Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-three             

The black Lincoln town car pulled up in front of the Ryman Auditorium. Bradley jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. Anne stepped out, handing him her empty water bottle. “Thank you, Bradley. We will call you when we’re done.”

Bradley nodded and smiled.

CC and Anne walked into the original home of the Grand Ole Opry. They paid their admission fee and entered the exhibit area. They paused to look at the display of Minnie Pearl’s shoes and her straw hat with the price tag still attached. Hank Williams’ sequined white jacket hung in a sealed case. When they came to the early photos, they found what they were looking for––the 1960s exhibit area.

A photograph showed Jimmy Dickens and Merle Haggard on stage. Beyond them, in the wings was a well-dressed man holding a cigar. His arm was around Clarence Riddle’s shoulder. Another man stood next to them, smiling. Riddle was wearing tattered overalls and holding a Martin guitar. Neither were identified in the caption but Anne and CC recognized Riddle from the photo they’d seen before.

“This photo is much clearer than the microfiche photo. Maybe we can speak to the curator and find out who Clarence is speaking to,” CC said.

CC showed her press pass to one of the tour guides and asked to speak to the curator. They waited for an hour. While they waited, Anne viewed the history of women’s costumes from the Opry and was drawn to a yellow sequined dress once worn by Loretta Lynn. Finally, a little white-haired lady came up to them. “I’m Sarah Cummings, curator. I heard you were writing an article and wanted some information. What newspaper are you with?”

CC coughed and hesitated. “Actually, I’m a freelancer. I’m researching a story about the early days of the Ryman. I saw an interesting photograph of Merle Haggard on stage. I wanted to find out who the three men watching in the wings are.”

Sarah took the glasses that were hanging from a chain around her neck and put them on her nose. She examined the photo closely. “I don’t know who the little guy in the overalls is. The well-dressed man is Colonel Anderson. He was a record producer. The other man is Sam Hopkins who was a staff songwriter for the Colonel’s record company. He wrote many hits for some of the biggest artists that got their start at the Ryman including,” Sarah took another look at the photo. “Merle Haggard.”

“That’s really interesting. Are they still around?” CC asked.

“Colonel Anderson retired years ago. Hopkins still has an office on Music Row.” Sarah pointedly looked at her watch. “What else can I tell you about the Opry?”

“Nothing really. I think that’s all we needed,” CC said.

Anne turned to Sarah and asked. “Are any of these dresses for sale?” She pointed at the Loretta Lynn collection.

Sarah frowned. “Absolutely not.”

Chapter Twenty-four

They drove along Music Row, a side street of assorted residential houses that had been renovated into music production companies and recording studios. Many had signs out front with names like Frog Recording, Late in the Game Records and Blue Bayou Productions. They stopped when they reached Hopkins’ Publishing, one of the smaller houses on the Row. Even before they got out of the car, they could hear the guitar through the open screen door. Anne and CC walked up the steps. They knocked until the guitar finally stopped. Sam Hopkins limped to the door, using a cane. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Mr. Hopkins, I’m CC Muller, a journalist.”

“Journalist? What do you want with me?” Hopkins leaned against the doorjamb.

“I’m writing an article about Clarence Riddle. Sarah, the curator at the Opry, gave me your name. I wondered if we could talk to you,” CC said, pulling out her press pass.

“Sure. Come on in.” He held open the screen door, leading them into a living room that he had converted into a recording studio.

“Did you work with Clarence?” CC asked, sitting down and pulling out her reporter’s notebook. “I understand you were a staff songwriter for Anderson Records.”

Mr. Hopkins rubbed his stubby beard and gave a husky laugh. “Anderson, that son of a bitch! I haven’t thought about him in years.”

Anne looked around at the pictures of all the artists on the wall. She recognized many of them. Scattered around the room was Hopkins’ collection of musical instruments including a fiddle on an end table. She went up to it to take a closer look. It was signed by the cast of
Hee Haw
. “This is very cool. You wouldn’t consider selling this, would you?”

