Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain by She Wrote 33 - Nashville Noir (v5) Murder

Author:She Wrote 33 - Nashville Noir (v5) Murder [Murder, She Wrote 33 - Nashville Noir (v5)]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Nashville (Tenn.), Fiction, Women singers, Women Sleuths, Radio and television novels, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Mystery fiction, Media Tie-In - General, Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Police Procedural, Women novelists, Jessica (Fictitious character), Detective, Mystery & Detective, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Fiction - Mystery, General, Music publishers, Music publishers - Crimes against, Suspense, Fletcher, Women detectives, Media Tie-In
ISBN: 9780451229274
Publisher: NAL Hardcover
Published: 2010-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

I couldn’t help but smile as I approached the door to the suite at the Renaissance Hotel and heard the faint strains of a guitar, and a sweet voice emanating from inside. Jamal Washburn had obviously been successful in getting Cyndi’s guitar back from the police.

I opened the door and stepped inside. Cyndi, wearing one of the hotel’s fluffy robes, was seated in a large, overstuffed chair by the window. She’d propped up pieces of paper on a desk chair and leaned forward to read what was on them while playing the guitar. She was so engrossed in her task that she failed to hear me come in.

“Hello,” I announced in a loud voice.

She stopped strumming and turned to me. “Oh, hi,” she said.

“Nice to see you enjoying your music again,” I said, taking a chair close to her. “I just came from a meeting with your friend Wally Brolin.”

“Is he mad at me for telling you about him?” she asked.

“He didn’t sound angry. In fact, he sends his best. He wanted to visit you here, but I don’t think Judge Grimes would go along with that, not at this juncture.”

Her face sagged. “I wish I could see him,” she said sadly.

“You will soon enough,” I said. “Has anyone called while I was gone?”

She shrugged. “The telephone rang a few times, but I didn’t answer because I couldn’t tell who was calling.”

“That’s fine. I’ll check the voice mail for messages.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, “do you really think there’s a chance they’ll know I’m innocent and let me go?”

“I can’t promise you anything, Cyndi, but that’s what Mr. Washburn and I are determined to see happen.”

She took a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay.”

“Now, what I thought we should do tonight is enjoy the evening together,” I said, injecting some enthusiasm in my voice. “In a little while, we can order up some dinner, and use the time to get to know each other better. Would you like that?”

“I guess,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere anyway.”

Hardly a stirring endorsement of my suggestion, but I understood her mood.

I spent an hour in my bedroom adding to my notes from the previous day, including a recap of my conversation with Brolin, and checking phone messages, both those on the hotel’s voice mail and those I’d let my cell phone pick up while I was busy. Seth Hazlitt had called. So had Susan Shevlin and Mort Metzger. Jamal Washburn had left a message saying that he’d been successful in retrieving Cyndi’s guitar from the police and would drop it at the hotel, which he had. The only message that caused me concern was from a columnist from the Nashville Tennessean, Brian Krupp, who said it was urgent that I return his call. He left both his office and cell numbers.

I changed into a favorite soft, comfortable, pale blue two-piece pantsuit and rejoined Cyndi. She’d stopped playing and had turned on the large, flat-screen TV on which a country music singer was performing.

“Country music certainly is popular,” I commented, joining her on the couch.

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