Dead in D Minor

by David Crossman

  “This window opens all right, but the counterweight’s broken, so use this stick to prop it up.” She held up a stick that was kept on the sill. “Last fellow we had in here was almost decapitated one time when he was looking out the window, probably at Cindy sunning herself on the patio. Would’ve served him right.” As she spoke she searched the backyard closely.

  There was an odd scent lingering in the room. Albert sniffed.

  “That’s garlic, I’m afraid,” Sarah apologized. “At least, that’s what it smells like, though it can’t be, really. I love it myself, but poor Commander Beecham has a terrible time with it, so I just don’t use it.” She patted her stomach. “He’s one of my lodgers. You’ll meet him later. Must come from something in the ground. I swear, I can’t figure it out. Smells of sulfur sometimes, too. Something burning. Scared me half to death the first few times I noticed it. I thought the place was going to burn down around our ears.

  “It didn’t, though. So don’t let it worry you.

  “That’s where I saw him the other night,” she said, almost without breathing. She pointed out the window. “I supposed Cindy told you.”

  “I don’t . . . I’m afraid . . . “ Albert felt he had missed something.

  “No need to be,” Miz Grandy continued with a chortle. “It won’t happen again. He ran right across Ry Antrim’s back yard, jumped over the fence out there by the hydrangea bush, see? and into the woods that go down to the river.

  “I didn’t think a whole lot of it at the time mind you,” she continued. “I was just cleaning up after Stocky Hubbard moved out.” She lowered her voice and inclined her head toward him. “He found a trailer for rent down in Cleveland Hollow; just in time, too. Looks like Providence was making way for you.”

  Providence was in Rhode Island.

  Albert was so confused he almost forgot about cigarettes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . . “

  “I give elocution lessons, if you want to get rid of that stammer,” Miz Grandy volunteered. “Fifty percent discount for residents.” She let go of the curtain and it fell back in place. “You should have heard Cindy before she started with me. If ever anyone sounded like the last gourd off the turnip truck. Well? How do you like it?”

  Try as he might, Albert could attach no meaning to anything Miz Grandy had been saying. He decided that one of them was crazy. It probably wasn’t her. “I like it,” he said. He wondered what it was they were talking about, and if he really did.

  “I still can’t believe it happened, though,” said Miz Grandy. She was fluffing the pillows on the bed. “A murder, right next door! And just between you, me, and the angels, it looks like our other neighbor’s the culprit.” She pointed at the house to the north.

  There was that word again. Murder. It was following Albert. Haunting him. Already he could feel it sucking at him like tar baby. The harder he pushed, the more securely it held him. It was too late to run.

  Chapter Three

  After work Cindy took Albert to Gifford's to buy two dark-colored short-sleeved shirts with lines and patterns on them, probably to match the carpet at Miz Grandy's. He'd never have thought of that.

  Women were gifted at picking out clothes, and since Albert's sole motivating philosophy as a teacher was to give free reign to one's gift, he allowed her to select two pair of pants, a belt and some socks. However, when she reached for a package of stretchy red underwear, he drew the line.

  “No,” he said, blushing. “I have . . . what I need.”

  Albert was very particular in the matter of underwear. It had to be white, for one thing. And it had to be Fruit of the Loom. He didn’t know why, but it wasn’t a niggling question since it had never occurred to him.

  When he arrived at the dinner table that night, freshly scrubbed and combed and outfitted in the latest fashion, one of the guests remarked that, apart from the short, thick beard, he looked like a golf pro, though the price tag sewn to his rear pocket diminished the effect somewhat.

  Miz Grandy gestured to a vacant seat beside a little girl and bustled off to the kitchen. “This is Maylene,” said Cindy, who sat to her daughter's left. Maylene wore a short sleeve shirt with blue and yellow stripes, overalls, and red and white sneakers, and a glistening orb of green Jell-O, like a jewel, in the 'v' of her collar. She had a bright red bow in her short brown hair and seemed very happy about something. Albert took his seat. “She's got Mongolism,” Cindy continued. “You know what that is?”

