Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty- four
OTHER BOOKSIN THE MURDER, SHEWROTE SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
A Fatal Feast
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First Printing, April 2010
Copyright © 2010 Universal City Studios Productions LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint from “Nashville Noir” lyrics
and music by David A. Stewart. Copyright © 2009. All rights reserved. International copyright
secured. Used by permission.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESSCATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Bain, Donald, 1935-
Nashville Noir: a Murder, She Wrote mystery: a novel/by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain.
p. cm.—Murder, she wrote)
“An Obsidian mystery.”
“Based on the Universal television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson &
William Link.”
eISBN : 978-1-101-40436-2
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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For “Men with Time”—good friends and luncheon companions for whom the art of conversation is alive and well.
A tip of the hat to:
Michael Barrett
Charles Flowers
Jeff Lasdon
Phil Leshin
Ken Marsolais
Michael Millius
Tom Molito
John Shearer
And to our recently departed sage, John Renwick.
We miss you, Johnny.
Finally to the women in our lives who keep threatening to form their own luncheon group, “Women Without Time.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nashville’s Metropolitan Police Department defines “professionalism” in law enforcement. Our special thanks to its public affairs manager, Don Aaron, who so graciously and freely answered all our questions, and took the time to show us the inner workings of this exemplary police department. And thanks also to Lt. “Big Pat” Taylor and Sgt. “Little Pat” Postiglione. We hope that the real officers won’t take offense that Jessica Fletcher solves the murder before our fictional officer does in the book. It seems to happen everywhere she goes.
Speaking of gracious law enforcement professionals, we’re deeply indebted to Lt. Thomas A. Walker of the Davidson County Sheriff’s Office. As charming as he is knowledgeable, Lt. Walker took us inside the Nashville penal system and demonstrated what an enlightened approach to incarceration can look like. And thanks also to Eric Bauder, manager of the processing unit downtown, who was so patient with our phone calls and questions.
In addition, we’d like to thank former police detective and fellow music lover Lee Lofland, author of Police Procedure and Investigation, A Guide for Writers, who was an invaluable source of procedural information.
Nashville is to country music songwriting what movies are to Hollywood. Debi Cochran is legislative director of the Nashville Songwriters Association International (NSAI), a dynamic organization of more than four thousand members that encourages, nurtures, teaches, and champions the creative act of writing a good song. Debi and her staff gave us a wonderful insight into how the Nashville music scene really works.
The collective wisdom and knowledge of those mentioned above is sprinkled liberally throughout Nashville Noir. We’re sure they’ll forgive us for having taken literary license at times with their information.
Very special thanks to our friend and award-winning songwriter David Stewart, whose song “Nashville Noir” was written especially for us and for this book. His lyrics appear at the beginning of this book. Plans for making the recording of “Nashville Noir” widely available were not finalized at the time the book was written. Information about it will be posted on my Web site at www.donaldbain.com.
NASHVILLE NOIR
Midnight
Waiting your turn at the open mike
An endless procession of guitars,
cowboy hats, young unknowns
A long way from home
Take care
Somebody’s watching from the
shadows out there
Is he the man that you’ve been hoping
to meet
Or the guy who puts the demon in
Demonbreun Street?
A little chill goes shooting down your
spine
And you’re not sure if it’s the good or
the bad kind
When the man says “Kid, I can make
you a star”
And you’ve gotten a little taste of
Nashville noir
One a.m.
Sitting and talking to your new best
friend
He’s telling you that he can open the
doors
Which anyone in this town would kill
for
A little chill goes shooting down your
spine
Your hand shakes as it reaches for the
dotted line
But the man says “Kid, I can make you
a star”
And you’ve gotten a little taste of
Nashville noir
Sometimes it’s dangerous
To want something so much
You don’t know what you’ll do
A little chill goes shooting down your
spine
And you’re not sure if it’s the good or
the bad kind
When the man says “Kid, I can make
you a star”
And you’ve gotten a little taste of
Nashville noir
Words & Music by David A. Stewart
Chapter One
Cindy Blaskowitz held the final note of her song, allowing it to fade away to a whisper. She raised her guitar, lowered it, and bowed. There was silence in the Cabot Cove High School auditorium. Then the hundred or so people in the audience burst into applause. Some stood, prompting others to do the same.
“Bravo!” someone shouted.
“Brava!” corrected Elsie Fricket, who stood by my side.
“Thank you,” Cindy said into the microphone, her face flush with emotion. “Thank you so much. Please sit down. There’s something I need to say.”
The clapping subsided and everyone took their seats.
Cindy cleared her throat a few times against the threat of tears. A tall, slender eighteen-year-old, she looked younger than her age, vulnerable and uncertain despite the accolades she’d received that evening. She wore a simple patterned brown-and-white dress with a high collar and a hem that reached her calves. Her cinnamon-colored hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail; the freckles on her pale face were especially prominent in the harsh glare of the spotlight.
She managed a smile and said, “You are the most wonderful people in the world. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you for what you’re doing for me. I do know that I’ll try my very best to justify the faith you’re showing in me, and that if I make it big”—she paused—“when I make it big”—there was a rumble of warm laughter in the audience—“I’ll always remember that it was because of you.”
