WHITNEY
“Any ladies in particular?” Collin asked.
“Shoot,” Sawyer said. “I can name at least three off the top of my head.”
“Then do it,” Collin said, putting his pen to his pad.
Sawyer rattled off the names of three women Beckett had allegedly dated and dumped. Wylie added two more to the mix before saying, “And that’s just the ones we know of. There’s probably more. Beckett was a ladies’ man, but he’d never commit. He’s what my grandmother would call ‘fickle.’”
“Fickle is what guys like us would call ‘lucky.’ Am I right?” Collin gave the guys a grin that only someone who knew him better, like me, would realize was forced. He seemed to be making an attempt to connect with the two, to get them to let down their guard.
“Heck, yeah,” Wylie said. “Luckiest man I ever knew.”
Collin chuckled. “How’d y’all know to come here to the motel this morning?”
Wylie said, “Saw a post on Facebook. Beckett’s fan page.”
“Who made the post?”
Wylie scratched his hand. “Can’t quite recall. One of his fans, I suppose.”
Sawyer lifted his chin to indicate the other musician. “When he saw the post, he texted me. Decided we should come pay our respects.”
When he seemed to have gleaned all he could from the two, Collin dismissed them with a “Thanks for the information.” Once the two had left the motel, Collin and I huddled to discuss what they’d told him.
I mused aloud. “Sawyer and Wylie seemed upset that Beckett wouldn’t hire them on to be official members of his band. Think one or both of them might have been angry enough with Beckett to end his life?”
“It’s certainly possible. They knew where Beckett was headed Friday night, and were among the last to see him alive. Would’ve been easy to confront him on the empty street after he bought his cigar.” He lowered the pen, holding it like a dagger. “That doorstop that was stabbed into Beckett’s chest?” He made a stabbing motion with his pen. “That tells me the killing was personal, that whoever did it was furious at Beckett for one reason or another.” He returned the pen and notepad to his breast pocket. “It also tells me it wasn’t premeditated. If someone had planned to kill Beckett, they would have brought a weapon with them, not improvised with whatever they happened to find available.”
“So no chance it could have been random?”
“I’d never say never, but it seems highly doubtful. His wallet wasn’t taken, so robbery doesn’t appear to be a motive.” He cast a glance at Jimmy, who’d come out of Room 6 with a stack of plastic socket covers in his hand and was headed to the dumpster to ditch them. Under his breath, Collins said, “I still say it could have been Jimmy Weber. If he thought Beckett was trying to steal his motorcycle, he might have been angry enough to stick a doorstop in the guy.”
Jimmy had been nothing but laidback and jovial since I’d met him, not the type of guy who’d easily fly off the handle. “I’m still not feeling it.”
“Agree to disagree.” Collin stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels. “At least he was honest about being a happy drunk.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Collin angled his head to indicate his cruiser. “Come check out Exhibit A.”
I followed him over to his plain sedan and slid into the passenger seat. He booted up the laptop affixed to the dashboard mount and started a video feed. It showed a crowd of people performing a country line dance on a rooftop to music we couldn’t hear. Jimmy swayed right in the middle of them. He had one hand raised above his head. The other was at his chest, clutching a glass. His mouth hung partway open in a relaxed smile as he took a few steps to the right en masse with the others, kicked out his foot, and switched directions to move left. After a turn and hop, they repeated the simple moves. When the song finished, he and the woman dancing next to him headed over to the railing, where they looked out over the Cumberland River. Jimmy said something to the woman, and she threw her head back and laughed. He laughed too. He couldn’t have looked less like a vicious killer if he’d had an oversized lollipop in one hand and a teddy bear in the other.
My focus shifted from the screen to the detective. “The fact that you have this video footage tells me how you spent your day yesterday. Tracking Jimmy’s movements Friday night.”
“That’s right,” Collin said, “but only after I first drove up to Bowling Green, Kentucky, to speak in person with Beckett Morgan’s family.”
