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  “I think he said it’s thirty-five dollars if you register it online, a little more if you send in paperwork.”

  “Oh.”

  I could imagine the wheels turning in Cindy’s head. At thirty-five dollars a song, with her considerable output, her small stipend could be depleted in no time. “But, as he said,” I continued, “you don’t need to do that to establish your copyright. Are you sure these are your songs? If he changed some of the music or lyrics, he could contest any copyright infringements you claim.”

  Janet leaned over my shoulder. “Are you writing this down, Cindy?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Mr. Grossman said that if you don’t have a formal copyright you may need to present evidence that a song is yours,” I said.

  “I know the song is mine. Mr. Marker doesn’t deny that.”

  “That may be true, Cindy, but it’s good advice for the future. If you’ve written your songs on the computer, the program has a section that indicates when the song was created, and each time it was accessed or changed. If you make a demo of your songs on a disc, he told me, it’s a good idea to announce your name, the name of the song, and the date you’re recording it before you start to play and sing.”

  “Okay. I usually do that.”

  I paused to wonder whether Marker was being straight with her about giving her cocredit as the writer, and whether she’d ever see money from it.

  “It would be a good idea, Cindy, to gather information that proves you wrote the song Mr. Marker has given to this other singer.”

  “But—”

  “Just in case,” I said. “Make copies of your original e-mails to Mr. Marker, and his e-mails to you.”

  “Sometimes I just talked to him on the phone.”

  “Did you keep any notes of your conversations?”

  “I wrote about it in my diary.”

  “Good. Make copies of those pages. And if you spoke to friends about those calls, make a note of that, too. You’ll also need a printout from the computer showing the date you started writing the song. Make copies of everything you can think of that relate to the songs, and keep them in a folder.”

  “What do I do with the folder?”

  “Just keep it in a safe place for now,” I said. “That’s your paper trail. If you ever need to present evidence in court, which is highly unlikely, you have it.”

  “Okay. I think I can manage that. Anything else?”

  “The best thing to do is to write a very polite letter notifying Mr. Marker that he’s using your song without permission.”

  “A letter? But I already told him that.”

  “This is more of that paper trail I told you about,” I said. “A letter, which you should send by registered mail, shows you’re making a good-faith effort to resolve your differences. You state again that he doesn’t have permission to give your song to this other singer, and ask him to assure you in writing that you’ll receive proper credit and compensation. I’m assuming that’s what you want.”

  “I want Cindy to sing it,” Janet said, taking one of her own cookies. “ ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears’ was her best song.”

  Cindy mumbled something.

  “What was that?” Janet said. “Do you have someone else there with you?”

  “No, Mom. Would you please just let Mrs. Fletcher finish.”

  “Stop whining, Cindy. I’m sorry, Jessica. What were you going to say?”

  I was beginning to think this was not a good idea. I didn’t want to create a rift between Cindy and her mother. I had hoped to save Janet the expense of hiring a lawyer, which she wouldn’t have done anyway. But was I the right person to be presenting this information? Legal advice is best given in person by a lawyer rather than over the phone by a stand-in. I wasn’t equipped to answer too many questions, only the ones I’d happened to ask Bart. I hurried to finish the instructions. “Cindy, you should end the letter by telling him you’ll give him five days to respond. And then thank him for his attention to this matter.”

  “I don’t think he’ll pay any attention,” Cindy said.

  “Why five days?” Janet asked.

  “If you don’t give him a deadline, he might just ignore the letter and never respond. He may not respond anyway, but a deadline indicates there will be more to come if he doesn’t.”

  “What more to come?” Cindy’s voice was taking on an edge of panic.

  “Well, if he doesn’t answer your letter, the next step would probably be to send Mr. Marker what’s known as a C&D, a cease-and-desist order.”

  “Godfrey Mighty! What’s that?”

  “Watch your language, Cindy,” Janet snapped.

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Don’t be apologizing to me, young lady. There are others here trying to help you.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “That’s all right, dear. Let’s finish this up so you can think about what you want to do.” I described what a cease-and-desist order was, simply a letter threatening action if the person addressed doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “There are samples on the Internet you can follow if you’re uncomfortable writing your own C&D.”

  “I’m uncomfortable with this whole thing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Cindy—” Janet said, clearly alarmed.

  “Mom, please let me talk.”

  There was a slight pause. I looked at Janet, whose lips were in a tight line. She was trying not to interfere, but that was difficult for her. Liz and Mia were hanging back just outside the door, out of sight from their mother, but I could see their worried expressions, eyes darting between their mother’s back and the black telephone on the table.

  Cindy’s voice came over the line. It was reedy, and I suspected she was on the verge of tears. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I really, really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and what you’re trying to do. And it’s true that I was shocked and angry and very disappointed when I heard what he’d done.” She took a deep breath.

  “I understand, dear,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s not you.” We heard her sniffle, and blow her nose.

  “I know that, and I know I may be putting in my two cents where it’s not wanted.”

