Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (8 page)

Chapter Thirteen

By the time they reached Gatlinburg, the only hotel they could find with a room was up in the mountains. The room suddenly became available, CC learned, after a tourist went a little too fast and fell off the side of the mountain. At least that’s what the girl on the phone told her.

As they wound up the mountain, CC could see how you could easily fall off––there were no guardrails, and it was pouring rain again. Luckily, Anne was asleep. The little 120 horsepower VW bus chugged its way up the steep incline. CC saw the small sign pointing to Buckberry Lodge. She pulled in the parking lot which had enough room for ten cars, all of them luxury SUVS. Buckberry was a four-diamond resort literally hanging off the side of one of the area’s largest mountains.

While CC checked in, Anne looked around. She thumbed through the books, including one about Popcorn Sutter, the original Hillbilly moonshiner. The small lobby was decorated with Smoky Mountain history, including photos and a stuffed coyote. Anne held up one of the little sleigh bells for sale with a tag warning, Ring if a bear approaches. “Does this work?” she asked the 19-year-old high school girl at the registration desk.

The girl smiled and said, “No.”

They got a room and parked in front of the lodge. All the rooms were suites in a log cabin style. CC opened the door to their room. It had a bearskin rug, a fireplace and an oversized rocking chair. She opened French doors to a small wood balcony. It had two Adirondack chairs. Even though it was dark, she could still see what she thought was a bear a couple hundred feet down in the gulley among the tall trees. “Anne, come out and take a look!” she called into the room.

Anne walked out, reading the signed Popcorn Sutter book she had bought. “This is beautiful.” She gazed out over the railing.

The moon was waning, lighting up the mountains and the woods in front. They sat in the chairs and stared out. It was getting late, and they needed to hurry to make it to the top of the lodge where the gourmet restaurant was. CC walked up the path to the restaurant, with Anne trudging behind, watching over her shoulder for bears. While they waited to be seated, they sat in overstuffed leather chairs in front of a stone fireplace that was blazing. The steward brought them both a glass of local blackberry wine. CC sipped. “This is very good.”

It was a mild evening, allowing guests to sit outside on the wraparound porch that overlooked the mountains. Anne and CC ate at a small table in a corner with a magnificent view of the Smoky Mountains, lit up by moonlight. CC had shrimp with a potato, bacon and onion gratin. Anne had filet sliders with a remoulade sauce. For dessert, they shared a warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream.

In the morning, after a good night’s rest, Anne and CC headed back to the reception desk to check out and to enjoy the complimentary breakfast. “It will probably be yogurt and muffins. We can grab some for the road,” CC said.

They were surprised to find a full breakfast including scrambled eggs, pecan bacon, corned beef hash, eggs benedict, pancakes, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The hot biscuits were brought out with corn muffins. They sat on the deck overlooking the mountains. Two eagles flew overhead, dancing and twirling and dive-bombing into the gulley. Anne couldn’t be more pleased as she slathered butter on her biscuit. She followed the butter with fresh raspberry jam from a local artisan. The taste was sweet. Anne looked up. “CC, I could live here.”

As they ate, CC pulled out the Dave Southwell EP from her bag. On the front was a close-up of Dave sitting on a stool with his acoustic guitar in front of an old RCA microphone. It made sense to her now why Steven had wanted them to find the Johnny Cash microphone for Dave Southwell. The one on the cover was the same make and year. Dave looked young and full of hope in the photo. On the back cover were black and white photos from the session, the engineer’s room, and the recording studio. Some people sat on a couch watching the recording. The last photo was from the engineer’s point of view, looking over the recording console. “Anne, Dave looks like a kid here. He can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen in this photo.”

Anne licked the butter off the corner of her lip and took the EP from CC. “He was handsome back then, wasn’t he?”

CC agreed silently with Anne. She picked up her coffee cup and stared out at the mountains.

Chapter Fourteen

By the time they arrived in Nashville, it was early evening. They pulled up at the Hermitage Hotel, a five-diamond luxury hotel built in the Beaux Arts era. Usually out of their price range, CC had been able to get a good deal due to her media rate.

As they pulled up, the concierge ran to open their doors. He held an umbrella over their heads even though there was just a gentle mist. He smiled a warm smile. He was an older gentleman but very distinguished looking. CC was reminded of Cary Grant. “Ladies, welcome to the Hermitage. My name is Bradley. I’m here at your service. I’ll make sure your bags are brought up to your room.” He escorted Anne and CC up the stairs into the lobby as the valet drove off in the VW.

Anne was struck by the magnificence of the lobby. Large brass planters with tall palms anchored the Italian marble columns. Comfortable couches and chairs sat underneath the painted glass skylight that easily spanned one hundred feet. Above the handcrafted fireplace hung a gilded French Renaissance mirror. A genuine Persian rug covered the floor underneath the sitting room. Anne coveted it. She thought even Jay Gatsby would be astounded by the opulence.

They checked into their room, which was as elegant as the lobby. It boasted two queen beds, a couch, a chair, and a writing desk. The private bathroom featured more marble, a large soaking tub, double vanities and a TV above the mirror. Anne was in heaven.

