WHITNEY
Shep’s words left me wondering. Were Lacy Spurlock’s tears during her television interview real? Or had they been mere crocodile tears, intended to mislead people into thinking she was actually sad about Beckett’s demise when she had, in fact, caused his death? A glance at Collin, the repeated flex of his jaw, told me that he, too, was chewing over the idea.
As we exited the studio, we found the auburn-haired woman and the guitarist sitting on a bench out front, sipping coffee from paper cups.
“We’re done,” Collin said. “Thanks for giving us the room.”
“No problem,” the woman said.
Once we were back in his car, I turned to Collin. “So? What did you think? Is Shep a good boy or a bad boy?”
“He’s not out of the doghouse yet. He doesn’t have an ironclad alibi, and he’s got one heck of a motive. He believes Beckett not only stole credit for his song, but also cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars. He could be our guy.”
“Especially if he’s the man Jimmy saw near the motel late Friday night.” I whipped out my phone, typed with my thumbs to run an image search, and then scrolled down the screen, examining the photos. “Bingo.”
I held up the phone so Collin could see it too. On the screen was an image of Shep Sampson wearing a belt buckle imprinted with a dog paw. Like the image on the slide of his bolo tie, the claws were visible. “Think this could be what Jimmy saw Friday night? A dog paw rather than a bird foot?”
Collin took my phone from my hand. It made a camera-shutter sound as he took a screen shot of the image. After texting the image to himself, he said, “We’ll show this to Jimmy when we get back to the motel later.”
He drove out of the studio’s lot, only to turn into another parking lot a block down. This building was three stories high with lots of windows and, per the sign affixed to its façade, housed the offices of Cumberland River Records.
We walked inside, and Collin checked in with the receptionist. “I’m Detective Collin Flynn with Metro PD. Is Gia Revello in?”
The young woman’s eyes grew wide. By now, everyone in town new about Beckett Morgan’s murder. There’d probably been rumors flying about Gia Revello, too, how she’d confronted Beckett in front of his fellow musicians and fans outside the Ryman on the very night he’d later been found dead. The woman picked up her phone. “I’ll let her assistant know you’re here.” She punched in a three-digit code and put the receiver to her ear. When someone picked up on the other end, she said, “There’s a police detective here to see Ms. Revello.” She paused a moment while she listened. “Okay. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and pointed to a bank of elevators on our right. “She can see you now. Third floor.”
We rode up to the third floor, exiting into another lobby that was lined with headshots of country-western recording stars. Waylon Jennings. Dolly Parton. Blake Shelton. Faith Hill. Even Beckett Morgan himself, wearing his signature gray felt cowboy hat and boy-next-door smile. Several people were seated in the foyer, all of them well-dressed and wearing slightly impatient expressions to go with their country-western finery. These were people who didn’t like to be kept waiting.
A twentysomething hipster in a skinny-fit plaid suit and handlebar mustache intercepted us in the lobby. “Hello, there!” He raised a hand as he approached. “I’ll escort you to Ms. Revello’s office. Her time is precious. You’ll be quick, won’t you?”
Unfazed by the boy’s brusque behavior, Collin said, “As quick as we can be.”
Her assistant escorted us down a hall to a frosted glass door secured with a keycard entry, leaving a natural, woodsy scent in his wake. Was the aroma cigar smoke, or merely some type of hipster cologne?
I nudged Collin with my elbow, raised my nose, and twitched my nostrils. He got the message, stretching out his neck to take a discreet sniff of the young man. Collin’s gaze moved downward, and I followed it with my own. Gia’s assistant was wearing freshly shined boots with what appeared to be an N toe. Could his left boot be the one we’d seen in the security camera footage from the Poison Emporium?
After the assistant tapped his keycard on the pad, the door opened with a click. He led us through the glass door to a set of heavy wood double doors. The one on the right was cracked open. He peeked through. “We’ve arrived, Ms. Revello.”
He pushed the door open and stepped aside, holding it for us as we walked through to enter her enormous corner office. Gia Revello stood from her desk in the back corner and circled around to the front, looking every bit the hard-hitting female executive she was known to be. She wore a black suit with a fitted pencil skirt, red patent-leather stilettos, and a red and white polka-dot scarf. Her dark hair was swept over her forehead in a shiny, shellacked wave. Behind her, floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows provided a view across Interstate 65 into downtown. I could even get a glimpse of the pedestrian bridge from here, though we were too far away for me to see if the blonde was standing on it. As she walked toward us, she waved the back of both hands, shooing her assistant from the room.