Beckett’s hometown sat an hour north of Nashville, pretty much a straight shot up Interstate 65. I’d been to Bowling Green years ago, while on a day trip with Buck and his family to visit Mammoth Cave. Buck’s parents, my aunt Nancy and uncle Roger, looked after me for a few weeks each summer when I was a kid, while my parents went off on vacations abroad. Aunt Nancy often invited me to come along on their less glamorous but more adventurous family vacations, saying she’d have no fun without some female company. Buck, his brother Owen, and I had a blast exploring the huge cave.
I reached out and put a supportive hand on Collin’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been to have to give them the news.”
“It goes with the job,” he said matter-of-factly, but the hard swallow told me it had taken a toll on him. He might be a homicide detective, but that didn’t mean dealing with death didn’t affect him. “I questioned his parents and siblings, but none of them had any idea who might have killed Beckett. By all accounts, he was having the time of his life here in Nashville, and everything was going his way.”
In other words, they’d provided no leads for the detective to follow up on.
“What about Beckett’s phone?” I asked. “Any clues there?”
“Lab’s still working on it.”
Knowing that murder victims were often killed by someone they were intimately involved with, I asked, “Did Beckett’s family tell you about anyone he was dating? Maybe one of the ladies Sawyer and Wylie mentioned?” Or maybe even two or three of them. Maybe one had found out he’d been stringing others along, too, and she’d killed him in a jealous rage.
“They told me Beckett had dated his high school sweetheart up to the time he moved to Nashville last year, but that things cooled off quickly thereafter. She was in nursing school at Western Kentucky University, and they were too busy to find time for each other anymore. His parents said she was a sweet girl, but that she didn’t seem entirely supportive of his music career. They believed she was holding him back, so they were relieved when the two split up.”
“And there’s been nobody serious since?”
“Not to their knowledge,” he said.
“So, what’s next?”
He pointed down the street to the Poison Emporium. “Gonna take a look at their security feeds.”
I gave him my most winning smile. “Can I come with you?”
He eyed me suspiciously. “Why?”
Truth be told, I fancied myself a bit of an amateur sleuth and thought I might be of assistance to Collin. Even so, I didn’t want to insult the guy by implying he wasn’t up to handling the task on his own. He was the professional, after all, and had been trained in investigation techniques. I, on the other hand, had been trained in carpentry techniques, including joist notching and how to use a sliding bevel. Not exactly the most helpful skills for solving homicides, but I had to admit it made me nervous that he was so intensely focused on Jimmy. And, like me, the detective was a sucker for cats. He was Daddy to two of the demanding beasts, a gray tabby named Copernicus and a black-and-white tuxedo cat named Galileo. Needless to say, Collin was also an astronomy buff. I tried to use his love of furry creatures to my advantage. “I’m curious,” I said, “like a cat. You know you can’t leave a cat’s curiosity unsatisfied.”
“You know what they say about cats,” he said. “Curiosity kills.” A macabre sentiment, but at least he didn’t say no. I took that as acquiescence. I climbed out of the car and called out to Jimmy, who’d come out of the motel with another armful of junk plastic to toss in the bin. “I’m going down the street with the detective. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Okay, boss.” He tossed the junk over the top of the bin and said, “What should I do next?”
“Interior doors. Taken them off the hinges.” The heavy old doors were scuffed and scratched beyond repair, their hinges rusty and barely holding on. We planned to replace them with lighter-weight doors inlaid with frosted glass. With windows only on the front walls of the units, natural light would be at a premium. A glass interior door would allow the rooms to share light, but the frost would provide sufficient privacy. I gestured to my toolbox. “Help yourself to any tools you might need.”
He gave me a thumbs-up, and Collin and I strode off down the street. In no time, we’d reached the Poison Emporium. At this time on a weekday, business was slow, and only two cars sat in the lot. The store’s slogan, Pick Your Poison, adorned the front window. Just like Buck and I had decided to lean into the retro motel vibe, this place, too, had leaned into its truth, proudly proclaiming to be exactly what it was, a purveyor of toxic substances.
