Dead in D Minor

by David Crossman

  “I'd like that,” said Albert, who would.

  “Six dollars is okay then?” said Cindy. “Or seven? You tell me. I want to be fair.”

  It had been Albert's experience that money caused complications. The less the better. “Six,” he said.

  “Good!” Cindy responded enthusiastically, patting Albert's hands. They were soft, like you'd expect of a piano player. Cold, too, indicating a warm heart. She liked that. “Real good,” she said. “I'll write a note to Miz Grandy you can take up there.” She wrote as she spoke. “Here's the address: Croft Street. It's that road beside the library over there, see? That big brick building with the columns?” Albert regarded the building in question and nodded. “You go down there and take your first right, then it’s four houses down on the left. You give this to Miz Grandy and see if she don't give you a room. Okay, hon?” She handed him the note and leaned on the counter staring at him. Her eyes were whirlpools and Albert a drowning man. “You'll like it up there. It's clean and pretty. Food's good . . . and she don't allow smokin' in the house. You'll appreciate that.”

  It was hell.

  “And maybe while you're at it you can help us with our little murder in your spare time.” She smiled.

  The word stunned Albert, much the way he'd seen a duck stunned by a falling piano in a cartoon recently. “Murder?” he said.

  “Mm!” said Cindy, warming to her subject as she refilled his coffee. “Night before last they found Ry Antrim dead. Heather did, that is. She’s his niece over from England. He was the judge . . . owned the bank, too.”

  “Maybe he had a heart attack,” Albert hoped aloud. He'd heard of people dying of heart attacks.

  “Maybe,” said Cindy. “But the Bowie knife they took out of his chest probably had something to do with it, too. Happened right next door to Miz Grandy's.”

  Albert's legs got fuzzy. Fortunately he was sitting down.

  “Hey!” said a fat, red-faced man three stools down as Cindy snatched the newspaper from his hands. “I was readin' that!”

  “Who you kiddin', Roz?” said Cindy with a smile. “You was just lookin' at the pictures.”

  Everyone laughed. “Eat your hash browns ‘fore they get cold,” she commanded. Roscoe got redder, then he started to laugh and turned his attention to his breakfast. It wouldn't do to get on Cindy's wrong side. He knew men who'd been banned from the restaurant for up to three weeks for turning her the wrong way. And, truth be told, while the food was good, it wasn't the reason the place was packed morning after morning. Rudy Tatum knew that, which explained why Cindy was the best-paid waitress between Greenville and Asheville.

  “There,” she said, folding the day-old paper so the top half of the front page was prominently displayed and thrusting it in front of Albert.

  The only thing Albert hated more than newspapers was television. Evil was enhanced by their existence. This was theAsheville Sentinel. He read the headline: ‘Judge Stabbed to Death.’

  Albert's head was spinning. He'd fled New England because of murder. Now, half way through his first breakfast in a new town, it confronted him again.

  Murder, murder everywhere.

  He took out his wallet, put some money on the counter and stumbled toward the door.

  Outside, he stood where the bus would have been had it not left without him. It was long gone. The dust had settled.

  Chapter Two

  “Hey, Sweetheart,” said Cindy from the doorway. She held the screen door open to let the flies in. “I like a tip as much as the next girl, but this is a little much, don’t you think?”

  Albert stared alternately at Cindy and the bus that wasn’t there. He stumbled back to the sidewalk. “Someone I know was . . . murdered,” he said softly. “Two people.”

  “Oh dear,” said Cindy. She tucked the twenty-dollar bill into his coat pocket, took him gently by the elbow and guided him to a bench at the bottom of a little grassy area beside the restaurant. They sat down. “Up north?”

  Albert nodded.

  “Just recent?”

  Albert nodded.

  “And you come down here to get away from all that?”

  Tears were flowing freely down Albert’s cheeks. He nodded. She draped her arm over his shoulder. “See? There I go. Sayin’ the wrong thing again. Happens every time.

  “Come on,” she resolved after a space of silence. “I’m going to take you up to Miz Grandy’s myself.” She pulled him to his feet and balanced him there while she went to the restaurant and opened the door with her hip.

