I’d been tempted to get out of bed and open the door to see who they were, but two a.m. was not the time to introduce myself. Morning would come soon enough, and my hope was that Mrs. Granger’s tenants would be as willing to talk to me as they were to carry on a conversation in the hall in the middle of the night.
Chapter Six
Lynee Granger poured coffee into a large brown mug shaped like a Western shirt, complete with pearl buttons down the front, and dropped in three heaping spoons of sugar. I took a sip from my yellow mug and poured in a little extra milk to counter the industrial-strength brew. It wasn’t any worse than the coffee in the Cabot Cove sheriff’s office, but it wasn’t any better either.
I’d waited until ten to knock on her door, but I’d been up since seven, showered and dressed. I was half expecting, half hoping to encounter one of her tenants as I’d padded down the hall to the bathroom, but apparently no one had to get up early to go to work. The third floor was deathly quiet, the only sound the creaking of the worn wooden boards beneath my feet. I had paused at the Tammy Wynette room, pressed my ear to the door, and knocked softly. I’d even tried turning the knob, but the room was locked. I planned to ask Mrs. Granger to let me look around and hoped she wouldn’t be offended by the request.
At eight, I’d let myself out the front door and wandered the neighborhood until coming across an open coffee shop. A pile of newspapers had been left in a recycle bin in the corner. I pulled out as many copies as I could find of the Nashville Tennessean and settled in a booth, where a waitress took my order of a bowl of fruit and a narrow wedge of buttermilk chess pie, a tasty but very sweet Southern specialty she’d recommended. An update on Roderick Marker’s murder was on the front page of the previous day’s edition. Seeing Cindy’s name as the suspect in his murder sent a chill up my spine. She was described as an aspiring young songwriter and singer who’d recently come to Nashville from Cabot Cove, Maine. The police refused to comment on the case, according to the reporter, but there was a quote from Cabot Cove’s mayor, Jim Shevlin, who briefly described how CCC had chosen Cindy and provided financial support for her trip to Nashville. A photograph of Marker accompanied the article, and it ended on an inside page with a description of his career. He’d won myriad music awards, was a member of numerous city organizations, and was widely respected in the industry. His personal background included two previous marriages, and a son, Jeremy, from one of them. His widow, wife number three, was Marilyn Marker of Brentwood, Tennessee. A memorial service would take place Friday.
I made my way back to Mrs. Granger’s to wait for our appointment time.
“More coffee?” she asked.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said.
Standing at the kitchen counter, Mrs. Granger took several gulps from her mug and dropped two slices of bread in the toaster. Catching sight of herself in the reflective side of the appliance, she leaned forward, licked her thumb, and swiped it under each eye to rub away a smudge of mascara that had accumulated there.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Cindy?” I asked.
“Sometime last week. Might’ve been on Wednesday or Thursday.” She settled in a chair opposite me and pulled her pink silk kimono across her knees. “She was rushin’ outta here with a bag of clothes. I figured she was going to the Laundromat—that’s a big social thing with some of ’em—but maybe she had other plans. By the way, I told a few folks last night about you arriving and stayin’ at my place, and somebody said you’re a big-time mystery writer.”
“Yes, I do write mystery novels.”
“Is that why you’re here, to write about Cindy and what she did?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Granger. I came to Nashville because I was instrumental in sending her here.” I explained what the CCC was and how it raised money to support Cindy’s aspirations to become a successful songwriter and performer. “Her mother is in the hospital right now, and Cindy’s alone here in Nashville. I wanted to show her my support.”
“That’s real nice of you,” my landlady for one night said.
“You mentioned that you knew Mr. Marker.”
“’Course I did! We lived ’round the corner from each other for years.”
“Really?”
“Sure thing, sugar. Rod was a good ol’ Southern boy. Smart. We didn’t go to school together. His mama didn’t trust her boy to the local schools. Probably right. There was a lot of gang activity then, but different gangs than they have now. He was a skinny little thing. He could take care of himself though.” She sucked air through her teeth. “Too bad about him,” she said, looking down. Then her eyes opened wide. “You got a mouse in your pocket?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She pointed to my hip. “Your jacket. It’s moving.”
