Your Killin' Heart Read online

  The room was a large one, with heavily draped windows and French doors lining the mansion’s back wall. Jake Miller memorabilia covered the other walls, photographs of Jake with a governor, two presidents, famous Opry stars. There were several of Jake and his daughter Jackie, only a small child when her father died. There were gold records and platinum ones, with brass plaques detailing the years and sales. Other awards, many of which had to have been given after Jake’s death, filled in the gaps. Whenever I looked back at the wax statue, its eyes seemed to follow me around the room. I knew it was just a statue, but it made me feel uneasy

  “Look, Doug, it’s the gold record for ‘Last Lonesome Train.’ His whole career is here. This one is ‘The Sound of My Heart Breakin.’ This is great. Wait until I tell my dad.”

  “Yes, but where are the paintings?”

  I then remembered why we had come—or at least why Doug had come—and scanned the room. On one end was a large, superrealistic painting of the bridge of a guitar. I thought that might be one we were looking for and went over to examine it. I eased the lower edge of the gilt frame out from the wall to look at the back. A gold sticker bore the name and address of the gallery and the trademark mockingbird in flight.

  “Here’s one,” I said. Doug was busy examining the few items on the wall that were not relics of Jake’s career. An abstract of Jake and early Opry legends hung on the opposite wall. Doug ignored the painting of Jake on black velvet that hung near the door, but I kind of liked it. He was ignoring the ones he thought couldn’t possibly have come from Kenneth’s gallery. I could imagine a triptych of Jake, Elvis, and the black-velvet Pancho Villa that hung in my favorite Mexican restaurant. Not why we were here, though. “You’re right, this is one, too.”

  Doug was lifting the abstract from its hanger. He handed it to me. “He did say there were just two in here, right?” Doug shuffled through his photographs.

  “Right. These others don’t have the gallery sticker on the back.”

  “Okay. Let’s see what else there is.” Doug took down the guitar-bridge painting and started for the door.

  “Wait, Doug. Let me look around another minute.” I walked around the room’s perimeter, peering again at the memorabilia on the walls, and returned to face the wax sculpture. There was a half smile, and the glass eyes looked into a distance beyond the crowds, beyond the beer bottles on the tables. The fingers of its left hand curved as if to make a G chord on the neck of a guitar; the right thumb was poised as if to strum. “It’s sad, isn’t it? His life reduced to this room?”

  “I guess. But not too many people these days have their own shrines.”

  “True. It just seems as if it’s almost too insistent, as if they’re trying to convince themselves that he really was here, really had a life and was a star, and it all meant something.”

  “It’s about money. You create a mystique; it sells better.”

  “You have no imagination, you know.”

  “That’s what they tell me. I think I had to send in my imagination with the fee before I took the bar exam.”

  “And you’re a cynic.”

  “Thank you. Let’s go.”

  “Okay, but help me remember all this stuff so I can tell my dad. I should have brought my phone in so I could take pictures.”

  Doug rolled his eyes. “Fine. Can you get the door?”

  Doug and I set the two paintings in the entrance hall. George Lewis came back carrying another, a small floral abstract. “There are three more, right?”

  Doug nodded.

  “I’ll show you another, Mr. Elliott. Then I’ll get the other two while you take these out to your car.”

  Doug followed Lewis, and I was left alone in the entrance hall. This was my chance. With one last look in the direction they had gone, I turned and wandered down the opposite hall. The first room I came to was a sitting room, cool and forbidding, furnished all in beiges. Beyond that, through a wide arch, was a large, formal dining room with hunter-green walls and hunt-print wallpaper above a chair rail. A short hallway turned to the left and I followed it. A single door was at the end of the hall.

  I’m not usually this nosy in someone else’s home, but this was Jake Miller’s house. I opened the door into a dim, draped room before I realized it was a bedroom. I had a quick impression of soft greens, floral prints, and an old woman, still and silent on the bed. Hazel’s bedroom? I closed the door quickly and quietly so I wouldn’t wake her and stole back to the entrance hall, scared to death that the housekeeper or, worse, Doug would catch me.