  “Hiram,” she said, just as Hiram had made his decision. “Tell Rudy I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, hon. And put that girlie thing down and get one of them little tree-shaped ones or I’ll tell Pastor Henry.” The door slammed shut. Albert had no doubt that Hiram had put down the girlie one. Whatever it was.

  They had crossed the street, passed the library and turned down Croft Street before Albert knew which way was up. The narrow lane was bordered by red brick sidewalks. Huge trees, underdressed with small green-yellow leaves, arched overhead, creating a tunnel of spring and silence. Large houses stood back from the road and apart from one another with their noses in the air. “There’s the house where it happened,” said Cindy softly, as if lower volume would round the hurtful edges off the words. She pointed at a very large wooden house to their left. It wasn’t a simple house with clean lines like his mother’s farmhouse in Maine. It was craggy and ornate, with towers, porches and scrolly iron work along the roofs and stuck in the corners like cobwebs. It was painted light gray, with white trim. Or off-white. Or cream colored. It was hard to tell in the golden light of morning. Maybe pink. A wide sidewalk, trimmed with ancient dogwoods, led to the front porch.

  “Poor old fella. Can’t figure why anybody’d want to do him like that,” Cindy continued, becoming more animated as they walked on. “Robbery, most folks figure. He was rich as an ex-senator. I figure he walked in on somebody who was stealin’ something and . . . “ She drove an imaginary knife between her breasts. Presumably it had a very long blade. “Not that there’s many burglaries around here. Been only one I know of, since me and Maylene got here. It’s a good, peaceful town,” she explained. “Not like up north.”

  Cindy was sensitive to Albert’s discomfort. “Oh, I’m sorry. There I go again. Was either one of yours done like that? With a knife?”

  Albert shook his head and swallowed hard.

  “Well, let’s talk about something else,” Cindy suggested. “Gun?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Was they . . . ‘scuse me, Miz Grandy’s trying to get me to talk properly . . . were they shot? Those people of yours?”

  Albert’s idea of talking about something else had very little in common with Cindy’s. “One,” he said flatly. His eyes pled for mercy. “The other was . . . died in a fire.”

  “Somebody set ‘em on fire!” Cindy exclaimed, her eyes widening.

  Albert nodded. “The house.”

  “Shoot!” said Cindy, breathlessly. “It’s like that up there though, ain’t it? Northern folks like to burn things; like Sherman done Atlanta.”

  Oddly enough, Albert knew what she was talking about. Maybe that’s why they called it ‘Hot-lanta.’

  “Happens all the time up there, I guess. You see it on the news. Here we are.”

  The house to which she led him was a lot like its neighbor, though built of brick, and cheerier. Albert had difficulty with colors beyond those in the primary group. Apparently there was a point at which pale blue became light gray and red became orange, and he could never tell which was which and when it wasn’t. It was probably some of those colors. It wasn’t green or white or brown. Actually, it wasn’t much like its neighbor.

  There were narrow little spots of garden along the sidewalk and against the house, sewn to the landscape like elbow patches. They were full of tall yellow flowers that looked like upside-down bells. Pretty.

  “That’s her over there,” said Cindy, indicating a lad
y who was hanging sheets in the side yard. She was even bigger than the large lady on the bus. They were probably related. Albert’s guilt increased commensurately. Cindy took him by the elbow again and directed him off the walk, over the daffodils and across the lawn. Albert went obligingly withersoever she listeth.

  “Sarah!” she called. “(You’re gonna love Miz G. Cook? Can she ever!) Sarah, put that down and come meet the Professor. Professor, Sarah.”

  A sheet separated Albert from Miz Grandy. She tugged the clothesline down under her chin and lobbed a grenade of inspection at Albert. “What have you brought home now, girl?” she said slowly. Her diction was excellent. Her accent, though genuinely southern, was exaggerated. Western South Carolina.

  “Now, you be good, Miz G. He just got to town and needs a place to stay.” Cindy winked at Albert. Albert made a little bow from the chest up. He would have tipped his hat, but he was holding it in his hands. He waved it. “He’s from up north.”

