MELODY and MURDER (Melody The Librarian Book 1)

by Leslie Leigh

  “Well, that’s nice of you to allow him to get out of the rain here. We had several street people at the library in Detroit, as you can imagine. As long as they maintained a low profile and didn’t creep out our other patrons, they were welcome to hang out.”

  “It’s a public building, after all,” Marian said, not wanting to take any credit. “But that’s just been my policy; please don’t feel obligated to continue the tradition once I’m gone. That’s up to you.”

  I also got to catch up with more familiar faces frequenting the library. One welcome visit was from Zak Van Dyke, the owner of Van Dyke Music, where I bought my first accordion. He’d managed to sneak up on me at my desk.

  “Melody Reed,” he exclaimed, while trying to conform to the library’s decorum. “I’d heard the rumors, but I thought it was too good to be true! You’re back!”

  His hair and mustache were now white, and his frame was much wider than I remembered it being, and he might have lost an inch or two of height, but there was no mistaking Mr. Van Dyke’s contagious smile. We hugged and crept off to a vacant corner.

  “So do you think you’re back to stay?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I smiled, “unless they run me out of town.”

  “Oh, they would never do that,” he said, playing along. “We wouldn’t let them! Now, I won’t say that there aren’t some elements in this town who believe that a library isn’t as necessary as, say, another bait shop. But I’m sure glad that this place has some claim to culture, a portal where people can expand their horizons without leaving the city limits.”

  “I know it helped me,” I agreed. “Of course, I was always a bookworm.”

  “Then you chose the perfect career, as did I,” Mr. Van Dyke said, patting her forearm paternally. “We’re so lucky. Every day, we’re surrounded by the things we love. How many people get to do that?”

  “Last Sunday, I was walking around town, and when I saw that your store was still there I felt so relieved. That was always my favorite place to visit. Well, tied with the library, that is.”

  “Yes, it’s still standing, and I’m still standing behind the counter, at least for a few more years.” He leaned in to ask confidentially, “Do you still play the accordion, Melody?”

  “Every day.”

  “And you still have the concertina I sold you – what was it –a Hayden duet system, yes?”

  “That’s right. I still have it. And I’m so glad you ordered it for me. The Hayden system…I’ve tried other key arrangements, but that’s the one for me.”

  “Well, it’s become more popular and they’ve caught up with the demand by increasing production. It just makes sense, the logic of the fingering” he said. “And do you still have your grandmother’s Hohner piano accordion? The candy apple red?”

  “Of course. That’s something I’d never part with.”

  “I understand, Melody. It’s a lovely vintage instrument, and your grandmother was a lovely woman. Clementine, or Tina, as her fans knew her, was an absolute delight.” Mr. Van Dyke stared beyond me as if he were conjuring an image of her, as if he were looking into the past. He smiled and his focus returned to me.

  “Listen, Melody, I know you’re very busy with your new job, but do you think you might have time to give lessons? I know I could sell more accordions if there was an excellent teacher available to help my customers along.”

  “I…I guess I could, eventually. Right now, I’m living with my mom. I’m lucky if she tolerates my playing once in a week. I don’t think she’d appreciate having a beginner honking along with me under her roof. Maybe once I get my own place.”

  “Sure, no rush, Melody. Oh, this is excellent! You know, maybe I’ll order a couple more units and promote the heck out of it. And we could have you play in the store the day of the promotion. I’ll bet we could move us some squeezeboxes then!”

  Mr. Van Dyke was quite the salesman. His enthusiasm was contagious. “It sounds like a great idea, but I’d hate to have your success hinge upon my playing.”

  “We’ll talk about it again, alright? Oh, did you know my son, Gary, works at the shop, too? Three days a week, he teaches music and band in Crawford at the high school, plus a weekly class at the elementary school. You’ve really got to start exposing kids to music when they’re young. The high school really should hire him full time, but you know how that goes. When there are budget cuts, the library and the arts are the first to go. Thank goodness for the football team or they’d have shuttered the music program ages ago!”

