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

by Leslie Leigh

  Mr. Van Dyke was a treasure trove of knowledge and loved to share with others. He was a teacher by nature and, in fact, had given me my first piano lessons. Always a gregarious sort, it seemed that as he’d aged Mr. Van Dyke had become even more gloriously untethered in his conversations, given to giddy, stream-of-consciousness flights of fancy, often barely related to the topic at hand. He’d long ago jettisoned that filter that most of us have, the inhibitions and sense of propriety that keep us from revealing too much. I admired that, and I willingly served as a sponge to his outpourings.

  “Come see what I’ve gathered from my network of professional acquaintances,” he said, taking my arm and leading me toward the stockroom area. Mr. Van Dyke did his repair work back there. It wasn’t a place the general public was privileged to enter, and it certainly wasn’t glamorous, but when Mr. Van Dyke finished performing surgery on an instrument, it was delivered to the showroom in good-as-new – or better – condition.

  There, on a metal set of shelves, were ten accordions of various sizes, types and colors. My pulse immediately quickened. Even for someone who wasn’t an accordion aficionado, the display would surely dazzle, the way a collection of vintage, handmade toys from another era might delight the senses.

  “They’re beautiful!” I said, breathlessly.

  “Aren’t they? Little treasures they are, each and every one,” he proudly declared.

  “I’ll have you know that I’m struggling to keep from grabbing one,” I said. It was like standing at a candy counter and wishing you had octopus arms!

  “Why don’t you try this Gabbanelli on for size?” Mr. Van Dyke suggested, reaching for a lovely blue and red Mexican-style button accordion. The bellows displayed a diamond pattern. It was almost too beautiful to touch; I could have just stared at it, marveling at the craftsmanship and patterns for hours. “They shipped it without a case, but I’m sure I can locate something that will work.”

  I sat on a folding chair and held the Gabbanelli, running my hands over its sparkling surface, caressing it. My natural inclination would be to launch into an approximation of a norteña polka, but I was too in awe to take such liberties. Instead, I tentatively ran through some scales, admiring the unique clarity of tone. I fell into a slow, habanera rhythm with my left and, feeling my way along a minor key with my right. The habanera is of Cuban origin, but it seemed to fit. I must have been doing something right – Mr. Van Dyke appeared to be mesmerized.

  “That was very nice, Melody, very nice,” he said. “May I?” Reluctantly, I handed the instrument back to him and he returned it to the shelf. “Here’s another I think will interest you. We don’t see many of these around.” He set a piano accordion on his lap. It was black and silver, somewhat austere in appearance, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary. But when he began to play, that was another story!

  “Oh, that’s gorgeous!” I gushed. “It has a shimmering sound.”

  “It’s sometimes referred to as a wet scale,” Mr. Van Dyke murmured, as he continued playing a lovely melody that evoked Parisian cafes. “This is a musette accordion, used to play what’s known as Musette, which takes its name from a sort of bagpipe. Are you familiar with that style?”

  “No,” I confessed, “but I think I’d better check it out!”

  “Yes, it’s a music that’s borrowed from post-WWI Italian song and Gypsy folk tunes, and mutated into a style all its own. The accordion was integrated gradually until it became a cornerstone of the style, and this particular model evolved to accommodate it. That tremolo, or ‘shimmer,’ is caused by additional sets of reeds, slightly out of synch tonally. They can be adjusted with these switches to be more prominent or less.” He closed his eyes as he played, and then stopped and opened them wide. “Do you have time for a duet?”

  “I wish, but I should be getting back to the library. Thank you so much for showing me your secret stash.”

  “Well, I want to go through each of them and make sure the reeds and mechanical parts are all tip-top. Again, this is all leading up to my Accordion Extravaganza promotion, in which you’ll feature prominently. Are you working up a program of selections?”

  “I’m still in the early planning stages,” I hedged. Actually, I only had a couple of songs in mind, and hadn’t even practiced those. “How much time did you want me to fill? A half hour…or less?”

