Nashville Noir Page 6

  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.”

  “Wasn’t me. Must’ve been the witch.”

  “The witch?”

  “Heather Blackwood, the ‘Goth country singer.’ She thinks she’ll start a new trend in country music, raccoon eyes and black lipstick. I told her that her looks are fine for metal, but she’ll never get by in Nashville. Those ol’ country boys like to see us all-American scrubbed. Red lipstick—like mine—and flirty eyes. Glam is okay—Taylor Swift uses a lot of silver—but you shouldn’t look like you just climbed out of the grave. Know what I mean?”

  “I haven’t met her. You’re the first one to introduce yourself,” I said, “apart from Mrs. Granger.”

  “Stranger Granger, the bitter ranger,” Alicia sang. “I wrote a song about her. Well, you’ll get to see them all by and by, I ’spect,” she said, putting on an even deeper Southern accent. “We’re all one happy family.”

  “How many people live here?”

  She screwed up her face in exaggerated thought. “Six now, not counting the Stranger.” She counted on her fingers. “Me, Cyndi, Brandon, Heather, and two more on my floor, Barrie and Sammy. They’re a duo; they’re on the road right now. Got a job in Branson for two weeks. They have the best luck. Oh, did you see Cyndi’s new look yet?”

  “What new look?”

  “She’s got curly hair now,” she said, checking herself in the mirror again. “I gave her a permanent, and showed her how to use makeup. We had a ball at the drugstore, picking out all kinds of goodies. She looks amazin
g. Wait till you see.”

  I was sure that Cyndi looked anything but glamorous in her cell. “Your water is boiling,” I said.

  “Oh, right.” Alicia unplugged the electric coil and dropped it in the sink. Dunking her teabag in the water, she sashayed to the door. “Gotta go now. Nice meetin’ ya, as they say up here.” She adopted a look of extreme anguish and caring. “You be sure to say ’lo to Cyndi when you see her. Tell her that I’m thinkin’ about her. Who’d have ever thought? Oh, I’ll replace the teabag soon as I can.”

  “And the mug,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah, and the mug.”

  I shut the door behind Alicia, locked it, and shook my head to clear it of the confusion Alicia had created in me. What a strange, callous young woman, I thought as I swept crumbs from the dresser into my palm and dusted my hands over the sink, washing the scraps down the drain. I returned the cooled electrical coil to where Alicia had found it, wrapped the crackers in the piece of foil, and eased the open drawer closed. I smoothed the wrinkles on the bed where she’d flopped down. On a whim, I lifted the corner of the mattress and pushed my hand between the mattress and the springs. My fingers felt a hard edge. I lifted the mattress higher and pulled out a manila envelope. The flap was open, and I sat at the desk to examine its contents.

  It was the paper trail I’d advised Cyndi to keep, showing the dates she’d composed her song, the one Sally Prentice was to record, and when she’d sent it to Marker. There were notes in Cyndi’s handwriting from our telephone call, including instructions on how to find a sample cease-and-desist letter, and a copy of one she may have downloaded from the Internet. There was also a calendar page with last Friday’s date circled. “Mr. Marker 5:15,” it said.

  I pulled out the letter and scanned the lines. Written in strong language, it cited a paragraph and section of the law, and threatened damages of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I had recommended that Cyndi send such a letter to Roderick Marker to demand that he stop using her songs without permission. Had she sent him this letter? Or had she delivered the final draft to him personally? Had he become angry at being handed such a document? Had they argued about it? Worse, had the police found the original and decided it was a motive for murder?

  An involuntary shiver slithered up my back, and a fearful thought raced through my mind. Please let me not have given Cyndi the wrong advice.

  I admit to being tempted to take the envelope with me, but thought better of it. According to Mrs. Granger, the police were coming to the house that day and would want to examine Cyndi’s quarters. It was bad enough that I’d already been rummaging around the room of an accused murderess; removing anything that might be considered evidence was a definite no-no. Sighing, I slid the envelope back under the mattress and left, locking the door behind me.

  Chapter Eight

  I rolled my suitcase out of my room and lugged it down the two flights of stairs. Mrs. Granger met me in the foyer.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Mrs. Granger asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” I replied, “but I appreciate your courtesies. And, of course, I’ll stay in touch.” I leaned my rolling bag against the wall and rummaged in my bag to find my notebook. I tore out a piece of paper. “Here’s where I’m staying.” I’d written down the name of the hotel and my cell phone number. “In case you need to reach me.”

  I was eager to get settled before facing the situation. I had considered calling Detective Biddle to set up an appointment but decided instead just to show up at his office later that day. It’s easy to put someone off on the phone, but not so easy when you’re staring them in the eye. Besides, Mrs. Granger had said he’d be stopping by sometime to interview her. I probably wouldn’t have been able to reach him by phone anyway.

  “What about her things?” she asked, referring to Cyndi’s belongings.

