Requiem for Ashes

by David Crossman

  "Miss Bjork."

  "I'm sorry I yelled at you last night," she said. "I was . . . the place was . . . "

  "It's my fault," Albert interjected; something Albert never did. But it was true. He should never have stashed Tewksbury at Miss Bjork's. "There was a spill and a burn."

  "Two burns."

  Albert pictured his mother's house going up in flames. That was sure to attract attention. "It was my fault. I'll pay for it."

  "Yes it was. And you will," Miss Bjork agreed. "I've already made up the bill and put it in the mail . . . I did it last night. But . . . I shouldn't have yelled at you."

  Albert nodded.

  "I met Joanne Alter," Miss Bjork resumed after an apologetic silence. Albert stopped nodding and waited. "She's a sweet kid. She decided to have the baby."

  ‘Decided?’ The word sat at the juncture of Albert's brows like a fat lady on a waterbed. "Decided?" Was there an option? Biology, witchcraft, alchemy, cosmetic surgery, as far as Albert was concerned they were all cut of the same cloth. Equally unfathomable.

  "A beautiful baby girl. Joanne's aunt, sister of Alter’s late wife, is helping out while Joanne finishes school at Amherst."

  "Did you talk to her . . . about Glenly?"

  The ensuing pause was deep with feminine emotions which Albert didn't rush. "Yes. Yes I did. She's an amazing girl, Albert. No bitterness. I mean, she was hurt; used. She realizes all that, and it still hurts, but she loves that kid so much. You should see them together. She's not the kind to let resentment fester. She knows that kind of nurtured hatred eats up peoples' lives. She said that herself. That from a nineteen-year-old."

  Albert pulled on his pants. "And her father?"

  "Well, something interesting did turn up there. Seems he was a Green Beret in Vietnam. There were pictures of him in uniform on the mantel. Hardly the past I would have imagined for such a meek fellow. He was decorated four times. You never know . . . still waters and all."

  "You never know." Why hadn't somebody made a religion out of that? Or at least a song. It was so simple.

  "He has no alibi for the day of the murder. He confessed that freely. Says he was at home, correcting papers." She paused to let her thoughts catch up. "I'd hate to think . . . "

  So did Albert. Every time he did, things got more complicated. "I guess you haven't heard about Inspector Naples."

  "Naples?"

  Albert recapitulated the events of the preceding evening, omitting only Tewksbury's part in them. He was not prepared for Miss Bjork's reply.

  "Tewksbury did it."

  "What?"

  "He must have! He was prowling around your place; maybe he was trying to contact you. That's it! I bet he was trying to get in touch with you. What was Naples doing there?"

  "He thinks I know where Tewksbury is." True enough.

  "Grasping at straws," Miss Bjork pronounced. "He's getting desperate. Still, he was there. He saw Tewksbury, or Tewksbury saw him, or they saw each other, and Naples ends up on the receiving end of a flowerpot. That must be it."

  Albert heard her take a deep, long breath. "Then he's still in town. hiding out somewhere. I hate to say this, Professor, Albert, but it doesn't make it look any better for him. I mean, if he can smash a police detective over the head like that . . . it doesn't make it difficult to suppose him capable of a poisoning? Maybe your cigarette theory isn't holding up to the light of day."

  Albert wished he could tell her more, but felt things would become infinitely more confusing if he did. She was a lawyer, after all; one of those whose job was to complicate things. He said nothing.

  "But that woman that . . . "

  "Daphne Knowlton," Albert volunteered.

  "Daphne Knowlton. That's the strangest thing I ever heard. I'll have to sleep on that one. Imagine," she imagined. "She said she didn't want him to see?"

  "What?"

  "You said she told you to come to the top of the stairs into the shadows because she didn't wanthim to see. Him who?"

  "Who?" Albert said, or thought. "I don't know. I mean," he shrugged.

  "You think someone was following her?"

  "I don't know. She's a very . . . upset person," said Albert. "I don't know."

  "If someone was following her, maybetheyhit Naples. Itmust have been Tewksbury."

