MELODY and MURDER (Melody The Librarian Book 1) (7 page)

I had a fitful sleep that night. Just before waking, I had a disturbing dream. In the dream, I was walking along Main Street. It was evening and there was no one else about. The sidewalks were lit by wrought-iron street lamps, but the light was dim, making it difficult to see. I stumbled over something and nearly fell, but I caught myself. I bent down and saw that it was a shabbily dressed man lying on his side, turned away from me, his arms clenched around his chest as if he were trying to keep himself warm.

I asked if he needed help, but he didn’t respond. I pulled on his shoulder and he shifted toward me. It was Jacob, and his face was almost blue and lifeless. I stared in shock, not sure whether I should try to revive him or run to the nearest phone. His eyes opened and he smiled, as if amused by my dilemma, which shocked me further, and that made him break into a loud fit of laughter and coughing.

I saw something out the corner of my eye and saw a figure crawling from the entrance of the store ahead, and then another figure at the next doorway appeared, also crawling along the sidewalk. In every direction I turned, dark figures moved among the shadows, all wearing soiled, ill-fitting clothes, tattered with fragments dangling like ribbons.

The shadowy figures grew closer, surrounding me so that there was no escape, just like a scene out of one of those zombie movies. I didn’t feel frightened as much as I was appalled by the number of people living on the street. It was as if they claimed the area for their own once the sun set and the businessmen and patrons had vacated.

Okay, I was a little scared. In fact, I was sort of shocked awake. I sat up and let my mind wander back to this world I’d just glimpsed, not analyzing the images but absorbing the feelings those images generated.

I was wide-awake and knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep anytime soon. Checking my phone, I saw that it was 5:30. The sky was still dark, but I decided to get dressed and take a walk. Fortunately, I managed to slip out without alerting Mom’s dog.

The sky was just beginning to lighten to a blue-gray as I approached Main Street. Just like in my dream, the street was deserted, but there were no shadowy figures cluttering or crawling along the sidewalks. Still, it felt a little bit eerie, so I turned off to explore some of the side streets.

One block off Main were some of the oldest homes in Lake Hare, stately Victorian houses, two or three stories high. These were built by the lumber barons, and had been meticulously maintained. Most were registered, historical landmarks, and were one of the tourist draws, especially for those who weren’t inclined to partake of the outdoor offerings in the area.

I passed by the former residence of Mr. and Mrs. Cook. It was built for the founder of Lake Hare, Charles “Lefty” Hare, after making his fortune cutting a swath through the region’s forests. Unfortunately, he met the same fate as the trees, felled by an axe after a labor dispute.

The Cooks had since moved to a more isolated property overlooking the lake. You couldn’t see the house (some said it was more like a fortress) unless you were invited onto the property. Fences and security guards kept the riff-raff at a distance.

As I approached the town’s sole house of worship, a nondenominational church called the Bible Fellowship Chapel, I saw a man in a hoodie and sweat pants walking along the front lawn with a black, plastic garbage bag. He would stop and pick up a small object, place it in the bag and then move on to the next one.

As I approached, I saw that he was picking up dead pigeons. From the sidewalk, I could see several other casualties, not to mention the quantity in his bag which, from the way it dragged across the grass, must have been substantial. I hoped the man wasn’t planning on eating them; unless the birds fell from the sky and were heavenly endorsed as safe for consumption, they’d obviously been poisoned or were diseased.

“Hello,” I called out to him. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

‘Oh, good morning,” the man said, looking slightly embarrassed. He stood up straight, elevating his frame to well over six feet, dropped his bag and walked toward me, a winning smile peeking from beneath a well-groomed beard. He removed his plastic gloves and offered his hand to shake. “I’m Pastor Paul. Please call me Donald.”

With some reservation, I shook the hand that had just been picking up dead birds. “You can call me Melody,” I said.

“Melody? That’s a beautiful name. It’s…melodious!” We both laughed at his little witticism. “I really apologize for this. Nobody wants to start their day encountering such a sight. I try to gather them early, before anyone’s out and about. I realize it’s a little shocking.”

“Shocking is a good word for it,” I agreed. “One doesn’t expect to come across pigeon carcass harvesting, especially on the Sabbath.”

“Well, that’s the thing:  you never know when a bunch of them will expire, or where, really. Better that they fall here than drop on tourists on Main Street.”