Jing-a-ling! The bells on the door announced our arrival to the clerk, a skinny, sixtyish man who stood at the front end of the third row, stocking bottles of Jack Daniel’s whiskey on an end cap. He wore jeans and a bright red knit shirt emblazoned on the chest with the Poison Emporium logo. “Howdy, folks. Help ya find somethin’?”
Yeah, I thought, you can help us find a murderer. But I had the sense not to share my thought aloud.
Collin, on the other hand, replied with a vague, “I hope so.”
We walked past the sole customer, a man in a business suit who stood in front of a display of Kentucky bourbon, his eyes scanning his options.
The clerk stepped down from the stool to stand before us, an expectant look on his face. Collin introduced himself, showed the man his badge, and offered him a business card.
“A police detective?” The man looked down at the card in his hand. “This can’t be good.”
Poor Collin. Nobody was ever happy to see him. Except me and his cats, that is.
“You’re in no trouble,” Collin said. “I’m just investigating a crime that happened nearby. I need to take a look at your security feed, see if it picked up anything that might help.”
The man pointed out the window. “This about the body that was found at that seedy motel over yonder?”
Before I could hold my tongue, I blurted, “It won’t be seedy for long.”
The man looked at me before looking back to Collin. “Who’s she?”
Collin cut a look my way, telling me I could speak for myself.
“I’m the new owner of the motel.” I stuck out my hand. “Whitney Whitaker. My cousin and I are turning the place into upscale condominiums.”
His brows rose as he gave my hand a shake. “Is that so? Glad to hear it. Could be good for business.”
Once Collin had the man’s attention again, he asked, “How’d you know a body was found at the motel?”
“I was here Saturday evening. Between the cop cars, cordon tape, and the coroner’s wagon, it wasn’t exactly a mystery. It was Beckett Morgan that was found, wasn’t it?”
Collin’s jaw flexed as he confirmed the man’s supposition. “It was. How did you know it was him?”
“His fans have been coming in all morning, buying his favorite cigars. I thought it was strange, everyone suddenly interested in the Nicaraguan Montecristos, so I asked one of the customers what was up. He told me Beckett had been found dead at the motel over the weekend. Such a shame. I’d seen the guy in here myself Friday night.”
Collin went for his pocket and notepad again. “You did?”
“Well, technically, I suppose it was Saturday morning. We were open until two a.m. He came in not long before we closed.”
Collin and I exchanged a glance. Jimmy said he’d left the last bar in SoBro around two o’clock, walked the riverfront, and then come back to the motel. That put him and Beckett in this area around roughly the same time. At least we now had a window for the time of death. If Beckett was in this store shortly before two, presumably he was killed not long thereafter, most likely while heading back past the motel to his residence downtown.
Collin returned his attention to the clerk. “What did Beckett buy?”
“His usual cigar and Kentucky bourbon.”
“You said ‘usual.’ Does that mean Beckett came in here regularly?”
The man dipped his head. “He did.”
Collin circled his pen in the air to indicate the store’s inventory. “Can you show me which cigar and bourbon he bought?”
“Sure.” The man led us over to the humidor and pulled out a cigar wrapped in clear, shiny cellophane. Just like the cigar butt Collin had shown to Jimmy, this cigar bore a gold and black band with a gold fleur de lis in the center of a circle. Red lettering arching over the top of the circle read MONTECRISTO, while gold text below spelled out NICARAGUA SERIES.
The clerk handed the cigar to Collin, who spent a moment carefully looking it over. He returned it to the man and asked, “What about the bourbon?”
The man put the cigar back into the humidor before pointing to a locked glass case behind the checkout counter where the more expensive liquor was kept. “Beckett drank Wild Turkey Decades.”
“Ah,” Collin said. “The good stuff.”
“At a hundred-and-forty-nine bucks a bottle, it better be good,” the man said. “Couldn’t tell you one way or another, though. Never had a taste of it myself.”