“As you wish, ma’am.” He slunk out and closed the door behind him.
After introductions were exchanged, she stood her ground, not bothering to offer us a place to sit despite the fact that a six-seat conference table was situated directly to our right. Without preamble, she said, “I didn’t kill Beckett Morgan. Had every reason to. Maybe even wanted to. But didn’t.”
“Wow.” Collin offered her a smile. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
“Only trying to save us both some time,” she said. “Well-behaved women might rarely make history, and they never make the kind of money I do. The direct approach has served me well over the years.”
“Then I suppose I can be direct too,” Collin said.
Gia gave a sharp nod. “Of course.”
He tilted his head. “Tell me about those reasons you’d have for killing Beckett.”
“He strung me along, the same way he did all those young women who chased after him. I took a big chance on him when he was an unknown, let him in on that duet with Lacy Spurlock after their mutual manager, Rex Tomlinson, suggested it. Gave him a generous contract for his first album. When he hit big, he forgot who helped him get there. I made him a good offer for a second album. Five times what we’d paid him for the first. Offered him more than he was worth, quite frankly. Other than ‘Party in the Pasture,’ the rest of the album wasn’t much to speak of. He shot me down. Three times.” Her eyes flashed as she thought back to Beckett’s refusals. “I raised the initial offer by fifteen percent, then another five. Took him out for fancy dinners. Wined and dined him. Even sent him a box of his favorite cigars and a big bottle of bourbon. Those things don’t come cheap. He wouldn’t commit, kept pushing for more. He was talking to some other labels, too, doing them just like he was doing me. Wrong.” She turned and pointed out her window toward downtown. “There are a dozen singers busking for tips on SoBro right now who are just as talented as Beckett. I could have replaced him in a heartbeat.”
“Then why not do it?” Collin asked. “Why not find new talent? Why get so upset?”
She turned the finger on herself now, pointing at her chest. “Because I didn’t get where I am by backing down from a fight. I’m a hot-blooded Italian woman.”
“Hot blooded,” Collin repeated. “Hot enough to—”
“No!” She tossed her hands in the air. “Not hot enough to kill someone. I already told you that. But I’d had enough of Beckett yanking my chain.”
“I don’t blame you.” Collin leaned slightly toward her. “Is that why you confronted him outside the Ryman Friday night?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But it’s not like I planned to cause a scene. I just happened to come across him outside signing autographs when I was leaving.” She raised her palms. “It got a little uglier than I intended, I admit. But when he played dumb, it sent me over the edge.”
“Played dumb?” Collin asked.
“I told him I needed an answer right then and then to my latest offer. He told me to talk to T-Rex, said it was a matter for his manager.”
“But he was right, wasn’t he?” Collin said. “That’s what managers are for, aren’t they? To plan tours and negotiate endorsements and record deals?”
“That’s right,” Gia said, “when their client is manageable. Beckett wasn’t. He was a spoiled brat and T-Rex couldn’t keep him in line.” She shook her head. “Acting all innocent and naïve in front of his fans, playing the simple country boy. It was disgusting. Other people might buy the bumpkin act, but I knew better. Beckett hid behind T-Rex, had his manager do his dirty work for him. T-Rex never came right out and said so, but I sensed he was embarrassed by Beckett’s behavior, by all the unreasonable demands. He only put up with the kid because he was a veritable gold mine.”
“Did T-Rex tell you that?”
“Not in so many words,” Gia said. “But I can’t see any other reason for tolerating the twerp.”
“You’ve told me why you’d want to put Beckett in his place,” Collin said. “Now convince me you didn’t do it.”
“Same reason. The money. If I’d wrung the boy’s neck, I stood to lose some serious bank. Besides, T-Rex talked me down from the ledge.”
“Rex Tomlinson was at the Ryman too?”
“No,” she said. “When I left the Ryman, I went straight to my car and texted him. He called me back a few minutes later. He was at a show down in that cave in McMinnville, listening to a band he’d had his eye on.”
Ear on might have been a more appropriate term. The Volcano Room was a unique show venue located an hour and a half drive to the southeast of Nashville and in a cavern 333 feet underground. Over half a century ago, someone realized the cave system provided near-perfect acoustics, as well as an intriguing backdrop for shows. A concert series was launched, and bands had been playing underground there ever since.
