by Leslie Leigh
BLUE WEDDING
Melody, The Librarian Mysteries 3
by
L E S L I E L E I G H
BOOKS IN THE MELODY THE LIBRARIAN SERIES
Melody and Murder
My Aim Is True
Blue Wedding
Copyright © 2015
All Rights Reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to events, businesses, companies, institutions, and real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 1
“Uno! Dos! One, two, tres, quatro!”
And with that familiar intro, we launched into Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’ “Wooly Bully.” Despite being 50 years old, “Wooly Bully,” like all classics, has a timeless appeal, as evidenced by the crowd’s reaction. The revelers roared and commenced bobbing and bouncing, partying like it was 1965.
The lyrics, of course, relate the cryptic conversation between Hattie and Mattie that’s been puzzling listeners for generations. I’d actually researched the lyrics, hoping to unlock its mysteries but, alas, they were impenetrable—as was group’s follow-up hit, “(All I Want Is A) Ring Dang Doo.” I did take some consolation, however, in learning that the title was derived from the name of Sam the Sham’s cat. (Actually, Sam the Sham would make for a nice cat handle as well.)
But it wasn’t the lyrics that propelled the partiers into motion; it was the catchy simplicity of the music. Don Carlos, our drummer, deftly handled the vocals while Gary Van Dyke honked along on tenor sax. My accordion came near to approximating the carnivalesque Vox organ sound popular with many of the sixties bands including Saginaw, Michigan’s own Question Mark and the Mysterians, whose hit “96 Tears” we also covered.
We’d set up in a side area adjoining the front room, which minimized the foot traffic and the likelihood of having our power cords yanked or our being electrocuted by slopped beer. Brett, the young man who acted as our liaison, had planned the layout very effectively, and even stationed a couple of burly bouncers nearby to keep the dancers at a safe distance.
When Gary had told me that our “house party” gig in Marquette would consist mostly of oldies from the sixties, seventies and eighties, I was elated. That was, after all, the music of my formative years, and we were all so familiar with the songs that during rehearsals a quick run-through was pretty much all that was required to do justice to the songs.
What Gary did not tell me was that the “house party” was, in fact, a frat house. Knowing that upfront may have given me pause, but things had turned out well. Sure, a couple of fights had broken out, mostly pushing and shouting and some shoving on the staircase, but they were quickly quashed by the bouncers. And I did observe some poor guy kneeling before a potted ficus in an attempt to make room for more alcoholic intake, but in his defense, the line at the bathroom was really long.
For the most part, though, it was all good, clean fun, as befits a celebration of the school year’s end. It was a far cry from our last gig, playing for a large audience seated at the Crawford Community Center; in fact, it was the total opposite. But some music merits a formal, attentive setting while other forms of expression are better suited for dancing, laughter and, yes, vomiting on houseplants. As Leonard Bernstein is said to have remarked, “It’s all good.”
But all good things must come to an end, and though we still had 20 minutes left in our set, the arrival of the police persuaded us to cease-and-desist. As we carried our instruments out to the vehicles, we saw three squad cars with lights flashing at the end of the long, gravel drive, blocking any departures until a cursory sobriety check could be performed.
Gary and I were helping Don Carlos load drums into his van when the sound of shattering glass caused us to look up in time to see a body flailing through the air. It landed with a thud near the van. Gary and I raced to respond, but two of the officers beat us to the punch.
“Stand back!” one of them barked. We looked down at the young man lying on his back, surrounded by a thatch of tall weeds. A crowd of onlookers two stories above gathered on the balcony where the man’s high-dive had originated.
“Did he jump, or was he pushed?” Gary whispered. I wasn’t sure whether he was speculating or quoting the title of a Richard Thompson song.
“Are you alright?” the kneeling officer asked the prone young man. “Can you hear me? Can you get up?”
“Whoa,” the prone man moaned. The officer turned his head, making a face and batting at the air with his hand.
“Have you been drinking, son?” he asked.
“Yeah, I had a beer…or two,” the man said cheerily.
“Should we call you an ambulance?” the officer asked.
“No. Call me Tom,” the man replied. “Can you help me up?”
“You sure?” the other officer asked. “You might want to stay there until you’re sure….”
“I’m sure that I’m sure,” Tom said, pushing himself up from the ground. Once he’d become more or less vertical, the officers grabbed his arms and got him up the rest of the way.
“What happened up there, Tom? Did somebody push you?”
“Nah,” he chuckled. “I was trying to impress this girl with my dance moves…what were they playing? Was it ‘Wooly Bully’?”
“Oh, I’m sure she was impressed alright,” the officer laughed, patting him on the back. “Glad you’re alright.”
“I’m glad they didn’t mow their yard,” he replied. The officers then huddled to discuss whether or not they could cite the owner for the unkempt yard or if they would need to refer the matter to another agency. Realizing that he was no longer the focus of their attention, Tom turned toward us. “Hey, you’re the band, aren’t you? You sounded good…and you can really play the hell out of that squeeze box, lady!”