“Oh!” I said, patting my pockets. “You startled me. That’s my cell phone. I put it on vibrate when I don’t want to be interrupted.” I pulled out the phone and glanced at the screen. It was Mort Metzger. “I can return the call later,” I said. “Now, where were we?”
“We were talkin’ about Rod Marker.”
“Right. It’s my understanding from Cindy’s mother that Mr. Marker had taken one of Cindy’s songs and given it to another singer, and that he put this other singer’s name on the song as having written it. Did Cindy ever mention that to you?”
“No, can’t say that she did, but I wouldn’t put much stock in that, Mrs. Fletcher. Young girls always have excuses for why they’re not making it. They all dream of being the next Carrie Underwood or Taylor Swift, dolled up in heavy makeup and expensive dresses, chattin’ up anyone they think can help them along. Most of ’em get disappointed and go home real fast. Good riddance, I say. You gotta make sacrifices for success. If you don’t, you got nothin’ to sing about. Impatient for stardom, all of ’em. Don’t want to work at it like the rest of us.”
“It sounds like you haven’t stopped working at it,” I said, smiling. “Do you still write country songs, and sing?”
“I put pencil to paper every now and then, but the only performing I do’s on the demos. Got a writing partner up north, but don’t tell no one about that. It’s okay ’cause he’s got a Southern soul. We write together whenever he comes into town. We’ve sold one or two, but nothin’ much came from it. Nothin’ big anyways. But I don’t mind. I get by, and I can still go out and party.”
“What about Mr. Marker? Did he have a reputation for ripping off young songwriters?”
Her smile was small but telling. “He probably cut a few corners to get ahead. Rod had a big ego for a small guy,” she said, “but no more so than a few others I know. Most publishers in town are legit. The good ones don’t need to rip anybody off to be successful.”
“You said a detective was coming here today to interview you. That wouldn’t happen to be Detective Biddle, would it?”
“I believe that’s the name he gave. You know him?”
“We’ve spoken on the phone. I’m going to police headquarters today in the hope of seeing Cindy. Did Detective Biddle say what time he’d be here?”
She shook her head, got up, and placed her empty cup in the sink.
“I don’t want to take any more of your time,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see the room Cindy stayed in.”
“Sure. She won’t be needin’ it anymore. Maybe you can figure out what to do with her things. I’ll be wantin’ to rent that room out to somebody else.” She took a key from the board and handed it to me. “You’re on your own, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve got some errands to run. Sure you don’t want to stay more than one night? I could let you have the room for a little longer. Give you a good deal on the rent, better than any hotel.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’ve already made plans. What about the other tenants in the house? Was Cindy friendly with anyone in particular?”
Mrs. Granger stretched her arms up and cocked her head from side to side. “’Scuse me,” she said around a yawn. “There’s four other girls in the
house, plus my nephew, Brandon, who’s got a couple of rooms in the back. I guess they were friendly. They’re all in the same boat, career-wise, that is. Probably tradin’ tips, but not enough to give anyone an edge. Got to protect your contacts.” She yawned again, more prolonged this time. “Sorry. We closed the place last night.”
“Tootsies?”
“You know about Tootsies?” she said.
“Not really. You mentioned that you were going to see a former tenant sing there.”
“Did I? I forgot. I’m not a fan of her writing, but she’s a pretty good performer when she covers the big names.”
“Covers?”
“When she sings their songs. Her own stuff is only so-so. In Nashville, it’s the songs that count, the story they tell. We’re a real lyric city.”
My puzzled expression prompted her to explain.
“The lyric’s the thing,” she said. “There’s just so many chords a guitar picker can use, so the song’s got to tell a story, a real story that a listener can grab on to.”
“I think I understand,” I said.
“Good.”
“May I see Cindy’s room?” I asked again.
“Sure,” she replied. “Go on up and look around all you want. I figure you’re trustworthy.”
With that vote of confidence for my character, I headed for the stairs.