  Albert was beginning to wonder what it was about Tewksbury that made him seem so guilty. It was dangerous to walk the streets with everyone jumping to conclusions.

  "Well, at least that explains what happened to you," said Miss Bjork. "Poor thing." Whether this applied to Albert or to Daphne was not fully evident. "Do you know where I can find her?"

  "No," said Albert. "We thought . . . I thought she was in New Hampshire . . . they said she went home after . . . that night."

  "I can't believe anyone could be so despicable." She lowered her voice. "Between us, Professor, whoever killed Glenly . . . if it's Tewksbury or, whomever . . . well, someone would’ve had to do it eventually." Pause. "I shouldn't've said that."

  There was a knock at the door. Albert excused himself after agreeing to meet Miss Bjork that evening, hung up and answered the door.

  A young man in a gray suit stood in the hall amid the earthy remains of the flowerpot. He identified himself as "Sergeant Lucci, Police."

  Lucci shoveled Albert inside with businesslike alacrity and admitted himself to Albert'ssanctum sanctorum.

  As Albert cleared a place for Lucci to sit, he took the compass of him with a couple of glances. The officer was about Albert's height and similarly dark-haired. His full mustache was trimmed with military precision. He was built like a cornet, with no more ornamentation than necessary to the job. Probably in his late twenties. Married. His Italian name and the St. Christopher medal he wore around his neck combined to make him Catholic, probably had more than one child. His nails were stubbed but not bitten, traces of gray paint were evident between the cuticle and nail on one of his fingers. A Band-Aid on his thumb reminded Albert of the time he'd smashed his finger with a hammer. A handyman, perhaps? So much was gained in an unobtrusive glance or two. Albert found himself enjoying the exercise but, remembering Dr. Williams, kept the results to himself.

  "Well, Professor," Sergeant Lucci began as he walked around the room with his eyes, "there was some excitement on your doorstep last night."

  "Yes. Someone hit Detective Naples on the head with the flowerpot." He could put the key in the mailbox from now on, but that's the first place they looked, isn't it? "Is he all right?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. As well as can be expected, I guess." His eyes lighted on Albert and rummaged through his face for a moment. "He's in and out of consciousness. No permanent damage, they say." A busy silence followed while the sergeant plumbed the depths of Albert's pupilless eyes. "What was he doing on your doorstep, Professor?"

  Didn't he know? "He wanted to search my apartment again."

  "For Tewksbury?"

  Albert nodded. "He thinks I've put him somewhere."

  If Albert had known how disarming he could be, his innocence would have worked against him.

  "Then, you were home when it happened?"

  "No," said Albert. "I had just gone out. I was on my way to Miss . . . to visit someone. I met the inspector outside and he said he wanted to search my apartment and he came up here."

  "And you followed?"

  "It's embarrassing when strangers go through your things," Albert said. "I kept walking . . . and stopped at a phone booth to call a friend." How closely could he skirt the truth without departing from it?

  "Did you see anyone else?"

  Albert thought of Daphne Knowlton. She'd had enough trouble. "After that?" The sergeant nodded, giving Albert permission to prevaricate. "No."

  "How did you find out?"

  "There were lights. And sirens."

  "While you were on the phone?"

  Albert nodded.

  "So you went home?"

  "I went to the bus station."

  "The bus stat
ion?" The sergeant sounded like Albert, repeating things he didn't understand. "Why there?"

  "Someone was hurt," said Albert. "At the apartment there was an ambulance." He looked the sergeant squarely in the eye. "I got sick once when I saw someone hurt. It just made things worse for everyone."

  It was the sergeant's turn to nod, which he did, with a twitch.

  "The bus station was open. So I went there," Albert explained. "They have cigarette machines. I needed cigarettes.”

  "You didn't go to your friend’s?"

  Albert shook his head. "It was getting late,” he said. “She doesn’t smoke."

  The sergeant hadn't written anything in his notebook yet, though he'd started to a couple of times. "Who were you talking to on the phone?"

  "My friend."

  "The one you were going to see?"

  "I was going to see my friend," Albert said. "Yes."

  "What was her name?"