She sat down on the couch and watched CC who was unpacking. “Where do we start first? All the antique shops are closed,” Anne said.

“Why don’t we take the night off? There are a hundred bars up and down Broadway,” CC said. “I thought we could go hear some music.”

Anne grabbed her suitcase and ran into the bathroom. When she came out, she was wearing a knee-length skirt trimmed in fringe and brown cowboy boots.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I bought it in Gatlinburg when I ran into the boot shop.” She spun around and the fringe spun around with her. “We’re going line dancing, and I have to look the part.”

“No cowgirl hat?” CC asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to mess my hair.”

They walked the few blocks to Broadway, which was lined up and down with bars, honky tonks, souvenir shops and boot stores. The sounds of country music spilled out onto the sidewalk. They arrived at the Wild Horse Saloon for its nightly country line-dancing lesson. Anne dumped her large orange Prada bag on the table and ran onto the dance floor. CC sat and watched.

The dances started with the simple electric slide. Anne quickly picked up the steps, smiling and waving at CC. She tried to get her on the floor. It was a bit too hokey for CC. After a couple songs, Anne plopped down on the stool next to her. Sipping on an amaretto stone sour, Anne said, “Mmm, this is good. Aren’t you going to try and dance, CC? It’s so much fun.”

“I’m fine just watching.” CC sipped on her diet Coke. Anne took off for the dance floor again.

A man walked up to CC, his blonde hair pulled back in a topknot. His Gibson vintage guitar t-shirt was tight showing his muscular build. His jeans were tattered, a pair of brown snakeskin cowboy boots peeked out from the worn hem. CC knew he couldn’t be any older than his late twenties. He looked barely legal. CC had noticed him when they first walked into the Wild Horse. He’d been talking to the bouncer. She caught a glance of his sea green eyes. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked her.

“No, I’m just waiting for my friend. She’s on the dance floor.”

“How about we dance, then let me buy you a drink?”

The live band was loud. CC had to scream to be heard. “No, thank you, I don’t dance.”

“I can teach you. I’m a really good teacher.”

CC looked over at Anne on the dance floor. Her arms were swinging wildly as she spun around. She could tell she was going to be a while.
Why not?
she thought.

“My name’s Brent,” he said, reaching down a hand to help her off the barstool.

“CC,” she returned, putting her hand in his. They walked onto the dance floor.

“This is pretty simple.” He pulled her in his arms. “Two steps forward and one step back. Follow my lead.”

Meanwhile, Anne took a break from the dance floor to check her phone for messages. There were three from Nigel. “Where are you?” they asked. She texted him back. “In Nashville. I’m line dancing at the Wild Horse.” She hit send, finished her drink and ran back to the dance floor. She joined CC and Brent as they did the electric slide and other line dances. CC’s two left feet were stumbling into both Brent and Anne. “Stop it,” Anne told her.

Brent just smiled.

After several drinks, Anne was getting tired, and CC was ready to go. “One last dance. I love this song. Then I promise we’ll go,” Anne said. She headed back to the floor and stood in line with the other dancers. She felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned around, she saw a very tall and very British Nigel Towers, wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a black Stetson, a turquoise bolo tie and a gingham cotton shirt. Anne, feeling the effects of several drinks, was surprised but happy. “Nigel! What are you doing here?” She reached up, pulling him down by the bolo strings, giving him a big lingering kiss.

Nigel smiled back. “You told me to come.”

Anne looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Your text message yesterday said you wished I was here.”

Anne laughed. “It’s just an expression that people say when they’re having a good time. I didn’t mean it literally.”

Nigel’s face turned red.

“Never mind. I’m glad you’re here. Let’s dance. I’ll teach you.”

“No need.” Nigel knew every move from years of dance lessons when he was kid. His long spindly legs hopped around the floor like an elegant grasshopper. Anne couldn’t stop smiling. He was so charming.

CC sat on the bar stool next to Brent. “That was fun. You’re right; you’re a good teacher.” She leaned in closer to him.

When the song was over, Nigel and Anne came back over to their table.

Nigel tipped his hat to CC. “Howdy, ma’am,’ he said in his best John Wayne imitation.

CC giggled. “What are you doing here?”

Anne grabbed CC’s arm. “It’s a long story. Doesn’t he look great?” Anne slipped off the stool and landed on the floor laughing. CC and Nigel picked her up and set her back on the stool.

“Anne, I think we should get you back to the hotel.”

“Don’t be silly. The night just started,” she said, slurring her words.

“Let me call us a cab,” Nigel said.

“We can walk back. Anne needs some fresh air.”

“I’ll walk you back,” said Nigel.

“It was really nice to meet you but as you can see I have to take my friend home,” CC said to Brent.

“I’m playing at the Bluebird on Monday. Come see me, I’ll leave your name at the door.”

“I will if we’re still in town.” CC smiled.

“All right, then.” Brent said, walking away.