  “You don’t say?” Miz G replied flatly. “I’d've never guessed.”

  “Massachusetts,” said Albert, feeling it was time he contributed to the conversation. “I was born in Maine, though.” He handed her Cindy’s note. It would explain everything. After she read it, she smiled an odd smile and tucked it in her apron pocket.

  “Maine, is it?” she said. “Well, I’m sure they mourn the loss.” Her eyes warmed a little through her glasses. “Aren’t you hot in those clothes?”

  Yes, he was.

  “I told him to go down to Gifford’s when they open . . . get him somethin’ sensible,” said Cindy.

  “Purchase some more appropriate attire, Cindy. English is a vast and expressive language. Don’t be afraid to use it.” Miz Grandy winked at Albert. There was a lot of winking going on. Maybe it was something in the air. “How long do you intend to stay in Tryon, Mr . . . ?”

  “Professor,” said Albert. “Everyone calls me that.”

  “He teaches piano,” Cindy rejoined enthusiastically. “He’s going to teach Maylene how to play something everybody can sing to.”

  Albert didn’t remember agreeing to that part.

  “Piano?” said Miz Grandy. “Well, it would be worth the price of admission if you could teach that child to play something. Anything.” She finished hanging the sheets, picked up her laundry basket and, slipping her substantial arm through his, guided Albert to the house.

  “I’m goin’ on back to Rudy’s,” Cindy called. She was already half-way across the lawn. “See you at supper!”

  “Dinner!” Miz Grandy called. “How many times do I have to tell you, girl?”

  Cindy’s laughter trailed after her as she jogged down the sidewalk. Her hair bounced behind her, tangling in the sunlight. Five months earlier Albert wouldn’t have noticed. His horizons had broadened.

  “I love that girl like a daughter,” said Miz Grandy, inclining her head confidentially toward Albert as she guided him up the steps, “but The Nobel Committee isn’t exactly tracking her down to give her the Prize, if you know what I mean.”

  Albert would gladly give her his. Of course, finding it could be a problem. He hadn’t seen it since the police redecorated his apartment.

  “I don’t mean to be indelicate, Professor,” continued Miz Grandy as they came to a stop before the front door, “but . . . you will be a paying guest?”

  “Yes,” said Albert. He wasn’t sure if he should show her his wallet. He reached for it. “Do you want some money now?”

  “Oh, that’s hardly necessary,” Miz Grandy replied with a gentle wave of her hand. “It’s just that Cindy is just one of those girls who’s disposed toward riffraff.” She laughed. “Present company excepted, of course.” She opened the door, motioned for the riffraff to enter and followed him inside.

  They entered a cool, dark hallway inhabited by the pleasant smell of things cooking, interrupting a cat that had been licking itself and now, with one leg cocked high in the air, was looking at him as if it suspected him of something.

  “That’s Jebby,” said the landlady. “Technically, he belongs to Marchant DuShane, but he spends most of his time here. Really Maylene’s cat, mostly. He’s all right.”

  Albert wondered if the cat, looking at him, felt the same. Writhing under feline scrutiny, he rotated the hat in his hands and nodded at it.

  “Make yourself at home while I go check the stew,” said Miz Grandy.

  That would be impossible. This was nothing like home. You could see the floor. The light bulbs worked. There was furniture.

  “You don’t smoke, do you?” Miz Grandy said, stopping in a doorway at the end of the hall. She tilted her head to its severe setting and screwed his conscience with a glance over the top of her glasses.

  What could he say? He certainly wasn’t smoking at the moment. “No.” His experience with the law had taught him something of the fine art of prevarication.

  He’d come to town a thief and now, less than half an hour later, he’d compounded the offense by lying. Twice. Guilt must be gaseous. It seemed to be expanding inside him, screaming to be let out and proclaimed loudly from the housetops in numerous languages and dialects. How much longer could he maintain the deception?

  Of course, it was the same lie in both instances. Maybe that only counted as one. Miss Bjork would have known. His heart skipped a beat. It had been doing that a lot lately whenever she came to mind, which was always.

