“Is Mr. Whitson moving into Mr. Marker’s office?”
Buddy did a double take. “Why, o’course! Why else would I be hauling all these files up and down the hall and putting them in this cabinet?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just arrived.”
“Oh, ’scuse me,” he said. “Where are you from?”
“Cabot Cove, Maine.”
“A Yankee! Well, we all have burdens to bear. Who were you looking for before I banged into you?”
“Actually, I think I was looking for Eddy.”
“Well, you’re too late for her. She’s out of here like a shot on the dot of five. I might be able to find someone else for you, but it’s probably better to come back tomorrow. Are you a writer?”
He must’ve seen the surprise on my face because he chuckled.
“How did you know?” I asked.
He flapped a hand at me. “I can always spot a writer, but I gotta tell you, you can’t just waltz up to a publisher and expect anyone to help you.”
“I can’t?”
“Nope. You need a plugger.”
“A what?”
“You
are
from out of town. A song plugger. The publishers don’t listen to just anyone who shows up. It’s the pluggers who have access. They bring them all the good CDs from the songwriters they represent, and the bigwigs here and sometimes the performers—names you would surely know—sit ’round the table in the conference room and play, maybe ten seconds from each cut before they turn them down.”
“Ten seconds. That’s not very long.”
“Maybe it’s a little longer, but not much. You gotta be good right from the first word and first note. Anyway, get a plugger if you want Mr. Whitson to hear your song, but make sure you get a good one. Some of them are unscrupulous.” His rolled his eyes and cocked his head in the direction of the desk. “Speaking of—” He shook his head. “Forget what I said. My mama taught me not to speak ill of the dead.”
A man’s voice boomed from down the hall. “Buddy, where the hell are you?”
“My master’s voice,” Buddy said, picking up two boxes he had already emptied.
“Do you mind if I follow you and meet Mr. Whitson?” I asked.
“Honey, he won’t talk to you, believe me. But you can try. It never hurts to try.”
I trailed down the hall in Buddy’s wake. He held an empty box in each hand, and cursed each time he banged them into the walls, which was often. Rounding the corner, I nearly collided with him again when he stopped before an open door.
A tall, handsome man with dark hair slicked back on the sides and pulled forward a bit over his forehead—reminiscent of Elvis—stood behind a desk littered with piles of files and a jumble of office materials: a tape dispenser, rubber bands, a stapler, boxes of paper clips, pens and pencils, sticky note pads, paperweights, a calculator, CDs, and who knows what else. It looked as if he’d taken out a desk drawer and simply upended it over his desk.
“I can’t find the key to the other file cabinet,” he complained. “Did Eddy go home?”
“Gone at the stroke of five,” Buddy told him, flinging the empty boxes to one side of the room.
“She knew we were moving the office tonight. Where could she have put it? I don’t want to start again in the morning. I want everything in place, and it
will
be in place if it takes all night. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Buddy said with a mock salute. “I’ll check her desk.” He turned and saw me. “Oh, by the way, this lovely lady came to see you. This is Mr. Whitson.”
“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, moving around Buddy and extending my hand to his boss, who took the tips of my fingers as if afraid I might contaminate him. “It’s a pleasure. I can see I’m getting you at a difficult moment, but I was hoping you might give me a few minutes of your time.”
“She’s a songwriter,” Buddy said as he left the room.
“Well, that isn’t quite accurate,” I began.
Mr. Whitson came from behind his desk and took my elbow. “Ms. Fletcher, as you can see, I really don’t have any time to spare.” He steered me toward the door.
“But it’s terribly important. A young woman’s life is at stake, and—”
“I’ve heard that before. If you’d like to make an appointment tomorrow, I’m sure we can work something out.”
“But, Mr. Whitson, I don’t want to talk to you about songwriting. Actually, I wanted to ask you some questions about your partner.”
“Of course you do. Call Ms. Anderson. She handles the press. She’ll be very helpful, I’m sure.”
“Mr. Whitson, it’s not what you think.”
“It never is. Goodbye, Ms. Fletcher.” He pushed me into the hall and closed the door. I heard the snick of a lock.