Gia continued. “I told T-Rex what happened at the Ryman. He wasn’t happy I’d made a spectacle, but he said he could understand my frustration with Beckett, that he’d speak with him, pin down what it would take to make him sign a new deal, and get back to me on Monday with his final offer.”
“What time did you leave the Ryman?” Collin asked.
Her lips puckered as she thought back. “Must’ve been around midnight.”
“Did you go straight home?”
“I did.”
“To your residence in Brentwood?”
A sneer pulled up one side of her plump lips. “You’ve done your homework, haven’t you, Detective?”
He echoed her earlier words. “I did.”
“Yes,” she said. “When I refer to ‘home,’ I’m talking about my home in Brentwood.”
“What time did you arrive at the house?”
“I didn’t check a clock,” she said, “but I suppose it would have been around twelve thirty, maybe a little later.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
“My husband,” she said. “He was already in bed. He’d fallen asleep watching TV. But he woke up when I came into the bedroom. I had a glass of wine in the kitchen first, though.”
It seemed awfully late to have a drink alone. Had she needed the wine to calm her nerves after committing a heinous act of murder?
Collin asked for her husband’s name and phone number, and jotted them on his pad before looking up again. He pointed to the door with his pen. “Your assistant. Was he at the Ryman with you?”
“He was,” she said. “I got tickets for my entire staff. It’s one of the perks of working for a record label.”
“Did you ride together?”
“No. Everyone got there on their own. Some took their own cars. Some took Ubers so they could hit the bars after the show.”
“When did your assistant leave?”
“When the show ended, I suppose. Just like the rest of us. We didn’t leave together, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Was he outside the Ryman when you were interacting with Beckett?”
“Not to my knowledge. But there were still quite a few people about so it’s possible he could have been among them.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jared—”
My heart skipped a beat. The guy’s first name started with J. Does his last name start with C?
Gia finished with, “Vandervoort.”
Darn. So her cigar-scented assistant wasn’t J.C., then.
“If you had to hazard a guess about who killed Beckett, who comes to mind?”
She circled her finger to indicate herself, the detective, and me. “This stays between us?”
“Of course,” Collin said.
I nodded in agreement.
“Sawyer Karnes and Wylie Pfluger,” she said. “I saw their faces when I was chewing Beckett out. They were amused to see him finally getting what he’d had coming to him.”
She could very well be right about those two. They’d admitted they’d been with Beckett shortly before his murder, and one of them could have been the person wearing the boot we’d seen in the security camera video at the Poison Emporium. They knew Beckett would be there. Wylie claimed he couldn’t stomach cigars, but that could have been a ruse. So could Sawyer’s claim that he couldn’t afford the habit. I recalled what Collin had said earlier, that the guilty party often describes the victim and their relationship in glowing terms. When Collin had spoken with Sawyer and Wylie at the motel, Wylie had implied things had not been perfect between them and Beckett. Sawyer had been quick to cover, to shut Wylie up and say how grateful they were to have worked for the star.
“Those two are talented musicians,” Gia continued, “who helped Beckett get where he is today. Not that Beckett appreciated it. I know Sawyer and Wylie asked Beckett about going full time with him, becoming permanent backup band members, but he wouldn’t commit to them any more than he’d commit to me.” She scoffed. “If ever there was a young man with commitment issues, it was Beckett Morgan.”
“I see.” Collin’s head bobbed slowly as he absorbed the information. “What about Lacy Spurlock? You think there’s any chance she could’ve killed Beckett?”
Gia barked a laugh. “Lacy didn’t need to murder Beckett to get back at him. You’ve heard her last album, right? That was her revenge. ‘Kiss My Back Pocket’ held at number three on the charts for over a month. ‘I’ve Had Better, But I Haven’t Had Worse’ hit number eight. And ‘Bless Your Itty-Bitty … Heart’ hit number one. Stayed there for two full months. Lacy had no reason to end Beckett’s life. She’s already made a killing, thanks to his inspiration. Made a killing for me too. We produce her work.”
“So her score was settled?”
“Sure seemed to be.” Gia inhaled a long breath and her voice was softer when she spoke again. “That said, there were some rumors flying around after the CMAs. People hanging around backstage say they heard a crash come from her dressing room and saw broken glass and liquid on the floor when Beckett ran out. They say she hurled a bottle of champagne at him.”
