I stopped at a traffic light at the next corner and became aware of an older, faded blue sedan standing several yards behind me in the street. Since there wasn’t another car at the light, it struck me as strange that the car would stop so far back. I entered the crosswalk and heard strains of music in the distance. A crowd was gathering on the next corner. As I approached, I saw that a group of older musicians in tight-fitting gray suits, snakeskin boots, string ties, and white cowboy hats were tuning up for an impromptu concert. There were five of them, two guitars, two bass guitars, and a fiddle. As I approached them, they broke into a song, their voices melding together beautifully and filling the previously silent street. Evidently they had played together for a long time, the band effortlessly featuring first one then another musician until each had had a chance to show off his skills in a solo. A soft round of applause greeted the end of the song. I stopped to listen, joining their temporary audience, until a police cruiser pulled alongside and encouraged the musicians to move along. The musicians and the crowd dissipated and I found myself alone on the street again, with several tall dark buildings ahead of me.
Instead of crossing the street as I’d initially intended, I turned the corner, aiming to circle around the block and head back to the hotel. Wally would be there soon, and I didn’t want him looking for me or going up to the room unannounced and seeing Cyndi without my being there.
There was no traffic, but the car I’d seen earlier made the turn, too, pulled up to the curb, and stopped, leaving the engine running. I looked around. The police car was at least a block ahead of me, and all the people I’d stood with listening to the musicians had drifted off in other directions. Cautiously, I walked past the car, noting that the man behind the wheel also wore a cowboy hat—hardly unusual in Nashville—but I couldn’t make out any other distinguishing features. I continued down the block, but had the uncomfortable feeling that the driver’s eyes were on my back. Increasing my pace, I groped in my shoulder bag for the flashlight I always carry. It was not much of a weapon, but it would do in a pinch.
What were you thinking?
I chided myself.
You’re all alone in a strange city. It’s after dark and you’re walking along a deserted street. What is this man doing? It feels like he’s following me. Why is he following me?
I reached the corner and turned right, walking uphill as swiftly as I could. This street was much darker than the broader boulevard I had walked down. I debated turning around and retracing my path on the streets with better lighting, but decided against it. I glanced over my shoulder. The sedan had also made the turn and was parked at the base of the hill. The glare of the headlights kept me from seeing the car itself, not that I was familiar enough with brands of automobiles to have been able to identify this particular one, should the need arise.
By now, my breath was coming fast and my heart rate had reached the level of a good cardiac workout. I hurried across the street, still walking uphill as fast as my tired legs could carry me. I gained the next corner and could see the bright lights of the hotel entrance halfway down the block. I took a deep breath and slowed my pace, figuring no one would try to wrestle me into a car in full view of the Renaissance doormen. Well, I’d wanted exercise and I’d gotten it. And I’d exercised my brain as well. Now that I felt secure approaching the hotel, I began to think my reaction to the blue car had been foolish. I’d been concerned for no reason. A man can drive a car without being a threat to a woman. Why would anyone want to kidnap me anyway?
Unless it has to do with the murder, or with your notoriety, thanks to the newspaper column.
I removed the cowboy hat and fanned my damp face. Convinced my apprehension had been the product of an overstimulated imagination, I looked back in the direction I’d come from. The sedan was perched at the top of the hill facing me. The lights were off.
I lingered in the hotel lobby until I spotted Brolin pulling up in his pickup truck. I got in and he drove away without saying anything. There was a faint aroma in the cab of the truck that I recognized, that hadn’t been there the first time I’d ridden with him. Since he wore a beard, he was unlikely to use aftershave, and I hadn’t noticed that he was wearing cologne earlier in the evening. I leaned toward him and sniffed the air.
“You got a cold?”
“No. Just admiring the scent you’re wearing. What’s the name of it?”
“I don’t wear no perfume,” he answered, eyes straight ahead. “You’re imagining things.”
“Where are we going?”
“A little place I know.”
“A bar?”
“Yes, ma’am, a bar.”
