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  To Mom and Dad,

  Mark and Mike, and, of course,

  David

  The last lonesome train is takin’ me home;

  I’ve been on this highway too long.

  Will anyone there remember my name

  Or hear the pain in my song?

  —Jake Miller, “Last Lonesome Train”

  Chapter One

  He was an icon in country music. He had written heartbreaking songs and sung them from a heart full of pain and self-imposed demons. Then he’d had the good business sense to die young—and somewhat mysteriously.

  The Grand Ole Opry had turned down Jake Miller when he had tried to join, but now all the old-timers in Nashville talked as if they’d been his best friends. His brief career and life were enshrined in a museum case of revisionist memories, the truth as carefully filtered as too much moisture or sunlight.

  My dad was a big fan. He played guitar. Who doesn’t around Nashville? And, as a young man, he had been in a band, just a few guys who would get together on weekends and play, their wives sitting bored in the kitchen waiting for them to get tired and go home. But it took a long time for them to get tired of picking Jake Miller songs.

  That’s why I begged to go along. I just didn’t expect to find a body.

  My friend Doug Elliott had mentioned that he had to pick up—sounded better than “repossess”—some paintings for his brother’s gallery. The Mockingbird Gallery, named for the Tennessee state bird, because the gallery focused on local artists.

  “Why you?” I asked.

  “You know Ken,” Doug said. “If there’s dirty work, let somebody else do it. I think he thinks people are intimidated because I’m a lawyer. He can apologize for me later, maybe still keep the client. It might be tricky. It’s Hazel Miller.”

  “Hazel Miller? Jake Miller’s Hazel Miller?”

  “Campbell…”

  “I could help. It’ll be easier with a woman there.”

  “Nothing is ever easier with you there, Campbell Hale.”

  I was shocked. I was hurt. At least, those were the looks I was going for. Doug rolled his eyes.

  “You need a woman with you. Good cop, bad cop.”

  “Campbell…” He was shaking his head by then. “You’ll be working.” He was triumphant. He’d found an excuse.

  “No, no, I’m off tomorrow.” I’m a travel agent. I manage an agency in Nashville’s Hillsboro Village, an area centered along Twenty-first Avenue that still has a neighborhood identity and personality. It borders the Vanderbilt University medical complex, not far from Music Row, Green Hills, and a couple of other college campuses. Students and businesspeople rub shoulders with health-care professionals and music types. A great place to work, but I had the day off. “I can help carry. Surely you can use an extra pair of hands,” I pleaded. “I won’t break anything. I won’t even speak without your permission. How many chances does a person get to see inside Jake Miller’s house?”

  I wanted to be able to tell my dad about the interior of Jake Miller’s last home. Jake Miller’s widow, a second or third wife, still lived in the house they’d built with the profits from his biggest hit, “Last Lonesome Train.” Jake might have played a sad guitar, but Hazel Miller played Nashville for all it was worth. She was always there at music-industry awards dinners, smiling vaguely through an alcoholic haze, accepting a plaque and thanking “the people” for keeping Jake’s memory alive—and buying his records and the records of newer stars who kept rerecording his old songs. They not only kept his memory alive; they kept his estate prosperous.

  At least, everybody assumed the estate was prosperous. Hazel lived in a mansion behind a high brick wall on Franklin Road. Her gowns dripped rhinestones and sequins. Her cars were huge and gaudy.

  “I might not even get inside,” Doug said. “I’m just picking up these paintings for Ken. Six paintings. She bought them but never paid him. I can’t believe he let them out the door without money in his hand, personally. They’re supposed to be expecting me, so they might just have them sitting by the door.”

  “Please.”

  He sighed. “If I tell you to go sit in the car, you go sit in the car.”

  And I knew I had won.

  “Absolutely. You’re the boss.”

  He didn’t believe it, but I’d worn him down. “Okay,” he finally agreed. “Just don’t gush.”

  It wasn’t like I’d ever really caused him harm. Sometimes I’d say the wrong thing around his friends. Sometimes I was a little too honest. How bad a character flaw is that? Bad enough, apparently, to avoid committing to a relationship but not horrible enough for him to avoid me altogether. I crossed my heart.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon as we drove south on Franklin Road, the sunroof open to let in the sunny and warm, perfect fall day. Doug kept his eyes on the road. I split my attention between the scenery and Doug. Gray-blue eyes, six feet tall, fit from running three days a week. Doug’s brown hair was the only unruly thing about him.

  Birds flitted in the trees that reached over the road. It was too late in the year for songbirds, but the mockingbirds aren’t tourists. They stay with us all year, flying in pairs, teasing and flirting from branch to branch, singing songs borrowed from the other birds. Doing covers, I suppose they’d say in the industry, recording their own versions of someone else’s song. My neighbor, Mr. Morgan, had a favorite mockingbird story. He was working construction and waiting for a dump truck to get out of his way. The dump truck made its distinctive beep, beep sound as it backed up. “That truck shifted into forward,” he said, “and drove off, but I kept hearin’ that same beep, beep, beep. I thought somethin’ was wrong with my hearin’, from all the blastin’. I kept hearin’ it, and that truck got farther away, then out of sight. I finally looked around and saw a mockingbird. It was imitatin’ the dump truck. A bird imitatin’ a truck! Durndest thing I ever saw.”