  “No, Jessica,” Janet said.

  I cocked my head and gave her a small smile, then said to the phone, “I’m going to stop now, Cindy, and let you have a nice talk with your family. The whole point of this is to remember that you don’t have to feel helpless when someone takes advantage of you, that you don’t have to be a victim. There are things you can do. What you decide to do is completely up to you, and I support whatever choice you make. By the way, have you spoken about this to anyone at that Nashville Songwriters Association we enrolled you in?”

  “No, but I will.”

  “Good.”

  CCC had paid the $150 yearly dues for Cindy to join the Nashville Songwriters Association International, NSAI, which we’d been advised was a wonderful organization in Nashville catering to songwriters, aspiring ones like Cindy and well-established veterans alike.

  “Thankyou, Mrs. Fletcher. Please don’t think I’m ungrateful. It’s just I’m such a newcomer here and don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my future. If I lose a song because I was naive and trusted someone I shouldn’t, well, then it’s my loss and I’ll know better next time. But this may turn out to be a great opportunity. I’ll never know if I don’t wait to see what happens.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Cindy,” I said. “I know whatever you do will be right. The most important thing is to make your time in Nashville productive. You’re there to learn and, just as important, to enjoy yourself.”

  Janet walked me to the door. “Jessica, I’m so grateful that you’re looking out for her. I feel much more confident now.”

  “I didn’t do very much, Janet, just made a few calls.”

  “Oh, but you care. You can’t know how much that means to me.”

  “Of course I care. We all do. The
CCC wants this to be a positive experience for Cindy.”

  “But it’s more. That you, a celebrity and all, would take such a personal interest in my daughter, well, I’m simply overwhelmed.”

  “I think you’re giving me far too much credit, Janet,” I said, suddenly a bit uncomfortable. “The whole community is behind Cindy. I’m only a small part of it.”

  But I was about to become a larger part of it, and like it or not, it was all my own doing.

  Chapter Four

  My deeper involvement in Cindy Blaskowitz’s Nashville sojourn began on Monday morning a week later when Emily, Cindy’s sixteen-year-old sister, showed up at my door, dark circles beneath her eyes, her skin so pale the umber-colored freckles stood out in relief, making it appear as though she’d stepped in front of a paint sprayer.

  “Emily, is everything all right?” I asked, ushering her into the kitchen and pressing her into a chair.

  “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, my mother would kill me if she knew I was here.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “It’s Cindy,” she moaned, drawing in a breath that ended in a hiccup.

  “Has something happened to her?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “I don’t understand. What don’t you know?”

  “We don’t know where she is.”

  “She’s missing?”

  Emily nodded, and exploded into tears. I plucked tissues from the box by the phone, tucked them in her hand, sat down, pulled my chair close to hers, and waited while she gathered her emotions.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, blowing her nose in a tissue and wiping her cheeks and eyes with her fingers. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I said. “Clearly you’re upset. But I can’t offer any help until you tell me the whole story.”

  “She always calls, the same time every night,” Emily said, “but now she hasn’t. We’re afraid something terrible has happened.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I said soothingly. “There could be myriad reasons why she didn’t call. Perhaps she lost her cell phone or forgot to charge it. That’s certainly happened to me a time or two. Or maybe she used up all the money on the phone card your mother gave her.”

  Emily shook her head mutely.

  “Or the cell tower might be down, or the electricity out,” I said, counting the possible reasons off on my fingers. “Those kinds of things happen routinely.”

  Her eyes filled again.

  “She might have gone away with friends for a few days,” I offered.

  We looked at each other in silence.

  “Why do you think she’s missing?” I asked.

  The story came spilling out along with more tears.

  Cindy had faithfully called every night at seven. Then, last Friday, she didn’t, nor did she return messages her mother had left on her voice mail. Janet was worried but had come up with the same series of excuses as I had. When Cindy didn’t call the next night, Janet got hold of Mrs. Granger, the landlady, who knocked on Cindy’s door and reported back that she wasn’t there. “Place looks normal,” Mrs. Granger said. “She’s pretty neat for a girl.”

  After Sunday night passed without hearing from Cindy, Janet called Mort Metzger, our sheriff, on this Monday morning and asked him to check with the Nashville police. While she waited impatiently for Mort to get back to her, she encouraged her daughters to question Cindy’s school friends to see if any of them knew why Cindy would stop calling and not respond to messages. Had she made plans she hadn’t confided to her mother? To assuage her worries, Janet called every hospital in Nashville to see if they had any unidentified patients. They didn’t.

  “I begged my mom to call you, but she wouldn’t,” Emily told me. “She said you’d done enough for our family and she didn’t want to impose on you again.”

  “I’m sorry she felt that way,” I said. “Of course I want to help, but I’m not sure what I can do. Your mother did exactly the right thing contacting Sheriff Metzger. He’s probably the best person to help track Cindy down. But I’m sure it’s nothing serious, Emily. In a day or two you’ll probably be laughing about this.”

