Nashville Noir by Jessica Fletcher Page A

legal pad, returned it to his briefcase, and made a show of looking at his watch. “Time to go,” he said, standing.
    “Will I see you again?” Cyndi asked as the officer stood and walked toward her holding the handcuffs.
    “You bet you will,” Washburn said. “We’re a team now.”
    “You, Mrs. Fletcher?” Cyndi asked as she extended her slender wrists to the officer.
    “I’ll be here every chance I get,” I assured, “and I’ll be working on your behalf when I’m not here.”
    Once back in Washburn’s car, I asked, “I will be allowed to see her again, won’t I?”
    He nodded. “As long as we’re together. Sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”
    “Frankly,” I said, “I’d prefer it that way.”
    “Welcome to the Washburn defense team,” he said lightly.
    “Thank you,” I said, “for everything. You know, I think I know the key to defending Cyndi.”
    “Oh? Tell me.”
    “The key,” I said, “is to discover who really killed Roderick Marker, and to find out fast.”

Chapter Ten
    “W ould you like me to drop you off at your hotel?” Washburn asked as we headed back to the city.
    “That would be wonderful,” I said. “I’m staying at the Renaissance Hotel downtown.”
    “I know it well. It’s my mother’s favorite place when she visits from L.A.”
    “So you’re not from here. How did you end up practicing law in Nashville?” I asked.
    “Well, it’s really just a short story. I came here for Vanderbilt’s law school, ended up clerking with a local judge, liked the city, decided to stay, passed the Tennessee bar, and here I am.”
    “A nice concise tale. What appealed to you about Nashville?”
    “It’s a little like Los Angeles in a way, in the sense that it’s mostly a one-industry town. That’s not to say that there aren’t lots of other corporations and businesses here, but country music is at the heart of Nashville, and everything revolves around it in the same way Los Angeles is all about the film business. The local media cover the industry. Many of the people here come from somewhere else. Yet everyone I’ve met, from my local dry cleaner, to the lady in the bank, to the guy who picks up the trash is a country-and-western fan, and some are remarkably knowledgeable about country music. The fellow who set up my computer can tell you the difference between the original Jimmie Rodgers and the one who had a TV show, that Loretta Lynn was the first female country singer to have a gold album, and even who Vernon Dalhart was.”
    “Who was Vernon Dalhart?”
    “Vernon Dalhart was one of over one hundred names used by a Texas singer named Marion Try Slaughter, back when country was known as hillbilly music. He’s in the Hall of Fame.”
    “Does that mean you’re a lover of country music, too?”
    He laughed. “I wasn’t when I first came here, but I’m a convert now.”
    He dropped me at the front of the hotel, where a bellman relieved me of my rolling suitcase. “Thanks so much, Mr. Washburn,” I said through the open window of his car.
    “It’s Jamal. You up for dinner, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Why yes, I am. And it’s Jessica.”
    “I thought we should get to know each other a little better and see how we can work together to help Cyndi.”
    “I like that idea.”
    “My treat,” he said. “I have a favorite place I think you’ll enjoy.” He consulted his watch. “It’s almost four thirty. Shall I pick you up at six? Will that give you enough time?”
    “Make it six thirty,” I said.
    “I’ll be back at six thirty.”
    “I’ll be waiting.”
    My room at the hotel was a far cry from the one I’d slept in at Mrs. Granger’s rooming house. I pulled back the drapes to uncover an expanse of glass and a lovely view of downtown Nashville. I quickly unpacked, put everything away, and checked out the bathroom. It was spacious and nicely appointed; a terry-cloth robe hung on the back of the door. I was tempted to slip out of my clothes and bundle up in