Dead in D Minor

by David Crossman

  “That would explain why there were no prints,” said the Commander.

  “Still,” said Carmody. “He's the only living relative, which would mean he gets everything, I should think. Judge is too family-proud to leave the fortune to an animal shelter or the rescue mission.”

  “What about Heather?” said Alice, dabbing her lip with the corner of her napkin. “She’s family.”

  Carmody had forgotten about the prodigal cousin. “Well, yes, but about as distant as Pluto. Still, she has been spending a lot of time with the old fella, living there and all. Pretty young girls have been known to turn old men’s heads. Good point, my dear. Good point.”

  “My, my,” said Alice, to whom the possibilities were, if not endless, at least numerous. “Still, it doesn’t look good for young Marchant. Does it? What with it being his knife and all.”

  Albert knew what they were talking about, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to teach Maylene to play the piano for six dollars an hour and find a place to smoke in peace, look at his maps, and try to hear the music. Everything else could just go away. Murder wasn’t conducive to music.

  “You must think us awfully rude, Professor,” Sarah apologized. “We've had more than our share of excitement in the neighborhood lately. As I started to tell you this afternoon, my neighbor to the south – whatever is the matter, Cynthia? Why are you flailing about?”

  “He don't want to talk about it,” said Cindy. “Doesn't, I mean. He had two of his friends killed up north before he come down here.”

  “Oh, my gracious,” Sarah empathized sincerely. “You don't mean it? Really?” Cindy nodded on Albert's behalf. “Two?” Cindy nodded again. “And here you are right in the middle – well, I'm so sorry. I would never have mentioned if I'd known. I'm so sorry.”

  “Dinner was very good,” said Albert. The napkin fell from his lap as he stood up. He retrieved it and placed it on the table. “I'm going to go for a walk . . . if I may?”

  “Of course,” Sarah said quickly. “Of course.”

  Albert left, careful not to let the screen door slam behind him. He wasn’t lacking in all the social graces.

  “Oh dear,” said Sarah. “I had no idea. I wish you'd told me, Cynthia. Were they close? Family?”

  Cindy was on her hands and knees, picking up the debris of Maylene's meal, at the same time patiently dodging Maylene's attempts to hit her on the head with her spoon. “I don't know, Miz G. One was shot and one was burned in a house fire. That's all I know.” She stood up and dusted her hands onto the tablecloth. “You could tell he didn't want to talk about it.”

  “Mercy!” said Miss Gould.

  “How dreadful,” said Sarah.

  “Poor man,” Angela added.

  Albert spent ten dollars on cigarettes at the 7-11. Cigarettes were cheap in North Carolina. Had he known, he might have moved earlier.

  Better late than never.

  He tore open a pack, withdrew a cigarette and put it to his lips.

  “I'm sorry, sir,” said the tall young man behind the counter. He wore a sweatshirt with WCU in big letters; underneath the letters were the words “Western Carolina University.” He was a college student. Albert thought the world would be a much simpler place if everyone was labeled.

  The boy had been doing his homework when Albert came in. He was from somewhere in the Midwest, judging from the accent. Probably Nebraska. Albert had trouble with Midwestern accents. The boy had recently had a girlfriend named Lisa McClain, whose name appeared in hearts drawn on the dust jackets of his books. The hearts had 'X's' drawn through them. There had been a parting of the ways. The young man's name was Steve Woodward, that being the name that appeared together with Lisa's in the hand-drawn hearts and on the plastic name tag on his pocket that said, 'My name is Steve Woodward. May I help you?'

  All you had to do was observe, thought Albert, and you could find out almost anything about anybody.

  “No smoking,” said the young man, pointing at a sign on the cigarette rack.

  He wasn't being very helpful.

  “Oh,” said Albert, removing the cigarette from his lips and slipping it behind his ear. He picked up the two shopping bags and hastened out the front door.

  Where to go? Tryon was a small town. If someone saw him smoking, they might tell Cindy or Miz Grandy. There would be repercussions.

