A Show of Hands

by David Crossman

  “I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ve got a few errands to run,” said Gammidge. “Would you mind if I stayed here tonight?”

  “Not a’tall,” said Matty. She was a more-the-merrier type of person. “The more the merrier! I’ll have supper at five-thirty . . . I know mainland folk like to eat late. How’s pork chops, applesauce, candied yams, rice, fiddleheads, and sweet pickles?” She’d made it up as she went along. Nice to know she hadn’t lost her touch despite a long, cold winter and bodies frozen in ice.

  “Sounds wonderful!” said Nate. All he’d had to eat all day was a stale doughnut and the slice of pie, for which it was hard not to feel guilty.

  “I don’t have a thing for dessert,” Matty apologized, “just some leftover apple pie and ice cream. ’Course, there’s that banana bread, but that’s days old. And some molasses cookies, but I’d have to defrost ’em. There is that lemon meringue pie I got over at the ladies circle supper night ’fore last, but you don’t know who made it. I just buy them to help out, don’t you know? Winston eats ’em, but he’s been a bachelor so long, he don’t know better. Never you mind,” she said, patting her new lodger on the back. “I’ll bake a thing or two this afternoon.”

  “I need to talk to him when he . . . when he—”

  “Wakes up,” said Matty.

  “Wakes up,” Gammidge echoed. He was going to say “recovers.” “It’s very important.”

  “Igot the information straight from the horse’s mouth,” said Leeman. He gave his black corduroys a hitch and made himself comfortable by the fire. “My sister’s brother-in-law Hubby collects the dry cleanin’ over there. He knows them people personally. You get to, you know, when you work on their laundry like that.”

  Being back among the living was a double-edged sword for Crisp. It was good to be lucid. It was not good to be lucid and in pain. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, though. Perhaps life would return to relative normalcy one day, or as normal as possible with a deficit of fingers and toes.

  It took a long time, upon waking, for dreams to separate themselves from reality in his mind. Eventually, however, he distilled the things he’d seen, heard, and thought from those he’d only imagined.

  “So, young McKenniston did have a blue blazer?”

  “Sure,” said Leeman. “Sure did. Blue as . . .” He wanted to come up with the kind of clever analogy so highly esteemed in the poolroom, but nothing came readily to mind. The only thing he could think of was the sky, but it wasn’t that kind of blue. It was dark blue. Navy blue. “Blue as the navy,” he said, then winced. He hated analogies. “I just called him up and asked him to look in his records.”

  “That was good of him,” said Crisp.

  “Would’ve been if he’d had to,” Leeman replied. “But he didn’t.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.” Leeman leaned back, folded his arms behind his neck, and crossed his legs. “He knew right off the top of his head, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Like I said, he knows all them people real well. Sees ’em every summer.”

  “I see.”

  “He said Neddy wore that same jacket every year, just for the Labor Day dance. Kept it there just for the purpose. Them folks can afford to do that—buy a jacket just for one dance.”

  “The Labor Day dance,” Crisp repeated thoughtfully, remembering Matty’s comments to Gammidge. “And did he go to the dance last year?”

  “He sure did,” said Leeman. “That’s why Hubby remembered right away. One of the McKenniston people, staff you know, they picked up the outfit a day or two before the dance, like always—he left it with Hubby all year—but the coat never came back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The coat . . . it never came back with the rest of the outfit—the white pants and shirt—to be dry-cleaned and put away.”

  “Strange.”

  “I’d say so,” Leeman agreed. “Every year the whole outfit got dry-cleaned.”

  “Perhaps it was torn, or soiled,” Crisp hypothesized.

  “Well, even if it was, Hubby would’ve ended up with it. That’s what he does, clean ’em and mend ’em.”

  “Lost, then?” Crisp ventured.

  “I doubt it,” Leeman said confidently. “Not much place to get lost up there at the club. ’Sides, they’re a pretty close group up there. If he laid it down somewheres, somebody would’ve got it to him, or least’ve got it to Hubby. He called, but the house was closed up by that time. Everyone left right after Labor Day.”

  “Excellent!” said Crisp.

