MY AIM IS TRUE (Melody The Librarian Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

“Are you getting paid for all this work?” Mom asked, after I’d told her about Gary’s grand plans for the Expanding Accordion Extravaganza.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I don’t think so.” Funny that I’d never even thought about that.

“Well, it sounds to me like you’re being exploited, Missy.” It was a little late for tea, but Mom brewed some anyway. Green, with lemon. It was part of our ritual when having a Serious Discussion. “Those Van Dykes have always done pretty well, as far as I know. I would think they could throw a bone or two your way. After all, he’ll probably sell out of every accordion in stock, and they’re not cheap.”

“It’s not about the money for me, Mom.” I held the cup in front of me, inhaling the bittersweet aroma. “To me, it’s all about exposing these kids to a musical experience they wouldn’t have had otherwise. Talk about ‘alternative music.’ It’s like spreading the gospel. You do it for the joy.”

“But those televangelists do alright, don’t they?” she countered. “Theme parks, retreats, cruises and who knows what else? And all tax-free.”

“Mom, you see a conspiracy in everything.” I wondered if Mr. Freeman, the ice cream guy, was single. Maybe I should introduce them to each other. That would be a match made in hell!

“And you are naïve,” she replied. I didn’t want this conversation to get too heated, so I just nodded.

“Maybe so. I just feel that the work should be its own reward. Anything else is gravy.”

“You’ve got to hand it to Zak Van Dyke; he’s a pretty shrewd businessman,” Mom cackled. “Talk about promotion! Every kid in the school system will be exposed to his sales blitz, and every one of them will beg their parents to buy them one. Zak will have to put them on a waiting list, most likely.”

“He’s a good man. I don’t mean to sound too harsh. I’m just looking out for my little girl.”

“
Thanks, Mom
,” I intoned, like some nasally, pampered child. “Look at it this way:  maybe all those kids will regret the day they were strapped into their seats and forced to listen to an hour of accordion music. We could set the movement back decades!”

“The movement….” Mom said, mockingly.

“That reminds me of this story I heard Leo Kottke tell. You know, the guitarist? No? Anyway, he heard of this accordion player who’d just finished a gig, and on his way home he decides to stop off at this bar. He locks the car, but he’s a little leery about having to leave his accordion in the backseat, but he figures:  who’s going to want to steal an accordion? So he goes in and when he comes back to his car, sure enough, someone had broken the backseat window…and put three more accordions back there!”

I shook with laughter, nearly spilling my tea. Mom just sat there with a tight, little smile on her face. “I see,” she said. “Perhaps you could tell that story to the students. They might think it was funny.”

I had to laugh. Mom had gotten me good! I stood and grabbed my cat.

“Perhaps I shall,” I replied, icily. “Right now, I’m going to go practice. I thank you in advance for your tolerance.”

“Oh, please, play something besides that same song you’ve been practicing,” Mom pleaded. “You play it over and over and I hear it in my sleep now!”

I stopped and fixed her with my most evil diabolical smile. I would have the last laugh after all, it would seem.

***

My exercise in tormenting Mother was interrupted by a call from Michael.

“Hey, thanks for getting back to me so quickly,” I said, my sarcasm sprinkled with sisterly sweetness.

“No problem,” he deadpanned. “So you probably want me to spill my guts.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, we searched Colopy’s car and – lo and behold! – a bloodstained bolt was found wedged into the crack of the backseat. No prints but, needless to say, very incriminating. Funny thing, though:  when we searched his apartment, we found the clothes he’d worn that night – Max was a little behind in his laundry duties – but there wasn’t any blood on them. Which backs up the theory – confirmed by forensics – that the shooter, or archer, fired from a distance.”

“So it wouldn’t have been a spur-of-the-moment, close range assault,” I offered.

“Right. But since all reports claim that Colopy had been drinking heavily all day, I’m a little skeptical that he could have pulled off such an accurate shot. Straight through the heart. You know, as an aside, ever since I’ve been involved in this case, I’ve had this song in my head.”

“Cupid, draw back your bow-y-ow,” I crooned.

“That’s the one!”

“I know! Me, too!” I laughed.

“Okay, intermission’s over,” Michael said in a flat tone.

“Too much fun,” I pouted.

“Of course, Max denied everything. Said he was set up. He even accused Bob Christian of nearly killing him during a confrontation in the cabin. Said Christian had him in a chokehold and Max thought he was going snap his neck.”

“I thought as much,” I said. “A mild-mannered HR manager who just happens to be former Special Forces – interesting. But then, that doesn’t mean that Max didn’t do it.”