  “Good,” Miz Grandy said. She went into the kitchen, but kept talking. “The late Mr. Grandy, my husband, died of lung cancer.”

  Albert looked around, observing every detail carefully. There was a staircase made of wood with a carpet down the middle of it. The carpet was dark – purple or navy blue probably – and had flowers or fruit on it. It was held in place by brass bars at the intersection of each step which, in turn, were held in place by tiny rings at each end.

  He turned his attention elsewhere. A large grandfather clock stood in the corner by the door. His mother had had one of those. Its golden pendulum was swinging lazily back and forth, knocking aside the seconds like dominoes.

  “Slow, painful death,” said Miz Grandy, just in time. Had she waited another minute she’d have returned to find Albert rooted to the spot, hypnotized. He looked away from the pendulum.

  The wooden floor was highly polished and covered with small rugs with tassels along the edges. There was a room to the left with a fireplace and a television, big soft chairs and two sofas, and a room on the right with a piano. He didn’t notice anything else.

  “All for the sake of cigarettes,” said Miz Grandy as she returned from the kitchen. She’d been talking steadily, but these were the first words to penetrate Albert’s consciousness in a while. “But would he stop? Not for me or the Emperor of China,” she continued.

  Cigarettes. Had the late Mr. Grandy died his slow, painful death after inhaling the last one, or did he leave some behind? There was a little silver case in the middle of a doily on a coffee table in the room to his left. You never know.

  “Come on, Professor,” said Miz Grandy, interrupting Albert’s precipitous descent into the gluttonous maw of crime. “I’ll show you your room.” Albert followed; up the short flight of steps to the landing, turn right, up another flight to a big open hallway lined with doors. “Here’s the linen closet,” she tapped on the door directly across from the top of the stairs. “Get yourself a couple of towels and a washcloth and when they’re dirty, just toss ‘em into the hamper. Here’s the bathroom,” she continued, pushing open a door on the right, revealing a large, bright room with a big, old-fashioned bathtub, freestanding sink, and a toilet with a water tank and a pull-chain. These things were familiar from his childhood. Even the claw feet on the tub. He’d forgotten there were bathrooms without urinals. His at home didn’t have one, come to think of it; not that he noticed.

  Further down the hall, Sarah held her finger to her lips, “This is Cindy and Maylene’s room,” she said in a whisper. “Maylene’s taking her nap. She’
ll be up in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  Sarah’s voice grew louder with each step beyond Maylene’s door until, by the time they reached the end of the hall, it was back up to its customary volume. “Here we go,” she said, pushing wide a door that already stood halfway open. She gestured for Albert to enter. He did.

  In Massachusetts, Albert’s bed was, aside from random islands of floor here and there, the only horizontal surface left in his apartment. Ashtrays, beer cans, half-empty coffee-cups, various musical instruments and sheet music comprised the remainder of the decor. A three-dimensional representation of his brain. The one concession to art was a little plaster bust of somebody with long hair and a pointy beard whose name he could never remember. Some students had given it to him.

  There were other rooms, too. But he never went in them. One was bad enough. He guessed Jeremy Ash and Mrs. Gibson would take over the rest. He wished them luck.

  The room into which Miz Grandy showed him had walls, like his, but there the similarities ended. It had wallpaper with flowers on it. There was a light gray wall-to-wall carpet and a big bush or tree in a brass pot in the corner. The bed had a headboard and footboard. It was off the floor. This was going to take getting used to. Cigarette burns would stand out. Beer stains would be noticed. Albert had lately heard the term ‘mid-life crisis’. That must be what this was.

  “There’s a wash basin on the dresser,” Miz Grandy continued automatically. She’d done this before. It was a first time for Albert. “And a Gideon Bible in the bedside table. The late Mr. Grandy was a Gideon. He got a case of Bibles below wholesale. Misprints. They’re all missingDeuteronomy.” She crossed to the window and drew the sheer curtains aside. “He was going to give them to the church, but Pastor Henry wouldn’t hear of it. Had to have hisDeuteronomy.