MELODY and MURDER (Melody The Librarian Book 1) (2 page)

Fortunately, Lake Hare is only a fifteen-minute drive to I-75 – its proximity playing a big part in the area’s tourist appeal – and soon I was racing along the interstate toward home. Since it was early afternoon on a Monday, traffic was sparse. It’s a three-hour drive under ideal conditions without stops, and it was my plan to be home before the worst of rush hour. I wouldn’t begin hitting heavier traffic for at least an hour, so my thoughts drifted back to the interview, and I found myself gradually warming to the idea of living in this neck of the woods.

Mom did have some good points. Yes, like any metropolitan area, crime, traffic congestion, and urban sprawl did exist in Detroit (where I worked) and Birmingham (where I lived). And I did feel that I was in a bit of a rut, navigating the same route, 45 minutes each way, Monday through Friday. And I’d lived in the same apartment for three years – one of those sterile, landscaped complexes resembling ant farms where all the people are in realty limbo, the Neverland we dwell in between leaving our parents’ home and thinking we’re able to take on mortgage payments.

Maybe I was ready for a change.

I really didn’t have much to show for my time in Detroit: a crappy apartment, an eight-year-old sedan, and…actually, that was about it. I did manage to pay off my student loans, and I was proud of that, though I was luckier than most, not having incurred much debt in the first place due to receiving a four-year academic scholarship at CMU. That was the upside to having been a nerdy, social leper in high school.

Really, I wasn’t that bad. There just weren’t many distractions in Lake Hare to tempt you from the academic path. Perhaps if there had been discos and meth labs and such, things would have turned out differently for me but, fortunately, I’ll never know. I guess I’m just stuck being who I have been up till now for the foreseeable future, and that’s okay. I’m pretty happy being me.

Approaching the Bay City-Saginaw area, the traffic started picking up. The landscape had gradually changed. There were fewer clusters of trees, more barren fields interrupted by pockets of civilization. I breezed past the Clio and Mount Morris exits, and sailed through the outskirts of Flint. I could almost hear Mom’s voice, dripping with venom, “You couldn’t pay me to live here!”

I began feeling little pangs of anxiety. I even checked my cell to see if I’d missed any messages. Marian had told me I’d probably hear from them later this week, or the following week at the latest. Calm down, I told myself. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you start getting all neurotic about it.

I’d have to inform Rick, my department head, about applying for the position. After all, they’d be contacting him. I practiced how I would break the news.

“So Rick…it’s the darndest thing…a vacancy for a librarian just opened up in my hometown, and I thought – what the heck – why not apply? Not that I’m not happy here, of course, but it was just something I decided to tie in with a visit to my mother, who’s getting up in the years. I mean, she’s doing okay, but it would no doubt be a comfort to her if I actually got the job and could be nearer to her, you understand, don’t you, Rick? Anyway, it’s a long shot, and I have a lot of mixed feelings about the whole thing, but I felt that I had to at least go through the motions, for her sake. You understand, don’t you, Rick?”

Just north of Pontiac, traffic slowed to a crawl. I hadn’t noticed any construction work signs, but maybe I wasn’t paying attention. Was there an accident ahead, or was it just one of those ripple effects generated by an overcautious driver? It was 3:00. Had rush hour come early? This didn’t bode well. I came to a complete halt. Brake lights as far as the eye could see, and all of us helpless to do anything about it but wait. Wait and try not to bump up the homicide stats.

Please, Marian, please let it be this week! Please take me away from all of this! Just one phone call would change the rest of my life! I promise, if you hire me, I will never, ever leave! I’ll stay until they have to pry the date due stamp from my cold, dead hands! I’ll stay until rigor sets in; they can just wheel me out in my chair! Please, please, please…choose me!

Two-and-a-half hours later, I pulled into my assigned space at the Ant Farm, grab my bags and ascended the stairs to my second floor domicile. I’m greeted with a testy, indignant yowl. It was my silver tabby, Mao, aka Mao-Mao, aka Mao-sy Tongue.

“Well, it’s good to see you, too, Mao! Did you miss me?”

Food is what she wants. Now. Me, too, but kitty’s needs come first. Maybe I should order pizza; for me, I mean. Yes, that is brilliant. After my traffic ordeal and the wasted time I’ve lost forever, I deserve pizza. I placed the order, showered and awaited the delivery person’s arrival.

Mao snuggled on the couch with me. I offered her a bite of pizza and she sniffed it, but passed. We watched the local news together while I ate. Mao curled up along my belly, insisting on being petted and, of course, I obliged, using my free hand to feed myself and make adjustments with the TV remote.

Mao is like a musical instrument that comes alive at my touch, and her purr/drone exudes a healing power. Soon all my stress had disappeared, although the alarmists – I mean, journalists – on my TV were doing their best to rile me.