  “So Gary’s doing what he wants to do, too. Good for him.” Gary was a nice guy. He was a couple of years older than I was, but we’d always gotten along well. Our passion for music was the foundation of our friendship.

  “Yes. Another of the lucky ones.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Well, I have to get back to the store. Please stop in some time, Melody, any time. I promise that there’ll always be something in stock that will be of interest you. We handle a lot of rare instruments, you know. We do a brisk business on the internet.”

  “I will,” I replied, accompanying him to the door. “I always loved browsing through your shop. But I can’t buy anything. They don’t pay librarians much, you know.”

  “Sometimes that’s the price for doing what you love to do. Who needs money when you’re happy, right?” he said with a wink. “Take care, Melody.”

  I walked past Jacob as I returned to my desk. He was sleeping in his chair. His hair and beard both needed a serious trim. Both were streaked with gray. I wondered how old he was. Forties? Fifties? He snored softly. I was tempted to tap his shoulder, but decided to let him be. In 30 minutes, Marian would send him on his way. Why not let him enjoy some peace in the meantime?

  Chapter 7

  That night, Mom and I were enjoying a quiet evening together. She was croqueting a throw while I noodled on my concertina and Mao snoozed on the rocker. The rain lashing at the windows made the warm ambience of the living room extra cozy. As I took a sip of my orange herbal tea, I couldn’t help thinking about Jacob. I hoped he was warm and dry.

  “Mom, were there homeless people around town when I was a kid? I don’t remember seeing any.”

  Mom stayed focused on her needlework. “Not as many as there are today. There were always poor people. But homeless? I think that’s a more recent phenomenon. When I was young, there were panhandlers…we called them bums. They didn’t work, they drank and they begged for money. Things have changed. Now you’ve got families on the streets….Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, we have a regular at the library. He comes in to sit and stay warm. His name is Jacob.”

  “Jacob! Oh, sure, everyone in town knows him, especially business owners. He’s darkened our doorways for years now.” She sipped her tea. “I don’t mean to sound heartless, but when a situation repeats itself for so long, you tend to become resigned that it’ll never change. Lake Hare attracts vagrants along with the tourists, and every summer there are more of them. I don’t know if they run out of gas and money, but they end up here and hang around all summer, just like flies. They usually move on when the weather turns cold. There’s nothing here for them then.

  “But Jacob, he’s got some serious problems. He’s not just out of work, or out of luck.” She whispered, as if someone might hear. “He’s a little out of his head.”

  Thunder rumbled. “I was just wondering,” I said.

  “Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” Mom suggested. “Wait. I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you get out Grandma’s accordion? I haven’t heard that played in years.”

  She didn’t have to ask me twice. Mom was never too fond of the sound of the accordion at all, and I can’t blame her. After all, she had to suffer for years as I practiced and learned my way around the keys and slowly mastered how to control the volume with the bellows. But her loathing of the sound went way beyond those years.

  “Oh, my, it looks just the way it did when my mother played it,” Mom said, he
r eyes wide. “Just play something, anything, as long as it’s soft.”

  I smiled deviously. “But I’ve been practicing my polka chops just for you!” Why do I enjoy torturing my mother so? Is it because I can – literally – push her buttons so easily? Or it is payback for her unkind comments directed at both Grandma and me for bringing this wheezing, honking apparatus into her life? A couple of verses of “Beer Barrel Polka” should do the trick.

  “Please don’t do that,” she pleaded. “Come on, be nice! I just wanted to hear it played again, not assaulted.”

  Mercifully, I segued into “Blue Danube Waltz,” and this made her smile, as much for the lowered volume as the song itself. It surprises some people how adaptable the accordion is, how songs they wouldn’t ordinarily associate with the instrument can sound as if they were, in fact, composed specifically for it.

  “That’s very nice, Melody.” Mom’s hand moved side to side in time with the music, as if she were conducting.