Chapter Seven
The third-floor hallway was still deserted when I inserted the key in the lock of Cindy’s room and opened the door. What was I hoping to find by examining this young woman’s few belongings? Could I get a sense of how she’d lived her life the past weeks and what may have led her into the mess she was in? Had her experience with Roderick Marker so dashed her dreams of stardom, had it been so hurtful that it tipped her over the edge?
The Tammy Wynette room was slightly larger than the Patsy Cline but with the same sparse furnishings. Cindy’s neatly made bed, with its blue spread, stood in a corner alcove. A bottle of perfume, a few magazines, and a book on songwriting sat on the combination dresser/nightstand, a match to the one in my room. Her desk and wooden chair—and mine—were identical as well. Lynee Granger must have gotten a bargain on duplicate furniture.
But unlike my room, Cindy’s had a worn armchair upholstered in a blue plaid. Drawn up to it was a wooden stool that could serve as an ottoman, or extra seating. She also had a closet. The door was missing, but the opening was covered by a curtain that had been fashioned from a sheet. I pulled it aside. Cindy had carefully hung up her clothing, including two pairs of jeans, assorted T-shirts, and a rain slicker. The backpack that had contained the clothes she’d carried to Nashville sat on the floor next to a pair of ballet flats. A guitar case leaned against one wall. I picked it up. Judging from its weight the guitar was still inside.
The shelf above the hangers held a Grand Ole Opry ball cap and a pair of plastic bags. I held one up; it was filled with the usual toiletries, a comb and brush, deodorant, a nail file, shampoo. The other contained quite an assortment of makeup, some of it still in boxes and all purchased recently, if I had to guess.
To the right of the closet was a wall-mounted sink with a small oval mirror above it and a circular towel rack on the side. A bar of soap rested on one corner of the sink, across from a mug holding a toothbrush and toothpaste.
I returned to the desk and sat on the wooden chair. Mort had called from his cell phone and I returned the call to that number. His voice mail picked up and I left a message.
On the desktop were a bouquet of pens and pencils in a paper cup, and an empty water bottle sporting two now-withered carnations. I reached out and touched one of the flowers. A dried petal fluttered down. Were these mementos of a happy occasion, a cheerful gift that had dried up in her absence?
A photo of Janet and her four daughters sat next to Cindy’s laptop, which was closed but still plugged into a wall outlet. I was tempted to turn it on but thought better of it. How deep into Cindy’s private life was I willing to go?
It was obvious that she’d intended to return to the room the last time she walked out of it. She wouldn’t have left her possessions, certainly not her guitar, or the photo of her family, if she’d meant to be gone for good. The police said she’d left the scene of Marker’s murder and hidden out somewhere. Where had she gone after running from Marker’s office? Mrs. Granger hadn’t mentioned anything about the police coming to her rooming house in search of Cindy, which meant they hadn’t known where she was living. But they knew now. Detective Biddle was due to question Mrs. Granger that very day.
I slid open the desk drawers one by one, and made a mental note of their contents: a local phone directory, an envelope containing a letter from Emily, a program from a local café’s talent night, several business cards, a menu from a pizzeria, two guitar picks, a box of paper clips, a lozenge-shaped gadget that I knew was a computer storage device, and three notebooks, two blank and one three-quarters full, which I pulled out to examine. I put on my glasses, opened the notebook, and paged through it.
Filling the sheets of lined paper were lyrics and chords for songs Cindy had composed. Some were clearly in the developmental stage. Erasures and cross-outs showed where she’d altered expressions, tempos, and line length. In the margins were lists of rhyming words. Some songs had a big black X through them, which I assumed meant that she’d abandoned their creation and gone on to something new. On several of the pages, she had drawn a musical staff and written down the notes of a melody. I tried humming one of the tunes and sighed. The CCC had chosen well in selecting Cindy as this year’s grant recipient. She’d already created quite a body of work.