“Thanks,” I said. “I guess those lessons paid off.”
The officers approached us. “Could you folks move your vehicles, please?”
I looked around. “You’re not expecting more bodies to fall from the skies, are you? I’ve heard of it raining men before, but this is ridiculous.” Don Carlos imitated a rim shot and cymbal crash.
“Well,” the officer smiled, “this guy wasn’t in the forecast, but look what happened. If you don’t go now, there’ll be a long line getting out. You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“No way,” I replied. “We’re musicians.”
The other officer stepped closer, shining his flashlight beam in my eyes. “Musicians, eh?” Apparently, my explanation didn’t allay his suspicions.
“We appreciate it, officer,” Gary smiled, pulling me toward his car. “Don, is that everything? Thanks for everything. See you next Saturday.”
Don was lucky; he lived in the U.P. and was only an hour from his hom
e. Gary and I, on the other hand, had three hours of driving ahead of us. I was glad that I’d taken that nap after my half-day at the library, but by the time we’d get back to Lake Hare, it’d be 3 a.m. Still, Gary was good company, and we both felt the exhilaration that follows a performance
The police waved their flashlights as we passed through their gauntlet. I didn’t envy the party attendees; for some of them it would be a long night, creeping car-by-car through the checkpoint.
“Wow, that Tom guy was sure lucky,” Gary said. “I’ve heard of people being paralyzed by falls like that.”
“Like Robert Wyatt,” I nodded. For the benefit of most people, I’d have to add that he was the drummer for the Soft Machine, but that wasn’t necessary for Gary.
“Exactly what I was thinking!” he said, turning toward me. Gary looked into my eyes a little longer than was comfortable. He was, after all, driving. “You know, Melody, it’s really great having you back. It’s kind of neat, being able to talk with someone so in depth about music and…stuff. Okay, mostly music,” he laughed.
I felt the same way, but I couldn’t resist spoiling his compliment with a nasty little dig. “You mean Chrissie doesn’t share your music fetish?”
Gary shook his head. “Chrissie is 20 years old,” he said, his expression implying that no elaboration should have been necessary. “Her sense of history and culture goes back…maybe five years. Don’t get me wrong; she’s a sweet kid. Energetic as can be. Eager to learn everything about the world around her.”
“And did you manage to teach her a thing or two?” It was terrible of me to say that, but nobody ever accused me of being the nicest person in the world.
Gary cleared his throat. “Melody, you do realize that when I told you that my relationship with Chrissie was physical, I was joking, right? She and I are friends. Okay, sometimes we’ve been a little more than that but, basically, ours is a friendship.”
“Sure, I believe that,” I said with a touch of sarcasm. “So how did you two get together? She wasn’t a student of yours, I hope.”
“Actually, about four years ago, when her family moved up here – her dad sold his farm downstate to some conglomerate – she wanted to join the high school band.”
“And you arranged for an audition?”
He ignored my innuendo. “I did. But she was terrible! She played clarinet…horribly. I couldn’t even use her in the percussion section. She had no sense of rhythm or time. But I must have handled the situation diplomatically because that rejection somehow formed a bond between us. Whenever we ran into each other, we’d joke about it.
“We didn’t get any closer until a year after she’d graduated, and then…well, things just developed casually. But we both understood from the beginning that our relationship was just….”
“Casual,” I offered.
“Exactly. When she goes off to CMU in the fall, she’ll meet some football player or someone and I’ll just be a vague memory.”
“I see.” I was glad that Gary had enlightened me. These days, with teacher-student scandals erupting almost daily in the tabloids, it was a relief to know that he hadn’t experienced any sort of ethical lapse. Not that I ever doubted him, of course.
“Hey, you were rocking on that accordion tonight,” Gary enthused, changing the subject.
“Putting the squeeze on the squeezebox, eh?” I cracked. “After tonight, it may be more of a wheeze box! God, the cigarette smoke was awful! The next time I play, second-hand smoke will billow from the bellows!”
“Oh, it used to be unbearable playing in the bars before the laws changed, though there are still some places down in the boondocks where smokers still smoke.”
“It’s just a matter of waiting them out, huh?” I said. “Time is on our side, after all. Please try to avoid booking us at any of those places, okay?”
“I will,” he nodded.
“And while you’re at it, the next time we play a ‘house party,’ let me know that it’s an ‘Animal House’ party, please.”
Gary emitted an evil chuckle. “Well, next up is Tiffany Ashcroft’s wedding on Saturday. That should be a slightly more dignified crowd than tonight’s was.”
“Well, I hope so,” I said. “Nobody crashing through windows and hurtling through the air?”
“Or puking on plants,” he noted, reading my mind.
“But, then, who can say? Family gatherings can bring out the weirdness in people.”
“True,” Gary agreed. “Wherever there’s people, there’s gonna be weirdness.”
I nodded, yawning. Gary turned toward me. I wished I’d have stifled it; I didn’t want him to think that our conversation was boring me.
