by Leslie Leigh
MY AIM IS TRUE
Melody, The Librarian Mysteries 2
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
Mom and I were enjoying a quiet, lazy Sunday morning. It was a routine we’d established shortly after I returned to Lake Hare. Every Sunday in April, without fail, the rain kept us in the house, and we made the most of it, enjoying scandalous quantities of coffee, exchanging sections of the newspaper and listening to light classical music on the radio, with my faithful kitty, Mao, usually ensconced on my lap.
The Crawford Caller—or the Crawford Crawler, as I’d called it since I was a kid—was surprisingly hefty for a local paper. Like most newspapers, they had made the switch to an online edition, but still published the traditional newsprint version four days a week. I guess Mom was a bit old-fashioned for maintaining her newspaper subscription, but I was thankful for the experience.
Maybe I’m a little old-fashioned, too; although I do most of my reading on digital devices, I still enjoy the tactile sensation of holding a book or magazine. There’s something about the physical medium, the packaging, which makes its own statement even though the content may be the same. Sure, creasing the pages and getting ink on your fingertips is annoying, but so is the eye socket-scorching radiation and pulses from digital screens.
Anyway, it felt as if we were occupying a time warp, sharing a leisurely morning together, clad in pajamas and robes till nearly noon. A couple of times, we tuned into A Prairie Home Companion on NPR, and that, too, reinforced the feeling of being in another era, enjoying the radio, with no desire to fire up the TV or a laptop. At those times, I felt really close to Mom. Had we at last outgrown that mother/daughter dynamic? I hoped so. If felt as if we were two roommates hanging out together, equals, and I felt grateful to share these moments in her company.
“Melody,” Mom said excitedly, wrangling with the newspaper as she maneuvered to show me an article, “you’re on the front page of the Feature section!”
I leaned forward and saw Marian’s photo at the top of the page, next to the headline “Long Time Lake Hare Librarian Retires.” I breathed a sigh of relief to see my article below Marian’s. That was only proper, after all. My blood pressure quickly skyrocketed, however, when I spied the headline: “New Librarian Fights Crime in Her Spare Time.” I tried to grab the paper, but Mom snatched it back out of my reach.
“I haven’t read it yet!” she admonished.
“Well, I’ll give it right back,” I pleaded. “I read faster than you do!”
“Let’s compromise,” she said calmly. “I’ll read it out loud.”
“Mom!” I whined.
“You used to like it when I read to you,” she countered.
“What? Like when I was five?”
“Sssh!” she shushed me. I couldn’t believe she shushed me! I worked in a library, and I’ve never shushed anyone. So much for the illusion of equality I thought I’d achieved. Mom adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat.
Residents of Lake Hare got more than they bargained for with the hiring of new librarian, Melody Reed. Not only is she an experienced librarian, but she recently demonstrated her skills as an amateur sleuth as well.
“Oh, my god,” I groaned.
Like one of the cozy mystery heroines so popular among the library’s patrons, Miss Reed recently found herself in the thick of a plot involving foul play and a local police official whose investigation into the crime was either deemed woefully inept or bordering on criminal, depending on whom one asks. (See related story on Page 3, Section 1, State Attorney General Opens Investigation into Police Chief’s Handling of Crime.)
Miss Reed, however, downplays her contributions to solving the murder, which included contacting the Michigan State Police and safeguarding a key piece of evidence.
“I really can’t talk about that,” she said, citing the AG’s investigation into the matter. “I can say that my brother, Michael, is a detective with the State Police, and I did contact him, but that’s really no different than, say, having a doctor in the family. I felt that the Chief’s response to the death merited a second opinion. Simple as that.”
Modesty aside, Miss Reed’s involvement was critical. Not only did she discover the body on the library steps, but she also observed the alleged lack of concern on the part of the local police chief. Some sources close to the investigation credit her with making the connection to the deliberate poisoning of Jacob Miller and the source of the poison. These sources also claim that she spearheaded the demand for an autopsy. Last, but not least, Agnes Wilson, the woman accused of poisoning Mr. Miller and another man, Thaddeus Slip, availed herself of Miss Reed’s dedication and involvement by confessing her crimes to her, after first being rebuffed by Chief Benson.
“Okay, Mom, that’s enough,” I said. I rose from my chair, collecting my cat in my arms. So much for our leisurely Sunday morning reverie.
“But there’s more yet,” she protested.
“More of that reporter’s imagination, you mean. Believe me; I gave him very few quotes, once I realized the angle of his story. Do you know what he said? ‘You might as well talk to me,’ he said, ‘because I’m going to write this story, regardless of whether or not you approve of my take on it.’ How’s that for journalistic ethics?”
“Well, that’s his job, isn’t it?” Mom said, defending him. “I mean, you’re not his editor; you don’t get the final say.”