  I called Janet later that afternoon to ask whether she’d heard from Mort. According to her, our sheriff’s conversation with a Nashville police contact hadn’t shed any light on Cindy’s whereabouts. “I’m worried sick,” she said.

  “Of course you are, Janet,” I said, “but I think it’s premature to be thinking the worst.” I tried to lighten the tone of the conversation. “That’s one of the problems when children promise to call on a regular schedule. The minute they forget to make a call at the appointed time, we immediately fear the worst. It used to happen to me many times with my nephew Grady. Still does, as a matter of fact, and he’s all grown up with a family of his own.”

  “But it’s been almost four days,” Janet said, trying valiantly to control her emotions.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Give it one more day. In the meantime, keep leaving messages for her and let her know how worried you are. Unless I miss my guess, she’s probably gotten involved with friends or other performers and feels embarrassed to stop what she’s doing to call her mother.” I smiled, hoping the expression would come out in my voice and soothe her. “You know how young people are, Janet.”

  We talked a few minutes more and her mood seemed to brighten, although I was sure that her effort to seem upbeat was for my benefit.

  “I’ll call again,” I said, “around dinnertime.”

  An hour later, my phone rang. It was Mort Metzger.

  “Hey there, Mrs. F. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I’m alone,” I said, grabbing a chair and steeling myself. From his question it was evident that what he had to say was serious.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. F., but it’s about the Blaskowitz girl.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. What have you learned?”

  “I just got off the phone with the Nashville police. They were all apologetic, said they didn’t realize that we were looking for the same girl.”

  “She’s not . . . ?” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  “What? No! Nothing like that, Mrs. F. She’s alive. Sorry if I gave you a different impression.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said, collapsing against the back of the chair. “Anything else will be a relief.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure about that.”

  “But they’ve found her?”

  “Yup, they’ve found her.”

  “That’s wonderful. Have you called Janet Blaskowitz yet?”

  “Not yet. Tell you the truth, Mrs. F., I just don’t know how to handle this. Janet Blaskowitz’s one nice lady, loves those kids to death.”

  “What is it you need to tell her that’s so difficult, Mort? An accident? She’s been injured?” I hopped up from the chair and paced the room.

  “I didn’t know that Cindy changed her name,” Mort said.

  “She did? I didn’t know that, either. But what does that have to do with your call? Changing her name isn’t so terrible.”

  “Probably not, but I sure looked like a fool to the Nashville cops asking them to look for a girl whose name isn’t what I told them it was.”

  “I’m sure they understood. Where did they find Cindy?”

  “I’m not quite sure about that. They didn’t give me many details.”

  “Mort!” I snapped. “Get to the point. Where is she?”

  “I hate to say this, Mrs. F.”

  “Out with it!”

  “She’s in custody . . .”

  I dropped back into my chair. “I never expected that. But why wouldn’t she call? Why not let her mother know?”

  “It’s not the sort of thing you call your mother about. I mean, it’s nothing to brag about. It’s pretty bad, Mrs. F. She’s been arrested and charged with murder. Some music producer, according to the Nashville cops.”

  “Roderick Marker.”

  “That’s the one. Seems
like Cindy went on the lam for a few days and had the cops searching for her. They finally found her and brought her in.”

  “Poor Cindy,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it. It doesn’t sound like her at all. She’s such a quiet, reserved young woman.”

  “You gotta watch out for the quiet ones, my old captain in New York City used to say. They’re the kind who flip out when you least expect it.”

  “I’m sorry, but I just don’t see Cindy as the flipping-out kind.”

  “The detective I spoke with said she was caught red-handed at the scene. He said she’d hit Marker with some kind of trophy, then ran out of the office crying, right past a security guy coming in to check on what was going on. Happened early Friday night.”

  “They’re sure that it was Cindy Blaskowitz who ran from the scene?”

  “According to the fellow I spoke with. The fact that she was seen running from the scene, and holed up somewhere for a few days after it, doesn’t do much for her case, I’d say.”

  “No, that doesn’t sound good. Still . . .”

  “Thing is the victim, this fellow Marker, wasn’t dead yet when she ran.”

  “Did he identify Cindy?”

  “Nope. He wasn’t in any shape to talk, says my contact in Nashville.”

  “How did they find her, then?”

  “At first they put out an alert for her as a person of interest. Then some guy called in an anonymous tip, and the street patrol picked her up at a convenience store where she was buying a sandwich or something, brought her in for questioning, and held her for the rest of the day.”

  “Did she confess?”

  “No, but apparently they came up with enough evidence—the cop I spoke with wouldn’t be specific—for reasonable cause to book her for felony assault. When they heard Marker passed away without regaining consciousness, they upped the charge to murder.”

  “If she did hit him, Mort, there had to have been a good reason. Maybe he was assaulting her.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that, too. Only problem is the guy wasn’t hit on the front of the head. He got hit from behind, walking away. At least that’s what my guy in Nashville says. No court will buy that as self-defense, Mrs. F.”