“Not at all,” Michael concurred. “Honestly, I like Max for this. It’s easy, and he’s a menace. I’d be proud to facilitate a family reunion at ICF in Ionia.”

“Did you talk with Cathy Spencer yet?” If the answer turned out to be no, I was prepared to march over and drag her out of her house.

“Yes, she called and we met. Is she a friend of yours?” he asked.

“An acquaintance,” I clarified.

“That’s good. She kept dropping your name, as if that would somehow grant her special dispensation.”

“She’s a piece of work,” I clarified further. “But I adore her daughter.”

“Yeah, cute kid. And I think the admiration is mutual, the way she went on about Miss Melody. Anyway, she corroborated Justin Case’s alibi. How’s that for a name, eh? But she’s holding something back, you can tell.”

“Michael, I hope you won’t get mad at me, but I’ve been holding something back, too. Here it is. There are rumors that Cat and possibly Amanda Holt were in the escort business.”

“Really?” he said, sounding unsurprised. “Well, that proves that my intuition is still finely calibrated. Of course, I never met the victim while she was alive, so I wouldn’t know. But that’s okay. I don’t really see it as pertinent information here.”

“But Cat said that Amanda didn’t go there to hunt. What if she was turning tricks? Maybe somebody else showed up, a customer.”

“I don’t think so,” Michael countered. “They would have had to go through security. There’s only one travelable road in, and I spoke with the guys on duty that day. They’re not your average, liquor store rent-a-cops. They’ve both had extensive law enforcement backgrounds, and were eager to please, somehow hoping that I might be able to put in a good word for them somewhere.”

“And will you?”

“I told them to email me their resumes. But they’re probably making more working for Mr. Cooke than they would as civil servants.”

“Speaking of Mr. Cooke,” I said, “one of my least plausible conjectures was that Amanda Holt might have been his secret concubine, and that it was he with whom she would dally.”

“Yeah, I like that,” Michael said, humoring me, “except that Mr. Cooke undoubtedly has other, more private locations to warehouse his women.”

“True,” I admitted. “Well, just exploring all the possibilities. So what’s next?”

“I believe that charges against Mr. Colopy will be forthcoming. Anything else?”

“I just found out that my Van Dyke Music Store exposition has now mutated into a high school command performance.”

“Congratulations, kid.” I could hear the smirk on his face. “Always knew you’d make the big-time. Text me a note with the particulars and I’ll see if I can make it, if it’s not already sold out.”

“If it’s held in the gym, I can guarantee you a seat in a basketball hoop.”

“Solid. Ciao.”

Well, it sounded like things had wound down on the murder front. A few loose ends, to be sure, but that was Michael’s business. Mine lay at hand.

“
Melody!
” Mom’s voice cried out. “Please stop playing that same song!”

Gary had scheduled a rehearsal at 1:00 on Saturday. I still had major doubts that this was going to work, but I prayed that Gary’s confidence was well-founded.

To my surprise, a boy of about 14 answered the door with no shirt on. Figuring that he was there for lessons, I asked if Mr. Van Dyke was in.

“Mr. Van Dyke’s working at the store today, but Gary’s here.”

“Yes, that’s who I meant,” I replied. Without a word, he turned and walked through the hallway to the basement door. He pointed and then wandered into the kitchen. I stepped down the lit stairs and found Gary setting up sheet music on stands. He’d positioned three chairs facing each other, along with microphones and amplifiers.

“Hello, Melody,” he beamed. “Are you ready to make some music?” I nodded, setting down my accordion case. “Did you meet Tommy yet?”

“No, not yet,” I said, unsnapping the case.

“Well, here he is now. Melody, meet Tommy Blaine!”

I looked up and saw the skinny, shirtless boy who’d opened the door. He was holding a can of some energy drink. He held up the can in greeting and then proceeded to chug the whole can.

“Tommy!” Gary cautioned. “You know that stuff throws off your timing. Come on, you get all jittery and…never mind. I probably sound like your dad. Everybody, have a seat. We’ve only got a few hours before Tommy has to go on his paper route, so take a look at the music I’ve laid out and we’ll try a run-through.”

Tommy picked up a stringed instrument and strummed a chord over and over. I think it was a bouzouki. No, it was a balalaika, I think. I always get them confused. This had a triangular-shaped body.

“So how long have you been playing, Tommy?” I asked, trying to break the ice. I wasn’t sure I could even talk to someone this age, let alone play music with him. Gary must have been wildly exaggerating his abilities, or had lost his own sense of judgment.

“All my life,” he said, and seeing that I wasn’t particularly overwhelmed by this information, he then ripped through a scale covering the length of the fretboard with blinding speed and articulation, not to mention a clear, crystalline tone.