I detest local TV news, and seldom watch it. Honestly. Funny, I still remember the names of local broadcasters while I was growing up. Most weren’t particularly photogenic, having come from newspaper backgrounds, and they had long, Polish names and their suits looked kind of tacky. But nowadays, they all look alike, quaffed and made-up like their national counterparts, in expensive suits, wearing earnest expressions, as if this city councilman’s scandal or that shooting suspect’s report WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOREVER! It’s all “breaking news” or “special investigative reports.” Come on, guys;  it’s just local news…no Pulitzers in it for you, okay? I found myself eagerly awaiting the weatherman’s comic relief.

Instead, I turn off the TV and turned toward Mao. “The interview went well, thanks for asking.” Mao contemplated her paw and began to lick. “I don’t know if you understand the ramifications, cat, but let me spell it out. If all goes well, we’ll no longer be confined to this cell. Our whole environment will change! The concrete you see beyond your window? Gone! In its place will be birds and bunny rabbits and an abundance of greenery.”

Mao’s hygienic ministrations had drifted southward.

“Our lives will be so good!”

I realized that I was sounding like my mother.

Kitty cocked her head quizzically, still not tracking me. I needed to try a different approach. Reaching up toward the shelf above the couch, I grabbed my concertina. Perhaps I could best express my thoughts in song!

Mao recognized the concertina, but remained calm anyway. I began in G, a key often associated with pastoral settings. I cleared my throat, rested the bellows on my thigh and squeezed.

“Green…for me and my Kitty…We…will be sitting pretty, my kitty and I, watching the birds fly by….”

Mao mewed, and I thought she might join in, but it was only a yawn.

People think dogs are more musically inclined than cats because dogs will sometimes howl along sympathetically with an instrument. This has never been proven, however. My theory is that cats do have an appreciation for music, but choose not to participate. And they have better taste. A dog will howl at anything; a cat will listen attentively. I guess a cat is more like a critic.

As if to prove my point, Mao stood, stretched and bounded away.

Well, I was improvising, after all; cut me some slack.

No longer feeling the need to impress the critics, I continued with my Spontaneous Invention in G. My accordion is second only to my cat in providing me with an otherworldly outlet to drift away from what passes for reality while nourishing my soul. When softly pumping the bellows, it’s almost as if I’m holding another breathing entity in my arms. It’s similar to stroking the kitty’s back while she straddles my lap, emitting a calm, steady purr.

The room is dark, but I know my way around the buttons. The melody has somehow mutated (or digressed) into “My Dog Has Fleas.” I clear my throat.

“Please, please call me. Please, please call me.”

I waited until the timing was good to tell Rick that I’d applied for the job in Lake Hare. Actually, I procrastinated until Wednesday, and then decided I’d better confess before he received a call from Charlene checking my references.

“Oh, she hasn’t told you?” I could imagine her saying. “Well, that’s not very considerate, is it? Not the sort of person we want working
here
!”

Rick was very cool, very understanding. “I’m sorry to hear that your mother isn’t doing well, Melody. I’d be glad to give you a good reference, though I’d certainly hate to lose you. You just let me know if there’s anything else I can do, alright?”

To my credit, I didn’t lean too hard on the “ailing mother” angle. It was very subtle, just a nudge in that direction was all that was required. When you mention “older” or “elderly” in the context of a parent, people – especially younger people – tend to automatically associate aging with disease, dementia or some such debilitating condition. Having recently turned 62, Mom would be mortified at this prejudicial reaction but, alas, such are the times in which we live.

As the anticipation grew, I needed to share the excitement with someone, to release some of the steam building up, so to speak, so I turned to Stephen. Stephen was a coworker, friend, somewhat more than a friend for a short while, and then a friend again. He’d helped me through a difficult time about a year ago, and we’ve been best friends since. There was that…other thing…briefly, but we soon realized that we valued our friendship more than anything else. I knew he could keep a secret.

“Lake Hare!” he exclaimed with an envious grin. “I used to love going up there with my folks in the summer. Come to think of it, maybe it was only a couple of times, but I remember it! Biking, canoeing on the Au Sable River; it was definitely the highlight of every summer! It’s probably changed, though, huh? Got a big Walmart on Main Street, right?”

I scooted by chair closer to his desk, hoping he’d get the hint and keep his voice down. “No, no Walmart, but it has grown. In fact, the population nearly doubled since I lived there. I think it stands at about 2,000 people now.”

We both snickered. I hoped my giddiness wouldn’t prove contagious. Sometimes Stephen and I tended to lose it when we were at work. We were like two kids in elementary school.

“Wow, that’s really good news. Do you think you’ll get the job?”

“I have no idea. Two of the three board members are in my corner, but the third…and she wields the power. She’s influential enough to sway them if she prefers someone else. Her husband donated the funds to build the library, and it’s even named after him!”

“Then she doesn’t want some loser besmirching their good name, right? You just need to think positively, Melody.”

I nodded. Somehow, that advice coming from Stephen seemed more profound than when Mom said it.

“You know, I’m from a small town,” he said. “Ever heard of Munger? I didn’t think so. I’d never be able to go back there to live. Of course, it was just a farm town, not all touristy and plush like Lake Hare. Do they have high-speed internet?”