  “I thought you couldn’t stand this sound.”

  “Well, it’s different when it’s forced upon you. All your grandmother ever played were polkas. Maybe an occasional waltz. That was what the crowd at the festivals and Biergartens wanted to hear. Music for dancing and drinking and dancing some more.”

  “I remember seeing her a couple of times in those beer tents,” I said. “Remember? She took me to two or three fairs with Grandpa, and after we’d go on a few rides, we’d end up at the beer tent. I was fascinated by it all. I’d always admired those costumes Grandma wore, the Bavarian outfits, when she got dressed up for a show. But when I actually saw her perform, it was magic. There was my grandma, standing on stage, smiling and singing, making everybody in the tent move with her playing. And everybody looked so happy.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Mom said with a rueful smile. “I remember many days and nights like that. It was fun for me, too, until I hit my teens and wished she did something more dignified. I remember girls laughing, coming up to me and saying, ‘Is that your mother, Anna? Will you be joining her onstage, dancing like a monkey?’ Oh, god, I still blush when I think of it.”

  “Not having had that experience,” I countered, “I felt only pride and awe for Grandma. She was my mentor.”

  “Of course,” Mom conceded. “And you took a shine to her accordion from day one.” Mom laughed. “She couldn’t keep you away from her instrument. Every chance you got, you’d be pressing one of the keys, as if she wouldn’t hear it! You probably don’t remember, but when you were only three, she used to sit you on her lap, place the accordion on yours and you’d try to play along with her.”

  “I do remember; in fact, those are some of my earliest memories.”

  “And, of course, you had a talent for it. You were certainly the apple of her eye when she gave you lessons. You kept at it, too.” Mom’s smile faded. “I never had any aptitude for playing an instrument. I’ve heard that musical talent tends to skip a generation.”

  “I think that’s male pattern baldness, Mom.” I’d lowered the volume and slowed the tempo as I noodled around the keys. I wanted the sound to be unobtrusive, but at the same time to maintain a gentle flow to lull Mom into revealing more memories about Grandma.

  “Is it? Well, you definitely have a gift, Melody, and Grandma would be proud of you. You’ve always had such an open mind when it came to music. I remember your devouring all of my parents’ old 78s. Classical, ethnic music, big band and pop songs – you absorbed it all.”

  “I did,” I smiled. “And a whole lot more. This instrument has taken me all around the world with it. Nearly every culture has accepted the accordion into its traditional music, and I’m constantly discovering new places and styles that evolved from those cultures. It’s endless.”

  “I regret that I didn’t see the bigger picture. In the sixties and seventies, all we cared about was what they played on the radio: Peter Frampton, Fleetwood Mac…Led Zeppelin. That was your dad’s favorite.”

  I flicked the tremolo switch and eased into the opening chord progression of “Stairway to Heaven.” It sounded surprisingly good, the haunting chords played with an eerie shimmer. Mom nodded her head in time to the familiar tune, a faraway look in her eye. Was she thinking about Dad, or Grandma, or her own youth? Music is a door to the past. It opens and there you are – the past is present again.

  Laying in my warm bed, listening to the rain pelt the windowpane, I felt grateful for the sense of security my surroundings provided, and again thought of Jacob, hoping he at least had an enclosed shelter for the night to shield him from the cold and the rain.

  I know some hearts harden over the years. Their efforts to keep themselves and their families safe and secure give them allowance to disparage others who – for whatever reasons – haven’t enabled them to do likewise. But aren’t some things beyond our control? I thought of the words that Joan Baez sang, “There, but for fortune, go I.”

  That song was written by Phil Ochs, a talented, but troubled man. One of the first contemporary songs I’d ever heard which featured an accordion was his “The Scorpion Departs but Never Returns,” about a submarine crew doomed to “forever sail the seas.” It was a haunting song, made more so because it was based on an actual event, and by the sad accordion swirls that added a nautical flair to the music.