  'No Smoking' signs were strewn about the landscape as if City Hall had bought them on sale. They turned him away from the library, the movie theater, the drug store, two book stores, and a carpet store and factory outlet that were closed anyway. At the edge of town the road rose sharply, with only a house here and there.

  Finally, crowning a hill that overlooked a spreading valley, tucked among huge evergreens on a manicured lawn, he found the Grand Reunion Hotel. Beside the road, beneath the sign that bore the hotel's name, was an electronic bulletin that made his heart leap: 'Tobacco Growers Convention.' If there was a 'No Smoking' sign here, he would simply continue to the hilltop and jump off.

  Such was not the case.

  A thick blue cloud of smoke floated at nose-level in the hotel's cavernous, ornate lobby. Albert breathed deeply. Little knots of men and women were clustered everywhere, and they were all smoking. Cigarettes, cigars, pipes, cigarillos. Albert, like a wayward Arab inScheherazade, had stumbled upon Paradise. Bags in hand, he maneuvered to an out-of-the-way corner and put them down. He took the cigarette from behind his ear, put it in his mouth and began rummaging through his pockets for matches.

  There were none. New clothes didn’t come equipped with them.

  “Need a light?” The voice, which in Albert's ears had a great deal in common with a chorus of heavenly angels, came from a short, bald gentleman who approached with a lighter in his outstretched hand. He lit the cigarette and Albert inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs until they were about to burst, swallowed and exhaled.

  “You like 'em raw,” said the gentleman, indicating the filterless tip of Albert's cigarette. A red and white tag on his pocket said, 'Hi, My Name Is' and the blank had been filled in with a blue marker. His name was Bob. There was liquor on his breath, but he wasn't drunk. Just friendly. He'd nicked one of his supplemental chins while shaving, as testified by the dry little bloodstain on his collar. He was probably traveling alone. A companion would have suggested he change his shirt. The wedding ring on his left hand was deeply imbedded in his flesh, as was the ring on his right hand. It bore a familiar insignia, a little golden triangle over an upper-case 'G', but Albert couldn't think what it stood for, probably a school or an auto club.

  Whatever it was, Albert didn't belong.

  “Thank you, Bob,” said Albert.

  “What? Oh. oh!” said Bob with a laugh. He tugged at his lapel. “I keep forgetting I've got this little billboard. Thought you were somebody I was s'posed to know there, for a minute. Here, try one of these.” He opened a gold cigarette case and held it out. Albert took one. “Turkish. Hand made,” he said. He studied Albert as he put out his cigarette, took the one that was offered, and lit it. “You know, you look familiar.”

  Albert choked a little. “No,” he said quickly. “I'm not.” He took a deep drag. The cigarette was strong and burned quickly, going straight to his head. “It must be somebody else.” He trembled a little and dropped an ash on the wooden floor. “Oh . . . “

  “Don't worry about that,” said Bob. The words were hardly out of his mouth before a young man in a red jacket with gold stripes on the sleeves came up with a broom and dustpan and swept up the ashes.

  “I'm sorry,” Albert said, but the young man had already left.

  “That's his job,” Bob said with a laugh. “You notice they took up the carpet for this convention.”

  Albert didn't know that.

  The evening was still and warm. Silent, except for the barking of dogs in the distance and the rhythmic crinkling of the paper bags as he walked back to town bearing gifts: a silver cigarette case with a company's name
on it, a leatherette briefcase full of cigars with foreign-sounding names, and a tiny golden statue of a naked lady with wings that was really a cigarette lighter.

  “Been shopping?” said Cindy as he came up the walk. She held the door open for him. “What have you got – nope, never mind,” she said, catching herself. “None of my business, as Sarah would say.”

  Sarah was right.

  “Nice night for a walk, isn't it?” she said. She sniffed. “You been down to the pool hall? You smell smoky.”

  “Oh. No,” said Albert. “I walked up to the . . . there's a big hotel . . . “ He nodded in the direction he'd come from.

