MY AIM IS TRUE (Melody The Librarian Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

“Sure. Nothing makes Mr. Van Dyke happier than putting an instrument in the hands of someone who wants to learn to play. You’ll see.”

I heard laughing and scuffing feet as the front door squeaked open. Speak of the devil; it was Cat and a young man, walking arm-in-arm. He was about her age, late twenties. Cat wore a yellow tank-top shirt and skin-tight jeans. Her breasts – which one might describe as ample – shifted provocatively, unencumbered by a bra, and her dark, shoulder-length hair was now shorter and dyed blond.

“Hi, Melody. Has my little pumpkin been good?”

“Of course she has. Well, you look different,” I said, unable to ignore her garish appearance.

Cat ran her fingers through her hair. There was a small tattoo of a black cat on the back of her left hand. Was this new, or had I not noticed it before?

“Yeah,” she smiled, mistaking my comment for a compliment. “I needed a change.”

“I like it,” I lied. The unnatural shade made her look cheap and almost…whorish. “It suits you.”

“Thanks. Melody, this is Justin. Justin Case. He’s…what should I call you, Justin, my boyfriend?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “It sounds like we’re in junior high!” Cat laughed while Justin just smirked. With his smooth face and light, curly hair, he would probably be considered good-looking by some women’s standards, but I couldn’t overlook a certain narcissistic note in his expression, as if he were posing for a photograph, Apparently, he didn’t feel the need to exchange pleasantries with me, his vanity informing him that his mere presence was sufficient. I managed a weak smile.

“Justin works at the Cooke Paper Plant up in Houghton.”

“That’s pretty far north,” I replied. Houghton was near the northern tip of the Upper Peninsula, or the U.P., as we Michiganders commonly refer to it. “It must’ve been a long drive.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, his eyes fixed on Cat, though he seemed to be speaking to me. “Usually, I get down here around eight o’clock, if the weather’s good, but I didn’t work today. I’ve taken the week off so we can go hunting.”

“I know,” Cat grinned. “Real romantic, huh? But I’m looking forward to it. Five bucks a permit, and we each get to bag one bird, so you can’t beat that. Molly, too. She gets a reduced rate ‘cause she’s just a kid.”

“An eight-year-old is allowed to hunt?” I asked.

“Yeah. They’ve got this thing called a mentoring program. Justin’s gonna be her mentor, aren’t you, Justin?”

Justin rolled his eyes. It was obvious that he wanted to be on his way.

Molly sidled up to her mom while pulling on her jacket. Cat helped her, speaking in that patronizing tone mothers use in mixed company. “You’re all excited, aren’t you, Pumpkin?”

“About what?” Molly asked, having been out of hearing range of our conversation.

“About going turkey hunting! It’ll be so fun, you’ll see.” Turning to me, she added, “I bought her the cutest little camouflage outfit. I had to let her sleep in it that night!”

Molly didn’t appear to share her mom’s enthusiasm. “I want to go to the music store,” Molly said softly. “I want to play a violin.”

“Sure, honey,” Cat said, patting Molly’s shoulder while casting a glance at me. “We will. But you can do that any time. Right now, those turkeys are expecting us.”

Justin turned and walked toward the entrance, without a word. Cat leaned down and whispered, “Go with Justin, honey. Mama will be right there.” Molly caught up to Justin and held out her hand, but Justin kept his in his jacket pockets, so Molly clutched his jacket to keep up with him. She turned and waved goodbye before disappearing around the corner.

“Thanks again for watching out for Molly today,” Cat said. Her breath smelled of cigarettes.

“You’re welcome,” I replied. I had no problem with Molly being left unattended between school and closing time when Cat was at work, but I was apprehensive about what would happen when the school year ended.

“So, Molly will be out of school pretty soon. Do you have a sitter set up for the summer?”

“Not yet, but I will,” Cat replied. “Probably get some high-school kid to watch her. But I’m more concerned about coverage at night than during the day, at least in May.”

“Oh? Are you scheduled for a lot of overtime?” I asked.

“Nah, that’s only a few hours a week. But I’ve got a side job that I’m hoping will gear up soon.”

“A side job?” I echoed. I almost hated to ask, but felt that I must. “What kind of work?”

“Cleaning houses. Yeah, a lot of folks do their spring-cleaning in May, you know, getting ready for yard sales and all that stuff. So I hope to make some extra bucks doing that.”

“At night?” I asked. That seemed kind of odd. I would’ve thought most people would’ve had someone cleaning during the day when they were at work.

“Yeah, and on weekends. I know, it’s kind of different cleaning at night, but I’ve been doing this for a few years, and I guess I have a good reputation. Customers are willing to work around my schedule. I must be doing something right, eh?”

