Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain

by She Wrote 33 - Nashville Noir (v5) Murder

  At my request, a copy of the Tennessean was now left outside the door each morning, and I retrieved it. Before starting to read, I called Room Service and ordered up a basket of breads and muffins, some fruit, juice, and coffee, figuring Cyndi would also be hungry when she woke up. While waiting for our meal to be delivered, I settled in a chair by the window and scanned the front page. There was nothing there about the Marker murder—a blessing—and I went on to page two. Nothing there either. But when my eyes moved to page three, a photo stopped me cold. It showed me getting out of Lynee Granger’s car outside the BIGSound Studio, and the caption below the picture said: “Mystery author Jessica Fletcher traded her typewriter for a Stetson. The Nashville newbie is getting her country on while in town to defend a hometown young’un accused of murder. Next thing we know, she’ll be eating roasted possum with sweet potatoes.” The picture ran above a column by Brian Krupp, who wrote what amounted to a speculative piece about my movements in Nashville, and what they might mean to the Marker murder case.

  “Last night, this reporter decided to see what famed mystery writer Jessica Fletcher was up to in Music City. As readers of this paper know, Mrs. Fletcher has traveled to Nashville to help exonerate Cyndi Gabriel, a young singer from Cabot Cove, Maine, who came here seeking fame and fortune as a songwriter and performer. Not long after Ms. Gabriel arrived, she was arrested and charged with the murder of Roderick Marker, a well-known music publisher and a partner in the firm of Marker & Whitson.

  “General Session Court Judge Candice Grimes surprised everyone by releasing Ms. Gabriel into Ms. Fletcher’s custody without posting bail, and she’s been living with Ms. Fletcher in the writer’s suite at the Marriott Renaissance Hotel in downtown Nashville. Nice digs for an accused murderess.

  “Ms. Fletcher also has managed to get herself a place on Ms. Gabriel’s legal defense team headed by a court-appointed attorney, Jamal Washburn. In other words, this famed writer of murder mysteries, who hails from Ms. Gabriel’s hometown in Maine, has found herself smack dab in the middle of a real murder mystery, and apparently not for the first time. Besides writing bestselling books, Jessica Fletcher has been known to involve herself in real crimes, sometimes to the annoyance of local law enforcement officials. So far, however, Nashville’s finest don’t seem to mind; a recent query elicited a ‘no comment.’

  “To see how a famous mystery author would go about trying to solve an actual murder case, this reporter took it upon himself to join Mrs. Fletcher on her jaunts last evening, although from a distance.

  “Mrs. Fletcher’s first outing was to BIGSound Studios. She was driven there by Lynee Granger, a local songwriter who also owns the boardinghouse where the accused had been staying prior to her arrest. Although I wasn’t in the studio to see what transpired, sources who were there tell me that Mrs. Fletcher had a heated confrontation with up-and-coming songstress Sally Prentice, who was recording a song allegedly written by Ms. Gabriel, and given to Ms. Prentice by none other than the late Roderick Marker. The ‘theft’ of her song is what police say was Ms. Gabriel’s motivation for killing him. My sources also inform me that Mrs. Fletcher was particularly interested in the musician in charge of the band, Wally Brolin, a veteran Nashville guitarist, and that they made a date to meet later that evening.

  “Sure enough, Mrs. Fletcher was picked up by Mr. Brolin back at her hotel and driven to Down Home, a venerable club frequented by local musicians. After a few beers, the couple took off in Mr. Brolin’s pickup, perhaps to another watering hole. This reporter tried to get a comment from Mr. Brolin, but efforts to reach him were unsuccessful. Should he return my call, I’d like to know what role he has played in this intriguing murder case that has all of Nashville talking and speculating. Will Jessica Fletcher solve the crime, absolve her ward of guilt, and have yet another bestselling story to write?

  “More tomorrow.”

  “How dare you?” I said aloud.

  There was a knock on my door. I opened it and my breakfast was wheeled in. I signed the receipt, poured coffee, and read Krupp’s column again, my anger rising with each paragraph.

  The phone rang.

  I picked up quickly, not wanting to awaken Cyndi. “Hello?”

  “It’s Wally. What are you tryin’ to do to me?”

  “Oh, yes, Wally. I assume you’ve read today’s paper.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I don’t know how I got into the middle of this mess that Cyndi caused, but I want out.”

  “I don’t believe that Cyndi caused any ‘mess,’ as you put it, but I am sorry that your name appeared in the paper, and I’m sorry mine did, too. I might add that I’m furious at the thought of being followed by the press.”

  “Now I’m gettin’ all sorts of messages on my machine in addition to his.”

  “Have you called him?”

  “No, and I don’t mean to. He must’ve been the guy followin’ us last night, the guy I lost.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate being drug into this.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Wally. You became involved when you helped Cyndi avoid the police. I’m sure you didn’t think what you did was wrong. It was purely an act of friendship, isn’t that so? But nobody made that decision for you.”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you, just like you have a question for everybody.”

  “And I intend to keep asking questions until Roderick Marker’s real killer is identified and apprehended.”

  The click on the other end loudly proclaimed that the conversation was over.