  Leaves skittered across the road, pressing up against the fences like eager fans trying to get a glimpse of a star. Nashvillians are generally blasé about their country music stars. You see them in restaurants, on the street, at Target. Your kids play Little League with their kids. You see Tim and Faith at Ensworth games. You may smile and nod so they don’t get insecure, tell them you liked their last song—if it hasn’t been too long since their last song. But a native never gawks. Still, I was excited. I’d spent too many years listening to my daddy play Jake’s songs not to be thrilled at the prospect of being inside that house.

  Doug turned off the road and stopped in front of tall iron gates. He pressed a button beside the speaker at his window, and out came a squawk that seemed to contain a question. Doug must have understood, because he responded, “Doug Elliott. I’m from The Mockingbird Gallery. Mrs. Miller is expecting me.”

  After a moment of silence, there was another squawk, and the gates began to open. The driveway curved up a gentle slope.
The landscaping was elaborate and not exactly seedy, but there was an aura of early neglect. There were weeds in the daylily beds, and the juniper ground cover bordering the drive seemed to have scribbled out of the lines.

  “I have a friend who has a theory about the economics of trees,” I said. “His hobby is horticulture, and he thinks that trees determine the property values of neighborhoods. Maples are middle class; oaks and magnolias are upper. What do you think?”

  Doug said nothing.

  I keep looking for yards that disprove his theory, but this wasn’t one of them. The oaks and magnolias were there instead of the maples that blazed in my neighborhood, plus weeping cherry and discreet ground covers. Someone had put a lot of expense and care into this garden once.

  There was a pea-gravel parking area to the right side of the entrance, but Doug stopped in front of the door. “Not as far to carry the paintings,” he explained. I nodded.

  At the elaborately carved door, Doug pushed another button. Chimes rang inside the house. We waited. Doug was calm, as always. He’s not impressed by much. I’m not even sure just how impressed he is with me. He doesn’t give much away.

  The door remained closed. Doug pressed the button once more, and again we heard chimes but no approaching footsteps.

  “If they didn’t want to let us in, they wouldn’t have opened the gate, would they?” I asked.

  “I don’t like this,” Doug said. “Ken said she agreed to give them back, but if she’s changed her mind, there’s nothing I can do. Even though she hasn’t paid for them, Ken doesn’t have a lien on them.”

  “I thought Ken said he talked to Hazel today,” I said.

  “He talked to her two weeks ago. Today he confirmed this appointment with the personal assistant. A man named George Lewis.”

  Doug pressed the button once more and looked impatiently at his watch. Then we heard footsteps. A maid opened the door. She seemed a little flustered and out of breath.

  “Good afternoon.” Her dark chocolate skin gleamed, and she wore a crisp black uniform topped by a white apron.

  “I’m Doug Elliott. May I see Mrs. Miller, please? She’s expecting me. We’re from The Mockingbird Gallery.”

  “Oh, yes.” She seemed relieved. “Miz Miller is not available.”

  “But I have an appointment. She’s expecting me.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. You’re here for the pictures, but you can’t see Miz Miller. She’s not available.” She held the door wide, and we stepped into the entry. It was spacious with rooms opening to the right, left, and rear. A highly polished cherry staircase curved its way upstairs. Matching Chippendale settees upholstered in gold tapestry stood at opposite walls. There was just a little too much gold in the wallpaper, a little too much of everything. It was hard to put a finger on, but it gave me the impression of expensive tackiness. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you have good taste. Maybe that was why Kenneth hadn’t wanted to come. He would take anybody’s money, but he hated to see good art surrounded by poor taste.

  Mrs. Miller’s taste in art, though, seemed very good, or else she had listened to a very discriminating advisor. I recognized the work of a nationally known sculptor and a very good—and expensive—local one. I nudged Doug and raised an eyebrow.

  “I really don’t want to take the paintings without talking with Mrs. Miller,” he was saying.

  “Oh, it’s all right. She knew you was coming. I’ll show you right where they are.”

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate your help, but I really need to talk to Mrs. Miller.”

  The maid seemed uneasy at Doug’s insistence. “Yes, sir, but she can’t talk right now. She said you was just to take the paintings. He said for me to help you.”

  “He?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Lewis. He’s Miz Miller’s personal assistant. He said I was to help you.”

  Doug looked stymied. He liked things to be neat, with no loose ends. He followed the rules and was very thorough. It was one of the qualities I counted on him for. I could talk to him—and often did—about a situation, and he would think it through with me. You could watch his clear blue eyes and almost see the gears turning, meshing, setting off other motions. He would look at the question from every possible angle, mentally play out every possible consequence, then tell you what he thought. He had a hard time with spontaneity, but he made up for it in reliability. Doug was a man you could count on.