The upscale liquor shared the secured display with cartons of cigarettes and other tobacco products that were both pricey and easy to surreptitiously pocket. No doubt they were stored behind the counter to prevent pilfering.
“Speaking of wild turkeys,” Collin said, “you ever notice Beckett wearing a belt buckle with a bird foot printed on it?” He raised his hand to form three talons, just as Jimmy had done when he mentioned seeing the man with the belt buckle.
“Can’t say that I have,” the man said.
“Another customer, maybe?”
“Don’t recall ever seeing such a thing, but people come in here wearing all kinds of getups. ’Specially the tourists. They’re all hat and no cattle.” He snorted a laugh. “’Course from behind this tall counter I mostly just see people from their belly up.”
Until this exchange, it hadn’t dawned on me that the man Jimmy had seen on the street could have been Beckett Morgan himself, before he was killed. But in light of the fact that Jimmy saw the man between the bridge and the motel, that would mean Beckett would have had to backtrack to the motel to meet his demise. I supposed it was possible someone had led or forced him back to the place, maybe wanting to get Beckett off the street where they wouldn’t be seen.
Getting down to the matter at hand, Collin gestured to the security cameras mounted on either corner behind the checkout counter. “Mind if I take a look at your video feeds?”
“Sure, sure.” The man waved for us to follow him. A door blocked access to the space behind the counter. The storekeeper pulled a keycard on a lanyard from inside his shirt and tapped the card to the keypad to unlock the door. A click told us the lock had been released. He opened the door and held it ajar so we could come through.
As the man sat down at a computer at the far end of the counter, Collin asked, “Did the fans say how they knew Beckett Morgan had been found at the motel?”
“Not that I recall,” he said. “I didn’t ask. I suppose it’s been on the news, but the young folks today don’t watch television like my generation does. Probably one of their parents caught a news report and filled them in.”
It was doubtful. The police department had not revealed the location of Beckett’s body to the media. More than likely, the news had spread like wildfire via text and social media, like Wylie had mentioned. But who had struck the match that started the blaze?
The man’s fingers moved over the keyboard and mouse as he accessed the security feeds and brought an image to the monitor. Per the time and date stamp in the lower right corner, we were watching a feed from 1:37 Saturday morning. Like now, it was off-peak hours and the store was nearly empty, only two customers, a man and a woman, in the place. The couple stood shoulder to shoulder facing the far wall, their mouths moving and heads turning toward each other as they took various bottles off the shelf in an apparent discussion over the brand of tequila to buy and the size of the bottle. As the customers brought their bottle to the counter, the same man who sat in front of the computer screen now appeared on it as he stood from his stool behind the counter and stepped into camera range.
While the clerk rang up the couple, Beckett Morgan slunk through the door, his gray felt cowboy hat tipped forward as if he didn’t want to be recognized. He was wearing the clothes I’d found him in—jeans and the light blue Western shirt embroidered with musical notes on the yoke. Of course, the shirt had no bloodstain on the snap-flap pocket … yet.
Beckett turned down the first aisle and pretended to be looking at the products until the couple left. Once they were gone, he stepped forward and waved hello to the clerk, who tossed him a key to the locked humidor that stood at the front end of one of the rows. The two seemed to have a routine. Clearly, Beckett was a regular here. He unlocked the climate-controlled glass case, reached inside, and removed a single cigar before locking the case again. He carried the key and cigar to the counter, returned the key to the clerk, and pointed to the Wild Turkey Decades on the shelf behind the man. The clerk rounded up a bottle, bagged it, and set it on the counter before ringing up the purchases. Beckett handed the man several twenties, and refused his change with a raised palm and a smile.
“Tipped me fifteen bucks,” the clerk said. “Always pays in cash and tells me to keep the change. Wish all the customers were that generous. One of ’em cussed me out earlier because we didn’t have his usual brand of scotch in stock. Ain’t my fault the wholesaler shorted me on the last order.”