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into a small strip mall and stopped in front of a narrow storefront. A crude sign over the door read DOWN HOME. A couple of men in cowboy clothes, including the requisite Stetson hats, stood with some young women similarly attired, all of them smoking and laughing. Wally got out and brusquely walked into the place, seemingly oblivious that I was with him. I followed.
There was obviously no need to go outside for a cigarette. The air inside was heavy with the blue haze of cigarette and cigar smoke, and I remembered what Wally had told me, that under Tennessee law if an establishment didn’t allow customers in under the age of eighteen they could allow smoking.
An older man with a scraggly red beard and wearing a greasy once-white cowboy hat sat at a microphone playing his guitar and singing in a deep, whiskey-and-nicotine-influenced voice. There were about a dozen customers, none of whom seemed to pay attention to him as they talked in loud voices at the bar and at the few tables that were occupied. We took a vacant table in the far recesses of the long, narrow room. A pretty young brunette wearing short shorts and a tight T-shirt took his order of a beer. I decided to have the same—
when in Nashville
—and was pleased that the Stetson Lynee had given me helped me to blend in with the other customers.
“Okay,” he said once we’d been served, “what made you decide to make the session tonight?”
“I was interested, that’s all.”
“Interested in
what
, how a CD is cut, or interested in me?”
I smiled and took a tiny sip of my beer. “I’m interested in everyone and everything that might bear on Cyndi’s predicament, Wally. Right now, I’d like to better understand how Cyndi’s song, ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears,’ got from Roderick Marker to Sally Prentice.”
“He gave it to her. Pretty simple. Happens all the time.”
“What happens all the time?”
“People taking other people’s songs. Ever heard of ‘bein’ in the room?’ ”
“No.”
“A performer or a musician happens to be in the room when some songwriter is working out a tune. You hear it, you like it, it sticks in your head, and you end up putting some finishing touches on it, and you get a share of it; it’s yours. You just happened to be in the room.”
I shook my head. “You make it sound so normal and legitimate. It isn’t.”
A twisted smile could be seen behind his beard and mustache. He drank and wiped his beard with the back of his hand.
“Maybe you can educate me about the Nashville music business,” I said. “You seem to have gotten what you claimed you wanted, to play on Sally Prentice’s CD. It looked to me as though you were the leader of the band. How did that come about?”
He sat back and narrowed his eyes, which were surprisingly small for such a large face. “I got the gig because I’m good.”
“Had you been close to Ms. Prentice before? You seem to be, well, how shall I say it?—you and she seem to be very close friends.”
“You know,” he said, coming forward and placing his elbows on the table, “I’m beginning to resent your questions. They sound more like accusations. Okay, I know you mean well where Cyndi’s concerned. I really like her and I hope she comes out of this okay. But I gotta tell you something else. How you want things to be don’t necessarily mean they’ll end up that way. Between you and me, I think that Cyndi did kill Rod because she was angry at him over her song. I hate to say that, but that’s how it looks to me.”
“You don’t sound as though you hate to say it, or hate to think it. That’s quite a switch from when we first talked.”
“I’m just trying to be realistic, that’s all. Maybe you should be, too.”
“Realistic in the sense that I should give up trying to prove Cyndi’s innocence?”
He shrugged, finished his beer, and motioned for another. Mine sat virtually untouched.
“Wally,” I said, “when we first spoke at that Irish pub, you said that another woman had introduced you to Cyndi. At that point, she’d only been in Nashville for a few days and wouldn’t have known many people. Who was it that introduced you to her?”
“I don’t even remember,” he said in such a way that I didn’t believe him.
“I’m guessing that it was a young woman from Lynee Granger’s boardinghouse who made the introduction. You know Alicia Piedmont, of course.”
He feigned puzzlement. “I’ve heard the name.”
“Did you know that she’s moved out of her rooming house?”
“Really? No, I didn’t know that.”
“Skipped out owing a week’s rent to Lynee.”
“No kidding?”
