Nashville Noir Read Online Free PDF

came spilling out along with more tears.
    Cindy had faithfully called every night at seven. Then, last Friday, she didn’t, nor did she return messages her mother had left on her voice mail. Janet was worried but had come up with the same series of excuses as I had. When Cindy didn’t call the next night, Janet got hold of Mrs. Granger, the landlady, who knocked on Cindy’s door and reported back that she wasn’t there. “Place looks normal,” Mrs. Granger said. “She’s pretty neat for a girl.”
    After Sunday night passed without hearing from Cindy, Janet called Mort Metzger, our sheriff, on this Monday morning and asked him to check with the Nashville police. While she waited impatiently for Mort to get back to her, she encouraged her daughters to question Cindy’s school friends to see if any of them knew why Cindy would stop calling and not respond to messages. Had she made plans she hadn’t confided to her mother? To assuage her worries, Janet called every hospital in Nashville to see if they had any unidentified patients. They didn’t.
    “I begged my mom to call you, but she wouldn’t,” Emily told me. “She said you’d done enough for our family and she didn’t want to impose on you again.”
    “I’m sorry she felt that way,” I said. “Of course I want to help, but I’m not sure what I can do. Your mother did exactly the right thing contacting Sheriff Metzger. He’s probably the best person to help track Cindy down. But I’m sure it’s nothing serious, Emily. In a day or two you’ll probably be laughing about this.”
    I called Janet later that afternoon to ask whether she’d heard from Mort. According to her, our sheriff’s conversation with a Nashville police contact hadn’t shed any light on Cindy’s whereabouts. “I’m worried sick,” she said.
    “Of course you are, Janet,” I said, “but I think it’s premature to be thinking the worst.” I tried to lighten the tone of the conversation. “That’s one of the problems when children promise to call on a regular schedule. The minute they forget to make a call at the appointed time, we immediately fear the worst. It used to happen to me many times with my nephew Grady. Still does, as a matter of fact, and he’s all grown up with a family of his own.”
    “But it’s been almost four days,” Janet said, trying valiantly to control her emotions.
    “Tell you what,” I said. “Give it one more day. In the meantime, keep leaving messages for her and let her know how worried you are. Unless I miss my guess, she’s probably gotten involved with friends or other performers and feels embarrassed to stop what she’s doing to call her mother.” I smiled, hoping the expression would come out in my voice and soothe her. “You know how young people are, Janet.”
    We talked a few minutes more and her mood seemed to brighten, although I was sure that her effort to seem upbeat was for my benefit.
    “I’ll call again,” I said, “around dinnertime.”
    An hour later, my phone rang. It was Mort Metzger.
    “Hey there, Mrs. F. Are you alone?”
    “Yes, I’m alone,” I said, grabbing a chair and steeling myself. From his question it was evident that what he had to say was serious.
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. F., but it’s about the Blaskowitz girl.”
    “That’s what I was afraid of. What have you learned?”
    “I just got off the phone with the Nashville police. They were all apologetic, said they didn’t realize that we were looking for the same girl.”
    “She’s not . . . ?” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
    “What? No! Nothing like that, Mrs. F. She’s alive. Sorry if I gave you a different impression.”
    “Thank goodness,” I said, collapsing against the back of the chair. “Anything else will be a relief.”
    “Well, I’m not so sure about that.”
    “But they’ve found her?”
    “Yup, they’ve found her.”
    “That’s wonderful. Have you called Janet Blaskowitz yet?”
    “Not yet. Tell you the truth,