Nashville Noir by Jessica Fletcher Page B

the robe, but I had things to do. Before I got to them, however, I called Seth to see how Janet Blaskowitz was faring.
    “Doing all right,” Seth said, “but there has been a complication. The cardiologists are working on it now.”
    “Seth, is this complication life-threatening?”
    “Doesn’t appear to be. Why do you ask?”
    “First, because I’m concerned about Janet, and second, because I haven’t been able to convince her daughter to call yet. I think it would be healing for both of them to speak with each other.”
    “I take it that means you’ve gotten in touch with Janet’s daughter. How is she?”
    “I just left the jail where she’s being held. I’m having dinner tonight with her court-appointed attorney. He’s a nice young man who I believe has Cyndi’s best interests at heart.”
    “And how does it look to you?”
    “How does what look to me?”
    “Her predicament. Do you think she’ll be found guilty of murdering that man?”
    “I certainly hope not. I don’t think she killed him, but I’ll have a better grip on her chances for acquittal after dinner. Everything all right at home?”
    “Fine, just fine, busy as ever. Mayor Shevlin was askin’ after you. He’s concerned about the girl. Told him we’d be speaking soon. Think he wants to talk to you about fund-raising for the legal defense.”
    “That’s very generous of him, but I can’t call him right now. Would you mind giving him an update for me, Seth? I’ve got to run out.”
    “Will do. Soon’s I get off with you.”
    After hanging up, I jotted down notes from my visit with Cyndi, my conversations with Detective Biddle, and everything I could remember of what Cyndi had said. The notes didn’t amount to much. I’d had abbreviated time with her, and she’d basically told me what I’d already learned from Biddle. The only revelation was the name of the person with whom she’d holed up after running from Roderick Marker’s office, a Nashville musician named Wally Brolin, and his address. I’d follow up with him at the first possible opportunity. But what was on my agenda at that moment was to go to the scene of the crime, Roderick Marker’s office.
     
     
    The cabdriver dropped me off in front of Marker & Whitson Music Publishers. A large banner fluttered from the top floor of the modern tan stone building, congratulating SALLYPREN-TICE, NASHVILLE’S RISING STAR.
    I waited while a flow of people exited the building, and entered when a gentleman held open the large glass door for me. No guard was on duty in the lobby. I could have asked someone for the location of Marker’s office, but the few people crossing the marble floor looked to be in a hurry. A wall directory told me the firm I sought was on the third floor. When the elevator opened, I stepped into a carpeted hallway, which extended in both directions. Ahead of me was a huge circular glass partition—to suggest a record or CD, perhaps—with a glass door in its center. The name of the firm was spelled out in gold letters in an arc over the entrance; an M&W logo, also in gold letters, was on the door. I could see the reception desk and waiting area, but no one was there, and the door was locked. I looked at my watch. It was after five. I wandered down the hall to my left, looking for another door to knock on in case someone was working late. A man came around the corner from the far end, a pile of cardboard file boxes cradled in his arms, obscuring his vision. He almost knocked me over, sending one box sliding from the pile, hitting the floor, and spilling some of its contents.
    He slammed himself against the wall, and peered at me over one shoulder. “Oh, sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Are you all right? I didn’t see you.”
    “I’m not surprised,” I said, bending to pick up the papers. “I’m fine, but that’s quite a load you’re carrying.”
    “You don’t have to pick those up, ma’am,” he said, juggling his cargo to keep from losing another