“Oh, I know who you are,” Bobbie said, shaking my hand. “Everybody knows who you are from the newspaper.”
I smiled, but said nothing.
“Well,” said Bobbie, “you’re welcome to be here as long as you’re with Lynee. Let’s just go ahead on back.”
We walked down a long hall with framed gold and platinum records hanging on the walls on either side, leading to the control room, a dark, cavernous space painted black. The only lights were pin-spots in the ceiling that were trained on the huge console that spanned the expanse of glass separating the control room from the studio, and on a long, narrow, dark wood table up one level from where the console was situated. Lynee and I took seats at the table.
“Pretty fancy,” I said, swiveling in my white leather chair.
“It’s one of the biggest studios in Nashville,” she told me. “Lots of megahits have been recorded here. I mean
really
big hits. Only the top singers get to record here.”
“They must think that Ms. Prentice will be one of those stars,” I said.
“That’s the talk around the business,” Lynee said. “Once a buzz develops, things really start to happen. The publicity machine cranks up and it’s what you call—um . . .”
“A self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
I turned my attention from the console and the two young men working at it to the studio beyond the glass. Musicians had begun filing in; a drummer was setting up in what was almost a separate room surrounded by noise baffles. A grand piano was being positioned, and two technicians were busy placing microphones at the various instruments, four of them on the drums alone.
“Quite a production,” I said as I watched with fascination.
“Takes a lot to put a song on a CD, Jessica. See, the first thing that happens is—”
I held up my hand to stop her. What had diverted my attention was Wally Brolin, who’d entered the studio carrying his guitar. “That’s Wally Brolin,” I whispered.
“Sure is. Looks like he got himself a gig with Sally.”
“He mentioned he was hoping for that.”
My eyes went back to the studio. Sally Prentice had arrived wearing a patchwork skirt, denim jacket, and green cowboy boots. Her clothing wasn’t what interested me, however. She crossed the studio, passing the other musicians, went directly to Brolin, and threw her arms around him.
“Wally and Ms. Prentice seem fond of each other,” I said.
“Looks that way, don’t it?”
A few minutes later, Sally Prentice entered the control room and greeted the technicians at the board. She waved at Lynee and me. “Hi, y’all.”
“Ms. Prentice,” I said, standing and approaching her. “I wonder if I could have a word with you.”
“Sure thing. You want my autograph?” She nudged one of the technicians and giggled at her own joke. “Just kidding. What did you want?”
“I’m Jessica Fletcher.” I said, extending my hand.
She took my hand tentatively. “How do, ma’am. Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“She should,” Lynee put in. “Her face was all over the newspaper this morning.”
I ignored Lynee’s comment. “I’m here in Nashville helping Cyndi Gabriel fight the murder charges against her,” I said. “I know you were close to Mr. Marker. I saw you sing at his memorial service this morning.”
Her face fell. If she’d thought at first I was a member of the press after a story about this rising young star, she now understood that I was something else altogether.
“What do you want from me?”
“Just a few minutes of your time. I have some questions for you and—”
“Excuse me,” she said, and turned to leave.
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your recording, but I would be sincerely appreciative if you’d grant me a moment to talk with you.”
She struck a pose, hand on hip, her pretty red lips curled into what I can only describe as a snarl. “Look,” she said, “I’m not interested in your friend Ms. Gabriel and whether she goes away for life. She deserves it. She killed Rod in cold blood and—”
“You were interested enough in her to steal her song!”
She jerked her head, setting her platinum hair in motion. “How dare you?” she said.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” I said. I was aware that the engineers seated at the console had stopped adjusting their equipment and were taking in our confrontation. “Cyndi wrote ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears.’ You didn’t, yet your name will appear on it as a cowriter. That doesn’t strike me as fair.”
I hadn’t realized that Wally Brolin had entered the room. “Is there a problem, Sally?” he asked.
“You bet there is,” she said. “This—this person is accusing me of stealing a song by . . . by . . . by that girl who killed Rod.”
Brolin faced me. “I don’t know what you’re doin’ here, Mrs. Fletcher, but this is not the time to air your theories on who killed Rod. We’re workin’ here. You want to watch, fine, but don’t go riling up Ms. Prentice, ’cause she had nothing to do with that.”
