by Leslie Leigh
Then, as suddenly as my breast had swelled, brimming with hope, it sagged again, like a deflated beach ball. What if he was announcing his engagement to Chrissie? This possibility seemed to resonate more acutely. Sure, he’d field-test the announcement to see how an old acquaintance might receive the news before springing it on Chrissie’s parents.
How should I react? “Gary, are you mad? Are you so ensnared in the depths of your mid-life crisis that it’s blinded you to any recognition of reality? Would you selfishly ruin this poor girl’s life, chaining her destiny to your soon-to-be-doddering, decrepit old form, like a dove tethered to a rusty, old anchor, solely for your own narcissistic, carnal desires?”
Or something like that. Perhaps I’d better practice that to get a more natural flow.
But more likely, I would merely act mildly surprised, wearing an inscrutable expression and responding like a jaded diplomat. “How very nice for you both. I never would have imagined. Well, I wish you both the very best, of course.”
Because they’d need it!
‘Stop it!” I told myself, thankful that the library was empty. “Stop being your mother!” No, I would be gracious, supportive, and everything a true friend should be. I was probably wrong, anyway, but I was glad that I’d prepared mentally for that scenario. It was like practicing scales at a feverish tempo before a performance. Once you’ve worked through a difficult regimen, the actual performance feels easier.
Which reminded me: I hoped he wouldn’t ask how the Accordion Extravaganza was progressing.
***
“So…how’s the Accordion Extravaganza project coming along?” Gary asked.
“Oh! Like you wouldn’t believe! So many ideas…so little time!” My smile disappeared behind my wine glass.
Gary nodded. “So how far behind are you, Mel?” That’s the bad thing about having old friends: they can read you too well.
“Way, way, way behind,” I confessed. “I’ve just been so caught up in other things. But I’m not going to let your dad down! Absolutely not. I will find the time and inclination to deliver on the commitment I made to him.”
“Well, maybe I can help,” Gary smiled. “In fact, I wanted to talk to you about the project….”
“Hi, guys!” a chipper little voice interrupted. Oh, my god! It was Chrissie! And, judging by the little nametag she wore, she was our waitress! And – no, I haven’t yet finished with the exclamation points! – Chrissie’s hand snaked along the table until she grasped Gary’s! She smiled at me between glances about the room to make sure that her surreptitious display of affection had gone undetected.
“Hello, Chrissie. Will you be our server tonight?” I hated to steal her introduction, but I didn’t know what else to say.”
“Hey, Melody. Yeah, I’ll be taking care of both of you tonight.” She looked at Gary and giggled, and Gary blushed. “What are you in the mood for tonight?”
I tried staying composed, as if seeing the two of them flirting like school kids was perfectly yawn-worthy. “I was in the mood for Italian, Chrissie. What would you recommend?”
She leaned over to look at my menu. “We’re still not up to full-speed yet. Gawd, it’s a good thing you didn’t come last night. It was our first night open again and it was a circus. Anyway, we have these two dishes,” she said, pointing. What would you like: Number One or Two?”
I couldn’t help but smile at Gary. She was so sweet and clueless.
“Why, I think I’ll have a Number One. How about you, Gary?” Chrissie bounced back to Gary’s side of the table and leaned over far enough for him to whisper his order in her ear. At least, that’s what I think he was doing. Chrissie giggled and then stood upright.
There was an awkward silence as Chrissie transcribed our order. Or perhaps she was composing a love sonnet on her receipt sheet to smuggle to Gary. Thankfully, Gary felt obliged to fill the gap.
“Anyway, Mel, this is probably a good time to tell you that good news I’d mentioned on the phone.”
So that was it! They were engaged! Chrissie looked up, her notations now evidently finalized, and again reached down to squeeze Gary’s hand.
Graciousness, I silently chanted. Poise. This moment will pass.
In the distance, a tiny bell chimed, and Chrissie’s body snapped to attention.
“That’s me! Gotta go!” And away she went, disappearing through a swinging kitchen door.
Had I been saved by the bell? Or, like some punch-drunk boxer, did the bell merely signal a brief postponement of the inevitable drubbing I was about to undergo when next it tolled?
“Mel? Are you still with me?” Gary smiled, but there was also a hint of concern in his expression.
“Yes,” I replied. “Still here. You were saying?” The pressure had lessened now that Chrissie was gone. Perhaps it would be better this way – old friend to old friend.
“Like I was saying: great news! I spoke with my boss, the principal at Crawford High, and was telling him about your presentation at the store, and he thought it would be a wonderful idea to perform the Accordion Extravaganza at the school assembly!”
“The assembly?” I repeated, not comprehending.
“Exactly! They always have a student talent show, and the spring season play, but this would be special. Think of it: a captive audience of 600 students and faculty, although we might open it up to the parents as well. Think of how many young ears you could turn on to the charm and scope of the accordion!”
I was mortified. “Gary, there is no Accordion Extravaganza! Didn’t you hear me? I have nothing, hardly anything prepared! And now you want to add a matinee?”
“Don’t worry; it’ll be pretty much a clone of what you’ll be doing at the store. And I’ll help. Instead of you carrying all the weight, I’ll set you up with accompaniment. Heck, we could even get the string section or our band to support you.”
“Gary, that’s insane!” I cried, exasperated. “Your students may be the most proficient musicians in the state, but they’d need sheet music, rehearsals. How can you accomplish all that when we don’t even know what the songs will be?” I wasn’t sure how I could make my desperate situation any clearer.
“Too ambitious, huh?” he replied. I sensed that he was beginning to get my drift. “Well, maybe next year for that. But I’ve got a friend who’s available during the daytime – that’s always the tricky part – and he can play anything with strings: six-and-12-string guitars, mandolin, balalaika, bouzouki…with a little tuning, we could get a bajo sexto effect with the guitar for some Tex-Mex. And I’m no slouch, either.”
I just groaned, and lowered my head into my hands. I wanted to cry.
“Now, don’t worry, Mel. I’ll take care of everything. We’ll start rehearsals at my place this weekend. It’ll be just like old times, down in the basement.”
“Yeah,” I moaned. “Pass the pot!”
“Mel…look at me. I’ve been so enthused ever since Dad told me about this idea, that I’ve been ransacking recordings, sheet music, downloads…you name it! I have a trove of material available and ready to go. All we need to do is pick and choose. And practice, of course.”
His words whizzed around in my brain. Was he right? Was it possible?
“What’s the name of this wizard of the strings?” I asked, slurping at my wine.
“Tommy Blaine. Great guy. Loves music! Lives for music! Eats, drinks and….”
“I get the picture,” I interrupted. “And he’s a fast learner?”
“Best sight reader I’ve ever encountered,” Gary said, without hesitation. “You just bring your best game with him around.”
“I do have one song in mind,” I offered. “It might work for a finale.”
“Great!” Gary smiled. “Come on, Mel. A toast. To music!”
Our glasses chimed together, not unlike that little dingy bell from the kitchen.
After I swallowed, I had to ask him. “So what’s up with you and Chrissie?”
“Oh, that.” He g
rinned, shaking his head. “That’s just physical.”
Chapter 15
“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 m
e 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!”
Chapter 16
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.”