“Eww,” I replied, conceding his point.

“Yeah, I regret taking these measures against any of God’s creatures, but it is, unfortunately, necessary. At least, they get a last meal before they…expire.”

“So you poison them?”

“Well, it may sound like splitting hairs, but it’s not exactly poisoning. They don’t suffer, or so I am told at least. It somehow affects their nervous system and they just fall asleep. In some cases, they can even be revived, but I don’t think that’s an option for these guys.”

“It still kind of sounds like poison to me.”

“But it’s safe. If another animal were to come along and eat the pigeon, it wouldn’t harm them at all, unless there was an undigested amount inside. But it’s my understanding that it doesn’t work that quickly, so that’s a very slim possibility.”

I was still skeptical. I’d heard these kinds of arguments in defense of “humane” forms of execution. “Well, it’s obvious that you care enough to research the effects of the…substance. What’s it called, if I may ask? The substance, I mean.”

“Oh, let me think,” Pastor Paul (Donald) replied, raising his gaze toward the dawning sky, as if he were receiving a heavenly transmission. “Alpha something. I’m sorry, but I nearly failed my chemistry class. May I ask what you do, Melody? For a living, I mean.”

“Of course. I’m your new librarian. I grew up here, returning sporadically over the years. How long have you been here, Donald?”

“Two years. I really like it here. Small towns have a special charm for me.” He leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “Of course, most small towns have a darker side as well.” His smile made me unsure whether or not he was joking.

“You mean that creepy, distrusting, inbred sort of darkness?” I asked. “Yeah, that does often seem to lurk under the sunny façade, doesn’t it? And where are you from originally?”

“North Carolina,” he said. “A tiny town in the center of the state, very rural, and pretty much as you just described it. I love the cooler temperatures here and the lack of humidity. So you were just out for a walk, were you?”

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep. I had some kind of weird nightmare.” Instantly, I heard Elvis Costello crooning the haunting melody from Charles Mingus’ “Weird Nightmare.” Not quite 100% awake yet, the voice seemed to beckon me to return to my dream.

“Sorry to hear that,” Donald said, startling me back to reality, “but I’m glad we met. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in our church.”

I knew that was coming. “No, I’m not much of a church-goer,” I felt myself tensing up and looking for an escape, the way I do when I’m cornered by a salesperson.

“We’re nondenominational, you know. We’re more about community than doctrine. When people come together, well, there’s a strength and comfort that’s hard to find on your own.” He was reading my reactions and kept his pitch low-key. “Anyway, you’re always welcome to attend a service, or to stop by for a chat if you ever need someone to talk with.”

“Thanks, Donald,” I said, holding out my hand to signal my imminent departure. “And feel free to stop by the library sometimes. I guess it’s my temple, if I have one.”

“I understand. Thank you. Oh, wait. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” I turned toward where Donald was looking and saw an older, heavyset woman plodding our way. She appeared to have some difficulty walking. She looked up and smiled almost apologetically for the slowness of her steps.

“Melody, this is Mrs. Wilson, one of our regulars. Mrs. Wilson, this is Melody….”

“Reed,” I finished. “I’m the new librarian.” I held out my hand, but Mrs. Wilson just looked down at her feet.

“Mmm hmm,” she muttered. “I expect you’re Anna Reed’s girl,” she said in a flat, nasal voice. “Look just like her.”

Just what every woman likes to hear. Mrs. Wilson was quite observant, considering that she never actually looked up at my face. “I’m here to clean. I’ll go get started.” Without another word, she shuffled past us toward the church.

Donald smiled nervously. “She’s a woman of few words, but she has a heart of gold believe me. She volunteers to dust and vacuum before our morning service. I tried to tell her that I was capable, but she wants to help. Says it does her good. She’s retired, of course, and widowed, so the church is pretty much her only social outlet, bless her.”

“Well, you’re lucky to have her,” I admitted. “Donald, let me ask you something. I’ve noticed that there seem to be some homeless people in the area. Does your church…are you able to help in any way?”

“We do what we can, and I wish we could do more, Melody. There aren’t a lot of them – though even one person living on the streets is too many, I hasten to add – but our budget is almost nonexistent. The police department does allow them to stay there on a limited basis; their budget is tight, too, from what I understand. Our congregation donates food once a month, but that’s mainly for our members who’ve hit a rough patch.”