  “No less than a half hour, if you wouldn’t mind,” Mr. Van Dyke replied. “It’ll be informal and fun. We’ll banter a bit, and educate as well as entertain. D-Day, to use your WWII vernacular, will be May 15th. And, of course, if you’d like to avail yourself of any of my ‘secret stash,’ please feel free.”

  As we stood at the door, he snapped his fingers and his expression brightened.

  “You know, Melody, I’ve got an idea! The Musette and the Gabbanelli…of course! Why don’t we frame the accordion within a multi-cultural milieu? Gosh, there are so many ways you could go with that! Tango, Zydeco, Cajun….”

  “Conjunto, Western Swing, Balkan!” I enthused, continuing his sentence.

  “Balkan?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sister, if you want to whip some Bulgarian stuff on them, I hope you’ve already got something in your repertoire. Man, those scales and time signatures….”

  “Okay, maybe not Balkan…but that’s a fabulous idea! And I’ve got the perfect finale – something I’ve been trying to master for years, in bits and pieces.

  “Do tell?” he inquired cagily.

  “It’s top secret,” I said, allowing him to open the door for me. “Mum’s the word.”

  “Loose lips sink ships,” he winked. “Oh, by the way, that was a great write-up on you in The Caller. First-rate and well deserved!”

  “I grimaced. “A little over the top, though, didn’t you think?”

  “Perhaps, just a tad,” Mr. Van Dyke smiled. “The reporter is most likely a frustrated novelist or poet, just as I’m a frustrated composer. Most times, we’re not quite in synch with our destinies, so we approximate. We get close, but never get to grab the brass ring!”

  Chapter 4

  Was it my imagination, or did Main Street seem to be especially bustling today? The All Seasons Sporting Goods and Bait Shop had a mobile sign in its lot declaring it to be ‘Turkey HQ.’ Harvey Crane had strung up one of those lines of colored, triangular flags – the kind you see at car dealerships – along the front of the hardware store. There were even signs of life at a couple of the seasonal shops including – hooray! – Freeman’s Frozen Treats.

  Mr. Freeman stood outside his tiny shop, using an elongated squeegee to clean his windows. I wondered if he’d remember me.

  “Hi, Mr. Freeman. Melody Reed. Please tell me you’re preparing to open early this year!”

  “Melody, good to see you,” he smiled. I don’t think he placed me, but that was okay. “Yeah, I hope to be up and running in a couple of days. We used to open closer to Memorial Day, but the past few years we’ve opened earlier to accommodate the hunters. You know, to gobble up some of those tourist dollars!”

  “Oh, it’s turkey hunting season!” I realized. I always associated turkey season – if I thought about it all, that is – with autumn.

  “All month long. We’re well positioned, here on the eastern side of the state, to get a good turnout of hunters. They don’t dare hunt any farther south of us.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh, that big chemical company in Midland pretty much poisoned the Saginaw and Tittabawassee rivers with the dioxins they’ve been dumping for over 80 years. Oh, they denied any liability and fought off the Feds with lawyers and lobbyists for over 40 years, since I was a young man. Just last year, they finally settled with the EPA, and – without admitting any wrongdoing – began cleaning up their mess.

  “Every year, the Department of Natural Resources issues a Dioxin Advisory Warning south of Midland along the flood plain of those rivers. The wildlife is contaminated in those areas. You can still hunt there, but they recomme
nd that you don’t eat what you kill. So that’s why all the hunters flock to Lake Hare or farther north.”

  Mr. Freeman gave a rueful smile. “I’m hoping that they’ll like a little ice cream for dessert.”

  “I’m sure they will, Mr. Freeman.” I tried to lighten the conversation. “You know, I remember walking by your shop every day in late spring when I was a girl. I’d peek in the windows, looking to see if anyone was in there, getting the place ready to open.”

  “Those were probably your nose prints I used to clean off my windows!” he winked.

  “It’s possible,” I admitted, “but I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. So will you be hiring some help once you open up?”