  “That helps?” asked Leeman. He couldn’t see how. “I didn’t do much. Just a phone call.”

  “Don’t underestimate your contribution, Leeman,” said Crisp. “Now, I wonder if I could get you to do one more little chore.”

  “Sure!”

  “Well . . . it may involve some risk.”

  Leeman instantly regretted having volunteered so hastily. “What kind?”

  “Well, you may have to do a little climbing, ” said Crisp, taking the measure of his man.

  “How high?”

  “Just a foot or two, on a stepladder.”

  “Oh, shoot,” said Leeman. “That’s nothin’. I spend half the day on a stepladder, more than a foot or two. Have to reach them top shelves in back. You seen them little pine tree deodorizers up on that shelf near the milk cooler? I got to get up and dust them once or twice a year. That’s the highest place in the store, I guess,” he said proudly. “Good thing I ain’t prone to nosebleeds.”

  It was impossible to tell whether he meant this as a joke, so Crisp ignored it.

  “Good,” said Crisp. He doubted that Leeman would undertake the mission if he knew the real danger—being discovered with his fingers in the belly of a certain tree. “Then it will be easy for you.”

  Crisp acquainted his assistant with the particulars of the task. “I think you’ll find what we’re looking for way down in the hole. You may have to dig around a bit.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see,” said Crisp.

  “The plot thickens,” Leeman said behind his hands, with a wink and a roll of the eyes.

  As long as it wasn’t further thickened with Leeman’s blood, thought Crisp. Leeman was a favorite. “But it’s very important that nobody knows,” Crisp said. “Don’t let anybody see you. Understand?”

  “Sure,” said Leeman, a little disquieted by the look in Crisp’s eyes and the earnestness in his voice. “Sure. No one will see. I know how to get down there without even goin’ up by the house. There’s that old path down by the shore.”

  The path Mostly had taken from the cemetery the day they buried Amanda Murphy, thought Crisp. Mostly was dead.

  “No one will see,” Leeman reassured him.

  “It’s very important they don’t,” Crisp reiterated. “That would ruin everything.”

  “Winston, there’s a young lady to see you,” said Matty. It was strange to see her so flustered. “Says she come to check up on you.”

  “Well,” said Leeman, “I’ll be off to do that . . . errand.” He winked. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Crisp stopped him halfway out the door. “Leeman!” Leeman turned. “Thanks. I appreciate . . . everything.”

  “No problem,” Leeman replied with a wave and a smile. Crisp couldn’t shake the feeling that this would be the last anyone saw of Leeman Russell alive. He hoped he was wrong.

  “He’s not sneaking you food off your diet, is he?” The question preceded Sarah Quinn as she passed Leeman in the doorway.

  Leeman greeted her a little nervously, the way he greeted all pretty girls. “Hi, Sarah.”

  “Hello, Leeman.” The good-bye remained unspoken as Leeman went off on his errand.

  “I think I’m being a pretty good patient,” said Crisp. “You can ask Matty.” Sarah wouldn’t have to go far to do so, since that worthy was at her shoulder. “Matty, have you met Sarah Quinn?”

  “Sarah Quinn?” sa
id Matty, putting a chubby arm around the girl’s waist. “Why, I haven’t seen you since you was this big!” She held her hand about thigh high. “My, haven’t you come up a lovely thing! Go on in and sit down! I’ll bring you some tea. Winston says you took good care of him,” she continued as she bustled down the hall to the kitchen. “He said you might be comin’ by to check in on him!” she hollered. “But I was half expectin’ . . . well, I don’t know what I was expectin’! She’s a fine-looking young woman, isn’t she, Winston?”

  Crisp knew Matty was yelling at him, but he couldn’t make out what she said. “What did she say?” he asked Sarah.

  “It’s not important,” said Sarah. She sat on the footstool beside his chair and put her bag on the floor. “How are you doing?”

  The patient nodded a so-so nod.

  “No better?”

  “A little, actually.”

  “Have you been taking your medicine?”

  He thought of Timothy Hill. “Yes,” he said sheepishly.

