Chapter 13

Brogan thanked the waitress for his coffee and settled back into a booth at the 29 Diner. Melender texted that she was on her way, so he organized his thoughts on the story at hand. Usually, he had no trouble focusing on an article, but a certain blue-eyed woman who was running late this morning had become a distraction. Sure, he hadn’t dated much in his exile, but only because he hated seeing pity or disgust in a woman’s eyes when she found out he wasn’t a hot-shot journalist, or worse, had read about his inglorious fall from grace. He resisted the urge to smile as he recalled getting up well before his alarm clock to work out, then shower, shave, and dress in a pair of khaki pants and a new button-down shirt.

“Sorry I’m a little late.” Melender slid into the booth opposite him. “I decided to stop by my house to clean up a little bit after work.”

A subtle floral scent tickled his nose, and he breathed in deeply. Melender’s long hair, tightly braided and wound in a single bun at the crown of her head, appeared damp. So he wasn’t the only one wanting to make a good impression.

She smiled as the waitress stopped at the booth holding a mug and a coffee pot. “Would you like coffee too?”

“Yes, please.”

As the waitress refilled Brogan’s cup, Melender picked up the menu.

“You folks ready to order?” The waitress poured coffee into Melender’s mug.

“I always order the same thing,” Melender said. “Are you ready, Brogan?”

He nodded.

Melender turned to the waitress. “Biscuits and gravy with two scrambled eggs.”

Brogan ordered the Farmer’s Wife platter with two eggs over easy, two strips of bacon, and two pancakes. When the waitress left, he smiled at Melender. “Do they make good biscuits and gravy here?”

“Not as good as Sudie did, but this is one of the few places that comes close.”

Her wistful tone tugged at his heart, but he tamped that down. He needed to approach this—her—with as much objectivity as he could. Otherwise, his story would be compromised. But instead of asking her a question related to the kidnapping, he wanted to know about her upbringing. “Sounds like you were very close with your grandmother.”

“Sudie was my great-grandmother.” A smile graced her face. “Growing up, I saw Sudie every day. I don’t remember my mother much at all, only bits and pieces.” Her smile faded. “She died when I was three.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Sudie was like a mother to me, so I didn’t mourn the loss as much as I might have if my mother had lived longer.” Melender picked up her coffee with steady hands, but he caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes before she blinked the moisture away. “What about your family?”

These days, Brogan rarely spoke with his parents. After his disgrace, they had even less interest in their middle son, preferring to spend time with his older brain surgeon sister and younger lawyer brother. His father put a premium on success, while his mother only wanted to talk about positive things, not Brogan’s struggles. Brogan had been a close part of the family circle until his journalistic life imploded in such a public manner. “It’s complicated.”

“Families generally are.”

Her wry observation loosened his tongue, and he sketched a basic outline of his parents and siblings without conscious effort. “I haven’t seen them in a couple of years.”

“Not even for the holidays?” Her incredulous look sharply reminded him that she had spent every special occasion away from her family while in prison.

“It wasn’t on purpose, at least not on my part. Two years ago, my parents and brother flew out to visit my sister and her husband in San Francisco for Christmas. I was invited, but plane fare around the holidays was out of my budget. Last December, they all decided to spend the last two weeks of the year on a cruise around the Hawaiian Islands, but again, the cost of the cruise and airfare was more than I could afford to spend.”

A sharp stab of pain hit him at the memory of telling his mom the cruise was out of his financial reach. His well-to-do parents hadn’t offered to help. It was like she’d barely heard him, her voice rolling on about the challenges of packing for a cruise in the dead of winter. When he’d jumped in to ask when he could stop by to visit them before or after their trip, she put him off with a “We’ll get back to you on that, darling. You know how hectic things can be before a trip, and how tired we’ll be when we return.” In the end, he’d received a photo card featuring pictures of his siblings and parents against the backdrop of touristy Hawaiian settings and a pre-printed message. “Our family vacation.”

Melender touched his hand, yanking him back from those memories. “Now it’s my turn to say I’m sorry.”

He didn’t pull back but turned his hand over to lace his fingers through hers. For a second, he thought he’d scared her off. But she didn’t move. The warmth of her fingers countered the roughness of her skin. Without looking at her, he concentrated on their joined hands.

“Nothing to be sorry about. I sometimes feel like I was born into the wrong family. My mom, my dad, my brother, my sister, and even my brother-in-law all seem to be focused on climbing to the top. Of what, I haven’t figure out.” He rubbed his thumb along the top of her hand. “When I look back at my own mistakes, I think part of why I took those shortcuts was to earn my parents’ approval. To show them that I could find real success in journalism. But of course, that didn’t turn out so well.”

