Nashville Noir Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  . Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty- four

  OTHER BOOKSIN THE MURDER, SHEWROTE SERIES

  Manhattans & Murder

  Rum & Razors

  Brandy & Bullets

  Martinis & Mayhem

  A Deadly Judgment

  A Palette for Murder

  The Highland Fling Murders

  Murder on the QE2

  Murder in Moscow

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Gin & Daggers

  Trick or Treachery

  Blood on the Vine

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Provence—To Die For

  You Bet Your Life

  Majoring in Murder

  Destination Murder

  Dying to Retire

  A Vote for Murder

  The Maine Mutiny

  Margaritas & Murder

  A Question of Murder

  Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

  Three Strikes and You’re Dead

  Panning for Murder

  Murder on Parade

  A Slaying in Savannah

  Madison Avenue Shoot

  A Fatal Feast

  OBSIDIAN

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 2010

  Copyright © 2010 Universal City Studios Productions LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint from “Nashville Noir” lyrics

  and music by David A. Stewart. Copyright © 2009. All rights reserved. International copyright

  secured. Used by permission.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESSCATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Bain, Donald, 1935-

  Nashville Noir: a Murder, She Wrote mystery: a novel/by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain.

  p. cm.—Murder, she wrote)

  “An Obsidian mystery.”

  “Based on the Universal television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson &

  William Link.”

  eISBN : 978-1-101-40436-2

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For “Men with Time”—good friends and luncheon companions for whom the art of conversation is alive and well.

  A tip of the hat to:

  Michael Barrett

  Charles Flowers

  Jeff Lasdon

  Phil Leshin

  Ken Marsolais

  Michael Millius

  Tom Molito

  John Shearer

  And to our recently departed sage, John Renwick.

  We miss you, Johnny.

  Finally to the women in our lives who keep threatening to form their own luncheon group, “Women Without Time.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Nashville’s Metropolitan Police Department defines “professionalism” in law enforcement. Our special thanks to its public affairs manager, Don Aaron, who so graciously and freely answered all our questions, and took the time to show us the inner workings of this exemplary police department. And thanks also to Lt. “Big Pat” Taylor and Sgt. “Little Pat” Postiglione. We hope that the real officers won’t take offense that Jessica Fletcher solves the murder before our fictional officer does in the book. It seems to happen everywhere she goes.

  Speaking of gracious law enforcement professionals, we’re deeply indebted to Lt. Thomas A. Walker of the Davidson County Sheriff’s Office. As charming as he is knowledgeable, Lt. Walker took us inside the Nashville penal system and demonstrated what an enlightened approach to incarceration can look like. And thanks also to Eric Bauder, manager of the processing unit downtown, who was so patient with our phone calls and questions.

  In addition, we’d like to thank former police detective and fellow music lover Lee Lofland, author of Police Procedure and Investigation, A Guide for Writers, who was an invaluable source of procedural information.

  Nashville is to country music songwriting what movies are to Hollywood. Debi Cochran is legislative director of the Nashville Songwriters Association International (NSAI), a dynamic organization of more than four thousand members that encourages, nurtures, teaches, and champions the creative act of writing a good song. Debi and her staff gave us a wonderful insight into how the Nashville music scene really works.

  The collective wisdom and knowledge of those mentioned above is sprinkled liberally throughout Nashville Noir. We’re sure they’ll forgive us for having taken literary license at times with t
heir information.

  Very special thanks to our friend and award-winning songwriter David Stewart, whose song “Nashville Noir” was written especially for us and for this book. His lyrics appear at the beginning of this book. Plans for making the recording of “Nashville Noir” widely available were not finalized at the time the book was written. Information about it will be posted on my Web site at www.donaldbain.com.

  NASHVILLE NOIR

  Midnight

  Waiting your turn at the open mike

  An endless procession of guitars,

  cowboy hats, young unknowns

  A long way from home

  Take care

  Somebody’s watching from the

  shadows out there

  Is he the man that you’ve been hoping

  to meet

  Or the guy who puts the demon in

  Demonbreun Street?

  A little chill goes shooting down your

  spine

  And you’re not sure if it’s the good or

  the bad kind

  When the man says “Kid, I can make

  you a star”

  And you’ve gotten a little taste of

  Nashville noir

  One a.m.

  Sitting and talking to your new best

  friend

  He’s telling you that he can open the

  doors

  Which anyone in this town would kill

  for

  A little chill goes shooting down your

  spine

  Your hand shakes as it reaches for the

  dotted line

  But the man says “Kid, I can make you

  a star”

  And you’ve gotten a little taste of

  Nashville noir

  Sometimes it’s dangerous

  To want something so much

  You don’t know what you’ll do

  A little chill goes shooting down your

  spine

  And you’re not sure if it’s the good or

  the bad kind

  When the man says “Kid, I can make

  you a star”

  And you’ve gotten a little taste of

  Nashville noir

  Words & Music by David A. Stewart

  Chapter One

  Cindy Blaskowitz held the final note of her song, allowing it to fade away to a whisper. She raised her guitar, lowered it, and bowed. There was silence in the Cabot Cove High School auditorium. Then the hundred or so people in the audience burst into applause. Some stood, prompting others to do the same.

  “Bravo!” someone shouted.

  “Brava!” corrected Elsie Fricket, who stood by my side.

  “Thank you,” Cindy said into the microphone, her face flush with emotion. “Thank you so much. Please sit down. There’s something I need to say.”

  The clapping subsided and everyone took their seats.

  Cindy cleared her throat a few times against the threat of tears. A tall, slender eighteen-year-old, she looked younger than her age, vulnerable and uncertain despite the accolades she’d received that evening. She wore a simple patterned brown-and-white dress with a high collar and a hem that reached her calves. Her cinnamon-colored hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail; the freckles on her pale face were especially prominent in the harsh glare of the spotlight.