  Cyndi came from her bedroom. “Who was that?” she asked sleepily, covering a wide yawn with the back of her hand.

  “Your friend Wally Brolin.”

  “Did he want to talk to me?”

  “No, Cyndi. Maybe this will explain.” I handed her the newspaper.

  When she was finished reading Krupp’s column, she looked at me with an expression that demanded an explanation. “Is Wally in trouble?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What I do know is that someone isn’t telling the truth.”

  “Why would Wally lie, Mrs. Fletcher? He had nothing to do with any of this. I just showed up at his place after I left Marker & Whitson. He could hardly turn me away from the door. I knew I was in trouble and that I ran away. He let me stay. I’m the one who made the mistake. It would be terrible if he got in trouble just for helping a friend.”

  “You told him what had happened. If he thought the police were looking for you, he becomes culpable, too,” I said. “It just dawned on me that he hasn’t informed the proper authorities about that, nor have I made them aware of it.”

  “Please don’t do it, Mrs. Fletcher,” she cried. “He was just helping me. Oh, I never should have gone there. Now the police will arrest him, too.”

  “Cyndi,” I said, “it’s time for you to do a little growing up. You’ve been charged with murder. If you’re convicted, you could be facing many years in prison. Trying to protect people who may know something that could contribute to this case isn’t in your best interest, nor is it very smart. Someone murdered Roderick Marker, and unless I can get to the bottom of it—and do it fast—your dreams of becoming a country music star won’t end with you singing your songs. It will end with a cell door slamming shut behind you.”

  I hadn’t intended it to sound quite so harsh, but Cyndi was getting in the way of her own defense. It was time to acknowledge reality, that she couldn’t protect anyone but herself, that she wasn’t simply an innocent victim, that her actions after she had discovered Marker had contributed to her predicament. And if someone who helped her didn’t want to be involved now, it was too bad. The truth had to come out. And I needed her to take a role in the investigation in any way she could. She was luckier than most accused killers; she wasn’t confined to jail, but she had a responsibility to stop feeling sorry for herself and to help those who were working hard to get her out of trouble.
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  Cyndi stared at me for a few seconds before slumping back into the couch’s deep cushions, fighting back tears. My temptation was to go to the couch and hug her, but I resisted the urge. I’d meant what I’d said. She was living in a cloistered, unrealistic dream world, ensconced in this spacious, nicely appointed suite, with nothing to do but write and perform her songs and hope all the bad things would miraculously disappear so she could get on with her career. But I knew that it wouldn’t work that way; it never does.

  “I’d better get showered and dressed,” Cyndi said.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  I picked up the ringing phone as she disappeared into her room.

  “Jessica. It’s Jamal. Guess what? Marilyn Marker had a parking ticket from in front of her husband’s office building the day of his murder.”

  “What time was it issued?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Where are you?”

  “My office.”

  “I’m going to call Detective Biddle, make him aware of this, and suggest we pay Mrs. Marker a visit. Are you free to come with us?”

  “I’ll make myself free. Get back to me with the time.”

  My call to the central precinct did not produce the hoped-for result. It was Biddle’s day off and he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. I left a message for him and called Jamal again. “Biddle’s not available,” I said, “but why don’t you and I go to Marker’s house. If we learn anything new, we can always ring him in later.”

  He agreed.

  I left a note for Cyndi telling her I’d be out for a while, and a half hour later Jamal and I were on our way to visit Marilyn Marker.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Marker home was a sprawling, white-brick, one-story house that was similar to others on the winding street. Brentwood was an upscale neighborhood, although the house didn’t seem especially lavish. For some reason I expected a more ostentatious home.

  We pulled into the driveway and parked behind Marilyn’s shiny silver Jaguar. Jamal was poised to knock when the door was opened by Jeremy Marker, Marilyn’s stepson. He looked at us without saying anything.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, “and this is Jamal Washburn, attorney for Cyndi Gabriel.”

  Marilyn Marker came up behind him. “What do you want?” she said.

  “We were hoping that you’d give us a few minutes of your time,” I said. “It’s important. You see, we’re helping Cyndi Gabriel and—”

  “I know who you are. Get out of here,” she said. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Jeremy’s response was to flash a smile, step back, and say, “Come on in. I’ll put on some coffee unless you’d like something stronger.”

  His stepmother’s face was a mask of shock and anger. She spun around and disappeared into the recesses of the house. Jeremy bowed from the waist and extended his hand toward the interior, like a courtly manservant. Jamal and I glanced at each other, shrugged, and followed him inside.

  He led us to a large living room furnished almost entirely in white—white carpeting, chairs, and couch. A stainless-steel bookcase spanned one wall and reached the ceiling. It was decidedly modern, something we don’t see much in Cabot Cove.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  Marilyn emerged from the kitchen. “I want them out of my house.”

  “Hey,” Jeremy said, pointing a finger at her, “don’t tell me who I can invite in. Remember, this was dear old Dad’s house, not yours.”

  “You’re despicable,” Marilyn hissed.

  Jeremy laughed. “Just another loving family,” he said. “Coffee?”

  “If you don’t leave this instant,” Marilyn said, pointing at me, “I’ll call the police.”