“Well, alright,” I smiled. “Let’s have a go!” Gary counted off and we began a slow, minor-keyed Russian tune, with Tommy fanning the strings, playing the melody while I fleshed out the chords behind him. Gary’s clarinet came in on the second verse, plaintive, mournful, gorgeous for the most part, hovering in the rich, lower register. I took the third verse, and Tommy dropped back, sensing when to increase his volume with little fills and strums, and then dropping back when I played. All three of us danced slowly around one another for the final verse, and ended as if we’d been playing the song for years.

“Very nice,” Gary smiled, clapping his hands toward both Tommy and me. I almost teared up at the delicate interplay we’d achieved on just the first attempt. Tommy flashed a toothy grin and popped another energy drink.

The rest of the practice was almost like a party, or a music nerd’s version of a party. We went through sheet music, and Gary played recordings for us. If we didn’t reject the song within the first 30 seconds, we usually thought it worth taking a stab. Tommy was low-key throughout the selection process. He seemed deferential to the two older musicians, and I suspected that he was game for nearly anything. Open-mindedness in a musician is an admirable trait, and probably why a 14-year-old boy was sitting there with an ancient instrument in his lap in the first place.

Our session ended, and before he departed, I smothered Tommy in a shamelessly unreserved hug. I’m sure that he hated that, but he smiled when I promised never to do it again.

I even gave Gary a hug, too. He was, indeed, a lifesaver and a selfless cultivator of young talent. We had three pieces under our belt, with another rehearsal scheduled for Sunday.

I think right then I realized that everything was going to be all right, after all.

***

The assembly concept kept ballooning and snowballing until it finally had to be held at the Crawford Community Center. Kids, faculty and parents from all over the county were in attendance, with an anticipated total of 700 people. Definitely the biggest audience for which I’d ever performed!

Was I nervous? Oh, yes, insanely so! But I had to keep up appearances in front of my bandmates, who seemed to take it all in stride. Mr. Van Dyke, that would be Zak, provided a very helpful morsel of wisdom for keeping calm.

“Once those lights go out,” he whispered, “you can’t see a damn thing. Pretend you’re alone, if you want, or that they’ve all gone home, or it’s just a few of your closest friends out there. Adjust your reality according to what suits you. Why not? Everybody else does!”

Michael and Mom came backstage to our dressing area. Mom was excited, and gave me a kiss and a hug for good luck. I was glad to see how proud she was of me. Thirty-five years old, but I can never get enough of her approval.

Michael was less demonstrative, but he gave me a quick, perfunctory hug.

“Michael, I’m glad that you made it, but surprised. Who’s keeping the world safe from crime?”

“Deputy Jimmy?” he queried, eyebrows arched comically. “Actually, we put away one of the bad guys today, but I don’t want to talk shop on your big day.”

“That’s okay,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “Anyone I know.”

“Bob Christian,” he said. “Yeah, Max Colopy was
too
easy, if you know what I mean. So I invited Bob to come down to Jimmy’s station, reminded him of his rights, etc., but he was his usual, helpful self, and was glad to assist in any way, no lawyer necessary.

“Well, I told him how Max wasn’t in any kind of shape to muster the finesse necessary for this homicide. And everyone else had an alibi and a witness, except him. And that his military records indicated a high degree of proficiency with a variety of weapons, including…bows and crossbows. In fact, he’d qualified as an expert marksman with both.

“So I asked if he’d care to revise his statement. And, if he didn’t, then I planned on shutting down that entire office with warrants and subpoenas. We would review all financial transactions, private correspondence, political contacts, and anything else they had, to find the reason why a part-time accountant was executed by the head of HR. Or, he could tell me that it was an accident.

“So he took one for the team and admitted that he’d shot her and tried to frame Max Colopy. But he admitted that he’d panicked, it wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, and he was willing to accept responsibility. He’ll probably be charged with manslaughter and plead down. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“Willing to fall on his sword for his commanding officer, you mean,” I said. “Did you really mean it when you said that you’d go after the whole company? Because I think that’s a great idea. I believe Nathan Cooke has a lot of skeletons in his closet, and Bob Christian could help find them.”

“Well, mostly, it was a bluff. It’s best to let sleeping dogs and millionaires lie, unless you know exactly what you’re looking for. I didn’t. Christian’s response tells me that there is something there, but I don’t have the resources to dig that deep. And I’m not going to spend the rest of my career on one guy. I’ve got a caseload bigger than I can handle now.”

I understood. It made sense. But a part of me refused to accept a free pass for Nathan Cooke. Something was rotten inside his operation, and I hoped to someday find out what it was.