AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"C sharp," Boling said without looking up from the screen.
Dance was surprised. "You a musician?"
"No, no. But I have perfect pitch. Just a fluke. And I don't know what to do with it. No musical talent whatsoever. Not like you."
"Me?" She hadn't told him her avocation.
A shrug. "Thought it might not be a bad idea to check you out. I didn't expect you to have more Google hits as a songcatcher than a cop. . . . Oh, can I say cop?"
"So far it's not a politically incorrect term." Dance went on to explain that she was a failed folksinger but had found musical redemption in the
project that she and Martine Christensen operated--a website called American Tunes, the name echoing Paul Simon's evocative anthem to the country from the 1970s. The site was a lifesaver for Dance, who often had to dwell in some very dark places because of her work. There was nothing like music to pull her safely out of the minds of the criminals she pursued.
Although the common term was "songcatcher," Dance told him, the job description was technically "folklorist." Alan Lomax was the most famous--he'd roam the hinterland of America, collecting traditional music for the Library of Congress in the midtwentieth century. Dance too traveled around the country, when she could, to collect music, though not Lomax's mountain, blues and bluegrass. Today's homegrown American songs were African, Afro-pop, Cajun, Latino, Caribbean, Nova Scotian, East Indian and Asian.
American Tunes helped the musicians copyright their original material, offered the music for sale via download and distributed to them the money listeners paid.
Boling seemed interested. He too, it seemed, trekked into the wilderness once or twice a month. He'd been a serious rock climber at one time, he explained, but had given that up.
"Gravity," he said, "is nonnegotiable."
Then he nodded toward the bedroom that was the source of the music. "Son or daughter?"
"Daughter. The only strings my son's familiar with come on a tennis racket."
"She's good."
"Thank you," Dance said with some pride; she had worked hard to encourage Maggie. She practiced with the girl and, more time-consuming, chauffeured her to and from piano lessons and recitals.
Boling typed and a colorful page popped up on the laptop's screen. But then his body language changed suddenly. She noticed he was looking over her shoulder, toward the doorway.
Dance should have guessed. She'd heard the keyboard fall silent thirty seconds before.
Then Boling was smiling. "Hi, I'm Jon. I work with your mom."
Wearing a backward baseball cap, Maggie was standing in the doorway. "Hello."
"Hats in the house," Dance reminded.
Off it came. Maggie walked right up to Boling. "I'm Maggie." Nothing shy about my girl, Dance reflected, as the ten-year-old pumped his hand.
"Good grip," the professor told her. "And good touch on the keyboard."
The girl beamed. "You play anything?"
"CDs and downloads. That's it."
Dance looked up and wasn't surprised to see twelve-year-old Wes appear too, looking their way. He was hanging back, in the doorway. And he wasn't smiling.
Her stomach did a flip. After his father's death, Wes could be counted on to take a dislike to the men that his mom saw socially--sensing them, her therapist said, as a threat to their family and to his father's memory. The only man he really liked was Michael O'Neil--in part because, the doctor theorized, the deputy was married and thus no risk.
The boy's attitude was hard for Dance, who'd been a widow for two years, and at times felt a terrible longing for a romantic companion. She wanted to date, she wanted to meet somebody and knew it would be good for the children. But whenever she went out, Wes became sullen and moody. She'd spent hours reassuring him that he and his sister came first. She planned out tactics to ease the boy comfortably into meeting her dates. And sometimes simply laid down the law and told him she wouldn't tolerate any attitude. Nothing had worked very well; and it didn't help that his hostility toward her most recent potential partner had turned out to be far more insightful than her own judgment. She resolved after that to listen to what her children had to say and watch how they reacted.
She motioned him over. He joined them. "This is Mr. Boling."
"Hi, Wes."
"Hi." They shook hands, Wes a bit shy, as always.