  I hadn’t expected to find a bedroom downstairs in this house. As I looked at that staircase, curving so impressively up to what surely were the bedrooms, I wondered if a downstairs room had been converted for Hazel since her health had worsened.

  The entrance hall still empty, I slipped back into the music room for one last look at the statue, lit just by the spotlight. I was fascinated by the statue, but I thought it might be a little freaky to live with. I closed the door and went back to sit on my settee.

  Doug returned a few minutes later with another painting. At a glance it seemed to be French Impressionist. By the time we had wrapped and loaded the four paintings, Lewis was back with the rest. We were loading those into the car when an old pickup truck skidded to a stop inches from Doug’s car, spraying all of us with gravel. Two mockingbirds scattered in alarm. The pickup had apparently once been sky blue, now faded with age and too many close encounters with other Nashville drivers.

  Lewis muttered under his breath as a young man in jeans, a denim jacket, and several earrings jumped from the truck. An empty pierced nostril suggested that this visit didn’t rate the nose ring.

  “You can’t keep me out. She has to see me,” he yelled.

  “She’s not seeing anybody today,” Lewis told him. “Look, settle down. Let me get ri— uh, help these people finish up, and we’ll talk.”

  I could take a hint, so I told Lewis that it had been nice meeting him and got into the car. Doug got the release form out of his briefcase and handed it to Lewis to sign.

  The boy fumed. His hair was long, dirty, and scraggly; his cowboy boots were old and scuffed; the wallet in his back pocket was attached by a chain. Lewis was distracted, obviously wanting to be rid of us. He signed the release without reading it.

  The boy had started yelling again as Doug slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m not taking this anymore. I have rights here, and you can’t stop me.”

  * * *

  We took the paintings back to the gallery. Kenneth’s black Mercedes—diesel, of course, because that made it different, more European—was the only car in the lot. The Mockingbird Gallery was closed, but Kenneth was standing in the open door, waiting for us. I held doors and let Kenneth and Doug do the heavy work.

  “Thanks, Doug,” Kenneth said. “I’m glad to have them back. Did she give you a hard time?”

  “We never saw her. The maid and the personal assistant, Lewis, said she was resting. Lewis signed a release, but I’d feel better about it if I’d talked to her.”

  “George Lewis?”

  “Yes.”

  Ken nodded. “You didn’t break and enter, did you? No felonies were committed?”

  Doug didn’t laugh.

  While they hoisted in the last of the paintings, I leaned against my hand on Ken’s Mercedes hood, but jumped away. It was hot. Radiant heat, I guessed. The afternoon sun was fading, but most of the day had been hot for October and there was little shade in the lot. This had been one of the hottest summers in decades with a near-record stretch of days with highs over ninety.

  “Thanks, guys,” Kenneth said. “I’d take you to dinner, but I’ve got to dash home and pick up Carey and the kids. The kids are in a program at school tonight, but your dinner’s on me, okay?”

  “Don’t worry,” Doug assured him. “You’re paying for dinner, all right. I’ll send you a bill tomorrow.”

  Kenneth grimaced, then forced a grin and waved as he got into
his Mercedes. The heavy engine roared. I realized he hadn’t spoken a word directly to me.

  Nevertheless, dinner was delicious. We went to Maggiano’s, my choice. It was late by the time we were seated, and I was hungry. “Let’s have an appetizer while we wait.” Doug grinned. “Ken would want us to.” Doug ordered veal Parmesan; I had linguine with an Alfredo sauce that defied description. Doug nodded to a few acquaintances: a judge and a couple of state senators. The state legislature was in session.