“Maybe we should have this conversation in less public circumstances,” I said.
I looked at Lynee Granger, who motioned for me to take my seat again.
“Get her out of here,” Sally said, stamping a foot. “I want her to leave.”
When I didn’t budge, they both stormed from the room.
“You always rub people the wrong way like that?” Lynee asked, her eyes merry and her voice hinting that she wasn’t being accusatory or critical.
“I try not to,” I said.
A voice through a speaker in the control room said, “Are we set in there?” I recognized it as belonging to Wally Brolin.
“Anytime you are,” an engineer replied.
I turned my attention to the studio, where Brolin seemed to be in charge of the other musicians. “Can we get Sally to do a scratch track?” he asked.
Sally walked up to a microphone.
“Hey, you okay, doll?” Brolin asked.
“I’m just fine,” she replied in a hard voice that didn’t support what she’d said. “Let’s do it.”
“Take One,” an engineer said, “ ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears.’ ”
Sally talked the lyrics more than sang them, consulting a sheet of paper on a music stand.
It was distressing to hear that song being rehearsed and featuring someone other than Cyndi Gabriel. I thought back to that night in the Cabot Cove High School auditorium when, as Cindy Blaskowitz, she brought down the house with her rendition of it, playing and singing alone onstage, her voice plaintive and sincere, the chords from her guitar rich and raw. Janet Blaskowitz had once told me that Cindy sometimes practiced the guitar for such long stretches that her fingers bled. I’d heard Sally’s playing that morning at the memorial service. She was competent but uninspiring. I hoped that she would give more to the song she was claiming was hers.
A man entered the control room and motioned for Lynee to join him outside. When she returned, she whispered to me, “That’s Hal. He owns the place. He wanted to know what was wrong. I told him there’s nothing wrong, just a slight misunderstanding.”
“I can stay?”
“Long as you don’t get into another fracas with somebody. ’Course, I don’t mind if you do. I’m having me a good time.”
After the first run-through of the song, Brolin made suggestions to the other musicians about changes he wanted made. I kept my eyes on Sally Prentice, who’d taken a stool and looked bored. Brolin gave the downbeat and the musicians played without Sally’s participation. A third take included her. This time she did more singing than talking, and I had to admit that her voice was pleasant with a thick Western twang that added color. But of course I was biased in favor of Cyndi; as far as I was concerned, any singer I heard would pale in comparison.
I sat silently next to Lynee—I didn’t dare open my mouth and risk expulsion again—and took in the remainder of what I assumed was a rehearsal. But when the band called it quits, Lynee informed me that the musicians had recorded what would probably be the final track, and that Sally Prentice would return at another time to add her voice to “Talkin’ Through the Tears.”
“That’s how it’s done?” I said.
“Yes, ma’am. Used to be that the musicians and singer would record at the same time, but all this techie stuff changed that. They overdub the vocals after the music tracks’re finished. Gives the singer a chance to play with the music without holding up a roomful of musicians. They mix it together later for the master.”
The lights came up in the control room as the musicians, followed by Wally Brolin, came in to hear a playback. He watched me from the doorway. I waved. He halfheartedly returned it and lingered there, as though not sure whether to continue into the room, or back out of it.
“Hi again,” I said, getting up and going to him.
“I didn’t know you were goin’ to be here.”
“I came with my friend Lynee.”
“Oh.” He looked past me and returned Lynee’s greeting.
“You’ve recorded Cyndi’s song.”
As I said it, Sally Prentice came up behind. “It’s not her song,” she snapped. “I’m the one who’ll make it a hit, not her. Besides, she’s getting a writing credit. That’s more’n she deserves.”
“I’m not here to cause a problem, Ms. Prentice, but a talented young girl’s life is at stake. All I’m asking is that you spend some time helping me understand what went on after she arrived in Nashville. Is that asking too much?”
She drew a deep, exasperated breath and turned her back to me.
“What about you, Wally?” I said. “I need to know what role having Cyndi’s song given to Ms. Prentice might have played in Roderick Marker’s death.”
“If it played any role at all, it gave her a motive to kill him.”
“I thought you believed in her innocence.”
