Your Killin' Heart Page 3

  Everybody in my office had a theory. Martha thought the housekeeper did it; in lieu of a butler, Anna was convinced that the personal assistant was the murderer. Lee said we should all get lives and leave the poor woman and her family alone. I thought we should all get back to work. I had a client in London whose purse had been stolen with her passport and credit cards inside. Luckily, she had taken my advice and packed a copy of her passport in her luggage. In between providing details of the flocked wallpaper in Hazel’s house, I was faxing and e-mailing information about the US embassy in London to her hotel. I was also calling her credit-card companies. Not a part of my job description, but it was something I could do to help. I couldn’t give her back the time out of her first trip to London that she was going to waste getting her passport replaced, though.

  At lunchtime I called home to tell my parents about my visit to Jake Miller’s house.

  “It was pretty cool, Dad. There was a wax sculpture, and its eyes looked like they were following me around the room. His guitars were there. That Martin you see in a lot of the pictures, it was there.”

  “They’re saying Hazel was murdered.”

  “Yeah, Daddy, but it’s probably just gossip. She wasn’t in good health, and she drank too much.”

  “Well, you be careful,” my mother said from the other extension. “To think you might have been there when something was going on!”

  “Oh, no, Mom. We were just there a few minutes. It’s really nothing to do with me.” But it felt like it was something to do with me. It felt weird to think I’d seen Hazel in her bed, and shortly after that she was dead.

  We talked a few minutes, but I knew I would need to tell Daddy all the details later. It seemed a little cold to be dissing the woman’s decorating when she had just died.

  “You take care of yourself,” Mom said. “Be careful.”

  “I will. Y’all, too.”

  My parents and I were in that delicate in-between stage. They were concerned about my safety. After all, I was a single woman living alone in a city where dangerous things occasionally happened. And I worried about them. They were getting older but still climbing ladders and trees, still doing everything they could and a few things they couldn’t. My mother kept trying to get my daddy to call a plumber when anything went wrong with pipes, but he still had to try to fix it himself first. Then he called a plumber to clean up his mess.

  We weren’t long past the time when they took care of me, when Daddy would come once in a while to handle whatever maintenance my house needed, but I could tell we also weren’t far from the time when we’d be reversing those roles. In the meantime, we all told each other to be careful. I guess we all worried.

  That afternoon a police detective came by the office. Sam Davis.

  “Sam Davis? Like the Boy Hero of the Confederacy?” I asked.

  “That’s right. Except older and still alive.”

  “You probably get that a lot, don’t you? I’ve been to his house in Smyrna, seen the window he climbed through on his last visit home.”

  Sam Davis was a Confederate scout, hanged as a spy at the age of nineteen because he was captured wearing a Union overcoat that his mother had dyed brown with walnut hulls so he could survive the winter. That overcoat meant he could be held—and executed—as a spy by Union forces. He could have saved himself if he had revealed the source of his intelligence or that his leader was being held in the same stockade in Pulaski, Tennessee, but in the tradition of young men in a thousand wars, he chose to die with honor.

  “Yes, ma’am. Not so much, really. I’ve got just a few routine questions, ma’am. Your name was given to us by several people, including Kenneth Elliott. We understand you went to Hazel Miller’s residence yesterday with Doug Elliott representing Elliott’s art gallery.”

  He paused. I didn’t say anything. There didn’t seem to be a question there.

  “Is that correct, ma’am?”

  “Yes. It is. Look, let’s go back to the conference room.” I didn’t want to alarm any clients who might come in, and I could tell that no one in the office would get any work done while he was there. Detective Davis followed me back to the little glass-walled room behind our desks. When I went by Lee, eyes wide, he mouthed, Want me to call Doug? I shook my head.

  Once Detective Davis and I were inside, I closed the door behind us. He stretched long legs to the side of the table, ran a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath.

  “Did you speak with Mrs. Miller?” He pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. Just like on TV! I focused.