  I expected Doug to run for office sometime. When I asked him about it, he’d always shrug, but I knew he’d considered it. He’d been active in at least a couple of recent campaigns, working for candidates I couldn’t in good conscience vote for. It was a shame, really. He was such a good man, but when it came to politics, we could never agree. I’d learned to avoid the whole subject. When he finally did run for office, I just hoped it wasn’t in my district, so I wouldn’t have to vote against him.

  “Those paintings just didn’t seem to fit in that house,” I said. “You know I’m a fan of black velvet, but even I wouldn’t hang Elvis anywhere near those paintings we picked up. I don’t get it.”

  “She probably only had the black-velvet painting because it was of Jake.” Doug shrugged. “Memorabilia. Ken’s known her for a long time. I’m not sure how they met, but I guess she took his advice about art. He wouldn’t have given her decorating advice, though. People have strange tastes.”

  “I guess.”

  “Besides, she probably had her house decorated years ago, when there was plenty of money. There hasn’t been plenty of money for a long time.”

  “There was money enough for some very expensive art.”

  “She never paid for it,” Doug pointed out. “That’s why Ken sent me to pick up the paintings.”

  “True,” I agreed. “They seemed out of place.”

  “Maybe that’s why she decided not to keep them. Maybe she just decided she didn’t want them. And I don’t blame her. Some of that stuff … How can they call it art if you can’t even tell what it is?”

  “If you just want a picture, you can use a camera. Art is about color and space,” I insisted, “about feeling.…”

  We argued about modern and postmodern art until the waiter brought our entrees. I was distracted then because the Alfredo sauce was the best I’d ever tasted.

  The first time I met Doug was the day his divorce became final. He’d stopped in at the Hillsboro Village–area travel agency that I manage on his way back to his office from the courthouse. He was looking for escape, and that’s mostly what I sell. He wasn’t looking for a place to meet women; he just wanted to get away, put his life in perspective. It’s a principle of mine never to make snap judgments about mistreated, vulnerable men and their horrid ex-wives, but his pain was real. I could see it.

  I personally think there’s no better place than a beach to put your life in perspective, except maybe on a boat. There’s something cleansing in God’s endless washing of the beach. Every morning it’s fresh, and every morning it’s there. I like the salty smell and the feel of sand on my bare feet and the sounds of the ocean, the boat halyards and the gulls. I can’t go too long without feeling like Melville’s Ishmael in Moby-Dick: “growing grim about the mouth” and deciding it’s “high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” I like the seafood, too, of course.

  So I told Doug about my favorite beach, a little town outside of Destin on the Florida panhandle. It’s a carefully planned resort town, with pastel houses like a postmodern interpretation of a New England fishing village. There are widow’s walks and cupolas, screened-in porches and lazy fans. The restaurants are good; there’s deep-sea fishing; and it’s out of the way.

  Describing the town to Doug made me want to go back; it was another gray February day in Nashville, and I was feeling a little drizzly in my own soul. It’s a short flight from Nashville to the nearest airport, Panama City, or you can drive it in less than a day, if you want. I found Doug a decent airfare, made reservations with a well-recommended charter fishing guide, and booked him there for a week.

  When he returned, he called to thank me and asked me to dinner. Something connected. I had a feeling of gears finally sliding into place. Something about us fit. But real life is complicated. I don’t know if Doug’s fear of getting too close came from the divorce or contributed to it, but we seemed stuck in some awkward forward-backward dance.

  After dinner, we cuddled up on the couch at my house on the Cumberland River to watch television when the ten o’clock news came on. I remember thinking that things were going too well, that it must be time for one of Doug’s disappearing acts. Whenever our relationship seems to be moving somewhere, whenever we seem to be approaching some small sense of commitment, Doug disappears for a while. I tried not to think about it. I’d made coffee, and we were sitting there, comfortable and relaxed. Then the lead story got our attention.

  “Hazel Miller, widow of country legend Jake Miller, was found dead this evening in her home on Franklin Road. We go live to Dan Hansen at the scene.”

