Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

Dog Ear Records’ offices were located down the street from Kendall Enterprises in a large stainless steel office building. The smooth polished exterior reflected their images as Anne and CC walked up to the front door. Anne paused to admire her new cowboy boots. Not the $1,000 Lucchese ones, but the more reasonably priced $300 Dan Posts in turquoise with red roses.

CC stopped and touched the side of the building. She was about to explain to Anne where the steel came from when the security guard opened the front double-glass doors. “Hi, I’m CC Muller. We’re here to see John Lloyd. We’re friends of Steven Kendall’s.”

The guard held the door open and let them in. “Please sign in and have a seat.” The lobby was quiet. Artist photos hung on the wall, including a recent one of Dave Southwell. Anne nudged CC and pointed out the picture. They sat in the uncomfortably modern white and steel chairs. “You know this doesn’t feel much like a creative space, does it?” Anne commented.

After a few minutes, Anne walked over to the guard who was now sitting at the entry desk. As she and CC waited, she had heard him coughing. “Are you okay? Do you need a cough drop?” She went to reach into her large orange Prada bag.

“I’m fine.” He waved her off, taking a large sip of his coffee. “Allergies,” he said. His nametag read,
Jeffrey
. He was stout, in his late 60s, and his little white goatee jiggled when he talked. Anne was reminded of a Billy goat.

“What are you allergic to?” Anne asked.

“What aren’t I allergic to? Mostly mold and mildew.”

Anne looked around the pristine stainless steel and glass lobby. She glanced back at Jeffrey, the security guard, and noticed his 60-ounce coffee mug, which read “World’s Greatest Grandpa.” “That’s quite a coffee mug you have there,” Anne said.

“I fill it two or three times a day. I’ve got to have my caffeine,” Jeffrey said.

“I’m the same way,” CC said. “I make fresh pressed coffee every morning.”

Anne ignored the conversation. She examined his workstation. Behind him, was a stainless steel counter with a large pod coffeemaker and a carousel holding pods.

“Must take a lot of pods to fill that up,” Anne said.

Behind her, CC hovered, skimming the company’s website from her iPhone.

Jeffrey sipped his coffee, not looking up from the monitor screen embedded in his desktop.

Anne walked behind him and studied the coffeemaker. “Jeffrey, how do you like this coffeemaker? I don’t have one. I have an old percolator. I like the sound it makes but this seems more convenient.”

He didn’t answer. Anne continued to study the coffeemaker as Jeffrey collapsed into a coughing fit. She eyed him with concern. After he was done coughing, she asked, “Jeffrey, how often do you clean this?”

“I never clean it.” He cleared his throat. “I have to fill the water reservoir after three or four cups of coffee so it’s always fresh water.” He swallowed some more coffee.

Anne removed the reservoir and took the back cover off the two-channel feeder. She pulled the tube out and showed it to Jeffrey. “As I expected, Jeffrey, even though the water is constantly replenished, the coffeemaker only heats up to 130 degrees. It’s not hot enough to kill the bacteria. Water remains in the feeder tube. Mold heats up enough to cause an enzyme reaction when combined with your Colombian coffee grounds. It emulsifies, releasing the mold into your coffee. That’s what’s irritating your airways.”

Jeffrey put his coffee down mid-sip and slid it across the counter like it was poisoned. He swiveled his chair around to face Anne. He gave her a Billy goat smile.

“If you run a ten percent vinegar solution through it once a week, it should be fine.” She reached into her large bag, pulled out a small vial and handed it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“This is butterbur.” At his confused look, Anne explained, “It’s an herb that works as a leukotriene inhibitor. It blocks the chemicals that trigger swelling in the nasal passage. It’s natural and won’t make you sleepy like prescription antihistamine. I’ve spent a lot of time researching non-pharmaceutical natural treatments. I find this works best.”

“Thanks . . .” Jeffrey stared at the small vial.

“Anne Hillstrom,” she finished for him and shook his hand. “Have you worked here long?”

“Been here since the doors opened. I came over from our previous location and oversaw the security installation in this building.” Jeffrey paused. “I began with the company when I returned home from Vietnam in 1968. Now I’m semi-retired. Those were the days.” He stopped, reminiscing.

“Go on,” Anne encouraged him.

“In the beginning, it was me, Larry Walters and the Colonel. That’s when we were still called Blue Note Records. We had a small storefront on the west end of the city.” He pointed to a black and white picture over his head that showed a single-story square building with a hand-scrawled
Blue Note Records
on the picture window.

Anne and CC both stared at the picture. They had been there and they had met Walters.

“Blue note?” CC asked. 

Jeffrey rolled up a sleeve of his white cotton button down and showed them a blue note tattoo. “Yeah, we all got these when the company was incorporated. It was the Colonel’s idea.”

