Page 19 of Justice Delayed

“Thanks, Tim. I owe you. When do you think I could get a look at the files?”

Tim snickered. “She must have grown up nicely.”

Heat fanned Brogan’s cheeks despite the cool temperature inside his car. During their collegiate days, Tim always knew when Brogan was interested in a member of the opposite sex. No sense denying his interest in Melender. “I’ll admit I find her intriguing, but the fact that she served time for murder puts a damper on things romantically.”

“If you say so. I’ll give you a call once I’ve located the files.”

Brogan ended the call and snapped on his seatbelt. Putting the car into drive, he headed home. With any luck, he’d have the files in a couple of days and then he could see what, if any, evidence pointed to someone other than Melender for Jesse’s disappearance.

ChapterNine

The overhead bell announced Melender’s arrival with a soft jingle as she pushed open the door of Fox’s Music Store in Falls Church, Virginia. She loved coming to the shop, crammed with musical instruments, sheet music, and old record albums, especially near the end of the day when the store emptied of customers. It was her rare foray into the world, but she found the musty air of the shop comforting, as if musical notes hovered on the dust motes that danced in the sunlight.

“Hey, Mel. How are you today?” Jimmy Stork, the long-time owner of the independent shop, smiled from behind the counter. With a pencil tucked behind one ear and his reading glasses perched on top of his balding head, Mr. Jimmy, as he was known, appeared more like an absentminded professor than a musician. But the talented man could play nearly every instrument in his store, much to the delight of children who came in with their parents to rent or buy instruments for school bands and orchestras.

“I’m doing okay.” Melender wandered over to the counter. “Anything new?”

“Ah, I have something that I think you will enjoy.” Mr. Jimmy’s eyes sparkled as he moved from behind the counter to one of his worktables. With the flourish of a magician, he whipped off a cloth covering a boxy object.

Melender gasped. On the scarred table lay an Appalachian dulcimer. The three strings of the instrument stirred memories of sing-a-longs with family and friends. The old instrument had a battered black-walnut finish. For a long moment, she simply stared at it. It had been way too long since she’d touched, let alone played, one.

Closing her eyes, Melender could hear her grandmother ripple her fingers over the strings of a dulcimer as they sat on the porch in the cooling evening after a long day of canning in a hot kitchen. Blinking away tears, she pushed down those precious memories and sucked in a deep breath to regain her emotional balance.

“I see someone else admires my latest find as much as I do.”

A male voice behind her made Melender jump. Turning, she faced an older man in his late fifties with short salt-and-pepper hair and a closely trimmed goatee, who stood a few feet away from the table.

“She’ll be ready to join your fine collection soon enough.” The shop owner moved aside to allow the other man to examine the instrument. “Nolan Trent, this is Mel Harman.”

She nodded acknowledgement of the introduction, then both men studied her expectantly. Melender cleared her throat to banish the thick emotion that hovered there. “It reminds me of my grandmother’s dulcimer.”

Mr. Trent pointed toward the curved body with his forefinger. “I found this in a pawn shop and recognized its worth right away. Got it for a song, pardon my pun.” Mr. Trent winked at her.

No wonder the instrument had called to her like a mother’s call to her children at dusk. “Do you play?”

Mr. Trent shook his head. “I’m only a fan of the music.”

“Don’t let Nolan fool you.” Mr. Jimmy waggled a finger at Mr. Trent. “He’s a renowned scholar of American folk songs.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” the man protested. “It’s been a pleasure of mine to have studied the origins, lyrics, and instrumentation of ethnic American music.”

“What he’s not saying,” Mr. Jimmy rejoined, “is that he’s written numerous articles and several books on the subject and is considered one of the foremost authorities on this type of music.”

“Do you collect folk songs?” Melender’s curiosity overcame her normal reticence to talk with a stranger.

“Most of that work was done in the early part of the twentieth century by men like Cecil Sharp and James Madison Carpenter, who went into the mountains of West Virginia, Virginia, and North Carolina to write songs that had only been passed down orally among small communities.” Mr. Trent ran a finger down the side of the dulcimer’s smooth wood. “Their work, along with later scholars, provided the basis for continued scholarship on the subject.”

“Nolan is always on the lookout for unknown folk songs.” Mr. Jimmy kept his eyes on Melender.

Melender bit her bottom lip at the silent question behind Mr. Jimmy’s words. She rarely shared her music anymore, but the instrument’s silent strings beckoned to her as clear as the morning song of a bobwhite to its mate. Almost against her will, she stretched out her fingers to pluck the strings.

“Do you play?” Mr. Trent observed her, but for once, Melender didn’t feel like her privacy was being invaded by a stranger’s interest. His perusal had a more scholarly feel to it.

“Yes, she does.” Mr. Jimmy spoke before she could, a challenge in his eyes.

Melender started to shake her head, but the dulcimer drew her heart, its strings promising sweet memories. “May I?”

Mr. Trent nodded, and Melender gently drew the instrument toward her, leaving it on the table. Deftly, she tuned it, then she paused, closing her eyes briefly to consider which song would best fit this moment in time. The haunting tune of “Forsaken Love” overwhelmed her senses, and she played the simple melody on the dulcimer’s strings, using only her fingers as Sudie had taught her, rather than a pick. Without fully realizing it, she broke into sing.

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