The Fame Equation (17 page)

“Agnes,” was all I usually had to say to get his expression to change. This time it didn’t work. I tried again. “I know. I’m distracted by Melody’s murder. But wouldn’t you be, too, if it was your best friend?”

I wondered, not for the first time, if Jon even had a best friend. Then my mind again jumped to the phone call. The one where he had told someone he loved them. Who had that been?

“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” said Jon.

I started to protest, then realized he had a point. In the past nine months I had been kidnapped, left for dead, had a near miss in a potentially fatal car accident, and was drugged and thrown into a dumpster. I’d also had my upper arm and a few ribs broken. Fortunately, I recovered quickly from all that.

“I know,” I finally said. “But I just have to help. Melody had her whole life in front of her. She was talented, funny, and kind . . . and I miss her.”

The look faded from Jon’s face as he gave Petey a pat. “Who do you think did it?” he asked.

“I have no idea. I’ve been thinking about motive, but I can’t figure out why anyone would want to kill her.”

“For one of the usual reasons,” Jon said. “Secrets, jealousy, rage, passion, blackmail, money.”

“Well that narrows it down. I’m going to give the police any information that I can either remember or find. But I also don’t want to leave too much for you to do here. In the past I’ve done that, and I want to be sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Jon looked at me, and then nodded. “Do you still want to do an eval on Ringo today?”

“I do. How about four o’clock?”

Jon nodded again, unhooked Petey, and we took him into the arena.

After another good driving session, Hank and I walked back to the house. Hank often stayed in the barn with Jon, but whenever I was troubled he seemed to stay closer to me. He too, had been kidnapped––or should I say, dognapped––recently, so I wasn’t sure if the closeness had to do with him protecting me, or me protecting him. Either way, I enjoyed his company.

After filling another mug with hot chocolate, I called Brent to fill him in. He seemed distant, but that could have been because he was surrounded by what sounded like a thousand yapping dogs. He must be in the back of the clinic, I thought. We made a dinner date for that evening.

“But let’s stay in,” I said. “Pizza and a movie at my place? My treat, although Jon and Darcy may join us for the pizza.”

“Great.” he said. “Maybe we can watch an old movie on one of those off-beat channels that you have.”

That sounded perfect.

Next I called Buffy, fully aware that she could have killed Melody. We decided to meet for an early lunch, and she suggested Provence, a trendy bakery and café in Hillsboro Village. The location was great, as I wanted to pop into Davis’s office after, and Hillsboro Village was Music Row adjacent.

“Park around the corner on Acklen,” suggested Buffy. “There’s usually parking there in front of the post office.”

I was grateful for the suggestion, as parking could be a nightmare in the village. My closet was filled with horse clothes and little else, so I changed into a fresh pair of Wranglers, a clean pair of Ariat paddock boots, a green long-sleeved tee with the Cat Enright Stables logo on it, and shrugged into a matching green goose down vest. The vest also had my logo on it. My years on the show circuit had taught me never to waste a good opportunity to advertise. The weather was balmy today, in the mid-fifties with lots of sun, so I wouldn’t need my heavy jacket.

When I got to Provence, Buffy was already seated, so I went to the counter and ordered the chop salad, which the waitress told me came loaded with roast corn, peppers, grilled onions, chicken, salami, feta, olives, chickpeas, romaine, and sunflower seeds, and was tossed in a tomato-tahini dressing. I didn’t know what half that stuff was, but it sounded good. I also decided to stick with water, having already had several cups of chocolate that morning.

When the meal came, the waitress deposited a plate of smoked salmon crepes in front of Buffy. I should have ordered that, I thought. Not that the salad wasn’t great, but whenever I ate out nothing I ordered ever looked as good as what other people chose.

“Melody’s will is being read tomorrow,” Buffy said between tiny bites of her food. Ah. She was one of those people who moved food around on their plate rather than eating it. I dug into my salad.

