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, everyone’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.
The sound of the door opening snapped me out of my reverie.
“I thought I heard somebody up here,” said a young woman, who peeked through the partially open door. All that was visible was a crown of platinum blond hair and blue eyes framed by sky blue eye shadow and thick black lashes. “Are you Cyndi’s mama?” she asked in a heavy Southern accent.
“No, a friend of the family.” I got up and opened the door wider so I could get a better look at my visitor. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. Who are you?”
“I’m Alicia. Alicia Piedmont. I live downstairs, right under Cyndi.”
Alicia was of medium height and looked like she spent a lot of time in the gym. She wore a powder blue sweat suit with the zippered front hanging open to reveal an orange marbleized tank top that stopped well above her navel and emphasized her full bosom. Her bright blond hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail held by a blue fabric-covered elastic. She wore silver Mary-Jane sneakers.
“I’m glad you’re not her mama,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what to say to her.”
“You know, of course, what’s happened to Cyndi.”
“I just found out yesterday. It was in the newspaper, on the front page. I wondered where Cyndi was. She hasn’t been here, and believe me, I’d know if she was. If you think the walls are thin, you should hear what I hear through the ceiling. The girl before Cyndi used to bounce on her bed on purpose, making the springs rattle. Then she’d take off her shoes and throw them across the room at the closet, one by one. You know that phrase ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’? Well, that was me, in person. Sometimes she would only throw one shoe. Just one. I never knew if she left the other one on, or if she tiptoed across the room and put it in the closet. I think she did it just to drive me crazy. Know what I mean? Anyway, I was glad when she left. Cyndi’s much quieter. I told her when she first got here that if she ever brought a boyfriend up, I’d be the first to know. Oh, but you don’t have to worry. She didn’t. She’s a real goody-goody girl. But I’m sure you know that.”
She’d walked past me while rattling on and wandered around the room, hand trailing along the front of the sink, across the curtain covering the closet opening, over the back of the chair, over the top of the dresser/night table. She picked up Cyndi’s perfume, sprayed it into the air, and leaned forward to catch the droplets in her hair as they fell. She paused by the side of the bed and sat heavily on it, bouncing up and down as she’d said the previous tenant had. “I feel so bad for her,” she said mournfully.
Was she about to cry? I didn’t think so, although it appeared that she was attempting to summon tears.
“You and Cyndi were close friends?” I asked, taking the desk chair.
“Not really. She’s only been here a couple of weeks.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Too long, I guess. What I mean is, sometimes I think about heading back home, only I’m not ready just yet.”
“And where is home?”
“A little town in Mississippi. You never heard of it.”
“You’re a singer?”
“Yup, and a good one. I write songs, too.”
“Did you and Cyndi discuss your songs with each other?”
“Sometimes. She was—”
“Yes?”
“Well, she’s not as good as she thinks she is. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, considering the trouble she’s in.”
I silently agreed that she shouldn’t have said that. Her comment was inappropriate given the circumstances, not to mention untrue. I thought Cyndi was very good, indeed. But I didn’t express that. Instead, I asked whether Cyndi had ever confided in her about what Roderick Marker had done with some of the songs she’d sent him from Cabot Cove.
She nodded. “She told me, but I didn’t believe it,” she said, popping up from the bed and walking to the mirror across the room.
“Oh? Why not?”
“I figured she was just jealous, because everybody knows Mr. Marker chose Sally Prentice to be his next star, not Cyndi. Sally is just loaded with talent. She doesn’t need anybody’s help writing her songs. She’s goin’ right to the top.”
“Did you also know Mr. Ma—?”
Alicia turned and interrupted me with, “Do you know if Cyndi has any coffee left? I ran out.”
“I haven’t seen any coffee,” I said, trying to figure out this young woman who obviously wasn’t what you’d call a good friend.
“I know where Cyndi keeps her coffee. She always lets me borrow some. Do you mind?”
“No.”
I watched in confused wonder as Alicia skipped to the dresser and tugged on the top drawer, which opened a few inches on one side. “Darn! These things never open right.” She pushed the drawer closed and tried again, easing each side forward a quarter-inch at a time until the drawer was halfway open. “Nope. Only tea. Let’s see. She’s got green tea and Earl Grey.” Alicia puffed out her cheeks and blew out a long stream of air. “I guess I’ll have to settle for Earl Grey.” She pulled out a white mug and an electric coil for boiling water in a cup, and crossed to the sink to fill the mug with water. “Want one? She’s got another mug here,” she said, indicating the one that held Cyndi’s toothbrush. “I can wash it out for you.”
“I think I’ll pass,” I said. “When was the last time you saw Cyndi?” I asked, still amazed at how this young woman acted as though nothing of importance had happened.
“Last week sometime. She was supposed to meet me at the Douglas Corner Café Saturday night, but she never showed. I mean, it wasn’t really definite or anything, but I’d told her these two guys might join us and it turned out they did, and the one guy was looking around for her all night. It was embarrassing. I told them they’d both have to settle for me.” She giggled, then pouted and unplugged Cyndi’s computer and plugged in the electric coil. She opened another dresser drawer, took out a roll of crackers wrapped in foil, tore at the paper, stuffed a cracker in her mouth, and held out the open package to me.
I shook my head. “If you don’t rewrap that carefully,” I said, “you’ll attract mice.”
“We already have them,” she said, dropping the package on the dresser. “Brandon is talking about getting a cat. He says he had one before and his aunt never knew. He lives down the hall and around the corner. Did you meet him yet?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” I said, “but didn’t I hear you talking to him in the corridor late last night? I thought I recognized your voice.”