, recorded and performed his biggest hit song––that song.”
“Are you saying that Dave Southwell stole this song?” Anne asked.
“Yeah, note for note,” Brent said.
Chapter Twenty-two
Anne sat in the lobby of the Hermitage waiting for John Blackbear. Balancing a silver service, Bradley brought her tea and cookies. “It looks like another rainy day, Miss Hillstrom. Will you be leaving? Do you need an umbrella?”
“No, Bradley. I’m waiting for someone.” Anne picked up one of the sugar cookies.
“Can I bring you anything else?”
“It’s rather cold in here.”
Bradley smiled. “Yes, the joke is that if you’re in Nashville and you’re going to the movies, don’t forget your coat. We like to turn the air conditioning up to get rid of the humidity.” He returned a short while later with a pashmina shawl that he wrapped around her shoulders.
“Bradley, this is lovely.” Anne felt the soft wool and eyed the beautiful paisley pattern. She wondered how much it cost.
“It’s available for sale in the gift shop, but you can use it for now.”
“Thank you, Bradley. That lunch yesterday was delicious.”
“Can I ask the chef to fix you something?”
Anne looked around to make sure CC wasn’t within earshot. “I would love a plate of pecan pancakes with warm maple syrup. And some sugar cured ham if it’s not too much trouble.”
Bradley smiled. “I’ll bring it over shortly.”
Anne sat back in the oversized chair and stared up at the stained glass mosaic ceiling. It had been restored to its original 1910 beauty. The crystal chandeliers gleamed in the morning light. There was more marble in this gorgeous lobby than in an Italian quarry. Yes, this is I where I am meant to be, she thought. A hundred years later or now, I can live this lifestyle. Just me and Bradley and the occasional visit from John Blackbear.
As she finished her last piece of sugar cured ham and sipped her fresh-squeezed orange juice, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs that split the main floor from the lobby. All she could see was the top of the pointy head that she recognized to be the very tall and no longer cowboy, Nigel Towers. He walked up to Anne and pointed to the chair across from her, motioning for approval to sit down. She nodded.
He sat down, bumping his knee on the edge of the Chippendale table. “Anne, I wanted to say goodbye before I head back to Chicago. I thought ab
out what you said. I’m sorry things couldn’t work out between us. But I want you to know that your friendship is important to me. If all we can be is friends, then that’s all there is to say about that.” He managed a slight half smile, touched her hand and walked off.
As he walked down the stairs, John Blackbear was walking up. The two glanced at each other sideways, without recognition. Nigel gave the chief a polite nod and left the Hermitage.
When he reached Anne, John Blackbear knelt down and kissed her on the cheek, and then sat down across from her in the chair Nigel had just vacated. “Anne, it was so good to hear from you. It’s good to see you again.”
Anne smiled and nodded.
“On the phone, you said you had a lead on the morning star crystal. . .”
Anne stopped him. She couldn’t contain herself any longer. She reached into her large orange Prada bag and retrieved the morning star crystal that was wrapped in tissue paper. She placed it in the middle of the table and unwrapped it with a flourish as though it was the Holy Grail.
John Blackbear stared, not believing his eyes. “Anne, is this truly the morning star crystal?” He picked it up and held it up to the morning light. The seven points glistened and glowed. John Blackbear retrieved his iPhone and brought up the picture of the drawing from 1830. It appeared to be the exact piece, even down to the impurities in the crystals that lined up with the one in the photo like a road map. “Anne this is remarkable. This is our morning star crystal! How did you find it?”
“I’m an antique hunter. That’s what I do.” Anne sat back and sipped her Irish coffee.
Chapter Twenty-three
The black Lincoln town car pulled up in front of the Ryman Auditorium. Bradley jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. Anne stepped out, handing him her empty water bottle. “Thank you, Bradley. We will call you when we’re done.”
Bradley nodded and smiled.
CC and Anne walked into the original home of the Grand Ole Opry. They paid their admission fee and entered the exhibit area. They paused to look at the display of Minnie Pearl’s shoes and her straw hat with the price tag still attached. Hank Williams’ sequined white jacket hung in a sealed case. When they came to the early photos, they found what they were looking for––the 1960s exhibit area.
A photograph showed Jimmy Dickens and Merle Haggard on stage. Beyond them, in the wings was a well-dressed man holding a cigar. His arm was around Clarence Riddle’s shoulder. Another man stood next to them, smiling. Riddle was wearing tattered overalls and holding a Martin guitar. Neither were identified in the caption but Anne and CC recognized Riddle from the photo they’d seen before.
“This photo is much clearer than the microfiche photo. Maybe we can speak to the curator and find out who Clarence is speaking to,” CC said.
CC showed her press pass to one of the tour guides and asked to speak to the curator. They waited for an hour. While they waited, Anne viewed the history of women’s costumes from the Opry and was drawn to a yellow sequined dress once worn by Loretta Lynn. Finally, a little white-haired lady came up to them. “I’m Sarah Cummings, curator. I heard you were writing an article and wanted some information. What newspaper are you with?”
CC coughed and hesitated. “Actually, I’m a freelancer. I’m researching a story about the early days of the Ryman. I saw an interesting photograph of Merle Haggard on stage. I wanted to find out who the three men watching in the wings are.”
Sarah took the glasses that were hanging from a chain around her neck and put them on her nose. She examined the photo closely. “I don’t know who the little guy in the overalls is. The well-dressed man is Colonel Anderson. He was a record producer. The other man is Sam Hopkins who was a staff songwriter for the Colonel’s record company. He wrote many hits for some of the biggest artists that got their start at the Ryman including,” Sarah took another look at the photo. “Merle Haggard.”