  “Police are investigating the death today of Hazel Miller, widow of country-music legend Jake Miller. Mrs. Miller’s body was discovered this evening at her home here on Franklin Road.” The young reporter gestured past the yellow police tape to the shockingly familiar front door. I’d just been there. “She was apparently found by members of the household staff.” There was film of George Lewis talking to police on the front steps.

  “Police are not commenting on the investigation. While the death may have been from natural causes, they say nothing has been ruled out at this point, including the possibility of foul play.”

  I turned to Doug. “What are we going to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we were there! Our fingerprints are all over. And we saw that boy having a fit at the entrance as we were leaving.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? We don’t know anything. We didn’t see Hazel Miller. We don’t know what happened or when or how. We don’t have anything to tell.”

  “But Doug, we were right there. We could even be suspects.”

  “Suspects for what? For all we know—or anybody knows right now—she died in her sleep.”

  “Doug! I saw her.”

  “You saw who?”

  “I saw Hazel. At least, I might have seen her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you were gone with that Lewis guy. I went down the other hall, and I saw her.”

  “She was in the hallway?”

  “No…”

  “Where was she? More to the point, where were you?”

  “I … just kind of opened a door, and there she was.”

  “Did she speak to you?”

  “No. Well, she didn’t see me.”

  “Didn’t see you?”

  “She was in bed. Asleep. I thought.” Could I have done something then? I thought she was asleep and didn’t want to disturb her, but what if I had gone for help? Could someone have resuscitated her then?

  “Let me get this straight. You went snooping in her bedroom?”

  “I didn’t know it was her bedroom. It didn’t seem like someplace you’d find a bedroom. I just thought I’d look around a little. Nobody was around. I wasn’t going to bother anything.”

  “Campbell! You were in somebody’s home! And you were sneaking around in it!”

  “Well, I’m sorry! I was quiet and shut the door really quick. I didn’t disturb her.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Was she alive?”

  “Oh, Doug! I don’t know. She was lying in the bed. I thought she was asleep. It was just a second. And I don’t know for sure it was even her. I couldn’t see that well. The room was dark. What should we do?”

  “There’s nothing for us to do. You don’t want to get messed up in something like this. If anybody decides to question us, then just tell the truth, answer their questions. But don’t go looking for trouble.”


  “You’re right. I just don’t want to be hauled away for obstructing justice.”

  “I don’t see how it could be a big deal. She died in her sleep. Besides, you know a good lawyer,” Doug said. “Don’t forget they have to let you make a phone call.”

  “Yes, but what if they already have you?”

  “Could be a problem.” He dismissed my concern. “Look, I’ve got to be in court in the morning. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ll let you know what the gossip is.”

  Then I called my best friend MaryNell.

  Chapter Two

  Do you call out my name when you’re crying?

  Do you miss me when rain chills your soul?

  —Jake Miller, “The Sound of My Heart Breakin’”

  The gossip at the courthouse and in the lunch-crowded restaurants on Second Avenue the next day was that Hazel Miller had died in the company of one of her closest companions—Jack Daniels. She’d been drinking and using drugs—nothing illegal: prescription sleeping pills, antidepressants—and the combination had killed her. No real surprise. Her drinking habits had been common rumor for years. She had stumbled across more than one stage.

  Something smelled fishy, though, said an assistant district attorney Doug had gone to law school with. Hazel had apparently been dead for several hours. The maid and personal assistant had been in the house the whole time. In Tennessee, all deaths without a medical authority have to be investigated to determine if they’re from natural causes, suicide, or homicide. Routine. But because she was who she was, they couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. There would be too much attention. The fans with inquiring minds would want to know how a staff of servants could have failed to notice that the poor bereaved woman had left this earth and gone to be with Jake. There was probably nothing there, but if the police and the DA’s office didn’t go over everything with a fine-tooth comb, the national tabloids would. One of the late-night tabloid television shows was already running a promo spot linking Hazel’s death to her husband’s.