  She positioned herself in front of him. “Let me see your foot.” She lifted it carefully and, rearranging the billowing folds of her oversized Yale sweatshirt so she could see what she was doing, started to unwind the bandages. “I’m sorry I didn’t come by sooner. Things have just been too busy.”

  Her head was bent to her work. Crisp watched her hands; their motion was experienced. Fluid. Had the bandage been an instrument, the music she made on it would have been flawless and lovely. As the last of the wrapping fell off, he looked away. He didn’t want to see what wasn’t there.

  There was a commotion in the entryway. The door slammed, and heavy footsteps padded down the hall.

  “That will be Mr. Gammidge,” Crisp said quietly.

  “Winston!” said Gammidge as he bowled into the room. The sight of Sarah brought him up short. “Oh, I didn’t know you had . . . a nurse?”

  “Guardian angel,” said Crisp. Sarah smiled. She didn’t look at Gammidge, though. She was applying the new bandage. “Sarah Quinn, this is Nate Gammidge.”

  “Pleased,” said Nate. Sarah smiled and nodded slightly. “Anyway,” Gammidge continued, “I need to talk to you.” He was clearly agitated. “All hell’s broken loose.”

  Crisp held his finger to his lips and shook his head slightly. “Let’s not trouble this young lady with all that,” he said softly, though the meaning in his eyes was severe.

  “Here’s your tea,” said Matty as she entered the room with a platter laden with cups, saucers, and assorted baked goods. “Why, Mr. Gammidge. I didn’t know you was here. Was you the one who made all that noise a minute ago? I looked out but didn’t see anybody.” She arranged the pastries on the tray according to color and placed it within easy reach of Crisp and his guardian angel. “Thought the front porch roof must’ve caved in again.” She winked at Sarah.

  “Sorry, Matty,” Gammidge apologized. He caught Crisp’s eye. “How much longer will you be?”

  “Sarah?” said Crisp.

  “Done!” said Sarah. She patted the new bandage lightly and stood up. “I’ll get out of your way. Don’t forget to take your medicine. Here’s the new supply Doctor Pagitt ordered. You can throw away the others—they were just for the time-being.” She wagged a finger at him. “You be good, now.”

  “What about your tea?” Matty fussed.

  “How about if we have it in the other room?” Sarah suggested. “So the men can talk.” She picked up the implements and tucked them in her bag, which she left on the piano bench.

  The ladies left the room. Their uninterrupted flow of chatter from the kitchen was music to Crisp. Amazing, he thought, how women can talk and listen at the same time, often about completely unrelated subjects. “Take a seat, Nate,” Crisp offered, indicating the one nearest him. “Now, what’s happened?”

  Gammidge pulled his chair so close that he was practically nose to nose with Crisp. “Remember what I said this morning, about someone leaking information to the press?”

  “You suspected it might have been me,” said Crisp. He did recall.

  “Well, you have to look at every possibility,” Gammidge replied with an apologetic shrug.

  “Of course you do,” said Crisp. “I understand. However, let me assure you—”

  “I know you didn’t,” said Gammidge. “Besides, it’s all out now.”

  “What is?”

  “Everything!” Gammidge stood up and began pacing à la Hanson. “Mitchell Pomfrey called Hanson from the paper—”

  “A reporter?”

  “The editor,” said Gammidge. “He wanted to corroborate some facts.”

  “There were reporters here this morning,” said Crisp.

  Gammidge was taken aback. “Here? For you?”

  Crisp nodded.

  “How could they possibly know you had anything to do with—”

  “Oh, I think it was more about my . . . accident. They were curious, naturally, with all the stories in circulation. They were grasping for straws, really. They did know about the buttons, though. Nothing specific, just that some buttons had been sent to Augusta to be checked for fingerprints.”

  “Well,” said Gammidge, coming to rest briefly on the opposite side of the coffee table, his hands on his hips, “they’re all done speculating now.”

  “How so?”

  “They found out about the Calderwood boy’s fingerprints on the dead girl’s neck.”

  “That was common knowledge already.”