“Fine. You read his little fairytale then, but it’s not the truth. He’s taking huge liberties with the facts. And I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with the people who read this. ‘Little Miss Crime Fighter! Oooh, isn’t she special?’ Somehow, I don’t think Charlene Bradshaw-Cooke – my employer? – will be that thrilled. Darn that Peter Proctor!” Just saying his name aloud suggested a sing-song-y, nursery rhyme rhythm. “Peter Proctor pecked a path to a Pulitzer…at my expense!!’”
“Well, I think it’s a wonderful article,” Mom said. “You should be proud of it, and everything you’ve done. They should give you some kind of medal for helping to rid us of that lazy, incompetent Chief Benson. Maybe I’ll talk to Mayor Lowell about that.”
“If you do, I’ll never talk with you again,” I threatened. “Seriously, Mom, I just want this to die down and blow over as quickly as possible. I came here to enjoy a quiet, peaceful existence in my hometown, remember?
“Of course I do, dear,” Mom said, her head disappearing behind the newspaper. “But life has a way of surprising us all.”
Chapter 2
Monday morning was eerily quiet at the library. I was alone for the first three hours before Margaret, our part-time helper, would arrive for her two-hour shift – primarily to relieve me for lunch. There were no patrons during that time and no calls. I tried not to let my paranoia get the better of me; perhaps everyone was out and about, taking advantage of a sunny, May morning. Temperatures were forecast to reach the mid-sixties, which would be a first since my arrival. At one point, I stood staring out the window, wishing I could avail myself of the mild spring weather.
“Well, you look like a caged bird, Ms. Reed.” The harsh tone shattered my reverie. I turned and saw Charlene Bradshaw-Cooke standing at my desk, a newspaper folded under her arm.
“Good morning,” I replied, unable to complete my sentence. I wasn’t comfortable calling her Charlene, and hyphenated names do not flow easily from my tongue. I amended my greeting with an obligatory “ma’am.”
“Perhaps you were looking out that window, thinking of all the other things you might be doing,” she taunted, unfolding the newspaper and spreading it on my desk, jabbing it with her finger. “It says here that you fancy yourself to be some amateur detective. Hardly sounds like you’re devoted to your present duties,” she sniffed.
“Ma’am, I had nothing to do with that writer’s flight of fancy. I contributed very little in the way of quotes, you’ll notice. I didn’t want to encourage him.” I almost threw in Mom’s line about not being his editor – not having the final say in the way it was written – but I couldn’t afford Mom’s use of sarcasm.
“Be that as it may, this is not the kind of notoriety we seek for our library. I’d much rather be reading about the programs we support here, and not the personal exploits of our employee.”
“As would I,” I agreed. “I did try to steer the conversation to our summer reading program for children.”
“What program is that?” she asked, as if startled by the concept.
“Actually, it’s pretty much the same program that’s been in place every year: having the kids commit to reading so many books during summer vacation, with some recognition and, perhaps, a small party when the program ends.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you have lots of ideas, but I don’t have time for them now. That’s why we have board meetings, my dear. I expect to see you there this Wednesday at noon. I believe your part-timer will allow for your presence, yes?”
“Of course,” I said, feigning cheerful enthusiasm. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Charlene actually made a harrumphing sound – like they do in comic books – and pivoted toward the door and exited. Nothing like an “atta-girl” from your boss to put a spring in your step for the rest of the day.
Oh, well. Nobody said it would be easy being a real-life, crime-fighting heroine-slash-librarian. Up one day, down the next. Suddenly, I imagined Frank Sinatra’s voice, growling something about “riding high in April, shot down in May.”
I sat at my desk, closed my eyes and went with the flow, sketching out an arrangement of ‘That’s Life’ that featured accordion accompaniment. For some reason, I heard one of those stiff, cheesy, beats they program into cheap keyboards. It just fit so well...tick, tock, tick, tock….
“Melody, there’s a call for you at the desk.” Margaret’s head peeked out from behind the door of the conference room. “Do you want me to tell them you’re at lunch?”
I still had that Sinatra song rolling around in my brainpan as I munched on a muffin and a small portion of coleslaw, an odd combination perhaps, but quite enjoyable, especially since Mom had made both. I am of the opinion that food always tastes better when someone else has prepared it, and this was indisputable when it came to mom’s coleslaw. It was perfect: not too sweet and not too tart. Of course, Mom wouldn’t reveal her recipe to me. I vowed that, one of these days, through guile and misdirection, I would observe her methods and possess this knowledge that she would deny me!
“Do you know who is calling?” I asked.