Mr. Hopkins didn’t acknowledge her. “To be fair, Colonel Anderson gave me my start. I was hanging around the Opry like every other wanna be. I was mostly what you’d call nowadays a street musician, playing for pennies. I wasn’t that good,” Hopkins said. “Clarence was the real talent.”

“Can you tell me more about Clarence?” CC asked.

“Clarence was a genius. Everything I learned about song structure and chord progression, I learned from him. He took me under his wing. Whenever he made enough money to get a room for the night, he’d let me crash.”

“Did Clarence work for Anderson Records?”

“Oh no; he wanted nothing to do with Colonel Anderson. He was a loner. All he wanted to do was drink and write songs. That’s probably what killed him––the alcohol. When he wasn’t drunk, he was a hell of a songwriter.”

CC pulled out the sheet music and showed it to Hopkins. He picked up his guitar and started playing. “I remember this song. That’s my handwriting.”

“Your handwriting?” CC asked.

“Clarence was illiterate, and he couldn’t write a lick of music. He would play a song for me, and I would write the lyrics and music out for him.”

“How could he sign his name?”

“I signed it for him. I wanted him to get credit. It was a good song.” He looked at the sheet music and smiled. “That’s his blue fingerprint on there.”

CC hadn’t noticed the blue smudge before. She peered closer.

“When he couldn’t make enough money playing on the street, Clarence would pick blueberries as a day worker. His hands would be stained for days. It would get all over his guitar. That’s how he got his nickname,
Blue Note
.” Hopkins chuckled at the memory.

“What happened to Clarence?” CC asked.

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. He just disappeared one day. He was always off on benders, missing for days,” he said.

“Didn’t anyone look for him? What about the police?”

“You have to understand that Clarence was homeless, drunk and a bit crazy. Not the type who people look for. I went to the police, filed a missing persons report. The last place I saw him was at West End Studios. He was recording with Walters.”

“L. Walters, the sound engineer?”

“Yeah, Walters did all of the Colonel’s recording in the early days. Clarence would hang around the studio and play backup for drinks or recording time.” Hopkins paused. “Shame about Walters. I’d lost touch with him. I didn’t even know he died until I read about it in the papers.”

“Who else worked for the Colonel?” CC asked.

“A lot of staff writers. None of them any good. All the hits were Clarence’s. We just wrote them down and the Colonel took credit for them. He paid Clarence in whiskey.”

“I’d like to learn more about Clarence Riddle? Is there anyone else I could talk to?” CC asked.

“Clarence had an older brother, Jeremiah. I only saw him once. He was shipped out to Vietnam in ‘67. When he came back, he was pretty screwed up from the war. He tore up the town looking for Clarence.”

“He never found him?”

Hopkins shook his head. “Clarence just disappeared. Rumor was he drank himself to death. If he did, they never found the body. Jeremiah moved to California, somewhere near L.A.”

“Do you know how I could reach him?” CC asked.

Hopkins shook his head.

Thank you for your time.” CC stood up, followed by Anne.

“Are you sure you won’t consider selling the fiddle?” Anne asked one last time.

Hopkins shook his head and smiled.

Chapter Twenty-five

CC and Anne sat in the VW bus outside of Hopkins’ house. CC made a phone call. “Hi, Ted, it’s CC.” She paused for a moment. “I’m good. I’m in Nashville, working on a story and I need your help. Can you track down a Jeremiah Riddle? He’s in his 70s, Vietnam vet. Originally from Nashville. Anything you can find. I’m trying to get a phone number. I owe you dinner next time I’m out there.” CC hung up the phone and started the VW.

“Aren’t you going to tell me who that was?” Anne said.

“It was my friend, a former colleague, Ted Nobokiv. He’s an investigative reporter for the
LA Times
. If Jeremiah Riddle lives in California and is still alive, Ted will track him down.”