Collin made a tapping motion with his finger. “Go back to where Beckett stepped up to the counter and pause the feed.”
“All righty.” The man went back several seconds and stopped the feed.
Collin leaned in as if looking for an important detail. His eyes were locked on Beckett’s chest. I had a suspicion he was trying to determine whether the late singer had a second cigar already in his breast pocket. I leaned in too. There was no telltale end sticking out, no long cylindrical lump.
Collin turned to the clerk. “Did you happen to notice whether Beckett already had a cigar in his pocket when he came in?”
“Didn’t notice one,” the man said. He glanced at the screen. “It would likely show if he did. They’re too long to be completely hidden in most pockets.”
I chimed in. “Could it be in one of his jeans pockets?”
The clerk scoffed. “Heck, no. That’s a sure way to end up with a bent or broken cigar and a pocketful of tobacco flakes.” The undertone of his words was Any fool knows that, but I chose not to take offense. What did I know? I’d never smoked a cigar. The one time I’d tried a cigarette in college, I’d nearly coughed up a lung.
Collin and I watched as Beckett walked out of camera range. The angle told us that we were looking at the feed from the camera in the front corner, which was angled toward the back wall. Pointing up at the other camera, which was situated in the back corner and angled toward the front of the store, Collin said, “Show me the feed from that one.”
“Gotcha.”
The man pulled up the second feed. The scene replayed itself from the other side, though this time we could see Beckett walk out the door. He took a couple of steps away from the exit, incrementally disappearing from view from top to bottom until only his feet, clad in leather boots, were visible. His feet stopped and stood still for a few seconds before the toe of another boot appeared just a short distance in front of his, as if someone were facing him. Could it be the killer? Or was it merely another customer who recognized Beckett, maybe stopped him for an autograph? Could it have been the man Jimmy had seen, the one with the bird-foot belt buckle?
As I watched, I mentally willed the person to step forward so we could see who it was. Unfortunately, they didn’t comply. The resolution of the image wasn’t high enough for us to get much detail from the toe of the boot. All we could tell was that it was either dark brown or black and was straight across the end. Not quite a square-toed boot, but not pointy either. Unfortunately, the style was popular with both men and women, so the image didn’t help us narrow things down. The three visible boots were still for a few beats before they moved off camera at 1:41 a.m.
Collin turned to the clerk. “Do you have cameras outside?”
“Nope. If someone’s gonna rob the place, they gotta come in here to do it. Doesn’t much matter what happens out there in the parking lot.”
It might have mattered that night, I thought.
Collin had the man play through the remaining feed at double time. No customers came in after Beckett. We watched the screen until it showed him locking the doors and sliding the metal security gate into place behind them. Whoever had confronted Beckett in front of the shop hadn’t come inside afterward. But might they have come inside beforehand? Maybe still been hanging around the parking lot or elsewhere nearby?
Before I could raise the issue, Collin beat me to it. “Can you start the feed at midnight? I’d like to see who came in before Beckett.”
The man rolled his mouse around and clicked a few keys. He ran the feed at double time until a customer appeared, then let it play at a real-time rate. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. When Beckett reappeared on screen, the man clicked his mouse to pause the feed. “We done here? I’ve got some shelves to stock.”
“Almost,” Collin said, “and I appreciate your time. But I’m going to ask one more thing of you, if you don’t mind.” He pointed to the computerized cash register. “You can search your sales by product, right?”
The man nodded.
“I’d like to see data for any sale of a Montecristo Nicaragua Series cigar here in the last three months. Date, time, debit or credit card information.”
“Just individual cigars, or full boxes too?”
“Both, please, sir.”
The man did as asked. A printer situated on a shelf below the computerized cash register whirred to life and spit out around a dozen pages of information. When it stopped, the man handed the printout to Collin.
Collin doffed an imaginary hat. “Can’t thank you, enough.”
“Glad to help,” the man said. “I hope you find who done Beckett in. Shame he went so young. He seemed like a good kid.”