Page 32 of Justice Delayed

Her fingers itched to touch it, to look inside the body for the mark she was beginning to believe would be there. Somehow, she managed to refrain. “Did you figure out how old it is?”

“Once we got the grimy buildup removed, we could see more clearly the marks inside the body.” Mr. Jimmy paused.

Melender gazed at him, dead certain she knew what he would say. “John Scales of Floyd Co. Virginia, 1843,” she volunteered.

“How did you know that?” Mr. Trent’s voice had an edge to it.

She drew in a deep breath and laid her hand gently on the instrument’s body. “Because I’m nearly certain this was my great-grandmother’s dulcimer.”

“Your great-grandmother’s.” Mr. Trent shook his head. “Sir, I think you have some explaining to do.” Anger tinged his words. “Is this some kind of set up? Is she about to accuse me of stealing her dulcimer?”

Melender staggered back from the table as memories of the police snapping handcuffs around her wrists and the humiliation of a body search flooded her senses. The shop receded as the images flashed through her mind like an old-fashioned flip book. A booking photo, followed by pressing her fingertips on a screen, and ultimately the clang of the cell door as the booking officer walked away.

“Mel?” Mr. Jimmy’s voice broke through the chaotic scene in her mind. “Sit down. It’s okay.” He guided her into a chair, then placed gentle pressure on the back of her neck, directing her head between her knees.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t going back to jail. She wasn’t being arrested. It was all a misunderstanding that she could clear up as soon as she got her breath back. Her breathing slowed, and the memories faded. After blinking, she raised her head.

Mr. Jimmy, his brow furrowed, held out a bottle of water, which she took between both hands. Good, her hands had stopped shaking. She drank half the contents, then sat up all the way.

“Better?” Mr. Jimmy pulled up another chair and sat down, waving Mr. Trent to a third chair on the other side of the table. While Mr. Trent brought the chair around, Mr. Jimmy patted her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Melender stared at the owner, his words tumbling in her mind. In his eyes, she saw he knew her true identity, had maybe always known her background, and had still welcomed her into his shop. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and she furiously blinked them back.

“Is she okay?” Mr. Trent sounded a bit less angry now, but one look at his face showed that he still wasn’t convinced he hadn’t been had.

Mr. Jimmy turned to his client. “You’ve been coming to my store for going on six years now. Do you think I would be involved in anything underhanded?”

Mr. Trent leaned back in his chair. “Not intentionally. But maybe she’s the instigator.” He looked at Melender. “I did some research on Mel Harman. With a voice like yours, I figured you couldn’t possibly be an unknown singer. Didn’t find any recordings, but I found plenty about a Melender Harman, who came from the Appalachian Mountains and who spent seventeen years behind bars for killing of her one-year-old cousin.”

“I served my time.”

“What are you trying to pull now with claims that this dulcimer is your great-grandmother’s?” Tension rolled off Mr. Trent like water from a duck’s back.

“You’ve got this all wrong, Nolan,” Mr. Jimmy said, but Melender laid a hand on his shoulder briefly.

“It’s okay, Mr. Jimmy.” She laced her fingers tightly together. “That dulcimer has been in my family for generations, ever since one of my maternal ancestors bought it new from John Scales. There’s another mark inside, to the right of the Scales mark. It’s the outline of a small wood anemone blossom, a wildflower native to the Appalachian Mountains.”

Mr. Trent glanced at Mr. Jimmy, who nodded his agreement.

Melender continued. “I brought the dulcimer with me after Sudie, my great-grandmother, died, and I came to live with my Aunt Ruby and her family in McLean. I hoped my aunt would keep the dulcimer—after all, it was her heritage, too—but I suspect that she found it and took it to a pawn shop after I went away.” She drew in a deep breath to distill the pain building from yet another example of her aunt’s hatred of her. “Where you found it.”

She looked Mr. Trent straight in the eyes. “I’m not accusing you of stealing it, nor am I asking for it back, Mr. Trent. To be honest, I’m thankful that it will have a good home because I feared my aunt had destroyed it.”

She might have said the right things, but her heart ached with a sorrow that ran deeper than a mine shaft at seeing Sudie’s dulcimer again in the hands of someone else.

Mr. Trent’s shoulders had relaxed a fraction during her explanation. “I see.” He turned to Mr. Jimmy. “Did you know this touching story?”

Melender detected a slight emphasis on the word touching but kept her face impassive, although inwardly, she flinched at the tone. Her time in prison had taught her to master the art of appearing indifferent and unaffected by what was happening around her, and it served her well in situations where emotions could tip her hand too much.

“I knew Mel played the dulcimer and her fondness for folk songs, but not about this particular instrument,” Mr. Jimmy replied in an even tone. “That’s why I arranged for the two of you to meet.”

“Because she played the dulcimer.” Mr. Trent didn’t sound as aggravated.

“Yes, and because I knew you were always on the lookout for rare folk songs.” Mr. Jimmy nodded to Melender. “She knows some I’ve never heard.”

So Mr. Jimmy wasn’t just encouraging her to sing for his own benefit. He had Mr. Trent in mind all along. Melender didn’t know whether to be upset or grateful at the shop owner’s idea to bring her and someone who collected folk songs together.

Mr. Trent unfolded his hands and stood. “Now that this matter has been resolved, I must be going.”

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