Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

Soaking in the bubbles, Anne relaxed and read through the room service menu. She clicked on the 20- inch LED TV that hung over the bathtub and flipped through the channels to watch the weather report. The perky weather girl was predicting more rain and flood warnings. Anne then flipped on the shopping channels. There was nothing on either shopping channel so she went back to the news. Behind the newscaster was the image of Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage Plantation. She turned the volume up.

“Police have arrested a man of interest regarding the shooting at the historical society’s recent ball at the Hermitage Plantation.” Behind the newscaster, a small graphic showed a mug shot of the suspect. “A Nashville resident, his name is Ricky Jenkins.”

“CC get in here quick!” Anne called.

The bathroom door opened. “What?” CC asked, as she walked in with her eyes covered.

“Look at the TV. They caught the shooter from the plantation.”

CC gave a quick look at the screen, her hand on the doorknob. Then she looked again. Ricky Jenkins had a blue note tattoo on his neck.

The newscast showed the exterior of the plantation and then the dining room. In the background of the dining room video, CC and Anne could be seen sitting at the table, talking to the police officers. “Look! There we are!” Anne pointed a soapy hand at the screen.

Chapter Thirty-three

Brent was waiting outside the front door of the Listening Room Café. He waved at Anne and CC as they walked up to the entrance. “I told Lily you were coming. She’s waiting in the green room.” Brent nodded at the hostess as he led CC and Anne into the crowded place. Tables and chairs were lined up facing the stage. They walked past all that and to a small room behind the stage.

A little five foot tall woman with long blonde hair sat tuning her Martin guitar. She couldn’t be more than nineteen years old. She looked up; her green eyes sparkling like emeralds. CC could see the resemblance to her grandfather. She was a beautiful young woman. Her eyes, though they sparkled, held a lot of sadness. She was wearing torn jeans, cowboy boots and a long-sleeve black shirt.

Brent stuck his head in. “Lily, this is Anne and CC.”

CC smiled, walked over and held out her hand.

Ignoring CC’s hand, Lily continued tuning the guitar, her ear bent close to the strings.

“Lily, do you think we could have a couple minutes of your time?” CC asked.

Lily looked up at them. “Brent got me a gig opening for him tonight in exchange for talking with you, so you got a minute.” She looked at them again. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“We were just on TV, on the news,” Anne said. “We were at the Hermitage plantation. There was an incident.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw that.”

“We have some questions about your grandfather,” CC said.

Lily stopped tuning and looked up. “My grandfather’s in a nursing home in California.”

CC continued. “I meant your biological grandfather. Clarence Riddle.”

Lily put the guitar in its case. “I can’t help you with that. I never met him.”

CC sat down on the small tattered couch next to Lily. “We found a tape of his and some sheet music. I thought you might want to see it.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Your grandfather was a very talented songwriter, singer and from what I found out, he wrote a lot of hit songs. He never got credit for them. I think if you just look at this sheet music you’d have a better idea of who he was.”

While CC was talking, Anne pulled the sheet music out of her bag and handed it to Lily. Lily picked up her Martin, leaned the sheet music against the case and started playing. She stopped about halfway through and wiped her eyes. Then she continued playing again. When she was done, she sat and stared at the music. It was like looking at her grandfather’s face. She knew in three and a half minutes who he was, and what was in his heart. The notes on the lines were like words whispered in her head. She felt a connection.

Anne pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and handed it to Lily who waved her away. “It’s a nice song.”

“We have a friend who’s connected in Nashville. He knows a lot of important people in the music world. I think the whole story of Clarence Riddle and his granddaughter would be compelling,” CC said.

“I have my own songs. That’s why I’m here. It took me a year to get a chance to play on this stage for fifteen minutes. I’ve had a lot of doors shut on me.” She handed the sheet music back to Anne and stood up holding her guitar. “My grandfather abandoned my father and then my father abandoned me. I don’t want anything to do with his music. I have to go on stage.”

Walking back to the front of the café, Brent led Anne and CC over to a small table in the corner. He ordered a pitcher of beer. “Brent, thanks for finding her for us,” CC said.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he said, sitting on one of the barstools. “I think she’s really talented. I’d like to see her get a break.”

CC took out her iPhone and recorded Lily’s set. She was amazing. She could hear the heartbreak in her voice. She could tell that she lived these songs. When she was done, CC whispered to Anne. “We have to show this to Steven.”

Chapter Thirty-four

Anne and CC arrived early morning at Kendall Enterprises. Anne’s stomach growled. They hadn’t had time to stop at the Pancake Pantry. CC was afraid the line was too long.