Well
, I thought,
that was quite the bum’s rush
.
I haven’t been thrown out of an office in some time now.
I was tempted to pound on Whitson’s door and tell him I’d be back, but of course I didn’t. Instead, I tugged at the hem of my jacket, smoothed down my hair, straightened the strap of my bag on my shoulder, and retraced my steps to the elevator. At least I had a dinner date with someone who
did
want to talk to me.
Chapter Eleven
I
was tempted to take a nap when I got back to my room at the hotel. I was feeling jet-lagged although there’s only a one-hour time difference between Nashville and Cabot Cove. Maybe “travel-tired” is a better way to describe it. But I knew that if I fell asleep, I’d be groggy when it was time to meet Washburn. Instead, I took a quick shower, relying on it to wake me up, dressed in an outfit that I felt would be appropriate for any restaurant setting, and was waiting for him in the lobby when he arrived.
The restaurant was only a short ride from the hotel, in an old, three-story brick building on Broadway. A sign announced that it was called Merchants.
We passed through an attractive grill downstairs and were escorted to a second-floor dining room, where a pianist played show tunes on a small, white grand piano. Our table was nicely set on a sparkling white tablecloth. Jamal ordered a perfect Manhattan; I opted for a glass of house white wine.
Our waiter left us menus and a sheet recounting the history of the building before it was a restaurant and during the time when lower Broadway was not the flourishing neighborhood it is now.
Built around 1870, it originally housed various businesses, including a drug company that advertised “blood medicine,” a concoction of alcohol and opium. A pharmacy on the first floor dispensed ice cream sodas, which contained, among other things, cocaine.
When a hotel was added in 1892, Nashville was booming. Steamboat trade on the Cumberland River opened up the town to a post-Civil War prosperity, providing plenty of customers for Merchants Hotel, who paid twenty-five cents for a night’s lodging, and twenty-five cents for a meal. With the launch of the Grand Ole Opry at the Ryman Auditorium across the street, all the greats of country-and-western music stayed at the Merchants Hotel—Roy Acuff, Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, and Hank Williams, to name a few. Will Rogers often stayed there; so did Wild Bill Hickok and the James boys (one of them shot someone dead outside).
The hotel deteriorated. During the Roaring Twenties, it became a speakeasy, one of Al Capone’s places. It became a brothel in the 1940s and a “dive bar” in the seventies. The building was about to be demolished in the 1980s, but the owner of the current restaurant, Ed Stolman, and the Nashville Arts Commission saved it by arranging for it to be listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Stolman opened the restaurant in 1988, a time when lower Broadway wasn’t an especially nice, peaceful neighborhood. All that has changed now, and it’s become the core of Nashville’s vibrant nightlife scene.
“I latched on to this place while I was a student at Vanderbilt,” Jamal said with a chuckle. “Of course, I couldn’t afford to come here very often, but I always liked it. I’m not a big fan of down-home Southern cooking. This place is more straight ahead.”
“I’m sure I’ll like it,” I said.
After our drinks were delivered and we’d had some idle conversation about Nashville and his favorite places in the city, I raised the subject of Cyndi Gabriel. “I didn’t have much time with her, and I have so many questions.”
“I’ll be happy to answer the ones that I can, only you’ll have to respect the attorney-client privilege.”
“Of course. But if Cyndi were to waive that privilege—”
“That would change things.”
“The police were looking for her for three nights and two days following the assault. I’m wondering if she was with this musician, Wally Brolin, the whole time. I assume you’ll be getting in touch with him.”
“Soon as I can.”
“I’d like to be with you when you visit him.”
“Absolutely, partner.”
I smiled. “From the looks of Cyndi’s room at Mrs. Granger’s house, it’s unlikely she returned there during the time she was missing. Somehow, I think that if she really meant to run, she would have found a way to take her guitar, if nothing else.”
“What do you know about her claim that Marker had ripped off some of her songs?”
“Just that,” I said. “Marker had arranged for this up-and-comer, Sally Prentice, to record a song that Cyndi was counting on performing herself. I don’t really know much beyond that.”