“I need a breath mint.” Anne reached into her large orange Prada bag and felt something silky between her fingers. She pulled out John Blackbear’s feather and stared at it. She looked at Nigel. “We’re fine. You don’t have to walk with us,” she said in a brusque voice.

Anne and CC walked out into the street onto Broadway. The neon lights on the cowboy boots twinkled over their heads. The music followed them out, fighting with the music coming from the other bars. Anne felt dizzy from all the stimulation.

“Are you okay, Anne?” CC asked, holding her up by the arm.

“I’ll be fine. Let’s get back to the hotel. I need to lie down.”

They turned onto Third Avenue. “Look, here’s a shortcut,” CC said, leading Anne down the dark alley. The rain started up again, pouring on them. They ran along the uneven pavement, avoiding puddles. The rain poured downhill onto the street below. They stopped for a moment under a fire escape to let the rain let up. Anne pulled out the two rain ponchos she had bought earlier at Boot Barn. Anne had tried on a pair of $1,000 Tony Lama boots to see if they felt any different than her $250 pair. There was no difference. She wound up buying the $4 ponchos instead to combat the on and off rain.

Anne was crying.

“What’s wrong? You don’t feel well?” CC asked.

“No, it’s Nigel. Did you see that big goof in his cowboy hat and boots? He looked like Woody from Toy Story. He’s adorable. I have to let him go.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating the alleyway. That’s when CC saw someone standing in the shadows. She couldn’t make out his face. CC put her hand out in front of Anne and pulled her back. “What are you doing?” Anne asked as her back hit the brick wall.

“Quiet,” CC said. When the lightning flashed again, the man lunged at CC, brandishing a knife. She narrowly escaped the seven-inch blade.

Anne swung her large orange Prada bag at the man knocking the knife out of his hand. CC followed with a quick knee to the groin. The man doubled over. Anne delivered a final blow with her large orange Prada bag that held the brass art deco planter she’d bought earlier. The man in the alley landed facedown in a puddle of rainwater and blood. When the lightning flashed again, CC could see the blood dripping from his head wound down his tattooed neck. His hand twitched and he reached out trying to grab CC’s leg.

“Run!” CC yelled as they darted past the man, through the alley and back onto the crowded street. By the time they reached the Hermitage, they were scared and soaked. Anne was sober. Bradley, the doorman, ran up to them holding a large umbrella. He escorted them up the marble stairs to the art deco lobby. They were both shaking.

“Ladies, are you all right?”

“No, no, we’re not,” said CC.

After the police left, Anne and CC sipped their tea in the lobby. When they had finished their tea, Bradley escorted them up to their suite. The hotel had upgraded them to compensate for their ordeal. There were fresh cookies and chocolates from the turndown service. Bradley ran a bath for Anne. As she soaked in the tub with classical music wafting over her, she inhaled the scent of burning sandalwood candles. The spicy fragrance relaxed her. She slid down the edge of the tub until her nose was just above the lavender-scented water.

While Anne bathed, CC sat at the writing desk, opening her iPad mini to review her photo gallery, trying to find a good photo for her blog. She wanted to keep her mind off the attack. There were plenty of shots from the Tobacco Barn, the Smoky Mountains and the Cherokee village. When she reached the end of the gallery, she stared at photos from the Naperville Last Fling. It made her sad thinking of the young Dave Southwell on the album cover she’d just purchased and remembering seeing the dead Dave Southwell on the stage. The last photo in the Naperville file was Roger’s arm knocking down her camera. She enlarged the photo and saw a tattoo peeking around his elbow. It was a quarter note. As she enlarged it further, she could see there was something in the center of the note but she couldn’t make it out. She ran to her bag and pulled out the Dave Southwell EP. On the back cover, the engineer’s arm in the photo bore the same tattoo.

CC tapped on the bathroom door. “Anne, come out; I have to show you something.”

Anne ignored her as she hummed along with Schubert’s
Fifth
. She was thinking about Nigel. His British accent gave way to the beat of war drums. She thought about John Blackbear and slid her face under the water. Finally, Anne pulled herself out of the tub and put on the soft fleece bathrobe. She thought she could get used to living here. She liked being pampered.

She opened the door, stepping back into the room. “CC, I was trying to relax.”

“Anne, you didn’t hear me. Look at this. Dave Southwell’s roadie Roger has the same tattoo as the sound engineer in this photo on the album I bought.” CC handed Anne the album and her iPhone.

“So?” Anne sat down on the couch. “This is Nashville. I’m sure lots of people have music tattoos.”

“Look closer. You can see a face in the note,” CC said, pointing at both pictures again.

“So what?” Anne said, picking at the bonbons on the bed. “They both worked with Dave Southwell.”

“Yeah, and Dave Southwell’s dead,” CC said. It might not be Pulitzer-worthy but she had sunk her teeth into a story and couldn’t let it go.

“If you want to find out more, we can check out the two tattoo parlors on Broadway. I saw them when I was shopping earlier,” Anne said, reaching for the fresh chocolate cookies. She took a nibble.

CC stared at the picture of Dave Southwell, rising country star, lead guitarist, singer, Nashville hunk––and now ghost.