Page 29 of Save the Drama for your Mama
“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s good to have hobbies. Healthy even.”
Melody squinted at me. “Then what’s yours?”
“No comment.”
She laughed. “Of course.”
I took another draft of the smoothie and set it down, my thoughts returning to the mysterious man who looked so much like me. “Hey, I wanted to ask you about something.” I handed the photo to Melody. “Any idea where this was taken, based on the house? Since you’re the historical building expert and all, I thought you might know.”
Melody tilted her head and studied it. “That’s an early 1900s Craftsman-style home, very similar to my friend Abigail’s house.” She traced her fingers over the image. “Based on that, along with the palm trees in the background, and the vintage black license plate on the car, I’m almost positive this picture was taken right here in Southern California.”
I glanced at the photo with renewed interest. “Seems like a good theory.”
Her eyes were dancing, caught up in the mystery. “Are you thinking of trying to track him down? I’m in. I’ve always considered being a detective as a side job.”
Underneath her prickly exterior, Melody really did have a passion for history and mystery. And right now, that passion might help me unlock secrets from my own past.
“I’ve been thinking about it, yes.” I took the photo back from her. “After work hours, though. I need to be writing during the day, and I’m guessing you have work to do as well.”
Melody nodded, looking a little disappointed. “Yeah . . . I have five more minutes left on my lunch, though.” She glanced over at the chest and shrugged.
I sighed and gestured to the chest. “Five minutes.”
“Yay!” she said, clapping her hands together like a little girl, unable to hide her enthusiasm.
As I dug through the old trunk, moving aside dusty books and worn clothes, my hand brushed against something hard and wooden. “What do we have here?” I pulled out a carved wooden box.
“Oh, wow—it’s an antique music box,” Melody said, leaning closer and running her hand across it. “This was handmade from rare Moroccan thuya wood. It must be over a hundred years old.”
I ran my fingers over the carvings depicting flowers and vines, then gave the wind-up key a few turns before setting the box on the table.
A haunting song began to play, the combs plunking out a tune that was unrecognizable. We both stood there entranced as the song filled the attic. Even my dog seemed to be under the spell of those notes. After about thirty seconds, the music slowed, then halted.
“That was a little spooky,” Melody said.
I nodded. “You’re not kidding. I don’t think the song is supposed to sound like that. Maybe it’s broken.”
“Maybe . . .” Melody looked around the attic. “But did you notice there’s a weird aura around us, suddenly? I think we’re not the only ones in here. I can feel it.” She gave a little shudder.
I froze, staring at her. “Are you serious right now?”
Her face was dead serious, but then her bottom lip curled up. “Nah, I’m just messin’ with ya.” She laughed and playfully pushed my shoulder.
“That’s not funny,” I said, so close to believing her.
I wound the key again and then released it.
The same tune resumed, then trailed off once more. Frowning, I turned it over in my hands, inspecting the underside.
Curious, I shook it near my ear.
Something slid and clunked inside.
“Did you hear that?” Melody said. “There’s something loose inside.”
I handed the box to her. “But where?”
Instinctively, she pried open a bottom panel, and reached her fingers inside the velvet lining, then opened her palm to show me something.