“He took away her opportunity for stardom, huh? Makes for a strong motive, unfortunately. Explaining her running away is tricky, but the big problem may be the cease-and-desist letter with her signature on it that was found on Marker’s desk.”
“Yes. Detective Biddle told me about that. Why is that a big problem?”
“Tends to confirm that motive. Proves she was angry with the deceased, maybe angry enough to kill him.”
“Oh.”
“Something wrong?”
“I have something to admit. I’m afraid I may have complicated things.”
“How’s that?”
I recounted for him Cyndi’s tearful call to her mother, my consultation with an entertainment lawyer, and the advice I’d tried to give. “I saw a draft of that letter in an envelope in her room,” I said. “The police have it, too. Even though we have to assume she was upset when she delivered the letter, she agreed to meet with him later to discuss it. That’s a good sign. You can make the case that she hoped that she and Marker would be able to come to some sort of agreement without her resorting to legal means.”
“Or violent ones.”
“I just don’t believe it’s in Cyndi’s nature to be a violent person.”
“I happen to agree. I think that’s a fair assumption, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Jessica. After all, we are partners.”
“Right, Jessica,” he said through a gentle laugh.
“There’s something that’s puzzling me,” I said. “Maybe you can explain it.”
“What’s that?”
“They say the fingerprints on the murder weapon match hers,” I said. “How could they have determined that
before
they arrested her? As far as I know, she’d never been fingerprinted before. What were they comparing the prints on the murder weapon to?”
Jamal gave me a wry smile, and cocked his head. “Yeah, well, the police can be pretty cagey at times. From what I understand, during their initial questioning—before I was assigned to the case, I might add—they offered her a can of Coke. She was obviously nervous and dry-mouthed. So, of course, she accepted. Also, she’s pretty naive and wouldn’t have suspected anything. They took her prints off the can so they would have a set to compare to those on the murder weapon. When it came back positive, they made it official and arrested her.”
“Sneaky,” I said, “but clever.”
“Very. And perfectly legal.”
“What happens now? Has she been arraigned?”
“Tomorrow. Technically it’s called a jail docket,” Jamal said, “part of the General Sessions Court. I’ll ask for a reconsideration of her bail, but it’s unlikely the judge will grant it, not in a murder case. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“I’d like to be there, too.”
A nod from the young attorney. “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” He took a sip of his drink and set the glass down. “I have something to ask you, Mrs. Fl . . . I mean, Jessica.”
“Go ahead.”
“How long do you intend to stay around Nashville?”
“I want to stay as long as it takes to see Cyndi walk free. I feel responsible for her being here in the first place.” I told him about CCC and how we’d raised the money for her to come to Nashville to pursue her dream.
“That’s an admirable project, Jessica. It’s a shame it’s ended up like this.”
“But that’s my whole point for being here, Jamal. I’m determined that it won’t end up this way. I can’t stay here months and months. I realize that’s unrealistic. But if we can learn enough to raise reasonable doubt in a potential jury, or better still, find out who really did kill Marker, we’ll have served Cyndi well.”
“That’s for sure,” he said, opening his menu. “I hope you’re right for all concerned. Shall we order?”
He steered me toward the Southern chicken cordon bleu, which the waiter indicated was breaded with pecans and stuffed with ham, Swiss cheese, and sage, sprinkled with a Dijon cream sauce, and served with sausage grit cakes and spinach. “I won’t be able to eat anything else for days,” I said, “but lunch was a long time ago and I’m hungry enough to eat a moose.”
“I figure you’ll be busy enough to work it off,” he said, ordering Merchants’ meat loaf. “Comfort food,” he said with a laugh. “Got me through some tough law exams.”
He offered to drive me to the court the following morning, but I declined. “I’m sure you have plenty to do,” I told him. “I’ll find my way there just fine.”
His parting words as I got out of his car in front of the hotel were, “I’m glad you’re here, Jessica. You know the defendant well. You got her to answer a question that she wouldn’t answer for me. That was a positive development.”
“Well, thank you. I’m hoping I can be of service.”