“You ready for playback, Wally?” asked an engineer.
“Look, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, “I have to listen to what we just laid down. How about we meet up later?”
“Anytime you say.”
“Give me an hour. I’ll come by your hotel.”
“One hour? I’ll be waiting.”
“Pallin’ around with you sure is excitin’, Jessica,” Lynee said, putting the Jeep in gear and roaring away from the studio. “Sure beats my quiet life. Only thing happens to rattle my cage is I get cheated by a tenant. Not much to chew on there.”
“Oh. Who cheated you?”
“Miss Alicia Piedmont. Never did trust that girl. Packed up and left. Owes me a week’s rent, too.”
“Not very considerate of her.”
She sighed. “Jilted my nephew, too. He thinks I don’t know he was stepping out with her. But not a lot gets past me. I told him early on not to waste his time. She’s just looking for whoever can get her ahead. A manipulator. Just foolin’ herself, that’s all. She wasn’t going nowhere. Back home, they’re all big fish in a small pond—you know what I mean?—the best singer in their school chorus and all that sorta thing. But this is the big time, Jessica. Bein’ the star in your high school musicals doesn’t cut it here.”
Her assessment was hard-nosed and callous, and probably accurate. This was a woman who’d been around and had gone through the hoops. And I admit I wasn’t surprised that Alicia had vacated her room without paying. To be as candid as Lynee, I didn’t particularly like the girl either based upon our brief, disconcerting meeting.
“Don’t let Wally keep you out too late,” Lynee said when we pulled up in front of the hotel.
“I was surprised to see him at the recording session,” I said. “He and Ms. Prentice obviously work well together.”
It was more a snort than a laugh from Lynee. “Wally, he’s like so many dudes in Nashville tryin’ to make it big. Of course, take it from me, it’s easier as a musician than a singer, more opportunities to perform provided you’ve got what it takes. Wally’s a hustler, Jessica. You’ve got to be to survive in Music City.” Another snort preceded “Music City.” “I suppose I shouldn’t be so cynical, huh? Here I am still tryin’ to make it with the songs I write with my partner up there in Rhode Island. I’ve still got the dream, Jessica, still think I’ve got what it takes to turn Nashville on its ear. I suppose I’ll meet my Maker thinkin’ that.”
I reached across and patted her arm. “I don’t doubt that when you meet your Maker, you’ll be carrying a gold record under your arm,” I said. “You’re a good person.”
“Thanks, darlin’. You’re a pretty nice gal yourself.”
I thanked her for bringing me to the recording session, and promised to stay in touch.
Instead of going up to the suite while waiting for Wally, I decided to stretch my legs. It seemed to me that even though I’d been moving from one place to another, I’d been sitting all day. My usual workout routine had been abandoned ever since I got to Nashville, and I was feeling stiff and eager to loosen my muscles. It was a pleasant evening; a short walk would accomplish two things: It would help me stay fit and would give me the chance to clear my brain and let me reflect on my experience at the recording studio that night.
I walked downhill from the hotel, breathing in the night air, reaching my arms overhead and out to the side before letting them swing naturally. I turned the corner, setting my steps in the direction of Broadway. The streetlights provided ample illumination, but the sidewalks were empty of other pedestrians with one exception. I passed one couple, clearly tourists, judging by their apparel; they smiled at me, their eyes raised, and I realized I was still wearing the Stetson Lynee had given me. I put one hand on top of the hat and snugged it down.
When in Rome,
I said to myself, pleased that I might pass as a native.
My thoughts turned to Wally Brolin. During my first meeting with him, he’d painted himself as sort of an outsider, not as wired into the music scene as he’d like to be. Yet on this evening, it was apparent that he was the leader of the band accompanying Sally Prentice, a far cry from the image of a struggling musician. Too, he’d had full command of the song “Talkin’ Through the Tears,” Cyndi’s song, as though he’d been working on the arrangement for a while. And there was his closeness to Sally that caused me to wonder. I had the feeling that Wally and Sally were intimately familiar with Cyndi’s song, that they’d probably been working on it together prior to the recording session. And he’d referred to Marker by his first name. That seemed to indicate he knew the man better than someone who’d simply “met him a few times,” as he’d told me.