“I understand,” I said. “I can’t help feeling a sense of guilt when I cross their paths. I’d like to think that there were resources for them, but I didn’t want to make that assumption. Well, I’ll let you get back to your pigeon harvesting.” I squinted toward a distant object. “Is that a cardinal?” Its bright red plumage stood out against the barren lawn and rain puddles.

“Yes, it does look like one, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, the feed we use doesn’t discriminate.”

“Of course. Collateral damage; isn’t that how the military phrases it? It was nice to meet you, Donald. I just may take you up on your offer someday.” You never know…it could happen.

It was such a blast to visit with brother, Michael, his wife Sam, and their two kids, Nick and Nellie. Nellie was five, and sweet and impish, and Nick was 7 and sly, always mindful that Dad was watching,  making sure he was getting along with his sister and staying out of trouble. No doubt Michael saw some of his younger, rambunctious self in his offspring; hence, the unrelenting scrutiny.

“I sure never would have guessed,” I said, and not for the first time, “that you’d end up in a law enforcement career, considering what a little juvenile delinquent you used to be.”

“He wasn’t so bad,” Mom said, rushing to defend him. “You make it sound like he was ‘The Bad Seed’ or something.”

“She feels obliged to bring this up every time we get together,” Michael smiled. “For the record, that experience was probably helpful:  I have an idea of how the young, criminal mind works. Of course, the stuff I did pales next to the kinds of trouble kids get into today.”

Sam rocked in her chair, smiling and not saying much of anything. She used to encourage us to spill our guts regarding Michael’s past, the kinds of things he would never bring up. Now she was pretty much up to speed on all of that, but still enjoyed watching me try to make Michael squirm. After all, no one can pick at the scabs of memories that we’d prefer to forget like a family member can.

When Mom rose to wrangle the kids for a wash-up before brunch, Sam dutifully assisted. At last, I was alone with Michael.

“I didn’t want to say anything around the children,” I began, “but I wanted to talk to you some more about that homeless man’s death.”

Michael’s face wrinkled in annoyance, as if I’d brought up a distasteful subject while he was eating. “I thought you were over that.”

“There’s been a new development. Will you hear me out?”

“Okay, but make it quick, before everybody gets back.”

“Alright. First, when Chief Benson arrived at the scene, he immediately assumed that the cause of death was hypothermia. How he arrived at that conclusion without examining him is anybody’s guess.”

“It’s pretty common, unfortunately, when people live on the streets,” Michael offered.

“It wasn’t that cold. The low that night was 40 degrees.”

“That’s pretty chilly,” Michael countered. “Had he been drinking?”

“It appeared that he had,” I said.

“Alcohol causes the body to lose heat. It could have contributed to the hypothermia.”

“Okay, but here’s something new. I ran into the pastor of the Bible Fellowship Chapel this morning, and what was he doing? Collecting dead pigeons off the lawn, that’s what!” Michael’s eyebrows arched, as if to ask “And…?”

“And he told me that the stuff he uses to kill the pigeons isn’t really a poison, so I looked it up. The chemical is alpha-chloralose, which anesthetizes the brain of the pest – it’s also used for rats, as well as pigeons, swallows, etc. – affecting the body temperature control mechanism. The victim slips into a state of hypothermia and coma.”

“Victim?” he echoed. “So you’re seeing a link between this chemical and your homeless victim? You think that he ate rat poison?”

“I think it’s a coincidence that merits further investigation,” I said, firmly.

“I think she’s right,” a voice said from behind me. I turned to see Sam standing there, her arms crossed. How long had she been there?

“Well, I think it’s only a coincidence. I mean, maybe the guy was hungry enough that he scarfed down a huge amount of the grain or corn or whatever they used to deliver the poison, but usually the person baiting these feeders is responsible enough to set them out where only the birds have access to them. Otherwise, you’d have dead cats and dogs littering the streets.”

“I agree,” I said. “It would be totally irresponsible. What’s more, I don’t think Jacob knowingly helped himself to the poison. Alpha-chloralose is supposed to have a very bitter taste, and he would have had to ingest a significant quantity to poison himself.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is it that you’re saying, Mel?”

“I’m saying that I think Jacob was deliberately poisoned.” There, I’d said it. There was an awkward silence. Sam moved back to her seat and sat down, her expression contemplative as she tried to follow my logic. Michael merely scoffed.