“They’re bringing all of the beneficiaries in for the reading,” she continued.

“Do they still do that?” I asked. “I thought everyone was notified by mail these days.”

“I think that’s usually the case, but the sheriff asked them to do it this way. Guess they wanted to see everyone’s reactions when they learn who gets all the money.”

“Is there a lot?” I asked.

“I assume so.” Buffy put a morsel of salmon onto her fork and brought it to her mouth. I looked down at my plate. My big bowl of salad was almost gone. “Melody had three number one singles last year and her debut album was also number one. The label will charge back every cent they spent on the album, and on her,” she continued, “but there should be some profit there. She had major numbers in digital downloads. She had that big tour last year, too, and she opened for Brad in the spring, then for Jason Aldean in the fall.”

I studied Buffy as she picked at her food. Could she have killed Melody? There was the Keith crush to consider, but it was hard for me to imagine that Buffy felt passionate enough to actually kill a possible rival. She had always seemed so superficial. She grew up with bucket loads of money, but was nice enough, as potential murderers go. When she worked as a reporter for the
Ashland City Times
she had always treated me fairly. I’d have to give the idea more thought.

“Who is on the list of invitees for the will reading?” I asked. I’d give three of my left toes to be there. Well, maybe just two.

“Not sure. Scott said everyone would be notified.”

I made a strong mental note to call Martin. Would he be there? Buffy said the sheriff had requested the will be read with everyone in attendance. Maybe I could tag along, be another set of eyes for him.

As we finished up, I asked Buffy about a young man who was sitting at a rectangular table against the far wall. He kept looking our way, yet whenever I tried to make eye contact, he busied himself with his phone.

“Which guy?” she asked, looking around. The restaurant had filled up while we had been talking. “The preppy looking guy with the short brown hair?”

I nodded.

“No clue,” she said. “Never seen him before. But if you like him, you should walk over and introduce yourself.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m actually seeing someone. I just thought I’d seen him somewhere before. Can’t put my finger on where, though.”

“No clue,” Buffy said again, gathering her things.

Buffy and I parted ways on the sidewalk in front of the eclectic BookManBookWoman store, and I walked back to my truck. I knew Davis’s office was on 16th Avenue, just a stone’s throw away, and I watched the house numbers carefully as I drove slowly down the street.

The upper end of 16th was still largely made up of rambling, old brick houses, and many music businesses had offices there. North of 16th and Edgehill, however, most of the homes had been torn down and replaced with modern office buildings. I liked the old houses better, and hoped this part of Music Row would stay the same for some time to come.

I found Davis in a house on the left side of the street, halfway between Horton and Edgehill, and snagged a parking spot off the alley in back. His office, and the entire home, was well done. Rich, dark wood floors that looked original, and lush oriental rugs topped with furniture that screamed expensive antique dominated the rooms. I was so busy looking at the furniture that I almost missed all of the gold and platinum records hanging on the walls. Wouldn’t want that to happen. The display was impressive.

“Cat,” Davis said, getting up from his desk. “We didn’t have a meeting, did we? I didn’t have you on my calendar and I have to head out in a few minutes.”

I was surprised I had gotten past his gatekeeper, a formidable battle-axe of a woman with short, steel-gray hair and a British accent who sat at a desk outside Davis’s office door.

“I just wanted to ask two quick questions and hoped you’d be in,” I said. Of course, I could have called and I am sure that thought was on his mind. But I had wanted to see him, see the space where he worked, to get a better feel for him. Could he be the one? Could he have strangled Melody? He had a good poker face, so I had a hard time knowing his thoughts.

“I hoped you could tell me if Melody’s family was still in town,” I said. With the reading of the will not until tomorrow, I was betting that they were. “I’d like to see them, to give them my condolences.”

In reality, I’d like nothing less. Brandyne was obviously the kind of person who could start an argument in an empty house, and if her mother continued to wail, I am sure that my visit would be very short. But, I wanted to get a better idea of them, too. Melody had practically disowned her family. Certainly, nothing she ever said about them showed them in a positive light. Maybe they took offense to her lack of interest and decided to take her out.