“He didn’t say,” Margaret replied, her brow furrowed with concern. I resisted the urge to ask her if she had inquired as to the caller’s identity, and rose to take the call. Poor Margaret, I was pretty sure that this was the only job she’d ever had, other than her duties as a housewife. It made me wonder about the dynamics of her domestic partnership. Was her hubby a bit of a bully, or a perfectionist? That might explain Margaret’s painstaking attempts to please, her constant tiptoeing about, trying not to disturb or distract anyone as she placed books on the shelves as if they were fragile figurines. She spoke in a soft whisper even when she answered the phone and, of course, would never be so intrusive as to ask a caller their name.
“Hello. Melody,” I said, observing that Margaret stood a respectful distance from the desk, far enough to avoid suspicion of eavesdropping, but close enough to respond if, say, a pen or sticky note were needed.
“Hello, Melody,” a male voice said, echoing my words, but devoid of any expression or enthusiasm. “This is Peter Proctor from the Crawford Caller. You may not have heard yet, but Chief Benson has just been placed on administrative suspension by the Lake Hare Human Resources Committee while he’s under investigation by the State Attorney General. Would you care to comment on this development?”
It sounded like he was reading from notes. “And why would you ask me for a comment?” I asked.
“Well, after all, you were sort of at the heart of the events which led to his suspension.”
I could see how one’s ego might be flattered by a call from a reporter seeking comment on a topic, but this appeal to one’s vanity – or, Maya, to use the Hindu terminology - served only to perpetuate an illusion; namely, the reporter’s portrayal of me as an amateur sleuth. I wanted no part of it. After all, I had stared into the grim face of reality only this morning, and the last thing I wanted was a nasty déjà vu encounter with Charlene!
“I really don’t have a comment, but I do have a question?”
“A question?” he echoed.
“Yes. My question is: Why are you such a jack-ass?”
There was a pause. I imagine that some people might react with indignation or some sort of emotional response to being asked such a question, but when Peter spoke, it was with the same flat monotone.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.
“Well, are you a jack-ass by nature, or does your profession require you just to act like one?”
I heard him snickering. I had broken through his veneer of objectivity. “So…you didn’t like the article I wrote?”
“It was totally irresponsible,” I replied. “Instead of reporting the facts, you concocted this elaborate conceit….”
“It was a personality profile,” Peter countered. “When you wouldn’t cooperate, I had to fill in some of the gaps.”
“There was way too much focus on my role in this whole affair…undeservedly so. This morning, I got reamed by my employer, who thinks that maybe I have my sights set on taking up a new occupation because running a library is so drab compared with the exciting world of crime fighting! And I feel like a pariah – not one person has come near this library all day, thanks to you. I’ve no doubt that the Chief had his supporters in this town, and your portrayal of me as his vanquisher….”
“From what I’ve heard,” Peter interrupted, “more people will be glad that he’s gone. It seems that the Chief could be a little petty…vindictive even, when someone crossed him over the smallest things. You’ll see. Once this story runs, I’ll bet you’ll see a thaw in the cold shoulder you think you’re getting. In fact, you’ll probably want to thank me.”
I found myself becoming exasperated by Peter’s delusional worldview. “I think we’re done here.”
“Melody, don’t think of me as your enemy. Think of me as a resource. Should you stumble over another
dead body, please don’t hesitate….”
I hung up the phone. Margaret stood in the same spot where I’d last noticed her, her mouth open in shock. My hand hadn’t let go of the receiver when the phone rang. Margaret made a motion to step forward to answer it, but I snatched it up, determined to make myself even clearer to Mr. Proctor that I didn’t have time for his little games.
“Yes? What is it now?” I answered, impatient with his impertinence.
There was a pause. “Melody? Is that you? Is it a bad time?”
It was a man’s voice, but this one sounded like it had a pulse, as if he were human, unlike the previous caller. I looked down at the display screen which ID’d the caller as Van Dyke Music Store. It wasn’t Gary’s voice – it must be his father.
“Mr. Van Dyke, I’m so sorry. I just had a crank call and I thought….”
“Oh, I get cranky at my age, believe me, but no, I don’t think you could justifiably call me a crank. Maybe in a couple more years, though. Listen, Melody, do you have a couple of minutes to spare? I have some exciting news!”
“Actually, I’m on my lunch hour. I’d love to run over to the store, if that’s alright with you.” I figured that perhaps if I vacated the building, the patrons might sense my absence and patronize our premises. Besides, Margaret was still hovering nearby, mouth still open, and I was afraid she might start to drool.
Chapter 3
“Happy May Day to you, Melody,” Mr. Van Dyke greeted me. Entering the music store always buoyed my mood, due in equal measure to both the glittering array of the inventory and to Mr. Van Dyke’s ebullient nature.
“Isn’t ‘May Day’ what World War II pilots used to say when their planes had been shot to pieces?”
“Yes, if those old movies were at all accurate. But before that misappropriation, May Day was a celebration of the changing of the seasons, a joyous event…dancing around the maypole and all of that, which I’m sure you know.”