“You think someone murdered Jacob? Why?”

“I don’t know why,” I admitted. “Maybe as a convenient way to make him go away. I’ve realized that there is a singular lack of sympathy for these street people. Seriously, all the comments I’ve heard about his death are pretty much what you might say about finding a dead pigeon. ‘Oh, he’s better off,’ or ‘Good riddance. He used to drive my customers away,’ or ‘At least he didn’t suffer.’ They’re all just glad that he’s gone.”

“Lack of sympathy doesn’t equate to a motive to commit murder, Mel.”

“Hey, haven’t you heard of a housewife killing her husband because of the way he chews his food? Day after day, some little annoyance grating away on someone’s nerves with no way to make it stop? And then, one day they snap.”

Michael nodded. “Yeah, but it’s a stretch.”

“This wouldn’t be unheard of, Michael,” I continued, making my case. “In Central and South America, the homeless street people – including children – were sometimes gathered up by police and never seen again. They did so in collusion with the merchants who thought their presence was making the tourists uncomfortable.”

“So you think the police chief did it?” he smiled, eager to express his sarcasm. “Or was it the pastor? Come on, Mel, tell me who I should arrest.” Michael turned to smile at Sam, thinking she would appreciate his sense of humor. Sam, however, glared back at him.

“I don’t know why you’re not taking this more seriously, Michael,” she scolded. “Melody is making some valid points. She seems to be the only person who is giving any thought to this man’s death, and you should hear her out.”

I made a mental note to swear my undying loyalty to Sam for the way she’d just backed me up. Her reprimand sobered Michael up. “Okay, Mel, is there anything else you think that I should know?”

Now that I had his full attention, I tried to keep my emotions under wraps and present my hunches calmly and logically. “Alright. So we’ve established motive, albeit among a broad pool of potential suspects. Onto the method:  it’s unlikely that Jacob would eat a sufficiently large enough quantity of poisoned feed to induce a coma, either accidentally or intentionally. But there are other ways to deliver the chemical. Alpha-chloralose is not water soluble, but it will dissolve in alcohol. Jacob was found with an empty bottle of wine. It’s possible that the wine was spiked with the poison.

“As for opportunity, anyone wishing to harm Jacob would have had ample opportunity to do so. He was vulnerable, with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and at the mercy of the charity or malevolence of others. He was a moving target, available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”

Both Sam and I watched as Michael digested this information. Finally, he said, “It’s a good theory, but it’s all speculation.”

“Which is why an autopsy needs to be performed,” I insisted.

“Like I told you earlier, Melody, there are other considerations.”

“So you don’t want to ruffle the Chief’s feathers, is that it? Well, how about a different tact? What if you were to test the wine bottle found at the scene? If it’s clean, I’ll drop the whole thing and you’ll never hear another peep out of me about this. But if there are traces of the avicide or something else in it, then you’ll request an exam. Deal?”

“And how would you get your hands on the wine bottle, Mel?”

“I would go to the library and remove it from under the sink,” I said matter-of-factly.

“You’ve got the bottle in your possession?” Michael asked, incredulously.

“Yes, I do. The Chief didn’t seem concerned. I offered to clean up after his deputy dropped it, and he was more than willing to have me do it.”

“Wow,” was all Michael could say, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s go get the bottle and I’ll have it tested. We’re sure not going to get any answers from the police. And if there’s no poison residue, you’ll let this drop, right?”

I made an X across my chest with my finger. “Promise and hope to die,” I said, before realizing that it was kind of an insensitive remark, given the context.

“Good enough for me,” Michael replied with a smirk. He looked up to see Mom and the kids approaching. “When we leave, just tell Mom you want us to see where you work. Don’t say anything about this to her. I don’t want word to get out to anyone until we’re done with the test.”

“When will I hear back from you on the results?” I persisted.

“Within the week,” Michael smiled. “I’ll have the lab expedite the tests. Good enough?”

Sam and I looked at each other and smiled. “Sure, that would be great. “Poor Michael. Caught in a crossfire between his sister and his wife, he hadn’t stood a chance. I could tell that he realized it now. Still, even more than the pressure we’d applied, I think he knew it was the right thing to do. I felt obliged to acknowledge this. “Thank you, Michael.”