  Albert wondered if it was contagious. He'd had some shots at school last fall, like always. They usually covered everything. “No. I don’t.” He did know where Mongolia was, though. She should ask him that.

  Maylene had a broad, flat face and happy eyes. She was smiling at him as she pressed peas into the tablecloth. “Hello, Maylene,” said Albert. He wanted to pat her shoulder, but didn't know if he should, so he kept his hands in his lap and smiled back at her. Having accomplished her design with the peas at her disposal, she began beating the table with her spoon to the accompaniment of her laughter. She had excellent rhythm, syncopating every third and fourth beat alternately. A kind of Latin American 3-4 rhythm with a jazzy counterpoint.

  “Now you put that down, hon,” Cindy said. Her voice was soft and gentle and washed over Albert like warm cream. “You don't want to show off all your tricks at once, do you?” She laughed, and Maylene laughed. Cindy raised her eyes to Albert. “Has to keep a little mystery in the relationship, don't she, Professor?” she said. There were those eyes again. Albert was reminded of a story Tewksbury had told him once, about an army laying siege to a city because of a beautiful woman. He couldn't remember her name, but if it wasn’t Cindy, it should have been,

  It seemed an idiotic notion at the time, going to all that trouble to rescue a woman who was probably perfectly happy where she was. However, if she'd had eyes like these, she might be rescued against her will.

  “Doesn't she,” Sarah corrected as she returned to the table with a large bowl of squash.

  “Doesn't she,” Cindy mimicked with a chuckle.

  “This is sweet potato casserole, Professor,” said Sarah, placing the dish in front of him.

  “Sweet potato,” Albert repeated under his breath. He'd thought it was squash.

  “There's plenty more. Down at that end is honey baked ham.” She stood on tiptoe, a better vantage from which to survey the mountains of food, and pointed to the far end of the table. “And whatever peas are out of Maylene's reach,” she pointed elsewhere. “And corn muffins and green bean casserole with cream of mushroom soup and bacon, if you don't like peas. Now, what have I forgotten?” She wiped her hands on her apron and sat down. “It'll come to me. Oh! Cranberry sauce!”

  Albert wasn't sure whether it was an exclamation or an epithet until, having jumped up from the table and trotted to the kitchen, Miz Grandy returned with the item in question and placed it in the center of the table.

  “Iced tea is on the sideboard behind you,” said a tiny black woman opposite Albert. “It's sweetened, already,” she continued. “I understand they don't sweeten tea in New England, do they, Professor?”

  Albert always put five sugars in his tea. But that was hot. “I don't . . . I haven't had much iced tea,” said Albert. A complete sentence. That was a good sign.

  “Everybody ready?” said Sarah, folding her hands. “Professor, would you say grace for us this evening.” It was not a request. Everyone bowed their heads; except Albert.

  He was in shock. Customarily he took his meals straight from the box, or can as the case may be. If it was something powdered, he ate it powdered. If it was frozen, he ate it frozen. Eating was a biological act, like breaking wind. It never occurred to him to be thankful for it. It was a nuisance. It took time from music.

  Music. His mistress. His commandant. His dominatrix. Where had she gone? All his life she had demanded every atom of his conscious and unconscious, waking and sleeping. Where was she now? The vast concert hall of his br
ain was utterly silent; windswept. Even echoes of music had faded. The orchestra pit was empty.

  “Professor?” Sarah, her head still bowed, was looking at him from beneath a furrowed brow. Seeing the look of stark terror on his face, she repented of her rash appointment. Nevertheless, the die was cast.

  Albert swallowed hard. His uncle Albert, for whom he was named, used to say grace at Thanksgiving. Albert had never paid much attention; that would have been eavesdropping. Otherwise, he'd been in school all his life and, while one may learn many useful things in school, grace was not one of them.

  “Thank you for this food,” he said slowly. He scanned the heads at the table, all were bowed. Even Maylene's. So far, so good. “And for the forks and spoons,” he continued, taking an inventory of the room. Somebody sniffed. “And for the rugs and windows . . . “ this could go on forever. “Amen.”

  There was a lot of throat clearing as, one by one, people raised their heads and exchanged meaningful glances. More smiles. Albert smiled.