When they arrived at his office, Steven came out to greet them. “I’m glad to see you. I just got off the phone with Betsy. Please come in my office.” They followed him. “Can I get you some coffee?”

Anne eyed the box of Gigi’s cupcakes sitting next to the coffeemaker. She wondered what flavors were inside. She was on vacation sort of, so she was off her diet. One cupcake would be okay. She took one finger and slightly lifted the lid, bending down to take a peek inside.

“Anne,” CC blurted.

Anne closed the lid and went back into Steven’s office. They sat down on the couch across from Steven.

“We wanted to talk to you about this amazing singer we saw last night.” CC played a short clip of Lily’s set from her iPhone.

“She’s very good, but I don’t usually deal with the talent. I have staff that know that area better than I do,” Steven said.

“It’s an interesting story. When Anne and I were looking for antiques for the coach house, we discovered this sheet music that was a lost song written by Clarence Riddle. You must have heard the name, Clarence Riddle?” CC asked.

“That name has been around Nashville,” Steven said, looking down at his iPhone.

“We tracked down his granddaughter who’s a musician. That’s the girl on the recording––Lily Riddle. What a great story it would be to have her playing her grandfather’s music. A struggling young street musician carrying on the family tradition.”

Anne interrupted, “She also writes her own songs. They’re really good. Those are the ones she’s playing on the video.”

“Do you have that Clarence Riddle song?” Steven asked.

“We have it locked up in the safe in our hotel room.”

“I’d be interested in seeing it. It could be an interesting story,” Steven said. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a business card. He scribbled on the back of it. “Give this to her. It’s John Lloyd’s number. He’s a producer at Dog Ear Music, one of my subsidiaries. It’s on Music Row. I’ll let him know she’s coming. If he likes her, we can help her out.”

CC took the card and slid it in to her purse.

“How’s the antique hunting going?” Steven asked as he walked them to the door.

“I think you will be very pleased.” CC shook Steven’s hand. Anne grabbed a cupcake and followed CC out the door.

Chapter Thirty-five

Anne and CC sat in the Nashville police station waiting for Detective Clark. He was not eager to see the two tourists. He made them sit for two hours. While they waited, Anne browsed her eBay watch lists on her cell phone. When Clark finally came out to them, CC stood up.

“Come back to my desk,” Detective Clark said. They followed him through the corridor to a crowded room full of desks. He sat down behind one and opened a manila file folder. Anne and CC sat across from him. “What brings you in now?”

“We saw that you brought Ricky Jenkins in to question him about the shooting at the party. We wanted to see if we could be of any help,” CC said, sitting forward on the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“You stated you didn’t see the shooter so what help can you be? Do you know Mr. Jenkins?” Detective Clark sat back on his wooden office chair so it was balanced on the back two legs.

“No, but I can verify that he was in the room, and that he is left-handed,” CC said. “When he placed the heavy pistol box on the table, I noticed he balanced the weight with his left hand. And the angle of the bullet hole in the back of my chair and the height of the table from where it was fired indicates the trajectory was from a left-handed shooter.”

Detective Clark just stared at her. “Yes, he is left-handed and he’s admitted he shot the pistol. According to Jenkins, however; it was an accident. He was removing the pistol from the box. The gentlemen were going to reenact the Dickinson/Jackson duel outside. Mr. Robertson was to examine the pistol according to dueling protocol. Jenkins had left the door open, and a wind blew out the candles as he was handing the pistol to Robertson when the gun misfired. That’s his story.”

“And he just happened to be pointing it at my head?” CC asked.

“You were sitting across from the pistol box. Just bad luck,” Detective Clark said, sitting forward in his chair. “Is there any reason why Mr. Jenkins would want to harm you? You said you’ve never met him before.”             

“We’ve never met before but I recognized his tattoo. The man who attacked us in the alley had a tattoo on his neck.”

“Was it the same tattoo?”

“I couldn’t see it clearly. It was dark and he was covered in blood,” CC said.

“According to the report, you never saw the attacker’s face. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” CC paused and asked. “Who was responsible for loading the pistols?”

Detective Clark was starting to get frustrated. “We’re looking into it. The pistols belong to the Historical Society’s collection. The members frequently shoot them at the range. According to Jenkins, he didn’t load them. We don’t know yet who loaded the pistols. Jenkins voluntarily came into the station to explain what happened.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” CC said.

“For now, he’s not here. We questioned him and released him,” Detective Clark said.

“Thank you,” CC said.