  “The Grand Reunion,” said Cindy. “That's right! They're having that big tobacco convention up there. Hard place to be for someone like you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Didn't it bother you, being around all that smoke? That's how it was for me, when I quit. I couldn't stand being around it.”

  “Oh,” said Albert. “I see. No. I'm alright.” He edged closer to the stairs. “I'm just going to take these up to my room.”

  “Any chance you could sit down with Maylene this evening? I told her you'd teach her a song.” Cindy rested her hands on the newel post, Albert rested his foot on the second step and the paper bags on his knee. He was having a hard time keeping them closed. Ten dollars worth of guilt was attempting to punch its way out of the wet paper bag of his conscience. “I didn't say it would be tonight, mind. I'm just wondering.”

  “Tonight's fine,” said Albert. “I'll be down as soon as I . . . in a minute.”

  Once in his room, he stashed the bags on a shelf that had been built in to the back of his closet. His winter coat and corduroys didn't hide them very well. He'd have to buy some more clothes.

  On his way out of the room, he noticed a picture in an oval frame on the wall over the dresser, across from his bed. It was very old, like pictures his mother kept on the walls in the farmhouse. She'd gotten most of them at yard sales. Someone else's relatives, orphaned post mortem. This was of a young girl, though there seemed something old about her eyes. She was unsmiling, like all those pictures his mother had collected.

  Apparently there wasn't much to smile about in those black and white days. More than simply unsmiling, though. She seemed sad. She was very plain. Her hair was pulled back. She wore no makeup. No jewelry. Whatever she wore was dark with tiny dots and had a high collar with a little lace around the neck.

  Lace. Like the doily on the table in the living room that cradled the little silver box.

  He had to find a place to smoke. He’d have to find out where the pool hall was. He shut the door and went downstairs.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, after breakfast, Albert decided to go outside to digest.

  The air was much thicker than it had been up north, heavy with the pungent smells of spring woven with the drowsy promise of warmth to come. Just since yesterday the leaves had unfolded, spreading out like nudists begging the sun to warm their hidden places.

  Secret places.

  Maybe every heart held them. Maybe murder had been taking place around him all his life, bodies falling everywhere like the tree in the forest that never makes a sound, and he'd just never noticed until it crossed the little river of his life. River? Stream, really. Brook. What came before brook? Trickle? That's all his life had been so far, isn't it? A little trickle. A brief musical pee not even significant enough to be followed by a sigh of relief.

  Would the world even sigh when he was gone? Would anyone notice? Certainly not if they all kept dying.

  Death. That was becoming the theme, wasn't it? Then what? No more music? No more cigarettes. One huge No Smoking section. Probably no coffee.

  At least no more murder.

  Each thought went off in search of an answer, but instead came back trailing other questions. Like Cindy with her abandoned animals – and Albert.

  That was the trouble with thinking, it always seemed to go off in the wrong direction, and you ended up with thoughts that had nothing to do with what you started out with. He’d found an old tennis ball in the closet at the farm once when he was a boy, and it ended up rolling under the bed. When it came out the other side, it was layered in dust. Thoughts were like that. Somehow, from a little piece of white string, you end up with a multi-colored ball of mismatched twine.

  Of course, it probably wasn't that way for everybody.

  Albert had walked across the street and was sitting on a set of granite steps that led up a small slope to a huge yellow house. He'd been planning to go up the street a block or so and find a place to smoke, maybe a wooded area or some bushes. But his thoin dustughts were too heavy to carry that far.

  He studied the houses on the other side of the road: Miz Grandy’s in the middle, Judge Antrim's to the left, and the DuShane house on the right.

  Houses weren't like people, but you could tell things by studying them. The DuShane home was not as well kept as the rest of the houses on the street. It hadn't been painted in a long time. Some of the clapboards had split and cracked. Its lawn was mowed, but there was no garden along the walk or in front of the porch, as there were at the other houses. There weren't even any dogwoods; just a sad little knot of flowers in two red clay urns at the end of the walk.