  “No, I didn’t. They said she wasn’t available, that she was resting.”

  “They?”

  “The personal assistant, Mr. Lewis, and a maid.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What time was this?”

  “Late afternoon, four or four thirty, I guess.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And how long would you say you and Mr. Elliott were there?”

  “It’s hard to say. Maybe an hour, maybe a little longer. We waited for a while. Before we saw Mr. Lewis.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Did you talk to anyone else in the house?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “And you and Mr. Elliott took certain paintings from the house?”

  “Well, yes, but we were supposed to. Mrs. Miller said to.”

  “Mrs. Miller spoke to you?” The detective dropped his sleepy, disarming voice.

  “No, I told you. They said she was resting.”

  “Did Mrs. Miller speak to Mr. Elliott?”

  I started to answer, to begin all over again and explain the whole story. Then a childhood of lying on the living room floor watching Perry Mason flashed through my mind.

  “Not while we were there at the house. I guess you’d better ask Mr. Elliott, though, right? Anything I said would just be hearsay, wouldn’t it?”

  Detective Davis laughed. “We’re not in court, ma’am, just trying to understand what happened.” The laid-back, folksy tone was back. Its reappearance made me feel suspicious and defensive.

  “My understanding, and Doug’s, Mr. Elliott’s, was that Mrs. Miller wanted the paintings returned to the gallery. The maid and the Lewis guy kept saying that.”

  “Were you and Mr. Elliott together the whole time you were on the property?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was no time when you and Mr. Elliott were separated either in the house or on the grounds. You didn’t wait in the car for a while? Neither of you went to a restroom?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Not a thing, ma’am. Just trying to get everything clear in my mind.”

  “We don’t know anything about this.” I could hear the indignation in my voice, and I hated myself for it. I recognized the intimidation techniques, but I had let him rattle me anyway. I’d hate going through this if I had anything to hide. Then I remembered. “Oh. There were a few minutes. Mr. Lewis showed Doug a painting in another room.”

  “How long would you say you were separated?”

  “No time at all. I don’t know. Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen at the most.”

  “And were you alone during that time?”

  “No, the maid was there. Well, she was there, then she went to another part of the house.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You don’t plan to be leaving town in the next few days, do you?”

  “Why? I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “Suspect? No, ma’am. There’s no reason to be looking for suspects. Not at this point, anyway. We’re just trying to clear this up. Get it settled quickly. We may have some more questions. Just get in touch with us if you need to go out of town, please.”

  “Sure.” I sighed. “Look, I might as well tell you. You’ll probably find my fingerprints.”

  “On the murder weapon?”

  “There was a murder weapon?”

  “No, ma’am, not unless you’ve got something to tell us.” I thought he was messing with me, but I couldn’t tell for sure. No chuckle this
time, just the same dry, calm voice, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

  “No, on the door handle. I might have seen Hazel lying in bed. I might have looked into her room.”

  “Might? You don’t know?”

  “Well, not for sure.” I could feel a blush rising up my neck, and I felt even more embarrassed over that. “I just had a fast impression of someone, an older woman, in bed. Then I shut the door and went back to the entrance.” I explained where I had been, which turns I had taken from the entry hall.

  “She didn’t say anything? You didn’t say anything?”

  I shook my head. “No, no. I just opened the door and shut it as soon as I saw it was a bedroom.

  “Did you know Mrs. Miller?”

  “No! I just went along with Doug because it was Jake Miller’s house, and my dad has always been a huge Jake Miller fan, used to sit around with his friends playing these old songs when I was a kid.”

  “Okay. We may have a few more questions. It might be a good idea if you stuck close to town for a while.”

  “I didn’t do anything, honest. I know it was rude. I never dreamed that would be her bedroom.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

  He gave me a card with his phone number, a number I recognized as the Metro police department nonemergency line, his mobile number, and his home number. “Thanks for your time.”