While her story didn’t exactly mesh with Shep’s, it confirmed that something had happened in Lacy’s dressing room. The jury was still out on exactly what it was. Only two people knew for certain, and one of them was now dead.
I chimed in now. “Do you happen to know if your assistant smokes?”
“Why?” Gia asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I thought I smelled cigars on him. But it could have been his aftershave. Whatever the scent was, it was nice.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never seen Jared with a cigar or cigarette in his hand. He makes coffee for the floor, though. It burned this morning. He’s supposed to check and make sure nobody has left an empty pot on a hot burner, but sometimes he gets busy and forgets.”
I’d smelled burnt coffee before. It was an unpleasant, acrid odor. Jared’s scent wasn’t.
“I assume we’re done here?” she said, not bothering to wait for an answer before reaching for the door handle behind us.
Collin raised a palm to stop her from opening the door just yet. “One more question,” he said. “Do you know anyone with the initials J.C.?”
Gia didn’t miss a beat. “June Carter Cash. Or, I guess that would be J.C.C. if you include all her names.”
“Someone still alive,” Collin clarified. “Someone who would have been a friend of Beckett’s.”
“Hmm.” She cocked her head and looked up at the ceiling for a beat, as if the answer might be written there, before returning her focus to Collin. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Okay. Thanks for your time.”
When the woman opened the door for us, Collin held out a hand, inviting me to precede him through the door. As soon as Gia closed her door behind us, her hipster assistant escorted us to the elevators. Again, I smelled the cigar-like aroma on him. He took long strides as if to speed us up, jabbing the DOWN button and hanging around to make sure we got on. As the doors slid shut on us, he snapped, “Ciao!”
The elevator began to descend and I spoke to Collin’s reflection in the shiny metal elevator door. “Gia’s assistant seems oddly protective of her.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Could be they’re just insulted by my visit and the implication that Gia might have had something to do with Beckett’s death.”
I could understand that it would be an affront to be wrongfully accused of a crime but, heck, Gia was the only one to blame. Had she behaved with more decorum at the Ryman Auditorium last Friday night, Collin might not have felt the need to stop by in person.
“Did Rex Tomlinson tell you the same thing Gia said, that he’d been down in McMinnville Friday night?”
“He did,” Collin said. “He was scouting a band. Said they had promise but weren’t quite up to snuff yet. He felt bad that he hadn’t been at the Ryman to run interference when Gia confronted Beckett. He said he normally tries to attend as many of his artists’ shows as he can, but that the Ryman is well run, a home base of sorts, and most locals are familiar with how things are done there. He felt less pressure to be on-site.”
“Did he stay in McMinnville overnight, or drive back to Nashville?”
“He came home that night,” Collin said. “He said the show wrapped a little before midnight, and that he’d stuck around for a few minutes afterward to talk to the stage manager. He wanted to find out what up-and-comers they had in the lineup the next few weeks, and whether there were any gaps in their schedule he could fill with the bands he manages. He was still a half hour out of Nashville when Beckett called him. He took the call in his car, made the arrangements to meet up with Beckett the following day at the steakhouse. He arrived home shortly after Beckett called him.” As if anticipating my next question, he said, “There’s nobody to verify what time he arrived home. Tomlinson’s not currently married.”
“Not currently? So he’s been married before?”
“He’s had three marriages, but none of them stuck. The longest lasted five years. Two of his wives were musicians in bands he managed, the third was a stage director at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center.”
Looked like the third time had not been the charm for T-Rex. Still, I had to admire that he had the optimism to keep trying. “I’ve heard showbiz is hard on relationships. The travel, crazy hours, rarely seeing each other.” Long-lasting marriages were a rarity in Hollywood, and the music industry was much the same.
Collin cut me a glance. We, too, worked odd hours, and often had difficulty finding time to get together despite our best efforts. He’d told me before that his job had cost him a relationship. Even so, we seemed to understand each other’s situations, to cut each other quite a bit of slack, and to make the most of the moments we could find to spend together. Ironically, the current murder investigation had given us the opportunity to see each other more, though under less than ideal circumstances.
The elevator doors opened on the first floor, and we walked out of the building. I stopped just outside the doors, pulled out my phone, and ran a search for “men’s cologne that smells like cigars.”