  “Amen,” said Miz Grandy.

  “Amen,” said everyone but Maylene.

  “Amen,” said Maylene.

  Albert nodded. Maybe he should consider a career in the ministry.

  “So, you're from New England, Professor,” said a medium sized man with a white beard, a bald head and cheeks like a chipmunk. He sat at the end of the table opposite Miz Grandy. “What part?”

  Albert told him. “But, I was born in Maine.”

  “Is that north or south of Massachusetts?” Cindy asked, with her mouth full, drawing an admonishing gesture from Miz Grandy. “'Scuse me,” she said, swallowing. “Is Maine north or south of Massachusetts, Professor?” she asked again, leaning toward him and staring so intently it made his eyes dry.

  “I don't want you to think that I'm treating Cindy like an idiot child, Professor,” Miz Grandy interrupted. “She asked me to teach her to speak properly and to remind her whenever her manners let her down. She's a grown woman and, I believe, perfectly delightful the way she is . . . “

  “Was.” It was Cindy's turn to correct.

  “Was,” Miz Grandy agreed.

  “Here, here,” said the bearded gentleman. “Delightful.”

  “If somewhat . . . rustic, shall we say,” the landlady continued.

  “But you shoulda heard me talk. I declare,” Cindy declared, “I sounded just like Granny Clampett. And when I first got here, I didn't know a salad fork from a pruning hook. Ain't that so – isn't that so – Miz G.?” Albert could point to a similar gap in his own education. They had something else in common.

  “Be that as it may,” said Miz Grandy grandly, “I just didn't want the Professor to think I'm one of those pushy, presumptuous women who's so full of themselves that . . . “

  “Oh, he don't, do you, Professor?” said Cindy.

  Albert was glad to have had time to think. “North,” he said.

  “Pardon?” said Miz Grandy.

  “He's answering Cindy's question,” said the bearded man who had no wrinkles, Albert noticed, despite his white hair. “Maine is north of Massachusetts.”

  “That's right,” said Albert softly.

  “North,” said Cindy, closing her eyes to fill in the blank in her mental map. “It's hard to tell on the globe. Miz Grandy has this globe in the other room, where the piano is? You see it?”

  “I saw the piano,” Albert replied. He was watching how the bearded gentleman ate the sweet potatoes . . . with a fork. He would follow suit. Things like silverware had bothered him ever since his first trip to the White House . . . where they littered the table with it.

  “Well, there's a globe tucked over in the corner. You can't hardly see it unless you go right in there. Anyway, if you look at all them states up there in New England, they're all bunched together, you know? Some so small they have to write the name out in the middle of the Ocean.

  “I can't figure why they don't just lump 'em all together and make one decent-sized state out of it. Something with a short name so there'd be room to write it on there.”

  “Maine's a good-sized state, Cindy,” said the bearded man gently. He turned to Albert, who didn't notice. “I was stationed up there for two years, at Brunswick Naval Air Station.”

  Albert was enjoying his sweet potato casserole. It was like dessert – they should sell it at Dunkin’ Donuts. He was enjoying the conversation, too; he didn't have to talk, just listen.

  “Commander Beecham is retired from the Navy, Professor,” Sarah offered. “He commandedOld Ironsides for seven years, didn't you, Nicholas?”

  “In Boston, yes,” said the Commander. “Tourist duty, we called it. Enjoyed it, though.”

  “Oldest commissioned ship in the United States Navy. Real name's theU.S.S. Constitution.” Cindy volunteered proudly. “Fought in the War of 1812 against the . . . French and Indians?”

  “British,” said the Commander, with a smile.

  “British,” Cindy amended. She was completely unabashed. “See, Commander?” she said, tapping her temple, “you say something enough times, it'll fetch up here eventually. Like Velcro.”

  “Not bad, for a blonde,” said the Commander with a wink. Everybody laughed, Maylene hardest of all, because she liked the sound.

  “Commander Beecham occupies the room directly below yours, Professor,” said Sarah. “It’s exactly the same as yours, so take care you don’t go stumbling into it by accident some night. I doubt the Commander could take the shock that might result.”