“Who else got the tattoo?”

“All of us. To start, the Colonel, me, Walters. As Blue Note grew, other staff who the Colonel trusted and mentored would show their loyalty by getting the tattoo.” Jeffrey pointed again to the picture behind him. “When we left the original building to move here, the Colonel changed the name to Dog Ear Records after his basset hound. Walters bought the old building and started West End Studios. When the Colonel retired, the company was never the same. It wasn’t family anymore. It was just a job.”

Anne’s phone vibrated. She reached into her bag. When she pulled it out, she saw the icon with the Union Jack. It was Nigel. She put the phone up to her ear and walked toward the front door. “Nigel, is that you? I have bad reception. Let me step outside.” She walked out of the building and stood by the front door, once again admiring the reflection of her new boots in the shiny steel.

“Anne,” the British voice replied. “I emailed you a copy of the coroner’s report. It was determined that Walters drowned. He had an epileptic seizure that lasted about 30 minutes and fell face first into a puddle.”

“Thank you, Nigel, I’ll look at the report.”

“Oh, Anne, when you’re back in town. . . ” Nigel’s voice continued as Anne clicked off the phone.

CC came out the door. “Who was that?”

“That was Nigel. Walters died from drowning during an epileptic seizure.” Anne hesitated and then repeated, “Seizure.” She pulled a brown prescription bottle out of her large purse and tried to make out the label.

“What’s that?” CC asked.

“I found this at West End Studios. It says
Walters
. It appears to be felbamate.” Anne paused. “It’s used to control epileptic seizures. I’ve tested similar medications. This one’s used when no other medications are effective. He must have had severe epilepsy.” She opened the bottle, took out the last remaining pill and sniffed it. Then she gave it a lick. “Tastes sweet. That’s not right. I need to analyze this.”

“Anne, we don’t have access to a lab,” CC said.

She hit the speed dial on her phone. Bradley answered. “Oh, Miss Hillstrom, how may I help you?”

“Bradley, this may sound like a strange request. Do you have access to an ion spectrometer?” she asked.

“Why, certainly, Miss. Hillstrom. I have a friend at Vanderbilt. Let me call him.”

“You know, Anne, ion spectrometry is also used to detect chemical warfare,” CC said.

“Yes, CC, I know.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

The black Lincoln town car pulled up in front of the science building at Vanderbilt University. The area was crowded with young medical students wearing white lab coats walking briskly. Bradley escorted Anne and CC to the science lab and introduced them to Professor Holloway. “Bradley, so nice to see you again.” The professor smiled and shook Bradley’s hand. “You were always my favorite student.”

“How long ago did you attend Vanderbilt?” Anne asked.             

“It was last year. I like to keep up on my studies.”

Anne was finding many layers to Bradley. He was quite the onion.

The professor led Anne to the equipment. While the building was old, the lab was modern, stainless steel. Anne felt right at home. This was familiar territory to her. She donned her safety glasses. Bradley put on a lab coat and safety glasses ready to assist. CC watched. Anne crushed the pill into a powder, added nitrating iodine to it and then placed the solution in the IMS.

Bradley adjusted the quadruple mass spectrometer to assure a correct peak assessment. Bradley and Anne looked at each other and nodded. They were in agreement. “It’s a placebo, CC,” Anne said. “Someone switched Walter’s medication with sugar pills.”

CC’s mouth dropped open. “Why would someone kill Walters? He was destitute and losing everything he had. He didn’t even have a place to live,” CC said.

“Whoever it was knew about his epilepsy and was close enough to switch his medication,” Anne said, sitting back on the lab stool.

CC sank onto the laboratory stool next to Anne and thought. She thought about everything that had happened from the mugging in the alley to the recent gunshot. She thought about Jenkins. “It wouldn’t be enough to have Walters off his medication. You would need a trigger, a catalyst for a seizure.” She paused. “A strobe light!”

Chapter Thirty-nine

They pulled up at the Hermitage Hotel. There were several Nashville police cars parked in the valet space, their lights flashing. “That’s strange,” CC said as she handed the keys to the valet. Before the doorman could open the door for them, a uniformed cop grabbed CC by the arm. Detective Clark grabbed her other arm. “What are you doing? What’s going on?” CC tried to pull her arms away.

“We need to question you about the murder of Ricky Jenkins,” Detective Clark said.

“CC, what’s going on?” Anne called, panicked.

“Detective, what do you mean the
murder
?” CC asked, trying to pull herself out of his grasp.

“We responded to a gunshot call at Jenkins’ complex. We found him dead. He was shot in the heart. We found your fingerprints all over the apartment. What were you doing there?” Detective Clark said.

CC grew quiet.

“You purchased a nine millimeter from Franklin Guns yesterday.”

“The gun’s locked up in the safe in my room. I can show it to you if you want,” CC said.