The waitress stood by their booth, steaming plates of food in her hands. “I have biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs and the Farmer’s Wife platter.”

Brogan released Melender’s hand as the waitress set the plates on the table. After the woman inquired about them needing anything else and they declined, she left the booth.

He snuck a glance at his beautiful companion. Talk about good timing. If the waitress hadn’t arrived when she did, he might have spilled even more of his guts.

“I’m starved. How about you?”

“Me too.”

She bowed her head. These days, prayer was something Brogan did more frequently. The faith of his childhood—instilled during his summer visits with his aunt and uncle—had become much more real to him in the dark days after his exile. He might not talk about it, but it was ever present.

He had to find out if Melender was blessing the food. “Would you like me to ask the blessing?”

Her head came up, surprise written in the wide eyes. “Are you a Christian?”

No one ever asked him that directly. “Yes, I am. Are you?”

She nodded. “I would be glad for you to pray over our meal.”

“Dear God, please bless our food and our conversation. In Jesus’s name. Amen.” He picked up his fork. He’d wanted to grill her about her faith and if it was a jailhouse conversion. Instead, he told her about the FBI files. “I hope to hear back from the bureau this week.”

“That’s fantastic.”

The hope in her eyes made him inwardly wince. “Melender, the FBI conducted a very thorough investigation into the kidnapping. If they concluded you were guilty, then I seriously doubt the files would have anything that would prove otherwise.”

To her credit, she didn’t flinch at his words. After putting her fork down, she leaned toward him. “You read the transcript. The evidence was only circumstantial. It was the testimony of my aunt and others who convinced the jury of my guilt.”

“That might be true, but that doesn’t mean the FBI files will have anything that would exonerate you.” He crunched on a piece of bacon.

“Will that be everything the bureau had relating to the case?”

“As far as I know.”

“That means we’ll be able to see who else was on their suspect list before they zeroed in on me.” She took another bite.

He hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose that could be true.”

“Will you let me know when you have the files?”

Ah, there was the rub. To stay objective, he should keep her well away from his investigation. But Melender’s statement of faith tipped the balance in her favor. “I’ll give you a call.”

Brogan wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do, but to get a clear picture of the players involved, he needed her input. He only hoped it wouldn’t compromise the investigation.

* * *

Melender pulledinto the parking lot of Fox’s Music and cut the engine, thankful once more for the We Are His Hands ministry that taught her to drive and gave her a good used car to help her get back on her feet after her release. Jazzed from her breakfast meeting with Brogan, she stepped into the humid morning. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and hustled to the door.

In her wildest imaginings, she had never once considered that Brogan would turn out to be a fellow believer. Maybe that’s why she instinctively felt he could be trusted. His avowal of impartiality was exactly what she wanted. She needed someone to look at the evidence and the facts without a bias toward her guilt or innocence. Perhaps his faith would ensure a fair rendering of his ultimate verdict.

A blast of cold air brushed over her as she opened the door, the sudden cooling of her moist skin giving her shivers. She hurried to the back of the shop where the owner displayed instruments for customers to try.

Jimmy Stork stood talking with Mr. Trent, but her eyes immediately strayed to the instrument on the tabletop. Mr. Trent’s dulcimer had undergone a metamorphosis since Monday with the addition of new strings and a thorough cleaning. Now that the dirt and grime had been removed, two delicate cutouts near the bottom of the tear-shaped body were more visible. Her heart pounded.

“Mel, I’m glad you could join us.” Mr. Jimmy nodded as she stopped by the table. “You remember Nolan Trent?”

“Yes. Good morning, Mr. Trent.” Melender smiled, but the man didn’t reciprocate. In fact, she would have labeled his posture as defensive with his arms tightly folded across his chest, but she figured it had nothing to do with her and returned her gaze to the dulcimer. “It cleaned up nicely.”

Mr. Jimmy laughed. “That’s an understatement.”

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.”

Mr. Jimmy got to his feet. “I’ll pack the dulcimer in its case.” He drew a leather case from under the table and nestled Sudie’s dulcimer inside.

Melender fought back tears at seeing the beloved instrument disappear from view as Mr. Jimmy lowered the lid. It was silly to feel such pain at being separated from a piece of wood and some strings, but it was almost like losing Sudie all over again.

If she didn’t leave now, she would break down. On her feet, she choked out, “Thank you for letting me see the dulcimer.”

Melender rushed for the exit, not looking back at the two men or the beautiful instrument that had been such an integral part of her mountain upbringing.