  There followed a friendly laughter and for a while the conversation turned to weather and the climatic difference between New England and North Carolina. Albert was able to answer any questions put to him with a grunt or two. He found he liked honey-baked ham, as well. The only hot food he'd had in as long as he could remember – apart from what he’d had in the hospital – was the barbecue beef at the school cafeteria; it was nearest the door. He had worn hot soup on one occasion recently, though it seemed a lifetime ago. The memory made him shudder.

  Things were different in the south.

  In time, the weather blew out to sea; Sarah introduced the rest of the people around the table.

  “This is Alice Gould,” she said, with a gesture to the little black iced tea lady. She had closely cropped white hair and a round, pleasant face. Her rimless glasses magnified her eyes several sizes, giving her a perpetual look of surprise. “Alice was the town librarian until two years ago.”

  “Three,” said Alice, blinking largely.

  “Three?” said Sarah. “Surely it can't have been that long!”

  “It has,” said Alice with assurance.

  “My goodness,” said Sarah. “Years just sprout wings, don't they?”

  “They certainly fly,” said Alice, re-coining a cliché.

  There followed a momentary lull in the conversation, which Maylene finally dismembered with a long, piercing scream at the top of her lungs. Albert clapped his hands to his ears. Unfortunately, he was holding a forkful of peas at the time.

  Cindy laughed 'til her eyes watered. “I'm sorry, Professor,” she said, between breaths. “She does that sometimes. You get used to it.”

  Torquemada probably said much the same thing to his guests, thought Albert. Even he didn’t forget people like Torquemada. Who knew how many other people there were, living and dead, stuck in the uncharted folds of his brain, waiting to poke their heads out at any moment and say ‘boo!’

  “Just her contribution to the conversation,” Sarah said calmly. “Isn't that right, Maylene?”

  Maylene was laughing, very pleased with herself.

  After the peas had been picked up, Albert was introduced to Basil Carmody, a textile machinery salesman who stayed at Sarah's one week a month and whom everyone called 'Baz.’

  Carmody was taller that everyone else. Narrow from the waist up, wide from the waist down, with feet that pointed out . . . there was a word for that, but Albert couldn’t remember what it was. He had a prominent nose, a receding
chin, busy eyes, and a short crop of curly, rust-colored hair atop a thin head. He was one of those people who always seemed to be thinking what to say next.

  And 'last but not least,’ he was made acquainted with Angela Nadeau – called Angela Marie by some and just Angela by others – a soft-spoken college junior whose mother had been given a pink car for selling Mary Kay.

  Albert was surprised no one objected. In Massachusetts she'd have been arrested for selling Mary Kay. This was the south, however. Old habits die hard.

  Conversation subsided as the meal was joined in earnest. “Well, what do you make of your neighbors?” said Basil Carmody after a while. He was speaking to Sarah. “Victim on one side, killer on the other, it looks like.”

  “Marchant DuShane? They took him in, then?” said the Commander.

  A piece of ham was wedged between Carmody's front teeth. He picked at it with the nail of his little finger. “For questioning, early this morning, I guess. It'll all be in the papers tomorrow, I should imagine.”

  “Well, we knew they would,” said Sarah. “It was his knife after all?” said Sarah. She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “He said as much himself.”

  “A little hard to deny, with his initials carved in the handle,” said Miss Gould. “Everyone knew it was his anyway. He used to chase people with it when he was a boy.”

  Sarah began gathering empty dishes. “Scared me to see that little boy with that great big knife. I kept a close eye on the cat when he was about the neighborhood now, I'll tell you.”

  “Did they find his fingerprints on it?” Cindy asked.

  “Nope,” said Carmody. “Wiped clean.” Pause. “Course, it would be, wouldn't it?”

  “But his house was broken into a few days before the murder,” Sarah reminded. “He had the police over there. I saw them myself.”

  “But nothing was stolen,” said Carmody. “That's what he told them.”

  “Maybe someone stole his knife then. He just didn't notice.” Miss Gould suggested. “And used it to frame him.”