  Mrs. Grandy's house was the only brick house on that side of the street. The plain white trim was in perfect repair. The roof was a nice, uniform dark green. No mismatched shingles like those on the DuShane house. Two white wicker swings hung by chains from the porch ceiling, equidistant from the front door, each piled with deep, soft matching cushions. Flowers, vines and dogwoods grew with uniform precision, and at a uniform height.

  How was that possible?

  It was the home of someone who cared. At that moment Miz Grandy rounded the house from the rear, knelt beneath the window of the room below Albert's and began turning over small clumps of earth with a little shovel. What was that called? All he could think of was a spatula, but he didn't think that was right.

  Miz Grandy had a woven basket full of little seedlings, and she was sticking them in the ground. Sensing Albert's eyes on her, she looked up, smiled, and waved. “Nice there in the sun, isn't it, Professor?” she called.

  Albert nodded agreement and waved back. He hadn't noticed he was in the midst of a little puddle of sunlight amongst the shadows of branches and leaves. It was nice and warm. Sarah resumed her planting.

  Just then someone came out of the house on the left. A girl. Or a woman. It was hard to tell, even for someone who knew the difference. After all, his mother had always called her friends girls, no matter how old they were. And his sister called all her friends girls, no matter how young. Who knew? She seemed quite young, anyway. More than twenty. Less than forty, he guessed. He was probably wrong.

  She was slim and her dark brown hair was tied up in a scarf of some kind. She was wearing blue jeans and a flimsy pink shirt with little squares on it. She carried a basket of laundry to the clothesline and began hanging up the clothes.

  Albert studied the house. After a minute or two he decided the trim was white. Or pinkish white. Or cream colored. It had a slate roof and even more wrought iron work than he'd noticed the previous night, along the roof between the chimneys, over the tower and the dormer windows. This house held its nose a little higher than the others.

  It was the sort of house you'd expect a judge to have. Self-important. Brooding. Weighing the evidence against its neighbors; every day was Judgment Day.

  What else? A date on the corner stone, 1844. The eight had a pronounced chip in the lower curve. DuShane's had a date, too. 18 something or other. He couldn't make out the last number, which had been worn away over the years. Odd, though, the eight had a chip in the same place. Maybe it was the way they made eights in those days. There was a time 's's looked like 'f's.

  If Miz Grandy's cornerstone had a date, it was hidden behind shrubbery. Other than that, the houses seemed to have little in common.
>
  Three houses. One of wood, one of stone, one of straw.

  “And I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house down,” said Albert for no particular reason.

  He strolled up the hill. The road rose steeply for a couple hundred feet, then turned sharply to the left where the neighborhood thinned out. The carefully planned and planted towering old trees gave way to thick, wild woods littered with blow-downs. To the right, the terrain charged steeply uphill in flat-faced courses of granite and mountain laurel. On the left it dropped away into the backyards of the houses on Croft Street, which could be glimpsed now and then through breaks in the foliage. Here he found a little nest where he could sit and smoke unseen, undisturbed, and directly below him was Miz Grandy's house, and the Judge's, and DuShane’s. All in a row.

  Sarah had finished planting. Three straight columns of tiny green privates standing at attention, doing their best to grow where she had put them. Apparently she had gone inside.

  The young woman from the Judge's house had hung out one or two baskets of clothes and was just returning with another. Spring cleaning.

  Albert watched her while he smoked, unconsciously orchestrating her graceful movements with a mazurka created especially for the purpose.

  He enjoyed watching her. He enjoyed smoking. He enjoyed hearing the music again; even if it was only a mazurka. Enjoyment was something new to Albert.

  He liked it.

  Turning up the walk to Miz Grandy's two hours later, he saw his landlady on the porch with the woman from Judge Antrim's.

  “Talk of the devil,” said Miz Grandy as he approached. “We were just talking about you, Professor. Heather, this is the Professor,” she continued as Albert climbed the steps to the porch. “Professor, Miss Proverb.”

  Miss Proverb stood and held out her hand. “Call me Heather,” said Heather. “Pleased to meet you, Professor.” She was English. Cornwall, probably.