I tried warding off the images forming in my mind. “Sure. Repeat customers are satisfied customers, I suppose. Well, if I hear anything about anyone looking to babysit evenings – or needing their houses cleaned – I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Thanks, Melody,” she smiled. “That would be real helpful…the babysitter, I mean. Well, gotta go. Thanks again.”

I thought it odd that Cat didn’t address my offer to steer customers her way. Maybe she had her own method for taking on jobs. Anyway, what did I know about the house cleaning business? I could barely clean up after myself!

“Cleaning houses?” Mom repeated, incredulously. “Cleaning their pipes is more like it! Hauling their ashes! Oh, don’t get me started on Cathy Spencer!”

Mom and I had finished dinner and were enjoying tea – green with a hint of lemon – in the living room. Mom sat in her rocker while Mao and I shared the loveseat.

“
Mom
!” I scolded, shocked by both the accusation and her phrasing, even though I’d had the same suspicions. “You don’t know that for certain. You’re just relying on gossip.”

“Well, sometimes there’s a good reason for people gossiping. This has been going on for years. Everybody knows it!”

“Has she ever been arrested for prostitution?” I asked.

“I didn’t say she wasn’t clever. You have to be clever to get away with what she’s been doing for as long as she’s been doing it. Of course, maybe she was paying off the cops to look the other way. I wouldn’t doubt that Chief Benson would be a party to that.”

“It’s still just speculation,” I scoffed. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to defend Cat; I just wanted more than slander. Where was the proof…the substance?

“Let me ask you this:  if she’s cleaning houses, why doesn’t she advertise?” Mom countered. “She never posts any ads on the community bulletin boards or at Green’s Grocery. No flyers anywhere, nor any word-of-mouth. And I’ve yet to meet one person who ever hired her!”

“That’s not conclusive,” I countered. “Most likely she advertises her services on the internet.”

“Indeed, she does,” Mom cackled ruefully. “Apparently, that’s what all these girls do today. Escorts, they call themselves. I guess that’s the new term for the oldest profession.”

“And you’ve seen these ads?”

“With my own eyes,” Mom assured me. “And speaking of advertising her services…why, she left nothing to the imagination: pictures, prices, everything that a consumer would need to make an informed purchase!”

“Photos?” I repeated. That didn’t sound very discreet.

“Well, her face was blotted out, but you could tell it was her. Plus, she even used her nickname, Cat.”

I had to ask the obvious question. “So…how did you come upon these ads, Mom?”

“Actually, it was Marian who found them. This was, maybe, two years ago. One day she found some teenage boys giggling at something at one of her computers and when she investigated, there they were, scouting hookers on the internet! In a library, of all places!” she added, indignantly.

“Libraries are for learning,” I pointed out.

“Anyway, when Marian made her discovery, she immediately called me over. Shortly afterward, she installed filters on the computers so there would be no repeat of what had happened. She was afraid Homeland Security was going to raid the library and haul her computers away!”

There was a pause as I absorbed this testimony. Finally, I said, “I guess I’ll have to see what I can find on the internet.” It’s not that I doubted what Mom thought she saw, but I needed to see it for myself.

“You’re just like your father,” Mom sighed. “He would never accept what was common knowledge to everybody else. ‘Show me the proof,’ he’d say, all Solomon-like. You both should have been lawyers…or judges, I guess.”

Mom may not have meant that as a compliment, but I certainly felt touched by the comparison. I’d always admired my dad for his calm, even temperament and sense of fairness –attributes which Mom tended to see as indecisiveness or lack of commitment.

Mom leaned forward to speak in a confidential tone. “It’s not just those ads, you know. I’ve known Cathy Spencer since she first came to town. She was pregnant,
unmarried
, and a high-school dropout. Came from Flint, if that tells you anything. Carl Tanner, who used to work at the Cooke Paper Mill, brought her here. She was working as a stripper in one of those men’s clubs down there and apparently thought Carl was well-heeled, the way he was throwing his money around. Twenty years older than her, he was, and she found out the hard truth about his finances after she’d taken the leap.

“She did get a house out of it after he died. I used to wonder why she didn’t sell the place and go back to where she came from, but folks said she was in some kind of trouble back there and people were looking for her – most likely to do with drugs.”

I sat spellbound. Mom was a repository of rumors, gossip and scandal. Someday, I’d have to ask her to sketch portraits of other Lake Hare residents. She used negativity the way some artists dabbled in surrealism: the result might be distorted, but it would lay bare a side of a subject hidden from view. Instinctively, I took her tale with a grain of salt, but I still listened. The picture she painted resonated with my intuitive feelings about Cat based on what I’d observed of her parenting skills, appearance, and general demeanor.