We were interrupted by the old singer, who’d completed his set and staggered to our table. “Hey, Wally, you ol’ coot,” he said with a deep twang. He noisily pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and sat next to me. A pungent smell of alcohol came with every word. “Leave it to you to be with some fine-lookin’ chick,” he said, leaning against me. “This gal is more my style than yours. Whaddya say, darlin’? Wanna do a two-step with me? I’m a purdy good dancer, Wally can tell ya. Bet you are, too.”
“I think it’s time I left,” I said, standing.
“Just when we’re about to get a real nice party goin,’ ” he said.
I looked at Wally, who hadn’t moved.
“Will someone call a taxi for me?” I asked, looking around.
“You don’t have to get a cab,” he said, disgusted. He threw a few bills on the table and stomped outside, leaving the drunken cowboy listing in his chair.
“You get the answers you wanted from me?” he asked as we exchanged the smoky air inside for smoky air outside.
“Frankly, no, but I thank you for your time.”
“Well, I just don’t think you should be snoopin’ around like you do and getting people all riled up.”
We walked to where he’d parked the truck; he held open the passenger door, and I climbed in.
“It’s certainly not my intention to rile anyone up, Wally,” I said, as he started the engine, “but Cyndi’s defense depends on the answers to these questions. You do want to see Cyndi go free, don’t you?”
He seemed stunned by the question. He stuttered a bit before agreeing. “Well, um, o’course. Sure.” He put the truck in gear.
But I wasn’t so sure he was sure. And it gave me something to think about.
We were about halfway to the hotel when I noticed Wally glance in the rearview mirror several times. He pushed his boot down on the accelerator and the truck sped down the empty streets of Nashville.
“What are you doing?” I asked, grabbing the top of my hat as he took a corner on what felt like two wheels.
“We’ve got a tail,” he said. “Anyone threaten you lately?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but I have the hotel screening my calls.” I turned in my seat and tried to see around the gun rack to who might be following us. “Is it a car? What’s it look like?”
“Light blue. An American model, maybe a Ford, ten, twelve years old.”
“Sedan?”
“Yeah. Know it?”
“I think he was following me earlier tonight.”
“Well, he’s back. Let’s see if we can lose ’im,” he said, careening around a corner down a one-way street.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, thinking the person in the car behind us knew very well where I was staying. “Please, Wally. Slow down. Let’s get there in one piece.”
But he wasn’t listening. “This sucker doesn’t have a chance,” he growled. “Hang on, ma’am. Now you’ll see what good Tennessee drivin’ is all about.”
Wally accelerated even faster while I frantically grappled for a nonexistent seat belt. We roared down one street after another; the blue car had no chance to keep up.
“He’s gone, Wally. You can slow down now,” I shouted over the gunned engine.
“Havin’ too much fun,” he yelled as the truck dipped into a pothole in the pavement and I bounced off the seat, the crown of my cowboy hat hitting the roof.
I grabbed a hook on the gun rack with one hand and pulled off my hat with the other, crushing the brim with my fist. “Wally, please stop! This is dangerous.”
The sound of a siren cut through the air, loud enough to override the engine’s growl. I risked a look behind and saw flashing lights. “Wally, it’s the police. You have to stop.”
“I boosted the horsepower on this baby. She can whip those guys any day.”
“I don’t care about that,” I yelled. “What I do care is that I get out of this truck alive.”
“Aw, yer a sissy,” he said, grinning, as the patrol car drew alongside us.
A voice came over the loudspeaker: “Pull over immediately and turn off the engine. Do not exit the truck. Roll down the window. I want to see both hands on the wheel.”
Wally did as instructed and I heaved a sigh of relief, collapsing back in the seat to catch my breath.
“Have yourself a good time there, boy?” the officer said as he approached the open window.
“Just showing this lady what a souped-up Chevy can do,” Wally said, chuckling, his daredevil driving apparently having released a good dose of adrenaline to course through his veins.
The officer peered over at me. “You all right, ma’am?”
“I think so, Officer, but I’d like to get out of the truck.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere with you. C’mon, son, I want to see if you can walk a straight line.”