  “On the island, yes,” said Gammidge. “But Hanson applied a little pressure to Pomfrey to keep it out of the paper. The Free Press got wind of it, though. That’s why Pomfrey called, to warn Hanson they’d have to print. Couldn’t afford to be scooped in their own backyard on something like this.

  “But that’s not all. They know we found Neddy McKenniston’s prints on those buttons.”

  Just when it seemed things couldn’t get any worse.

  “What do you think people are going to make of that when it comes out?”

  Crisp’s mind was racing. Secrecy was his only advantage. Without it, he lost even the slim control he had over developments. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that, whomever he was up against, they would have done well at the NSA. “This came out today?” he asked.

  “The story’s being written today,” Gammidge replied. “Monday the issue hits the streets, and the compost hits the fan.” He paused thoughtfully. “Can you imagine what people are going to make of this story? Forty-year-old makeup, sea sand, double strangling, a dead man’s fingerprints . . . the senator’s son! This thing might make the Enquirer after all!”

  Crisp held up his finger again. “Let’s not alarm the ladies,” he cautioned.

  “Sorry,” said Gammidge. He resumed his seat.

  “I think the paper may have to change its story, once the exhumation is—”

  “There isn’t going to be an exhumation,” Gammidge interrupted.

  “What do you mean?” said Crisp. The residual softness fell from his eyes, revealing something determined and alarming.

  “Hanson called it off,” Gammidge stuttered. “The attorney general told him to.”

  “Michael Jessup?”

  “Jessup,” Gammidge repeated.

  “Get me the phone,” said Crisp.

  “It won’t do any good, Professor,” said Gammidge. “He’s gone on vacation.”

  “What?”

  “He left this afternoon for two weeks on some island in the Caribbean. He didn’t leave a forwarding address, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t understand this.”

  “He’s running for governor next year.”

  Crisp deflated against the back of his chair. “Politician,” he said. He seldom swore. It was a reflexive epithet.

  “So,” said Gammidge after a brief silence. “What do we do now?”

  “I’m sorry to have to say this, Nate,” said Crisp. His mind had not been quiet in the interval. “But it’s not my problem anymore.”

/>   “But—”

  “One of the conditions of my agreeing to take an unofficial interest in this case was that I be given complete control,” Crisp reasoned. “That’s no longer the case. So,” he shrugged, “there’s nothing I can do. I wish I could.”

  Crisp stood up and retied his robe. “You’re right about what’s going to happen when that paper hits the streets Monday,” he said calmly. “And if the national media gets hold of it . . .” He was halfway to the hall door. He turned and stopped. “But the worst of it,” he said, “is that innocent people are going to be hurt. It’s been my experience that in a business like this, even when everything’s over with, an aura of suspicion follows anyone who was implicated at any stage. They’re scarred for life.”

  “But Professor—”

  “Of course, it could all be avoided,” Crisp interposed. “The answer is in Andy Calderwood’s casket.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” said Gammidge weakly. Crisp felt sorry for him. He really did. But he had to see the answer for himself.

  “Well, I suggest you take a nice hot bath and get dressed for supper,” said Crisp. “I’m going to take a nap.”

  Sarah Quinn came in from the kitchen. “Did I leave my bag in . . . Where’s the professor, Mr. Gammidge? What’s the matter?”

  “Huh?” said Gammidge.

  “You don’t look well. Is the professor okay?” She picked up his new medicine bottle. “Did he take any of these yet?”

  Gammidge took a deep breath and rallied to his senses. “I’m sorry, Miss . . . Quinn?”

  “Call me Sarah.”

  “Sarah,” said Gammidge, standing. “What did you say?”

  “I asked if the professor was all right,” said Sarah. “If he’d taken his medicine.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gammidge with a shake of the head. “I mean, yes, he’s all right, but I don’t think he took his medicine. He just went up for a nap before supper. Seemed fine.” He retrieved a bag from the piano bench. “Is this what you were looking for?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Sarah, taking it from him. “I found it, Matty!” she called. “It was on the piano stool! Well,” she continued, lowering her voice, “remind him to take his medicine after supper, on a full stomach. Okay?”