“I think so. I’ll have to check.” Unlike a lot of people my age, I’m not hard-wired to all things electronic and hi-tech. I think many people don’t realize that electronics and marketing are pretty much inseparable. They’ve been conditioned to salivate at each new generation or version of a product and feel they have to possess it. It’s partly a status thing, I guess.

“And what about bands? I know you like music, Melody. Where’s the nearest venue for some good music?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe an hour south to CMU. Or drive up to the U.P. to Northern Michigan. That would be a bit farther, though. I sure couldn’t drive all the way down here! Maybe I’ll just have to content myself with my own playing, or find some other people to play with.”

Stephen smiled. “I can just see you in ten years, rocking on your porch with your squeezebox and a corncob pipe in your mouth.”

I punched his arm, not too hard, but hard, and we both laughed. “Ten years!” I scoffed. “I’ll only be in my forties, you know.”

Stephen rubbed the spot where my knuckles struck. “I’m just kidding. Really, Melody, I am so jealous. I mean, Lake Hare and that area…those are places people go to vacation or to retire. They’re not meant for mere mortals. They’re like Valhalla, your final reward, if you’re lucky. Getting a decent paying job in a place like that would be like a dream!”

I nudged his sore arm, cuing him to keep quiet. After all, we
were
both librarians.

“Well, I wish you luck, friend. I hope your karma is immaculate!”

I scooted my chair back. Time to get back to work.

“We shall see, Stephen. We shall see.”

By Thursday, the waiting was beginning to get to me. The anxiety I felt was similar to having gone on a first date with a really interesting guy. Everything seems to have clicked during that first encounter and there’s a sense of unlimited potential for the future, despite the absence of a commitment for a second date. Initially, you feel a bounce in your step, buoyed by all of the possibilities your imagination conjures, and then the elation dissipates and is replaced by doubt and regret as you wait for his call. And wait and wait.

Had I been too perky during the interview? Not perky enough? Did they think I was too young or immature or inexperienced for the position? Were they swayed by the applicants from farther afield, seduced by the easy lilt of a Southern accent, or impressed by the take-charge attitude of a battle-scarred Chicago veteran? Had my small town roots shown, or did they detect a hint of Big City condescension in my manner?

Could I please do it all over again, please?

I dreaded the possibility of the process dragging out over the weekend with no word. Without work to help pass the time, I would go crazy. I couldn’t help thinking that the more time that passed before they contacted me, the less likely I was to be the chosen one.

And then, on Friday, the call came. I’d left my phone on vibrate mode, and when I saw the number on the display, I headed straight for the restroom for privacy.

“Melody, this is Marian Schultz. Is this a good time to talk?”

Her voice sounded distant, with a hint of echo. Was she on speakerphone, or was it the rest room acoustics on my end?

“This is a very good time, Marian,” I replied, trying to sound calm and professional.

“Excellent. I have some good news for you, Melody. At least, I hope you think that it’s good news. We’d like to offer the position of Managing Librarian to you, if you’re still interested.”

I bit the back of my hand to keep from squealing as all the pent-up anxiety roared out of my body forever. My response almost came out in the form of laughter.

“Oh, I’m very interested, Marian. This is so great! Thank you so much!”

“That’s wonderful. I have to tell you, Melody, the competition was of a very high caliber, and you should feel very proud for being selected.” She paused for a moment. “I also feel obliged to mention that, as we discussed, there is a salary range involved, and you’ll be starting at the low end of that scale. As you can imagine, our operation runs on a very tight budget, and this will allow for raises once you’ve been here a while. Are you still interested?”

Ouch. This
was
going to be a drop in income, but I wasn’t going to be deterred. Factor in the differences in the cost of living, savings in fuel and auto wear and tear, etcetera, and it should all balance out. At least I hoped so.

“I’m still in, Marian.”

“Good. Well, when can you start?”

“I told Rick, my boss, that I’d give him two weeks’ notice. Let’s see, today’s March 15
th
, and my rent’s paid till the 1
st
. I’ve been on a month-to-month lease for ages, so no problem there. How does the first sound to you? April Fools’ Day?”

There was an awkwardly long gap in the conversation. Did my April Fools’ reference give her pause? I heard faint whispers, and then felt the cold, silent chill through the phone: Charlene was in the room with her! I gulped.

“Two weeks will be fine, Melody,” Marian stated after her consultation with Charlene. “As a formality, we’ll mail a copy of the offer to you, noting your starting salary and hire date. If you could sign and send that back, I’d appreciate it. Did you have any questions?”

Only a million, but they could wait. Again, I thanked Marian profusely – hopefully, not
too
profusely – and hung up.

I then let out a shriek – a high C, if I’m not mistaken – that shocked even me. The reverb in the rest room added to the resonance of my ear-splitting squeal. I hoped that my whoop was contained within the tile walls.

No such luck. Every head was turned my way. Two teenaged girls tried hiding their smiles as I walked the gauntlet back to my work area. They looked embarrassed for me, but I didn’t care. I was a short-timer now! Propriety, professionalism, pride…all those were secondary considerations now, for I was bound for another realm!