  I hadn’t thought of that song in years, and was tempted to get up and resurrect the notes on my accordion, but I didn’t think that Mom would appreciate it. I resolved to find out whether Mom still had that album in what was left of her collection. In the meantime, the ghostly melody escorted me to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, I unlocked the back entrance of the library and began the process of bringing the building back to life, flipping light switches, turning on the copier and firing up the coffee pot. Marian had a doctor’s appointment in Crawford and would be in later in the morning. It felt nice to be the sole person responsible for readying the library for business. I felt empowered.

  I sat at my desk, enjoying the hot coffee and looking out the window at the naked trees outside swaying. The sky was dark, but at least it wasn’t raining – or snowing – yet. But, it was only a matter of time before the drops would fall.

  At 9:00, I picked up the keys and unlocked the inner set of double doors at the front entrance. As I started down the stairs to unlock the outer set of doors, I noticed what appeared to be a pile of clothing heaped on the outside step. As I neared, I could see that it was, in fact, a person curled up on the steps. I unlocked the doors and pushed them open. Now I could see that it was a man lying there. I leaned over and recognized the expressionless face.

  It was Jacob.

  I bent and held his shoulder, gently shaking him, but there was no response. I put the back of my hand to his nose and felt the cold flesh and the lack of breath. I realized that Jacob had exhaled his last breath at the place he frequented when he sought warmth and shelter, and no one had been there for him.

  I quickly returned to my desk and called 911. I was told an ambulance would arrive shortly. I hoped no one would arrive before the emergency personnel. I didn’t know if I should find something with which to cover him. If it was a crime scene, I didn’t want to “contaminate” the scene. The only thing I could find was a long floor mat, but that didn’t seem very respectful, but neither did leaving him lying there.

  Fortunately, the police arrived, relieving me from my worries about proper etiquette for the deceased. I stood on the steps, shivering from the cold wind. They left their overhead flashers on as they exited the building. That would surely generate a crowd. The older, heavier-set officer pointed at Jacob’s body, and the deputy donned latex gloves as he knelt over the body. The officer motioned for me to join him inside.

  “I’m Chief Benson.”

  “I’m Melody Reed,” I replied.

  His eyes flickered as he looked into my face, as if trying to retrieve any information he might have filed away associated with that name. It appeare
d that he’d drawn a blank.

  “And you work here, is that right?”

  “Yes, I just started two weeks ago. I’m the new Managing Librarian.”

  “Oh, yeah…you’re taking Marian’s place. You’re from…Alabama.”

  I laughed, causing him to smile, too. His teeth were slightly crooked and jagged. They looked like shark’s teeth.

  “No, I’m a Michigander, Chief Benson. I just moved from Birmingham. Michigan.”

  “Oh, Birmingham, Michigan. I see. My mistake.” His smile faded and his face became creased with concern. “So, Ms. Reed, you found the body out there.”

  “Yes, I had just unlocked the front doors at 9:00 and there he was. His name is Jacob.”

  “Yes, I know. I know Jacob pretty well. Did you?”

  “Well, no. I mean, he sat here six days a week, four hours a day, but we never talked. Just smiled. He seemed nice. What do you think happened?”

  “Chief,” the deputy called out. He held up a green bottle that had apparently been tucked away on Jacob’s person.

  The Chief turned back to me. “What do I think happened? Well, he may have drunk himself to death, but more likely it was hypothermia.” The Chief spoke quietly, evenly, almost soothingly. “We’ve boarded Mr. Miller – Jacob – several times at our jail, and he knew that our door was open to him any time the weather turned nasty…like last night, for instance. But he might not have been thinking clearly, from the looks of things.”

  “Is that true, Chief? Is your door literally always open? I mean, you have someone there all night?”

  “Well, more or less,” he said, in a slightly defensive tone. “We don’t have a large, full-time staff, Ms. Reed. But someone is usually on duty, either at the station or on patrol. All he’d have to do is flag down our car if we were out making rounds. And there’s an emergency phone number when we’re closed.”