  I didn’t know what to think. I called Doug’s office, but he was in a real-estate closing. So much for my one phone call.

  Anna had clients at her desk, but they wanted to know what was going on, too, so I told them as well as Lee, Anna, and Martha everything the detective had said. Then we got back to work. Or they did. I tried, but I didn’t get much done.

  I fixed a salad for dinner while I watched the six o’clock news, flipping from channel to channel to try to hear everything about the investigation. The news was that there was no real news. No revelations. Autopsy results were not yet available. The police were questioning several people who might have some information. There was film of Jake’s daughter, Jackie, now a very conservative anesthesiologist who insisted on being called Jacqueline, or Dr. Miller, hurrying past cameras, shielding her face with a big handbag.

  My friend MaryNell called. “Are you watching the news?”

  “Yes. They don’t seem to know anything yet, though. A detective came by this afternoon.”

  “Did he read you your rights? Did he cuff you?”

  “He just asked a few questions.”

  “Was it this guy?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell.” I thought Sam Davis was the police detective in the scene, but he wasn’t facing the camera.

  “Have you talked to Doug today?”

  “No. I called him, but he was in a closing.”

  Silence. She didn’t say anything, but her question hung there. And he hasn’t called you back yet? MaryNell wasn’t a Doug fan.

  “Hey, I’m gonna go. I want to see this. I’ll call you later.”

  It was Detective Davis, standing in a drizzling rain, his tie slightly askew, now facing the camera, eyes showing unmistakable signs of too many nights with too little sleep. He said the police were investigating all leads and that it was too early to make a statement.

  My phone rang. “Campbell?”

  “I’ll call you back, Mom.”

  “Do you have a suspect?” “Was Hazel Miller murdered?” Disembodied voices attacked the investigator.

  His smile was hard and tired. “I’ve just told you, Dan, it’s too soon for me to make a statement on this case. We’re working on it.”

  Mr. Morgan from next door came over with tomatoes. “These are probably goin’ to be the last,” he said. “Weatherman said we might have a freeze by the weekend. I think Mildred’s going to make green-tomato pickles with the rest. You doin’ okay?”

  So I told Mr. Morgan about the visit to Hazel’s house.

  “You don’t mean it! Yeah, these new young kids, all hat and no cattle. They don’t make ’em like Jake Miller anymore.”

  I nodded. What was I going to say to sweet Mr. Morgan standing there with his hands full of vine-ripe tomatoes? Yeah, you’re right, what country music needs is more womanizing alcoholics?

  “Last time I went to the Opry, half of ’em had long hair. It sounds like rock and roll now.”

  I thanked him and made a tomato sandwich, eating it over the sink, the tomato juice dripping with every bite.

  Then I called my mom and told her all about the detective’s visit.

  “You went into the woman’s bedroom? And her sick?” I knew my bad manners would be what got Mom’s attention.

  I put on pajamas and called MaryNell back.

  “Okay,” she said, “start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Oh, come on. One more time. You might have missed something.”

  So I went through it again.

  “So Doug couldn’t have done it.” She sounded disappointed.

  “MaryNell!”

  “Okay, okay. Let me know what you hear next—and call me if you need bail.”

  The rain had picked up, and it pecked at the windows all evening. I cleaned four kitchen cabinets out of frustration. Cleaning cabinets is not something I do often by choice. I usually maintain a live-and-let-live relationship with the clutter in my cabinets, closets, and drawers. Out of sight, out of mind. Then an occasional attack of cabin fever hits, and I throw things out with abandon. Every time I do, of course, there is something in the pile of debris I have discarded or taken to the church benevolence ministry that I desperately need within the week. I studied a misshapen colander and tried to imagine any circumstances in which I’d want that thing back.

  Doug called just after the ten o’clock news went off. “Sorry. I was in a closing when you called the office today. I didn’t get away until eight. Then I went to the Y and ran.” And he wasn’t in a rush to call me back. “Did you see the news?”