“Are you tired, Melody?” He sounded concerned. “If you’d like, we could hit a motel and get an early start tomorrow.”
His suggestion triggered an explosion of thoughts. Taking the question at face value, I wondered whether the motel would be his treat, or – assuming we’d all been paid equally for the gig – whether I’d be expected to contribute fifty-fifty. But that was the least of my concerns.
“Oh, I’m not really tired,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound defensive. “How about you? Are you fatigued?”
Gary shrugged. “Oh, I could go either way. I could keep driving, or I could pull over and give it a rest. Either way…whatever you prefer.”
Okay, so he wasn’t falling-down tired, which meant if we got rooms – or a room – he could easily make a case for getting a second wind, as it were, should he be in the mood for more than sleep. I needed to probe further to uncover his motivation.
“Separate rooms?” I asked.
“Sure, if you’d like.” Again, he sounded non-committal, as if he had no ulterior motives.
“Well, which would you prefer, Gary: separate rooms or double occupancy?”
“Well, if we doubled up, it would no doubt cost less, but if you’re not comfortable with that, I’d understand.”
I remembered how Gary operated at the family music store. While his father was an enthusiastic talker who could persuade a one-armed customer to take up the trombone, Gary was more laidback, a soft-sell kind of guy, which didn’t mean that he wasn’t an effective closer.
Did I want to pull over at the next motel and play it by ear? A part of me did. I was curious to see if Gary was truly concerned about my comfort, or if – once I’d entered his spider web of desire – he’d actually make a move on me. And I wasn’t sure how I would react to that.
I’d enjoyed our time together the past few weeks, the rehearsals, the joking around and the merging of our instruments, the blending and getting in synch rhythmically. Truth be told, I had begun to recapture some of those feelings I’d first felt for him back when I was a high school freshman and he was a worldly, sophisticated junior. But we needed more time to let things develop naturally, and I still wasn’t convinced that the Chrissie situation had been resolved to my satisfaction.
“Thanks, Gary, but I’m doing okay. And I’d be happy to drive if you’re getting blurry.”
“Nope,” he smiled. “I’m doing fine.” There wasn’t a trace of frustration in his face or voice. Either he was very good at concealing it, or he truly was just being a caring, concerned kind of guy. I suspected it was the latter, and I resolved to keep any further urges to yawn to myself.
“So do you have some of the music picked out for…what’s her name’s wedding?” I asked.
“Tiffany Ashcroft. Sure, I’ve got a book of material, but do you know what would be helpful? Having a meeting with the bride-to-be to discuss her preferences. I contracted with her mother, and only met Tiffany once. We should get her input; it’s her wedding, after all. But Dad’s got me running around all over the place this week, thanks to you. Did he tell you that your concert generated a big demand for accordions?”
“Really?” Mr. Van Dyke had told me that he’d managed to sell out all of the ten accordions that he’d had in stock.
“Yeah, I’m heading out to
Chicago and Indianapolis to pick up a couple of special orders, and the Hohner plant in Virginia is shipping half a dozen. You’d do me a huge favor if you could find the time to meet with Tiffany. Just see if she’s got a favorite song she wants played and get a feel for her tastes.”
“What if she has no taste?” I asked.
“Don’t be a snob, Melody,” he admonished. “Musical preferences are a personal thing, even if the preference is mainstream, multi-platinum corporate dredge.”
“Not to be snobby about it,” I said.
“Discerning is the word I’d use. Listen, the sooner you can get with her, the better, in case I have to hire anyone else. The price I quoted her mother was for a quartet – you, me, Don Carlos and Tommy Blaine on guitar. Just email her info to me and I’ll take it from there. Oh, and plan on at least three evening rehearsals this week, including tomorrow night. Don won’t be there, but he knows the drill. We’ve done at least a dozen weddings together.”
“Well, send me Ashley Tift’s number and I’ll see what we can work out.”
“Tiffany,” Gary corrected. “Tiffany Ashcroft. Real nice girl. Pretty.”
Chapter 2
I slept in on Sunday morning, getting up at 10:00. Even then, my body wanted more sleep, but I managed to throw off the shackles of slumber…with Mom’s help, of course.
“Melody, are you going to sleep the whole day away?” she called through the door.
That didn’t sound like a bad idea, but I knew that she wasn’t really offering that option.
“I’ve got a cup of coffee ready for you.”
That mitigated the raw sting of consciousness. I perched in my usual chair while Mom read the newspaper. “What time did you get in last night?” she asked.
“Just before three,” I croaked.
“Well, I hope it was fun,” she said, not looking up from her reading.
“It was, sort of. It’s funny. When you’re performing, it’s sort of like you’re participating in the festivities, but you’re not, really. You’re removed. You get to see all the crazy behavior and hear the chattering and laughter, but you don’t have to make any effort to keep up a conversation, or be amusing, or flirt. It’s like being a fly on the wall.”