“They are,” said Davis, consulting something on his iPad. “They’re at the Y’all Come Inn. The place is an extended stay motel on Old Hickory Boulevard, just before Hwy. 70 in Bellevue. Room 217.”

Good that he added “in Bellevue,” as Old Hickory snaked around the entire city of Nashville, stopping seemingly at will, then picking up inexplicably several blocks away. Bellevue was a nice community not too far from Pegram, where Melody had lived. But this hotel, I knew, was home to a lot of transient workers and was the kind of place where ten people might crowd into a single room, each drinking a six-pack for dinner. Guess Claudine and Brandyne would fit right in.

“They’re not at Melody’s house?” I asked.

“No, they wanted to be there, fought me pretty hard about that in fact, but the police are still poking through it. Do you want me to call Claudine, to see if they’re there?” He looked pointedly at me.

I smiled. “No. Thanks, Davis. I really don’t make a habit of dropping in unannounced. You were a last minute thought after I had lunch with Buffy at Provence.” I didn’t think one white lie would hurt in the greater scheme of things. “But in light of Brandyne’s behavior at the reception, I don’t want to give them time to get all worked up. If they’re not there, I’ll stop back by another time.”

Davis’s face almost changed expression. “Can’t blame you there. We all hoped to get through the funeral without one of them going off. I thought it would be Bodine. He’s a loose cannon, and not much brighter. It almost took an act of God to get him released for the funeral. You saw the guards. He’s got another six years on an aggravated robbery. Tried to rob a Walmart in Springfield, Tennessee about eighteen months ago. He walked out the door with a shopping cart full of Melody’s CDs and a flat screen TV.”

Davis said the odd thing was, Bodine might have gotten away with it if not for the TV. A Walmart staffer asked him for his receipt, like they sometimes do when you have a large ticket item in your cart, and Bodine made a run for it.

“Security surrounded him in the parking lot and Bodine decided to shoot his way out,” Davis said. “He didn’t hit anyone, but he did nail a tire or two––and a windshield. The boy doesn’t have the sense of a sidewalk.”

“One more question,” I said. “Keith Carson asked me over to look at the b-roll and outtakes from the video shoot. His videographer caught you and Buffy in an argument, although you were far enough away that your voices didn’t pick up.”

The only muscle that moved in Davis’s face was one on the left side of his jaw. Finally he said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but because you were such a good friend of Melody’s, I’ll be honest. I was telling Buffy that I had a problem with the publicist I hired for my artist throwing herself at Keith Carson when she should be doing her job.”

The face I made must have told Davis that I knew all about that little problem. “Keith told me,” I confirmed.

Davis stood up; our time was clearly over. As I drove toward Bellevue, I wondered about Melody’s manager. His manner had been stern, but I didn’t get any sense that he was nervous about me being there, or about me asking questions. Cold blooded and guilty, or poker faced and innocent?

As I turned on Old Hickory Boulevard from I-40, I put Davis aside and steeled myself for the encounter with Melody’s mother and sister. As a precaution, I texted Darcy to let her know where I would be, and asked her to call Martin if I hadn’t gotten back in touch by three-thirty. I had no idea what I was going to find in room 217.

A
T THE HOTEL,
I
PARKED
my truck among a series of rusted out sedans with cracked windshields and duct tape that held heavy plastic in place instead of glass windows. I looked for a car without a dent and did not find one. I should have brought Hank to act as a security guard, I thought.

My truck had some tears in and stains on the upholstery, and it hiccupped going up the occasional hill, but it had over two hundred thousand miles on it, so it was entitled. Okay, it sometimes didn’t want to start unless I held the driver’s side door open, and it had rust, but you almost couldn’t see it unless you knew where to look. I really wanted to keep it dent-free.