  There was no way out. "Miss Bjork."

  "Bjork? The lawyer?" Lucci's eyebrows contracted sharply, then relaxed by degrees as a trail of conclusions occurred to him. "She handled Tewksbury, didn't she?"

  Albert shuddered to think the depths Tewksbury's imagination would have plumbed had he heard the question. Albert was glad he wasn't there. "She lost."

  Lucci was prompted to write something, but gave up. "What were you talking to her about?"

  The conversation came vividly to mind. "Housekeeping?"

  "Housekeeping?"

  Albert explained the facts, carefully avoiding any archaeological inference, adding that he had stayed at Miss Bjork's while she was out of town because of what the police had done to his apartment. He hadn't planned to say it, but he liked it when it came out; while it wasn’t the whole truth, it was wholly true. He’d have to remember that if ever he found himself in court again.

  Albert didn't strike Lucci as the type to invent so many details, and he clearly wasn't thinking on his feet. From Lucci's point of view only one option remained. He folded his notebook and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. stood up, and held out his hand, which Albert shook. "Thank you for your time, Professor," he said, and turned to leave.

  Albert habitually pushed his fingers through his thick rebellion of hair and the furrow of stubble that ran along the side of it. "Tell Inspector Naples I said . . . I hope he's better." Pause to let a thought catch up. "I know how he feels."

  "I'll do that, Professor," said Lucci, and left. "Somebody should clean up the mess," he called back from the hall. Albert closed the door.

  "Somebody should clean up this mess," he repeated, but he didn't have the flowerpot in mind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Albert arrived at Miss Bjork's not long after the appointed time. Her hair was down around her shoulders. She wore a sweater of some soft-looking material which, though cut in a modest ‘vee,’ was sufficient to confound Albert's concentration for the remainder of the evening. She wore something else . . . pants or a skirt. She must have. But there was no trace of the lawyer. Nothing but a woman with all the fuzz on, and it confused Albert's heart and hormones to the core.

  He was glad he'd shaved and brushed his teeth.

  The night was like no other in Albert's life. Over a light dinner they summarized the events of the past few days, then the narrow trickle of conversation joined a wider flow of topics about which Miss Bjork did most of the talking. Albert nodded and smiled and, though he couldn't remember a word she said, sat in a stupefied expanse of awe so profound that he didn't recognize one of his own pieces playing on the stereo in the background.

  Miss Bjork was comfortable and relaxed. But he wasn't in her company, he was in her presence, the warmth of which made sweat bead on his upper lip.

  For the first time in his life, Albert was enchanted.

  It was snowing as he walked home, but he didn't notice. The flakes evaporated in the warm glow of his thoughts long before they got to him. The dammed river of music within him overflowed in fits and starts - like an over-full cauldron being carried by a drunkard - sending frothy fragments of music sloshing into the depths of his subconscious.

  It was Saturday night.

  Sunday passed uneventfully. No one called. No one knocked. No one needed Albert. But Miss Bjork was everywhere, and Albert had only one place to put her.

  Monday morning Albert went to school. Everyone had some word of welcome, and trusted he was recovered from his misadventure. He arrived late for his first class to find someone else teaching it. It was the right room, the one with the cracked window, they were the right students, as far as he could tell, but there was someone else teaching them. He was just about to leave, to go find another job, when one of the students rose and began clapping, then another, and another until all were on their feet.

  Albert looked behind him; there was no one there. Even the teacher was clapping.

  "Welcome back, Professor," she said as she stepped aside and gestured widely toward the lectern.

  Albert hesitated. "Now, where was I?" he said. The tension dissolved in laughter. The Professor was back.

  But something had changed for Albert. For the first time he found himself describing not just how sounds came together to make music but what the music expressed.

  Someone had moved into the vacancy in his heart.

  Miss Moodie moved in early to renew her franchise. She hailed him on his way to the cafeteria.

  "Professor!" She was at the far end of the hall, one arm loaded with books and a purse, the other swinging purposefully as a means of locomotion. Her huge breasts, insufficiently restrained, bounced out of synch in opposite directions. A lesser woman would have been thrown irredeemably off course at least, if not halved outright. Miss Moodie's lower regions, however, vigorous in the opposite extreme, provided a sort of gyroscopic counterbalance to keep her on course.