  “Eventually. It’ll probably be just me until after Memorial Day. Then, I’ll probably hire some kids on summer break. Why? Are you looking for work?”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help picturing that: a thirty-something woman surrounded by tubs of ice cream. Come to think of it, that sounded like a dream job! “Not really. I’m the new town librarian. But I do come in contact with lots of students. At least, I hope they’ll still come around once school lets out.”

  “Well, if you know of any kids who are good workers and won’t steal me blind, send ‘em my way,” he said. “So you work at the library, eh? That would make Nathan Cooke your boss. How do you feel about that?”

  I instinctively raised my guard. As much as I enjoyed Mr. Freeman’s candor, I didn’t feel that I could be as forthcoming.

  “Actually, I see more of his wife, Charlene,” I replied. “I’ve only spoken with Mr. Cooke once, I think.”

  “He’s another one who thinks the environment is expendable, as long as he profits from it. The Feds have been on his case, too. That paper mill operation in the U.P., they’ve been looking into it. I’ll never understand how these fat cats can poison the ground beneath their own feet to make a buck and think that it won’t affect them, too. How does that make any sense?”

  I didn’t have an answer for Mr. Freeman, and I wondered if even Mr. Cooke could, if Mr. Freeman’s assertions were true. I shared his concerns, but at the same time, I preferred not to be pulled into political debates.

  “Well, it was good talking with you, Mr. Freeman, but I have to get back to the library. I think I’ve exceeded my one hour for lunch.”

  “I understand,” he smiled. “You don’t want to get on the bad side of those Cookes!”

  No, I didn’t. “But I’ll be back to see you soon. Especially if you have any peanut butter varieties, in which case, you’ll probably see me every day!”

  “You know,” he continued, as if he hadn’t even heard me, “Nathan Cooke once told me that he didn’t care for ice cream.” His face contorted into an expression of sheer disbelief. “How can anyone not like ice cream? Can I tell you something, Melody? I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like ice cream!”

  “Okay. Goodbye,” I called out as I sidled away. Our conversation didn’t wind down as graciously as I’d hoped it would, but sometimes one has to forcibly extricate oneself from a social situation – sort of like using the Jaws of Life to remove someone from a smoldering heap of crushed metal.

  Well, some people are just like that, consumed by their politics and worldview, which intrudes upon every interaction. To me, it seemed obsessive and off-balanced, even though he was obviously concerned and conscientious. He meant well, but then, most zealots do, don’t they?

  Chapter 5

  When I returned to the library – only five minutes late, it turned out – the difference in patronage from that morning was like night and day. The lounge area where we keep the periodicals was at peak capacity with nary a cushion vacant, and dozens more milled about the aisles. Perhaps my brief departure had made our facility seem more hospitable to our customers. I couldn’t help wondering if they would flee the building now that I’d returned.

  An older gentleman wearing a pink polo shirt and gray slacks approached me, his hand extended.

  “Ms. Reed, I’m Ed Nilsson. I’ve been a regular visitor here since I retired seven years ago, and I wanted to stop by to meet our new librarian. It’s a pleasure.”

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback by his friendly greeting. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Thank you for introducing yourself.”

  “You know, you can only play so much golf,” he chuckled. “I was telling the wife that I might see if you could find some use for an old guy like me around here. You know, as a volunteer? I used to be a realtor, so I have some office skills, but I’m open to just about anything. Margaret gave me one of your applications to fill out. Just let me know how I can be of help, okay?”

  “I will. Thank you very much.” Ed stepped to one side, and I saw that a line ten-deep had formed at my desk. We have a self-serve checkout system, requiring only a swipe of a library card and the book’s bar code, but some folks prefer to have us personally check them out. There were a few in the line wishing to borrow books or DVDs, but most of them merely wanted to offer their thanks.

  “When I heard that the City Council had fired Chief Benson, I wanted to come down here personally and express my appreciation,” one woman said.

  “I think he’s been suspended, not fired,” I corrected her, unless Pete Proctor hadn’t gotten his facts straight.

  “Same thing,” she said. “Once they look into the way he ran his shop, he won’t be back.”