Now the tears flowed and the applause erupted again.
Following the performance, we gathered in a large room adjacent to the auditorium for pastries, coffee or tea, and soft drinks. I was talking with Cabot Cove’s mayor, Jim Shevlin, when Cindy’s mother, Janet, joined us.
“I’m circling the room to make sure I don’t miss anyone,” she said. “How can I ever thank you for what you’re doing for Cindy?”
“You must be one proud mom,” Shevlin said.
“Oh, I certainly am,” Mrs. Blaskowitz said, beaming. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry,” she said through her smile. “I’m such a waterworks tonight.”
“Were you surprised she was chosen?”
“Not really. I don’t mean to sound immodest, but I knew she’d make good from the time she was three, picking out songs on our old upright and making me play my old country tapes by Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline over and over and over again. Even though I loved their albums, I thought I’d go mad if I heard them one more time. But look where it’s led.”
Shevlin laughed. “Just make sure we get a copy of her first platinum CD to display in city hall.”
“You can be sure of that,” she said, the joyous smile seemingly permanently affixed on her face.
Janet Blaskowitz and her four daughters had lived in Cabot Cove all their lives. They’d had a tough time making ends meet after Janet’s husband died. Gabe Blaskowitz had been a private pilot who ferried sport fishermen into remote areas of the backwoods between the United States and Canada. His sixty-year-old float plane had gone down when the wing tip caught on a stone outcropping as he tried a tricky landing on a lake without a name. The wealthy angler who had offered to double the fee if Blaskowitz would agree to fly out that windy day had perished as well. Cindy, oldest of the four girls, had been just eleven at the time.
With little money saved and no life insurance, Blaskowitz had left the responsibility to care for his family solely on his wife’s shoulders. Janet had done an admirable job of raising the girls while holding down two full-time jobs. Her daughters were well-mannered, intelligent young women with sunny dispositions despite the hardships they’d endured. Cindy possessed those attributes, but she had also been born with musical talent—loads of it. She played piano and guitar, and had a lovely singing voice that was at once lilting and earthy. She’d won the lead in our high school musicals for the past three years, and those in attendance never failed to comment on her professionalism, the sort of poise and talent that might one day help her achieve success in show business. She also wrote country-and-western songs, some of which she’d performed this evening. Her lyrics were mature for someone so young, speaking to heartbreak and strife, as well as to soaring spirits and overcoming adversity. An impressive musical package.
“She must be thrilled about going to Nashville,” I said.
“She tries not to show it,” said her mother, “but I know inside she’s bursting with excitement. What you and the others in the CCC have done over the years for young people like Cindy is so wonderful, Jessica.”
“All we’ve done is to give special youngsters a chance to develop their talents, Janet. I can’t imagine a more worthwhile thing to do.”
CCC stood for Cabot Cove Cares. When the organization was first established nine years ago, someone protested the name: “It sounds like the work-relief program Roosevelt put in before the war,” Spencer Durkee had said. “Didn’t you ever hear of the Civilian Conservation Corps?”
But he was overruled. “No one but you remembers the Civilian Conservation Corps, Durkee,” another had said. And CCC began raising money for its mission: to financially back one young person each year who’d shown considerable talent in one of the arts—painting, dancing, music, writing, or acting. The recipients of the yearly grant used the money to travel to a larger venue, where they could receive more advanced professional training—which generally meant New York City or Boston. They were given enough money to live on in those cities for four to six months, and to pay for their lessons. In Cindy’s case, Nashville was the logical place for her to put her songwriting and singing talents on display, and to learn more about the business of writing and performing country-and-western music.
I’d been on CCC’s committee since its inception, and was active in fund-raising, donating a percentage of my book royalties each year to the organization. I took immense pride in the accomplishments of those talented young men and women who’d benefited from it. This year, we’d decided on Cindy Blaskowitz early on, and had done research into Nashville and whether that was where she should go.
I’d had no idea how popular country music was across the U.S. and Canada, nor what a dominant role Nashville played in it. I’d been there once to record one of my books, and again some years later to visit an old friend, although both visits were brief, and details about the city had been regrettably eclipsed in my memory by my involvement with a murder investigation. But that was many years ago. I knew that Nashville was called “Music City,” and of course I’d heard of the Grand Ole Opry, but I was surprised to learn, as another committee member airily informed me, that Nashville was to country-and-western music what Hollywood was to the movies.
Our research showed that country music sales topped all other genres, outselling pop, urban-contemporary, rap, and jazz by a wide margin. Country radio leads all formats, with more than two thousand radio stations in the United States that program the music, with an estimated audience in excess of fifty-six million listeners. I admitted to my fellow committee members that country-and-western music wasn’t my cup of tea, my musical tastes running more to Sinatra and Tony Bennett, Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman, and maybe a good Irish folk song. But once we’d chosen Cindy, I made a point of listening to her style of music on a local radio station that featured such stars as Garth Brooks, Reba McEntire, Brad Paisley, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Shania Twain, and Taylor Swift, and my appreciation of the genre grew.
“I’m so pleased that Cindy has someone in Nashville who’s already impressed with her talents,” Janet Blaskowitz said.
“You mean that fellow Marker?” said Seth Hazlitt, who’d joined our little group.