“Please,” The detective said. CC led them to the elevator, the detective keeping a grasp on her arm. They got in the elevator. Anne and Bradley entered the adjacent one. When they got to the ninth floor, CC led the way to their suite. She swiped the key card. “The safe’s right here inside the hall closet.” She opened the double closet doors to find the safe door wide open. Empty; it had been cleaned out.

Detective Clark pulled out his handcuffs, placed them on her and read her her rights. “This is ridiculous,” CC said. “There’s no evidence. This is purely circumstantial.”

“You might want to speak to your attorney,” Detective Clark said.

“Someone obviously broke into our room and stole the gun. It was here yesterday.” CC turned and looked at Anne. “Anne, they took the tape––the Clarence Riddle tape.”

“I’ll call Nigel, CC. We’ll call an attorney,” Anne called behind her friend as the detective led her back down the hall.

Chapter Forty

CC remained quiet during the short drive to the downtown booking facility. She quietly went through all the procedures. As a journalist, she knew the routines––fingerprinting, mug shots. Anne waited in the outer office after calling Nigel. Bradley who contacted his friend, a prominent Nashville criminal defense attorney.

A female policewoman led CC into a large holding cell. Several women of various sizes talked and laughed as they sat on hard steel benches which surrounded the interior of the cell. CC sat in a corner by herself. She leaned her head against the cold cement wall and closed her eyes. She tried to put the puzzle pieces together. She opened her eyes as she felt someone brush her shoulder. Two large women with short haircuts and bad attitudes had sandwiched CC in between them. Both were covered with tattoos and unpleasant smells. CC tried to stand up. One woman grabbed her by the arm and threw her back on the bench. “That’s mighty unfriendly of you,” she growled, keeping a grip on CC’s arm.

CC did a quick look around the cell to evaluate her chances of surviving an encounter. The black belt in kenpo karate that she’d earned from the Glen Ellyn Park District gave her the confidence not to fight. She’d rather talk her way out of her dilemma. One of the tattooed women said, “We’re trying to make you feel comfortable. You look sad. What’s wrong? Are you having a bad day?”

The other tattooed woman cackled. As she laughed, CC could see her whittled down yellow teeth, the result of years of smoking crystal meth. Some of the other ladies walked over to join the conversation. CC was now surrounded by a party of six in a space reserved for three. Apparently, CC was the main course. She remembered her kenpo master Koji telling her that the best fight is the one you walk away from. This time when she stood up and the tattooed woman grabbed her arm, CC grabbed the woman by her two fingers and twisted her arm, pushing hard on the pressure point. Then, she slowly lowered the large woman to the floor while the others watched. “I appreciate you wanting to be friends, but you’re correct that I’ve had a bad day and I want to sit quietly. Is that okay?”

The tattooed woman looked up from the floor and nodded, wincing from the pain. The party of six closed in on CC and then suddenly they parted. An older woman with a black crew cut, wearing a cut-off Harley Davidson t-shirt, chinos and studded biker boots stood in front of CC.

CC noticed the motorcycle on the t-shirt was a 1942 knucklehead. “Is that your bike?” she asked. “A lot of people don’t appreciate the knucklehead. They want to go with a pan or shovel. The knucklehead is more upkeep but worth the ride.”

The biker smiled. “I know you. Are you someone famous? I’ve seen you somewhere.”

The other partygoers stared at CC, also trying to place her. CC noticed that the biker’s motorcycle boots were vintage Harley racing boots with worn leather and an early 1960s insignia. “You seem to like vintage motorcycles and gear,” CC said. “Have you ever read a blog called the Spoon Sisters?”

The biker woman smiled again. “That’s it! That’s where I saw your face. Ladies, go sit down. Clear out. We have a celebrity! Let’s give her some room. My name is Marge.”

“I’m CC Muller.”

“I recognize your name now.” Marge sat down next to CC. “Why are you here, CC?”

“I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent.”

“We’re all innocent,” Marge said. All the ladies giggled. “Look, CC, you don’t have anything to worry about. You’re okay. Listen, now that we’re friends, maybe you can help me out. I’ve been looking for a couple parts for my 42.”

CC and Marge continued talking into the night. About vintage motorcycles, motorcycle parts, the Nashville police, and diners and dives along Route 66.

In the morning, the guard approached the cell. “Muller,” she called. “Come with me.” She opened the steel door and CC stepped out.

As she turned the corner, Marge ran up to the bars and waved her over. “Don’t forget about the carburetor and the Royal Albert tea set.”

“I won’t,” CC promised. She then followed the guard into the booking room.

“CC, I was so worried about you. I couldn’t sleep,” Anne said. “Bradley’s friend, the attorney, arranged bail. He’s going to meet with you later in his office. Nigel’s been calling in all his favors to help too.”