Detective Clark walked them back to the front door. Anne and CC stepped out into the bright late afternoon sunshine. “What do we do now?’ Anne asked.

“We go to Ricky Jenkins’ house,” CC said.

“We don’t know where he lives.”

“Yes, we do. I read his file which was on the detective’s desk.” After years as a reporter, CC had honed her skills to read upside down. She had made out the address and memorized it. She put the address in her GPS.

Chapter Thirty-six

The apartment complex on the west end of Nashville was located in the middle of what appeared to be housing projects. At this point, it was eight o’clock and already dark. “Do you think this is a good idea? Could we wait til tomorrow during the day?” Anne said.

“We’re here now.”

“Do you think he’s going to confess to attempted murder? Is that why we’re here?” Anne asked, glancing around nervously.

“Anne, I’ve interviewed enough criminals throughout the years to know when they’re lying.”

Does the steel industry harbor a lot of criminals?
Anne wondered. It might be time to read one of CC’s steel industry articles. Maybe there was more going on than she thought.

CC continued, “I want to look him in the eye and see if he’s lying.” She turned off the car in front of the two-story apartment complex. She gathered up her courage. Weeds filled the front yard. Out in front was a broken down rusty pickup truck. The rain started again.

Good,
Anne thought,
fewer people out and about.
She followed CC to the front porch. CC took her finger and ran it down the list of apartment doorbells til she came to the name
Jenkins
. She buzzed and took a deep breath. She waited a minute and buzzed it again.

“I don’t think he’s home. Let’s go,” Anne said, looking over her shoulder. She had an uneasy feeling like she was being watched.

As they were waiting, an old man opened the door and stumbled out. CC smelled the liquor on him. He gave them a wild-eyed look and brushed past them. CC grabbed the door before it closed. They walked up the stairs to the second floor, to apartment 223. CC knocked. Still no answer.

“That’s it. We tried everything we could. Let’s go.” Anne clutched her large orange Prada bag. It, and she, were not accustomed to this environment.

CC reached into her small white Coach purse and retrieved one of the items she never traveled without, her Diebolt professional lock picking kit. She only used it when absolutely necessary. This seemed to be one of those occasions.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Breaking and entering?” Anne said.

CC started to pick the lock and the door swung open. She turned to Anne. “Entering, not breaking.” The small studio apartment was empty except for beer cans and garbage on the floor, a couple of folding chairs and a couch.

“Looks like he left in a hurry,” Anne said, thinking maybe they should too. She looked over her shoulder again. “I feel like we’re being watched,” Anne whispered to CC.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” CC said, walking around the room. In the corner were colored light gels, surge protectors, cables, wire crimpers, LED lights and strobe lights.

As CC was looking, Anne went over to the window. The shade was down and filthy. She reached into her large bag and pulled out her evening gloves.

“What are you doing?” CC asked.

“I’m the lookout. I’m keeping watch for Jenkins.” The lone streetlight flickered. In the rain, she could make out a large figure skulking in the shadows. Then it was gone. “CC, I think someone is out there.”

“Is it Jenkins? Is he coming this way?” CC looked up from where she had dumped one of the large contractor black garbage bags.

“No, I think he saw me looking out the window and he took off,” Anne said before peeking out the window again. She could see red tail lights disappearing into the night.

CC reached into her purse again and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and put them on. She took a pencil and carefully began lifting up the garbage. She waded through old Chinese food and rotting takeout containers. “What are you looking for?” Anne whispered.

“I don’t think Mr. Jenkins is very bright.” CC said, as she found what she was looking for. Soaked in sweet and sour sauce was a receipt from Southern Tradition Flintlocks for black powder and steel balls. Then something else caught her eye. Underneath a box of rotten fried rice, she found a Dave Southwell road crew ID. She gingerly picked it up with the pencil and hung it in the air for Anne to see. “Jenkins was Southwell’s lighting engineer. I think he killed Southwell.” CC put both items in a baggie and then into her purse. “That’s why he’s been after us. He wants those photos of the lighting rigging I took. Let’s get out of here, Anne.”

CC led the way out the door and back to the VW. Anne watched over her shoulder as they exited the building. She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of being watched. They got in the VW and headed back to the Hermitage Hotel. “When I was looking at Jenkins’ police file, it said that his attorney, a Clifford Holmes came in with him,” CC said.

“And?”

“And,” CC continued, “I Googled his law firm. He’s a partner in one of the largest law firms in Tennessee.”

“Why would a big shot attorney be interested in Jenkins? Did you see his apartment? I don’t think he has a lot of money,” Anne said.

“Somebody didn’t want Jenkins to talk.”