“Where to now?”

“Nashville coroner’s office.” CC put the address in the GPS and started driving.

Anne had no response for that. She sat back and sipped on her Diet Coke. She wished she’d asked Bradley to pack her a snack. She was getting hungry.

It was late afternoon, and there was no parking around city hall. CC was tired of paying for parking everywhere. It wasn’t just the parking; it was the valet, and the tips for the valet. It went against her grain as a frugal German pragmatist. She circled the block for twenty minutes until she found some street metered parking. Anne took out her change bag and fed quarters to the hungry machine.

Entering the building, they paused to eye the office listing board; the coroner’s office was located on the ninth floor. Both elevators had yellow “out of service” signs on them. Anne’s heart stopped at the sight. “Come on; we have to take the stairs,” CC said, opening the door to the stairwell.

“You’re kidding. It’s nine floors. You can do that. I’ll wait here.” Anne pointed to a bench along the wall.

“You’re coming with me,” CC said, pulling her into the stairwell.

By the time, they reached the third flight of stairs, Anne was mumbling, “treadmill.” When they reached the seventh floor, she said something about Bradley under her breath. CC couldn’t make it out. They finally reached the ninth floor in time to hear the ding of the elevator door opening. It had been fixed. Anne took a lace handkerchief out of her bag and wiped her dripping brow. She leaned against the door and panted.

The glass door was etched with the words
Nashville City Coroner
. They went inside and a young woman behind the counter, greeted them. “May I help you?”

CC showed her press pass. “I want some information on a Mr. Walters. He passed away two days ago.”

The young woman clicked something on her computer. “This is a police investigation. We’re not allowed to release any information.”

By the stern look that the young woman gave CC, she knew not to ask any further. “I understand. I’ll contact the police department. Thank you.”

They walked back out into the hall. “Anne, you’re going to have to call Nigel.”

“CC, I can’t,” Anne protested.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“You’re the one who urged me to have the talk with Nigel to tell him how I really felt, so I did. He left town. I haven’t spoken with him since.”

“Anne, this is business. It’s important. It’s the only way we’re going to get information about Walters.”

Reluctantly, Anne agreed. She took out her iPhone but there was no service in the building. She pressed the button for the elevator. It did not light up. She pressed it again with the same result. “Oh, great; you gotta be kidding me.”

They took the stairs––CC two at a time; Anne holding the railing, huffing and puffing. They reached the lobby in time to hear the ding of the elevator doors open as people got on.

Anne tried the phone again as she walked outside the building. A gentle mist started. “Nigel, can you hear me? I’m sorry to bother you but I could use your help.” She put her hand over the phone. “CC, what am I supposed to be asking him?”

“Tell him we want a copy of Walters’ autopsy report,” CC said.

Anne relayed the information to Nigel. She thanked him and hung up.

“Is he going to do it?”

“Yes,” Anne replied. “Can we go eat now?”

They walked the five blocks back to the VW. Anne was sweating in the humid air. She wasn’t used to this much humidity in the fall.

CC started the bus. “We’re heading to see a man about Demonbreun.”

Chapter Twenty-six

They arrived at the country home of one of Tennessee’s largest collectors of Nashborough history, Pierre Robertson. The large country estate was located 20 minutes outside of Nashville, near the Cumberland River––the original site of the founding of Nashville by Timothy Demonbreun. “You know, Anne,” CC said. “Timothy Demonbreun was French-Canadian and was the first white settler here in 1769. He established a fur trading post that he could use for his trapping expeditions.”

Anne wasn’t terribly excited. These weren’t going to be pretty antiques. She liked shiny things. “How did you find out about this collector?”

“From Bradley.”

Anne smiled and said, “Ahhh, Bradley.” She wished she had that sandwich now.

They were greeted at the wrought-iron double doors by a butler. He led them into the two-story foyer, which was comprised of beautiful antiques dating back to the 1700s. Anne marveled at the exquisite décor. She couldn’t have done better herself. She wondered if any of this collection was for sale.