  “We’ll wait,” he announced.

  The maid seemed flustered.

  “Sir, I don’t want no trouble. Miz Miller said I was to show you the pictures. Can’t you just take them?”

  “We’ll wait.”

  The maid must have recognized a brick wall when she tried to argue with one, so she said, “Yes, sir,” and left us in the entrance hall.

  We sat on the Chippendale settee against the left wall.

  I was taking in the details, already rehearsing what I would tell my dad. Doug looked uncomfortable. I smiled reassuringly. He scowled.

  We waited.

  “I wish I could wander around some,” I said.

  Doug looked sideways at me, not responding.

  “I mean, Jake Miller! I know he only lived here the last few years of his life, but still, there was some great songwriting in this house.”

  Doug still said nothing.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see his favorite spot for writing, where he liked to sit and play guitar maybe? Really? Somewhere deep inside?”

  “I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have let you come.”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m sitting here behaving. I’m just talking, making conversation, sharing a small part of my dreams, my heart, my soul.”

  Doug almost smiled. “This is not going the way it was supposed to. Maybe you’d better hang onto your soul right now. You don’t want to leave anything lying around if we have to make a fast getaway.”

  I nodded. “What’s your favorite Jake Miller song?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not much of a country-music fan.”

  “I know, but everybody knows Jake Miller songs. ‘Last Lonesome Train’? ‘Saturday Night in Town’? ‘Tomorrow Again’?”

  Doug shrugged again.

  “Is this what you thought it would be like? His house, I mean?”

  He looked surprised, then shook his head. “I hadn’t thought anything about it.”

  I knew he was telling the truth. No imagination. That’s a blessing sometimes. Doug would never imagine all the crazy things that could possibly go wrong the way I always did.

  “I guess I thought it would be a little more … I don’t know … or maybe not so much…” I didn’t know what to say. “It kind of looks like it was decorated thirty years ago and hasn’t been touched since. Except that she was buying art from Ken.”

  Doug nodded, but he still didn’t make conversation. He was on task.

  After a little more than half an hour, a young man, thirtyish, in jeans, a heavily starched white shirt, boots, and a blazer entered the hall from behind us.

  “Sorry you’ve been waiting all this time. Did Estelle tell you to go ahead and take the paintings? I’m George Lewis, Mrs. Miller’s personal assistant.”

  “Doug Elliott. This is Campbell Hale.” We all shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you both. I’m really sorry that Mrs. Miller won’t be able to see you. She hasn’t been feeling well, and she’s asleep. We really can’t … well, we don’t want to wake her when she’s resting.”

  Doug fidgeted, impatient.

  “Look, she wants you to pick up the paintings,” Lewis continued. “There’s no question about that. And there’s really no need for you to waste your time and come back another day. I’ll help you get them to your car, okay?”

  Doug still looked undecided, but I could see him glancing at the door. He was wavering.

  “You’re sure that Mrs. Miller is aware that we were coming today?”

  “Oh, yes. She just hasn’t been well.”
>
  “And you’re authorized to turn the paintings over to us? You’ll sign a release?”

  “Absolutely. No problem. Do you know the paintings?”

  “Yes. I have a list and photographs.”

  “Great. I think I know which ones they are, but that will help. I know one’s in the sitting room, but a couple are straight back in the music room. Why don’t you and Miss Hale get those?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Lewis headed back in the direction he had come, cowboy bootheels clacking on the marble floor.

  Doug and I looked at each other.

  “Straight back, the man said,” I offered. “The music room.” I smiled. “I guess that’s this way.”

  We walked to the rear of the entrance hall toward a pair of double doors. We stopped, glanced at each other again, and each reached for a handle. We pulled open the doors and gasped. Well, Doug gasped; I screamed.

  There in the center of the dark music room, in the light of a single spotlight, stood Jake Miller.

  It wasn’t really him, of course. It was an eerily lifelike wax sculpture of Jake looking for all the world as if he were about to sing “Last Lonesome Train.” I almost expected him to tip his hat and say howdy to us. An old, worn Martin guitar waited in a stand near his right hand.

  When my heart slowed down and I could breathe again, I looked sideways at Doug. He’s rarely shaken by anything, or at least he rarely shows it. But Jake Miller had taken him by surprise, too. Doug’s eyes were wide as he turned to me.

  “Do you suppose there’s another light in here?”

  “Wait a second.” I walked over to the statue, stopping about a yard away. My hand went out, almost involuntarily. Up close, the illusion faded, and, as Doug found a light switch, the brightness made the statue appear just that. I decided I preferred the view in the dark, the spotlight blurring the flat and lifeless lines. “They must have given it to Hazel when the wax museum downtown closed.” The sequined suit looked tired, cleaned and pressed but obviously old. A suit Jake Miller had actually worn, singing in a real spotlight. The finish of the guitar was worn through where Jake Miller’s fingers had strummed.