Realizing I was no longer beside him, Collin stopped walking and glanced back at me. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out if there’s a men’s cologne that smells like cigars. If there is, maybe Gia’s assistant is wearing it.”
His lip quirked. “Why would a man intentionally want to smell like a cigar?”
“So women will think he’s smokin’.”
Collin groaned.
I defended my theory. “It could be true. I work with wood in my carpentry projects, and I like soaps and colognes that smell like pine or cedar. Must be some sort of scent association. A guy who smokes cigars could be partial to a cologne that smells like them.”
“Wood smells are one thing,” Collin said. “Cigars are another. Find anything?”
I looked down at my screen. “I did. Ha!” It was rude to be smug, but I couldn’t help myself. I was proud to be proven right.
Collin turned sideways and eased up beside me so that he, too, could read the information on my phone. My search had brought up several scents. There was a fragrance called Cigar Cologne by Remy Latour that had notes of tobacco. Judging from its rating of 4.5 out of 5 stars, it must smell nice. Tom Ford also made one called Tobacco Oud. Another tobacco-infused fragrance was Angel Pure Havane. One reviewer described it as “addictive,” just like the tobacco it was made from. Gucci men’s cologne also incorporated the aroma of tobacco.
Collin grunted. “I stand corrected.”
Had Gia Revello’s assistant had been wearing one of these colognes or had he, in fact, smoked a cigar? There’s one way to find out. “I’m going back inside,” I told Collin. “I’ll ask Jared about his scent. It’ll seem less obvious coming from me than you. I’ll tell him I liked his cologne and wanted to find out which one it was so I can get a bottle for my boyfriend.”
Collin frowned, apparently not liking the idea of me directly interacting with a potential killer without him there to defend me. But he couldn’t deny that my plan was a good one. He had no choice but to acquiesce. “Be careful.”
I scurried back inside to the receptionist’s desk. “Could you call Jared down here? I’ve got a quick question for him.”
She nodded and picked up her phone, dialing Jared’s extension. “Can you come down to the foyer? The woman who was with the police says she has something she needs to ask you right quick.”
She gave me a nod to indicate he was on his way and hung up the phone. I stepped over by the elevator to wait. A moment later, the door opened and Jared stepped out.
Though he scowled, I gave him my best smile. “Sorry to bother you again,” I said. “But I couldn’t help but notice how good you smell, and I didn’t want to leave without finding out what cologne you’re wearing. I’d love to buy some for my boyfriend. His birthday is coming up.”
The compliment softened his expression. “It’s called Angel Pure Havane. They sell it at Macy’s.”
“Perfect!” I said. “Thanks so much. He’ll love it.”
I walked outside. Collin leaned back against the wall next to the door, waiting for me.
I stepped close to him and kept my voice low. “The cigar smell was his cologne. Angel Pure Havane.” I realized that knowing he wore a cigar-scented cologne didn’t necessarily eliminate him as a potential suspect, though. In fact, it could point more to his guilt. Maybe he wore the cologne as a cover-up.
As we walked back to his car, Collin pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the number Gia Revello had given for her husband. He identified himself and said, “I’m investigating the death of Beckett Morgan. I just spoke with your wife. Do you recall what time she arrived home last Friday night?” He faltered in his step. “Two fifty-seven a.m.?” He cut his eyes to me. “You’re certain about that?”
I stopped, too, every nerve on my back prickling. Gia had said she’d arrived home at half past midnight, had a glass of wine in her kitchen, then gone to bed, rousing her sleeping husband. Had she lied to the detective?
Collin asked, “Will you be home for the next hour or so? I’d like to speak with you in person.” A second or two lapsed, then he said, “I’m on my way.” He thanked the man, ended the call, and slid the phone into his pocket.
“Wow,” I said.
“Wow, indeed.”
“You going back inside to arrest her first?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I need to lock her husband down on the timing, see if their house has a security system and check the log to see when it was disarmed and rearmed Friday night. I’ll also take a look at her clothing and car, see if I can get any physical evidence against her first. A defense attorney could easily discredit Gia’s husband, say he was groggy and didn’t remember the time accurately. I need something more concrete to nail her.”
The fact that the murder investigation could be wrapped up so quickly was great news. In related events, Collin’s plans to go to Gia Revello’s house meant I wouldn’t have to share my lunch with him. “This means the jambalaya is all mine, doesn’t it?”