  An older woman, probably in her seventies, offered her shaky hand, reaching as far as she could over the desk. I stood and stepped toward her. She had a lovely smile.

  “I know your mother very well,” she said, her head bobbing in a perpetual nodding motion. “And I knew your father. He was a good man. He’d be so proud of you.” Unexpectedly, I felt tears forming. I didn’t know what else to do but to give her a hug. I heard a murmur of approval from others waiting in line.

  And so it went, one after another, for the next five minutes or so. I knew I wouldn’t be able to commit everyone’s name to memory, but I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time they stopped by. What a wonderful day this had turned out to be!

  But it wasn’t over yet. Once the meet-and-greet had passed, Margaret leaned over to whisper to me. “Melody, you had a call while you were gone. It was the mayor! He wants to see you at his office!”

  I almost smiled at the wide-eyed reverence of Margaret’s announcement. The mayor himself…imagine!

  “Um…does the mayor have an office, Margaret?”

  “Why…he must have meant the post office!” Margaret’s eyes darted back and forth, as if she were mortified by her failure to confirm the details of this summit.

  “It’s okay,” I assured her. “I’m sure that’s what he meant. But you’re due to leave soon.”

  “Oh, it’s alright,” she said. “I can stay longer. This is important!”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Thank you very much, Margaret. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Fortunately, the post office was only a block away. I stood in the air-conditioned lobby as Mayor Lowell tended to his customer, weighing a package to be shipped. He acknowledged me with a nod as he wrapped up the transaction and drew down the shutter on his counter window. A moment later, a side door marked STAFF ONLY opened, and the mayor ushered me into his inner sanctum.

  I followed the mayor as we wound through carts filled with parcels and mailbags, and stacks of plastic trays heaped perilously high. I wouldn’t call the area cluttered, however; in fact, everything seemed to be quite organized. The work area space was merely insufficient for the items required to be stored there. We reached a gray metal desk and the mayor indicated with a wave of his hand that I should sit on the chair behind the desk. It appeared to be the only option for seating. As soon as my weight eased into the chair, the seat bounced up several inches and the backrest drooped to one side, nearly ejecting me.

  “I’m so sorry about that. Are you okay?” he inquired, steadying the arms of the chair. “I guess I’ve gotten used to t
hat raggedy old chair. It’s been here as long as I have.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him, though I felt slightly apprehensive, as if I’d stumbled into a booby trap. I resolved to move as little as possible.

  Mayor Lowell must have been about the same age as Mr. Van Dyke – mid-to-late sixties, I guessed – but while the latter was short of stature and roundish in build, Mayor Lowell stood well over six feet and appeared to be quite fit for his age. He had the overall bearing of an ex-military man, a remnant of the Vietnam Era, I hypothesized. His short-sleeved dress shirt was crisply ironed, and he wore a black nametag centered above his left pocket, although in a town this size, I’m sure that this form of ID was hardly necessary.

  “May I offer you some cold water or scorched coffee?” he asked. I smiled and shook my head. “I apologize for the lack of amenities. I wish that the city could afford a proper office for official duties, but it’s just not in our budget.”

  He planted himself three feet in front of me and clasped his hands behind his back, reminding me of one of those old movie scenes where the squadron commander squares off to brief his men before they embark on a perilous mission.

  “Ms. Reed, you’re a busy woman, and I’ll try not to keep you long. As you’re probably aware, the City Council held a special meeting this morning, and a decision was made to place Chief Benson on suspension, without pay, while he’s being investigated by the State.”

  “Yes, I heard it through the grapevine,” I replied. “How did the Chief react to that decision?”

  Mayor Lowell shook his head. “Oh, he grumbled about suing the britches off the City, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. We’re well within our rights to suspend him given the circumstances. In the interim, we’ve appointed James Lee as Acting Chief.”

  “Deputy Jimmy!” I exclaimed. “Good for him!” I wasn’t sure, based on my brief observations during his crime scene antics, whether or not he was truly qualified for the position, even temporarily, but he seemed like a good egg.