  I wondered whether we were on shaky ground being there, but Jamal stepped in with, “That’ll be fine, Mrs. Marker. You’re welcome to call the police. We’ve already informed them that we were coming here. You can save yourself some grief by talking to us, but I can formally depose you, if you’d prefer.”

  “Depose me?” she shouted. “I have just lost my husband, a man I loved very much, and—”

  “Ooh, it’s getting good now,” Jeremy said, going to the kitchen.

  “I have every right to depose you,” Jamal added, “as part of my defense of Ms. Gabriel.”

  Some of the steam went out of Marilyn’s voice and demeanor as she said, “How can you possibly defend that vile young woman?”

  “Because she’s entitled to a presumption of innocence,” Jamal said. “Look, we won’t be here long, but there’s a question we need to ask you.”

  Marker’s wife drew a series of deep breaths before saying, “All right, go ahead with this question you have.”

  Jamal looked at me.

  “Mrs. Marker,” I said, “I am truly sorry for your loss. You have my deepest sympathies, and the last thing I want to do is intrude on your period of mourning. But the question is important.”

  She challenged me silently with her eyes.

  “Where were you when your husband was killed?” I asked flatly, keeping any hint of accusation from my voice.

  “Are you suggesting that I might have killed Rod?”

  “I’m suggesting nothing of the kind,” I replied, “but we need to know where you were.”

  She said nothing.

  “You’re going to have to answer this under oath,” Jamal reminded her.

  “I was—I was here at home.”

  “What time are you referring to?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, exasperated. “Maybe five, five thirty.”

  “No you weren’t, Ma-má,” Jeremy said, having returned.

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

  “I was here and saw you drive in.” He turned to Jamal and me. “Must have been about six thirty.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jeremy. I was here all afternoon.”

  He shook his head.

  “How would you know?” she countered. “You weren’t here that day. I remember it well. You arrived the previous day, threw your things in your room, and disappeared.”

  Jeremy forced a gleeful laugh. “Great technique, Marilyn, lie to cover up your own lies.”

  I wondered when Jamal would break the news to her about the parking ticket. He didn’t, so I raised it.

  “Mrs. Marker,” I said, “we know you were at your husband’s office building at the time of his murder.”

  “Prove it!”

  “That’s easily done,” Jamal chimed in. “You were issued a ticket for blocking a fire hydrant in front of the building at five thirty that evening.”

  It was as though someone had undone a twist tie on a plastic bag filled with air, and she collapsed into herself. But she recovered quickly. “Oh, yes,” she said, “now I remember. I had to run in for a few minutes, no more than five, to pick up something I’d left there.”

  “What had you left?” Jamal asked.

  “Some papers. I’m not even sure.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “No. Edwina was gone by then.”

  “Did you come in the main entrance?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But you have a key to the back door, the one that empties on to the parking lot.”

  “Do I?”

  “And you didn’t see your husband when you—when you ran in to pick up those papers?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve had quite enough of this inquisition. The next time we talk it will be with my lawyer.”

  “Fair enough,” said Jamal. “I’ll arrange for you to be deposed in the next few days. Thanks for your time.” He stood to signal the end of our visit. Jeremy, who’d been sitting in a chair, one long leg flung over its arm, got to his feet and escorted us to the door. We’d stepped outside when I turned and asked, “Were you here that evening, Jeremy?”

  His artificial gaiety now abandoned, he gave me a hard look and forcefully closed the door.

  Chap
ter Twenty-two

  We were halfway back to the hotel when my cell phone rang.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, Detective Biddle here. I understand you called.”

  “Yes, I did. Thanks for getting back to me. Cyndi’s attorney and I have just come from Mrs. Marker’s home. I was hoping you’d be able to come with us, but they told me it was your day off.”

  “It was my day off. Why did you go to Marker’s house?”

  “Because we discovered that she lied when she said she wasn’t at her husband’s office building the evening he was killed.”

  Biddle grunted before asking, “And what leads you to that conclusion?”

  “A parking ticket.”

  “Huh?”

  “A parking ticket. Marilyn Marker was issued a parking ticket in front of the building at five thirty that night.”

  I waited for a response. There wasn’t one.

  “Detective Biddle? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m here. I think we ought to have a little talk, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  He sounded irked.

  “I’m all for that,” I said.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Heading back to the Renaissance Hotel with Mr. Washburn. We should be there in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll meet you there in the Bridge. Know it?”

  “The upstairs bar and restaurant? Yes, I know it. But I hate to interrupt you when you’re off duty.”

  “One of these days I’ll get smart and not call in for messages.” He signed off.

  I told Jamal what had transpired during the brief conversation, and suggested that he be there when I meet with Biddle. He agreed, with the caveat that if we sensed that the detective didn’t want him present, he’d make his excuses and leave.

  Jamal went directly to the Bridge while I made a brief stop in my suite, staying just long enough for Cyndi to tell me that she’d spoken with her mother, who was home from the hospital. While Janet was feeling better, she was under doctor’s orders to take it easy for at least two weeks, and advised not to travel.

  “I also talked to that newspaper writer, Mr. Krupp.”