“That’s really interesting. Are they still around?” CC asked.
“Colonel Anderson retired years ago. Hopkins still has an office on Music Row.” Sarah pointedly looked at her watch. “What else can I tell you about the Opry?”
“Nothing really. I think that’s all we needed,” CC said.
Anne turned to Sarah and asked. “Are any of these dresses for sale?” She pointed at the Loretta Lynn collection.
Sarah frowned. “Absolutely not.”
Chapter Twenty-four
They drove along Music Row, a side street of assorted residential houses that had been renovated into music production companies and recording studios. Many had signs out front with names like Frog Recording, Late in the Game Records and Blue Bayou Productions. They stopped when they reached Hopkins’ Publishing, one of the smaller houses on the Row. Even before they got out of the car, they could hear the guitar through the open screen door. Anne and CC walked up the steps. They knocked until the guitar finally stopped. Sam Hopkins limped to the door, using a cane. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Mr. Hopkins, I’m CC Muller, a journalist.”
“Journalist? What do you want with me?” Hopkins leaned against the doorjamb.
“I’m writing an article about Clarence Riddle. Sarah, the curator at the Opry, gave me your name. I wondered if we could talk to you,” CC said, pulling out her press pass.
“Sure. Come on in.” He held open the screen door, leading them into a living room that he had converted into a recording studio.
“Did you work with Clarence?” CC asked, sitting down and pulling out her reporter’s notebook. “I understand you were a staff songwriter for Anderson Records.”
Mr. Hopkins rubbed his stubby beard and gave a husky laugh. “Anderson, that son of a bitch! I haven’t thought about him in years.”
Anne looked around at the pictures of all the artists on the wall. She recognized many of them. Scattered around the room was Hopkins’ collection of musical instruments including a fiddle on an end table. She went up to it to take a closer look. It was signed by the cast of Hee Haw. “This is very cool. You wouldn’t consider selling this, would you?”
Mr. Hopkins didn’t acknowledge her. “To be fair, Colonel Anderson gave me my start. I was hanging around the Opry like every other wanna be. I was mostly what you’d call nowadays a street musician, playing for pennies. I wasn’t that good,” Hopkins said. “Clarence was the real talent.”
“Can you tell me more about Clarence?” CC asked.
“Clarence was a genius. Everything I learned about song structure and chord progression, I learned from him. He took me under his wing. Whenever he made enough money to get a room for the night, he’d let me crash.”
“Did Clarence work for Anderson Records?”
“Oh no; he wanted nothing to do with Colonel Anderson. He was a loner. All he wanted to do was drink and write songs. That’s probably what killed him––the alcohol. When he wasn’t drunk, he was a hell of a songwriter.”
CC pulled out the sheet music and showed it to Hopkins. He picked up his guitar and started playing. “I remember this song. That’s my handwriting.”
“Your handwriting?” CC asked.
“Clarence was illiterate, and he couldn’t write a lick of music. He would play a song for me, and I would write the lyrics and music out for him.”
“How could he sign his name?”
“I signed it for him. I wanted him to get credit. It was a good song.” He looked at the sheet music and smiled. “That’s his blue fingerprint on there.”
CC hadn’t noticed the blue smudge before. She peered closer.
“When he couldn’t make enough money playing on the street, Clarence would pick blueberries as a day worker. His hands would be stained for days. It would get all over his guitar. That’s how he got his nickname, Blue Note.” Hopkins chuckled at the memory.
“What happened to Clarence?” CC asked.
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. He just disappeared one day. He was always off on benders, missing for days,” he said
.
“Didn’t anyone look for him? What about the police?”
“You have to understand that Clarence was homeless, drunk and a bit crazy. Not the type who people look for. I went to the police, filed a missing persons report. The last place I saw him was at West End Studios. He was recording with Walters.”
“L. Walters, the sound engineer?”
“Yeah, Walters did all of the Colonel’s recording in the early days. Clarence would hang around the studio and play backup for drinks or recording time.” Hopkins paused. “Shame about Walters. I’d lost touch with him. I didn’t even know he died until I read about it in the papers.”
“Who else worked for the Colonel?” CC asked.
“A lot of staff writers. None of them any good. All the hits were Clarence’s. We just wrote them down and the Colonel took credit for them. He paid Clarence in whiskey.”
“I’d like to learn more about Clarence Riddle? Is there anyone else I could talk to?” CC asked.
“Clarence had an older brother, Jeremiah. I only saw him once. He was shipped out to Vietnam in ‘67. When he came back, he was pretty screwed up from the war. He tore up the town looking for Clarence.”
“He never found him?”
Hopkins shook his head. “Clarence just disappeared. Rumor was he drank himself to death. If he did, they never found the body. Jeremiah moved to California, somewhere near L.A.”
“Do you know how I could reach him?” CC asked.
Hopkins shook his head.
Thank you for your time.” CC stood up, followed by Anne.
“Are you sure you won’t consider selling the fiddle?” Anne asked one last time.
Hopkins shook his head and smiled.
Chapter Twenty-five
CC and Anne sat in the VW bus outside of Hopkins’ house. CC made a phone call. “Hi, Ted, it’s CC.” She paused for a moment. “I’m good. I’m in Nashville, working on a story and I need your help. Can you track down a Jeremiah Riddle? He’s in his 70s, Vietnam vet. Originally from Nashville. Anything you can find. I’m trying to get a phone number. I owe you dinner next time I’m out there.” CC hung up the phone and started the VW.