The butler walked the ladies into the sitting room where Mr. Robertson was waiting. He was wearing a fringed, deerskin Daniel Boone jacket and matching boots.
Probably original
, Anne thought.

“Welcome to my home.” He put down the instrument in his lap and stood up to greet them. “My friend, Bradley, contacted me and said you wanted to see my collection. Are you interested in Tennessee history?”

“In particular, Nashville,” CC said.

Anne interrupted. “We’re antique hunters.” She handed him a card.

CC stopped her and said, “We have a client who is decorating her house for her fiancé. He’s a very influential businessman in Nashville. We’ve been commissioned to find pieces for his collection. Bradley spoke highly of you and said you had an amazing collection. Specifically, we’re looking for anything related to Timothy Demonbruen.”

“You’re familiar with our local history. He was a very interesting pioneer,” Mr. Robertson said. “He lived in a cave just downstream from here for months while he was building his home.”

“I heard that. Is his original homestead still around?” CC asked.

“Not much of it. I can show you the site,” Robertson said.

“You know, Anne, Demonbreun served as lieutenant governor at Fort Kaskaskia in Illinois. He had a family there,” CC said.

“And he had a second one here in Nashville. He had five children with his Illinois wife and four with his Nashville mistress,” Mr. Robertson said. “He established a mercantile and fur trading business and had 17 employees.” He led them into a back room. “Here is one of the early advertisements for his store.”

The cluttered, framed newspaper ad announced a business location on
Public Square
and listed window glass, paper, cured deer hides and buffalo tongues. “Later on, he opened a tavern,” Mr. Robertson said. “He loved music. This is his original hurdy gurdy.” Robertson held up an instrument that was lying on a wood table. He demonstrated how to play it.

“You know, Anne, the crank on a hurdy gurdy makes a sound just like a bow on a violin,” CC said. “Would you consider selling any of these items?”

“Oh, no, this collection is dear to me. I could never part with any of it.”

“You know, the gentleman we’re buying for works in the music industry. Not only has his family been in Nashville for generations, but he also works with famous musicians. I think he’d appreciate the history of the hurdy gurdy and perhaps use it on recordings that would be heard by millions of country fans.”

Mr. Robertson thought. “I enjoy beautiful things. I cherish them. I want others to appreciate the history and the beauty also. If this hurdy gurdy can be shared with other enthusiasts, I would part with it.”

While Mr. Robertson and CC were talking, Anne was mesmerized by an ormolu music box. She opened it and cranked it. Its tinkling tune filled the room. Both Mr. Robertson and CC turned to look at her. “That was a gift to my grandmother from my grandfather when he came back from France in 1922. It was her engagement present,” Mr. Robertson said.

Anne set the music box back down carefully. Even she couldn’t ask him to give up a family heirloom.

They paid for the hurdy gurdy and an early map of Nashville. “Thank you, Mr. Robertson.”

“If you’re interested in music antiques, you should come to the reception that I’m hosting tomorrow for the Nashville Historical Society at Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage plantation,” Mr. Robertson said, as he escorted them to the front door. “Colonel Anderson will be attending. He was very influential in the early days of Nashville music. I’m sure you would find him fascinating.”

Anne and CC looked at each other.

“It’s a period ball celebrating Andrew Jackson’s legacy. I will let Bradley know to add you to the guest list.”

“Is Bradley part of the historical society?” Anne asked.

“Everyone in Nashville knows Bradley. When you need something, you ask Bradley.”

Anne nodded in agreement. “Thank you so much, Mr. Robertson,” Anne said. “We will definitely see you tomorrow evening.” Anne got in the car and pondered about her costume. Now she wished she’d borrowed Aunt Sybil’s brooch from her cousin, Susan. “This is great. I wanted to tour the estate anyway. Now we can do it for free. I’ll call Bradley.”