“I do feel sorry for that little girl of hers, though,” Mom said, perhaps in an attempt not to appear completely heartless. “I’ve even set aside clothes at the store, just for her, and have given her mom special deals. It’s always the innocent who are harmed by the carelessness of others.”

“I wonder why she even bothered to mention the housecleaning job,” I said.

“To justify the need for a babysitter at night,” Mom replied without hesitation. Mom arose and poured us each another cup of tea. “No doubt business will be picking up for her, what with hunting season here, just like the legitimate businesses.

“You know, a lot of those hunters just come up here to get away from Mama for a few days so they can act like 18-year-olds again, drinking, playing cards and…getting up to no good. I’ve read of girls coming up from as far as Detroit with little 5
th
wheel trailers to ply their trade – little mobile bordellos. Yep, they’ll be bringing Mama back little souvenirs from their trip, but it won’t be anything they’d want stuffed and displayed. They’ll be in need of a urologist more than a taxidermist, some of them.”

“Mom, you’re
awful
!” I scolded, but I couldn’t help smiling at the images her taxidermist comment conjured. That’s my mom! She doesn’t pull her punches. Gosh, it made me wonder what she’d have to say about me if someone inquired. Well, at least it wouldn’t be anything salacious. I’m way too boring for that!

But that’s okay. Once I’d had my fill of the comings and goings in Peyton Place, I took my kitty and retired to my room to scout videos and tunes on YouTube. I had a blast, discovering lots of great music from all over the globe, most of it accordion related – For Mom’s sake, I wore headphones. Before I knew it, it was midnight and Mao was making whiny sounds, pleading with me to turn out the light. It was the end of a near-perfect day, and though I hated for it to end, technically it already had. I just hoped the next one was nearly as good!

***

Okay, I confess that I did check out the websites promoting escorts in the Lake Hare area. Understandably, the pickings were slim, as they say, since Lake Hare is hardly a thriving metropolis teeming with high rollers and thrill-seekers. Which made my search much easier as there were only two ladies from which to choose, unless one ventured farther south to the tri-cities – Bay City, Saginaw and Midland – where it’s less risky to eat the wildlife than to kill it and the babes-for-rent are more bountiful, but that would require a road trip of nearly two hours, surely too long to maintain one’s sense of ardor, unless one is in the habit of planning one’s pleasure far in advance.

Anyway, I spotted Cat’s ad with a single click. Mom was right – she did use her nickname. Maybe for a smaller market like ours, that’s a smart move; that way, if she was out with her regular acquaintances and was spotted by a customer, an indiscreet “Hi, Cat! Remember me?” would be preferable to “Howdy, Sasha! Boy, you sure do look different in the daylight!” Or something like that, I imagine.

It wasn’t just the name that gave her away, though. Despite having obscured her face in her photos – the only part of her anatomy left to the imagination – I recognized the cat tattoo on the back of her left hand. And the third strike appeared in the text where she touted to her regulars, “
You’ll like me even better as a blond!
”

The body of the text was surprisingly – to me, anyway – clever and good-humored. Perhaps she had used a ghostwriter? Without getting too graphic, these were the highlights:

Hunting for fun? Then rosin up your bows and oil your muskets! It’s time to bag a bird and I’m not talking turkey! Come get lost in the woods with me!

There followed a string of strained allusions extolling the various types of “meat” one might favor before ending with a jocular “
Gobble! Gobble! Gobble!
” Gag.

Oh, and there was mention of the option of “duets” – my phrase, not hers – with a compatriot by the name of “Alexandra.” Clicking on the other local ad posted on the site, it did indeed belong to Alexandra. Her ad was more austere and businesslike with no photos, just a brief description noting blond hair, 26 years old, and a “discreet” bedside manner. Unlike Cat, Alexandra required references.

I couldn’t help wondering whose ad was more effective for commercial purposes. I would think that Cat’s playful and more explicit approach might entice those who were hesitant about indulging in this sort of transaction. It’s all a rather cold, calculated endeavor when you think about it, and not without risk for both the provider of services and the potential customer. I felt that Cat’s more personable approach might succeed in lowering one’s resistance, especially for a new customer.

Alexandra, on the other hand, chose a different tack:  less is more. Her lack of details suggested an air of exclusivity, of mystery, as if it were beneath her to post photos or employ a hard-sell approach. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, but I was reminded of the adage:
If you have to ask how much it costs, you probably can’t afford it
.