  This was the hall in which Albert had collided with Daphne Knowlton. Miss Moodie burst through thick golden shafts of sunlight as if she was wading through fields of amber grain cut neatly in cubes prior to stacking. Albert was reminded of the rows of moonlight that marched up the wall with military precision that night.

  Moodie nudged alongside Albert and drew him along in her slipstream toward the cafeteria.

  "So grand to see you back among the living," she said. She remembered Albert's handicapped former roommate. "Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn't've said that. Well, that's me all over. My good sense is always playing catch-up, 'ey, Professor? Of course, you know . . . Going to lunch?"

  Albert knew he didn't have to answer.

  "This is where it happened, isn't it? I mean, the . . . well. It's good to have you back, is all I can say," she said. But it wasn't. "Did you take class this morning? Oh, look, it's Lane! Walter! Look who's back!"

  Albert wanted to talk to Lane, so he allowed himself to be drawn into the little social vortex into which Miss Moodie sucked all within earshot.

  Throughout lunch Albert's greatest struggle, apart from cutting the barbecue beef with his plastic knife, was to keep his stories straight, a necessity that aggravated his digestion. He found it best to say as little as possible, at least until he could get Lane alone, which was another dilemma. He thought about Miss Bjork and later everyone agreed he seemed in remarkably high spirits.

  It turned out, however, that he and Lane ended up alone at the table through natural attrition, thanks to the other demands upon the time of those present. Lane seemed unusually thoughtful. He wrung his hands constantly, fiddling with the large school ring on his left hand or the thick silver chain on his wrist.

  "I suppose the police must have questioned you quite rigorously about that . . . about Naples getting smashed."

  The incident was in the news and, because it involved a member of faculty, however remotely, was the topic around which most of the lunchtime conversation had turned.

  "Sergeant Lucci came to my house."

  Lane suddenly stopped fidgeting. "What did he do?"

  "He asked q
uestions."

  "What kind of questions?" Lane asked, too eagerly. As if aware of the fact, he settled back in his seat to pick his teeth with the corner of a matchbook. "I mean, we don't often get excitement of this sort around here. Seems you've had more than your share of it."

  "Excitement?" Dr. Strickland, lunch tray in hand, appeared beside Albert. "May I?"

  Lane acquiesced reluctantly. Albert moved his book bag from the chair beside him. Strickland set his tray down and extended a warm hand of greeting. "Back among us for good this time, Professor,j'espère? Good. Now, what excitement are we talking about?"

  "You must have heard what happened to Detective Naples? . . . on Albert's doorstep?"

  Strickland had his mouth full. He nodded and swallowed. "Of course."

  Albert wanted Strickland to leave. Lane was nervous; grasping for information. Albert wanted to know what and why.

  "Strange."

  "Well, that's what we were talking about," said Lane. Albert thought he was blushing. Did black people blush? "That's all."

  He turned to Albert with something almost desperate in his eyes. "Well, how does it feel to be back? How does school food compare with that at the hospital? I imagine we should all get sick for our own good, eh?" He laughed nervously.

  Strickland didn't want the subject to change. "According to the paper, Naples is . . . was . . . still investigating the Tewksbury business. Is that true, Maestro?"

  Albert lit another cigarette, though he hadn't put out the first. He intentionally shepherded clouds of smoke toward Strickland's face. He nodded. "He thinks I know where Tewksbury is."

  "Let's talk about something else," Lane suggested pleadingly. "Poor man's been through enough without our reenacting the Inquisition. Right, Professor?"

  Albert was watching Strickland who was smiling down at his cottage cheese with his eyes watering.

  "And do you?" said Strickland, raising his head, but not his eyes.

  "Of course he doesn't," said Lane. "How absurd."

  Albert sipped contentedly at the dregs of his cold coffee. Strickland was eating cottage cheese and pineapple. A health nut. Why was he in the smoking section, allowing Albert to blow smoke in his face?