  She managed a smile and said, “You are the most wonderful people in the world. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you for what you’re doing for me. I do know that I’ll try my very best to justify the faith you’re showing in me, and that if I make it big”—she paused—“when I make it big”—there was a rumble of warm laughter in the audience—“I’ll always remember that it was because of you.”

  Now the tears flowed and the applause erupted again.

  Following the performance, we gathered in a large room adjacent to the auditorium for pastries, coffee or tea, and soft drinks. I was talking with Cabot Cove’s mayor, Jim Shevlin, when Cindy’s mother, Janet, joined us.

  “I’m circling the room to make sure I don’t miss anyone,” she said. “How can I ever thank you for what you’re doing for Cindy?”

  “You must be one proud mom,” Shevlin said.

  “Oh, I certainly am,” Mrs. Blaskowitz said, beaming. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry,” she said through her smile. “I’m such a waterworks tonight.”

  “Were you surprised she was chosen?”

  “Not really. I don’t mean to sound immodest, but I knew she’d make good from the time she was three, picking out songs on our old upright and making me play my old country tapes by Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline over and over and over again. Even though I loved their albums, I thought I’d go mad if I heard them one more time. But look where it’s led.”

  Shevlin laughed. “Just make sure we get a copy of her first platinum CD to display in city hall.”

  “You can be sure of that,” she said, the joyous smile seemingly permanently affixed on her face.

  Janet Blaskowitz and her four daughters had lived in Cabot Cove all their lives. They’d had a tough time making ends meet after Janet’s husband died. Gabe Blaskowitz had been a private pilot who ferried sport fishermen into remote areas of the backwoods between the United States and Canada. His sixty-year-old float plane had gone down when the wing tip caught on a stone outcropping as he tried a tricky landing on a lake without a name. The wealthy angler who had offered to double the fee if Blaskowitz would agree to fly out that windy day had perished as well. Cindy, oldest of the four girls, had been just eleven at the time.

  With little money saved and no life insurance, Blaskowitz had left the responsibility to care for his family solely on his wife’s shoulders. Janet had done an admirable job of raising the girls while holding down two full-time jobs. Her daughters were well-mannered, intelligent young women with sunny dispositions despite the hardships they’d endured. Cindy possessed those attributes, but she had also been born with musical talent—loads of it. She played piano and guitar, and had a lovely singing voice that was at once lilting and earthy. She’d won the lead in our high school musicals for the past three years, and those in attendance never failed to comment on her professionalism, the sort of poise and talent that might one day help her achieve success in show business. She also wrote country-and-western songs, some of which she’d performed this evening. Her lyrics were mature for someone so young, speaking to heartbreak and strife, as well as to soaring spirits and overcoming adversity. An impressive musical package.

  “She must be thrilled about going to Nashville,” I said.

  “She tries not to show it,” said her mother, “but I know inside she’s bursting with excitement. What you and the others in the CCC have done over the years for young people like Cindy is so wonderful, Jessica.”

  “All we’ve done is to give special youngsters a chance to develop their talents, Janet. I can’t imagine a more worthwhile thing to do.”

  CCC stood for Cabot Cove Cares. When the organization was first established nine years ago, someone protested the name: “It sounds like the work-relief program Roosevelt put in before the war,” Spencer Durkee had said. “Didn’t you ever hear of the Civilian Conservation Corps?”

  But he was overruled. “No one but you remembers the Civilian Conservation Corps, Durkee,” another had said. And CCC began raising money for its mission: to financially back one young person each year who’d shown considerable talent in one of the arts—painting, dancing, music, writing, or acting. The recipients of the yearly grant used the money to travel to a larger venue, where they could receive more advanced professional training—which generally meant New York City or Boston. They were given enough money to live on in those cities for four to six months, and to pay for their lessons. In Cindy’s case, Nashville was the logical place for her to put her songwriting and singing talents on display, and to learn more about the business of writing and performing country-and-western music.

  I’d been on CCC’s c
ommittee since its inception, and was active in fund-raising, donating a percentage of my book royalties each year to the organization. I took immense pride in the accomplishments of those talented young men and women who’d benefited from it. This year, we’d decided on Cindy Blaskowitz early on, and had done research into Nashville and whether that was where she should go.

  I’d had no idea how popular country music was across the U.S. and Canada, nor what a dominant role Nashville played in it. I’d been there once to record one of my books, and again some years later to visit an old friend, although both visits were brief, and details about the city had been regrettably eclipsed in my memory by my involvement with a murder investigation. But that was many years ago. I knew that Nashville was called “Music City,” and of course I’d heard of the Grand Ole Opry, but I was surprised to learn, as another committee member airily informed me, that Nashville was to country-and-western music what Hollywood was to the movies.

  Our research showed that country music sales topped all other genres, outselling pop, urban-contemporary, rap, and jazz by a wide margin. Country radio leads all formats, with more than two thousand radio stations in the United States that program the music, with an estimated audience in excess of fifty-six million listeners. I admitted to my fellow committee members that country-and-western music wasn’t my cup of tea, my musical tastes running more to Sinatra and Tony Bennett, Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman, and maybe a good Irish folk song. But once we’d chosen Cindy, I made a point of listening to her style of music on a local radio station that featured such stars as Garth Brooks, Reba McEntire, Brad Paisley, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Shania Twain, and Taylor Swift, and my appreciation of the genre grew.

  “I’m so pleased that Cindy has someone in Nashville who’s already impressed with her talents,” Janet Blaskowitz said.

  “You mean that fellow Marker?” said Seth Hazlitt, who’d joined our little group.