As I closed the notebook, I noticed writing on the back cover. It appeared that Cindy had been practicing her autograph. She had tried out “warmly” and “best wishes” and “your friend,” but the name she’d written over and over with flourishes, and with a little heart over the I, was not Cindy Blaskowitz but “Cyndi Gabriel,” the stage name she’d chosen. I had to smile. Famous and not-so-famous entertainers often changed their birth names to more mellifluous ones. In my generation, there were many Hollywood celebrities who had traded their everyday labels for fancier names, like Cary Grant, who had started life as Archibald Leach, and Rock Hudson, who was born Roy Harold Scherer Jr. I could imagine someone making the argument to an ambitious, impressionable girl that while “Cindy Blaskowitz” was perfectly respectable, it wasn’t a name that trips off the tongue, nor would it be universally easy to pronounce, spell, or remember. Perhaps the late Roderick Marker had convinced her to make the change. Cyndi Gabriel. Gabriel had been her father’s first name. I liked that she’d chosen to honor him by keeping his first name, if not his last. As to reversing the I and Y in Cindy, it was just what a romantic young girl might do to make herself seem more glamorous. I wondered if her mother knew she’d been considering a name change.
My vibrating cell phone interrupted my thoughts. I groped in my pocket and retrieved it.
“Good morning, Jessica. It’s Seth.”
“Oh, good morning, Seth.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t heard from you.”
“I was going to call later today after I’d had a chance to gather some information. How is Janet doing?”
“She’s all right, but the cardiologists still have more tests to do. Looks like she’ll eventually need a pacemaker. Have you seen her daughter?”
“Not yet. I’m sitting in the room that Cindy rented, trying to make some sense out of what might have pushed her over the edge—that is, if something did. She’s obviously innocent until someone proves otherwise. I haven’t spoken with the police yet, but I will soon. Mort called earlier. I called back, but he must have his cell turned off.”
“Haven’t seen our sheriff today. How was your stay at that rooming house last night?”
“Just fine. I spoke with the landlady this morning, and hope to meet some of Cindy’s friends before I head for police headquarters.”
“Well, Jessica, eve
ryone’s asking for you. I suggest you get in touch regularly and keep us informed.”
“I will, Seth. Thanks for calling.”
The call completed, I sat back and contemplated the situation.
We now knew why Janet’s daughter had disappeared. My biggest fear initially had been that she wouldn’t be found, or worse, that she was dead. At least we knew where she was and that she was alive. Everything else could be addressed in time.
I was sure that Cyndi, as she now preferred to style herself, was devastated, especially if she’d been falsely accused. She was alone in a strange city, away from friends and family, from anyone who knew and cared for her, or could vouch for her. I tried to put myself in her place, to feel what she was feeling and to think the way she might be thinking as this frightening scenario unfolded.
She must have been horrified when the police took her into custody. The whole arrest process is designed to be daunting, to reinforce the impression of power the authorities hold over a suspect. She’d been sought as a person of interest, not a criminal, so hopefully she hadn’t been roughly treated, although being picked up by uniformed police would be rough enough. Had they handcuffed her? Probably not. But she would have been escorted to a squad car and placed in the backseat. The door would have been shut, and she would have realized that she was in a small cage with a grill separating her from the officers in front. Had she tried to open the rear doors or windows, she would have discovered that they don’t open from the inside. She wouldn’t have found relief at the station house either, with steel doors slamming behind her. There, she would have faced demands to empty her pockets and purse. Everywhere her eyes rested there would be tough-looking uniformed officers carrying guns, escorting shackled prisoners, yelling phrases she didn’t understand into phones or walkie-talkies. I could envision her shuddering and withdrawing into herself. She must have felt intense shame at her predicament, so much so that she hadn’t even asked to call home. What could she say? What could they do? She must have been panicked about what her arrest would mean to her mother and sisters, their horrified reaction, the damage to her reputation—and theirs—in our tight-knit community, not to mention the financial burden it would impose on a family living from paycheck to paycheck. Janet had already said she couldn’t afford a lawyer to advise her daughter on her rights regarding ownership of her songs. The cost of a good criminal defense lawyer would be that much more, not counting bail money to release her from jail, assuming a judge would even consider setting bail for an accused murderer.
Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain Page 5