  I started to respond when the ringing doorbell interrupted us. Mrs. Granger opened the door. Two men stood on the porch, one in uniform, the other in plainclothes. I looked beyond them to where a marked police cruiser sat at the curb.

  “Mrs. Granger?” the man in civilian clothing asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m Detective Biddle. Called yesterday.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Come on in.”

  As they stepped into the foyer, Biddle eyed me.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I remember,” he said.

  “I was going to stop in later this afternoon to see if I could speak with Ms. Blaskowitz, or rather Ms. Gabriel.”

  “Had a hunch you’d be showing up,” he said, not sounding pleased. “That sheriff of yours is a persistent sort.”

  I smiled. “He is when he wants something.”

  “Called twice this morning about you. Says you’re a good friend of the kid’s family and that you’d be the only friend she has here in Nashville. Mother’s in the hospital and all that.”

  “Yes, it’s a sad situation,” I said. “I hope you’ll let me speak with Cyndi.”

  “You’re pretty persistent, too, Mrs. Fletcher.” He shrugged. “But in any case, it’s not up to me. It’s up to her, and the sheriff’s department that runs the women’s prison out in Antioch. They’ve got their rules. Besides, heard she refused to put any names on her visitor list. She’s got a lawyer now. I’ll get you the name. Why don’t you take it up with him?”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  He turned to Mrs. Granger. “In the meantime, I have some questions for you.”

  “Do you mind if I sit in?” I asked.

  Detective Biddle rolled his eyes and looked at me as though I’d uttered a crude four-letter word.

  “I’d like her with me,” Mrs. Granger said. “She’s a famous mystery writer.”

  “So I hear,” he said.

  “I’ve already been through Cyndi’s room,” I said, “and—”

  Now his expression said I’d come out with a string of expletives.

  “I stayed here overnight and—”

  “Touch anything in her room?” he asked.

  “A few things. It’s not taped off as a crime scene. I didn’t see anything wrong with looking around and trying to understand what led up to what—well, what she’s accused of doing.”

  His long sigh said many things, none of them favorable. “Stay out of her room, okay?” he said. “Leastways till we get finished with it.”

  “Certainly, if you wish.”

  Although he’d not responded to my request to join them, I followed anyway into the kitchen, where he and Mrs. Granger sat at the table. The uniformed officer stood near the door; I chose an inconspicuous spot on the opposite side of the room. If Biddle realized I was there, he didn’t say anything. He asked Mrs. Granger a series of questions that didn’t elicit any useful information as far as I was concerned. When the questioning was concluded, Mrs. Granger led Biddle and the uniformed officer up to the third floor, where they spent a half hour in Cyndi’s room. I stayed in the kitchen until they returned carrying Cyndi’s laptop computer, guitar case, backpack, and an evidence bag holding whatever else they’d taken from the room.

  “Doubt if we need to tape off the room,” Biddle announced. “We did a thorough search, got everything there was to find.”

  “Did you look under the mattress?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “You read too many mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher. Nobody hides things under their mattress these days.”

  I raised my brows but didn’t say anything. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  A look of consternation crossed Biddle’s face. He turned to the uniformed officer. “Go on up again and look under the mattress,” he said.

  The officer returned a few minutes later, waving the manila envelope.

  Biddle scowled at me, and I feared that I’d made an enemy.

  I’d hated to have to tell them about the envelope. But if Cyndi was guilty, the police were
entitled to see it, and if she was innocent, well, the same still held true. The fact of the matter was, I couldn’t live with myself if I’d been responsible for knowingly withholding evidence.

  “Have a car here in Nashville, Mrs. Fletcher?” Biddle asked, interrupting my thoughts. He seemed to have gotten over his pique at me.

  “No. I’m afraid I don’t drive.”

  A prolonged sigh. “Come on, then, I’ll give you a lift down to headquarters. Get you her lawyer’s name. Maybe he’ll agree to let you see the accused, but he’ll have to convince her that it’s okay.”

  “I understand perfectly, Detective Biddle, and I very much appreciate what you’re doing.”

  When we arrived at the Nashville Metropolitan Police Department’s central precinct, a fairly new redbrick building on what’s called James Robertson Parkway in downtown Nashville, he led me to an office on the top floor of the building. “You can park your bag over there,” he said, pointing to an empty space next to a bookcase. “Have a seat. I’ll be back.”

  I followed his instruction and swiveled in my chair to take in my surroundings. Mort Metzger’s office is fairly organized, although on occasion it looks as though a whirl-wind has hit it. No one would ever accuse him of being naturally neat. Biddle’s environment, on the other hand, reflected someone who might be obsessive-compulsive. Every piece of paper was squared on the desk, and pens and pencils were lined up evenly. No photograph or citation hanging on the walls was even slightly crooked. Books on a series of shelves behind the desk stood neatly in rows, not one protruding farther out than any other.