  “Yeah. Not much to see, though. What do you think?” I asked. “Was it an accident? Can we beat this rap?”

  Nothing. Doug wasn’t a good audience for crime jokes or bad Jimmy Cagney impressions. Or for jokes generally. He tended to take questions seriously. I told him about the homicide detective’s visit.

  “It could have been an accident or natural causes. The human liver can only take so much punishment. You did the right thing, Campbell. Always tell the truth when you answer their questions. I don’t think you need to worry. What motive would you have for murdering Hazel Miller?”

  “Suppose I’m Jake Miller’s love child, and I want my rightful inheritance? Suppose she surprised me in the act of burgling her safe?”

  “In that case, I suppose you’re in real trouble. Want the name of a good criminal lawyer?”

  “Thank you. I might have known you’d disappear at the first sign of trouble.” There was an embarrassed silence.

  We’d had the disappearing conversation before, and Doug knew how I felt about it. The first time or two it happened, I was determined to get through to him. I knew he liked being with me, and I liked him. There was chemistry. I was attractive enough, blond, green eyes, fit without being obsessed about it. I could list plenty of flaws, but I knew I was at least considered pretty

  I tried honesty. I went by his apartment; I wrote incredibly eloquent letters. I would make him see how he was hurting me, make him see what a fool he was to pass up a wonderful woman like me, make him tell me how he felt and why he was acting like this. That worked about as well as passing notes in seventh grade, and I finally learned to leave him alone. Eventually he’d get over whatever it was, and we’d be together again. I may not have learned much, but I do know that I can’t make Doug Elliott do anything he doesn’t want to. And he knows exactly what he’s doing when he doesn’t want to face me.

  Chapter Three

  The next day I decided to see what I could find out on my own.
Contrary to legend, not everyone in Nashville is an aspiring country-music star. I, for one, have never spent my days plugging songs or putting together a project of demo songs, and I can’t claim to be up on the buzz on the Row. But everybody in Nashville knows somebody in the business. I knew Stick.

  Stick Anderson is a percussion genius. We’ve been friends since high school. I even know his real name, but I won’t tell. Stick and I are occasionally painfully honest with each other. That’s probably what has made our friendship last. Everybody needs somebody they can count on to be honest with them. Sometimes.

  I knew Stick was playing at the Last Fret that Friday night. Stick’s in high demand as a studio musician and on most of the big-name sessions. Whenever there was a surefire hit, a CMA award shoo-in release on the charts, you could bet Stick Anderson’s name would be in the credits.

  He says he’s living in the best of all possible worlds. He gets paid to play; he can dress however he wants to go to work; and he gets to stay at home in Nashville. Life on the road, even in a luxury coach, can be grueling. It breaks up families and makes musicians and singers lose touch with themselves. It’s first-class homelessness. It’s more comfortable than a shopping cart on lower Broad, but it can be just as destructive.

  Stick is talented enough and hot enough to be able to avoid the road. But he always downplays his success.

  “I’m a drummer, man, and this is a picker’s town. It’s easy to be in demand when there aren’t many of you.” There are plenty of drummers, of course, but very few percussionists like Stick. He creates his own sounds, even his own instruments sometimes, always experimenting, always looking for a new rhythm, a new effect. That night, between sets, he was telling me about a sound he had used in a session the night before.

  “You’ll love this song. It starts with this kind of deep aaoom sound. I don’t know how to describe it, kind of a breathy gong. I made it up. I’ll play it tonight.”

  “Who was the session for?”

  “New girl. Amber Blue.” I raised my eyebrows; Stick grinned. “Yeah, I know, probably not the name her mama gave her. But she’s got a great voice. She’s been doing a lot of demo work around town; people are starting to notice her. So she’s doing this project—four songs, got a good range, kind of a bluesy style. It’s good stuff. Sony’s interested, and several smaller labels.”