Dead in D Minor

by David Crossman

  “It was a fetish,” Heather replied. “Everything had to be just so. For all Kitty may have been the little general, she certainly earned her pay packet, I’ll tell you. They say he went through about a housekeeper a week before Kitty showed up and sorted things out.”

  “What’s this?” said Albert. Like a crow he’d been drawn to a shiny object that hung on the wall behind the big leather chair.

  “Witness to his neatness,” Heather replied. “For some reason, the paint kept chipping from the molding in the corner there. He’d rant and rave at Kitty and tell her she never cleaned it properly. She told me about it, but I can hear him now. It’s the Judge to a ‘T’. Bluster, mostly.

  “Anyway, she got tired of his fussing, and bought him that little brass dustpan and brush. Told him to clean it up himself. Sort of a joke. But I don’t think he got it. The Judge had an underdeveloped sense of humor. Took himself far too seriously.” She seemed to repent of the remark. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Albert had found it best, as a rule, not to respond to comments he didn’t understand. He didn’t respond now. Instead, he looked at the floor. There were three feet of bare boards between the carpet and the walls around the periphery of the room. And here in the corner, sure enough, there were little chips of paint on the floor. Apparently the Judge hadn’t made use of the dustpan. He should have hired the young man who swept up ashes at the Grand Reunion Hotel.

  “Old houses, you know,” said Heather after Albert had made one more cursory tour of the room. “Old paint.” She closed the door behind them, picked up the laundry basket she’d left in the hall, and they began down the narrow stairs. Albert studied the wood-work as they went. It was all perfect. No chips. “This is where he went out.”

  “Who?” asked Albert.

  “The murderer,” said Heather, turning the corner of a little square landing and descending momentarily out of sight. “I was taking a bath – just down the hall there – and I heard voices, but I couldn’t make them out because I had the radio on. But there was just this, this yell or shout. It wasn’t the Judge’s voice, I know that much. Then there were some loud bumps or thumps and – nothing.

  “By that time, I’d gotten out of the bath and had my robe on. I was scared to death he’d hurt himself.”

  They emerged into the kitchen. Heather crossed to the laundry room and put the basket away, then returned and began picking up and cleaning the iced tea glasses. “I turned down the radio and called to him. He didn’t reply, but I heard footsteps. In that half-second I remember thinking he might be having a heart attack or something – stumbling around, unable to speak.

  “As I ran down the hall, I realized someone else was running down that way.” She nodded toward the kitchen stairs. “I caught a glimpse of him as he rounded the corner on the landing.” She hesitated. Albert was standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his rear pockets, staring at her. “I couldn’t swear, of course,” she said, then hesitated again. Albert was glad of that. Swearing bothered him. Especially when women did it. “But, I think it was Marchant.”

  “Do you?” said Albert. Why was his heart still pounding like that? Why was he asking questions? He knew from experience that each answer simply turned into a silky thread of airplane glue that spun a web around his consciousness, trapping all his thoughts.

  Heather nodded. “He has this college jacket; very distinctive, you know? I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t even know what had happened, but the Judge, well, he died just seconds after I got to him.” She shuddered visibly. “I’ll never forget it. He was draped back over the chair with the knife . . . He looked at me with this wild, surprised look on his face.”

  Just as Albert had imagined.

  “He didn’t say anything?” Albert asked. The name, address, and telephone number of the killer would have been helpful.

  She shuddered again and shook her head. “He was gone in a minute. Anyway, the next day, when they said it was Marchant’s knife that had been used to, I remembered the jacket. Two and two came together.”

  Albert knew how dangerous it was when two and two came together. All the evidence suggested that Marchant committed the crime, which meant – in Albert’s experience – he was probably innocent.

  They were quiet for a while, as Heather washed the glasses. “The memory makes it awfully difficult to sleep here some nights,” she said, when the kitchen was once again a pristine landscape stretching to the horizon in all directions.

  “I wonder why he left his knife,” Albert thought aloud.

  “What? Marchant?”

  “The murderer,” Albert corrected, not prepared to concede that point. “Why would he leave the knife . . . there?”

  Heather shrugged. “I don’t know. I must have surprised him. He panicked and ran.”

  “But wiped his fingerprints from the handle?”

  If Heather possessed any knowledge on the subject, it was not forthcoming as Kitty bustled into the kitchen under a full head of steam. “Did you hear that?” she said. She was pointing out the door.

  “Hear what?” said Heather.

  “On the news. First thing is, they think Asherton Pike has embezzled from the bank and skipped the country. Nearly half-a-million dollars is missing, and so is he!”

  She paused to let the import of her words gain weight in the minds of her hearers. Mental fudge. “And,” she said. “They’ve revoked the DuShane boy’s bail, based on new evidence, they said.”

  “Who’s Asherton Pike?” said Albert.

  “I just mentioned him, Professor,” said Heather. “Remember? The Judge’s partner?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Albert. That’s why the name sounded familiar.

  “They go way back,” said Kitty.

  “Best friends,” said Heather, crossing her fingers.

  “Like this. He was the best man at Pike’s wedding,” Kitty added. “I wouldn’t trust him down a hole, myself – Pike, I mean.”

  “But why re-arrest Marchant?” said Heather thoughtfully, adding, “I wonder if it has anything to do with that letter he was writing.” She looked from Albert to Kitty to Albert. “Matt Harvey found a letter on the Judge’s desk – to his solicitor. You know about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will someone please say something that makes sense,” said Kitty. “You didn’t tell me anything about a letter.” She made determined fists of her hands and placed them on her hips upside-down.

  Heather became a bit sheepish. “Apparently it had to do with including me in his will. That’s what Matt said, at any rate. I haven’t seen it.

  “You could have knocked me over with a feather!” She was responding to the look in Kitty’s eyes. “Honestly! The Judge never mentioned wanting to include me in his will. That’s the first I heard of it!” She turned once again to Albert. It was safer. “But he didn’t finish it, much less sign it. So it’s not legal.” She looked apologetically at Kitty. “I couldn’t see any point mentioning it.”

  “Well,” said Kitty, removing her hands from her hips and applying them to wringing out a dishrag and wiping down the counters. “I don’t expect it’ll make any difference to me, one way or the other.”

  “Oh, don’t start that again,” Heather scolded. “You’ll see, when the real will is read. He’ll have taken care of you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to complain about, missy. The Judge paid me well, kept me out’ve the poor house all these years, but I know what he was – which was fair, and what he wasn’t – which was Santa Claus.” She pulvarized a spider with the dishrag. “He was all about family – even if he didn’t think much of most of ‘em. I ain’t family, so I’ve got no expectations. Besides, I’ve got some put by.”

  The housekeeper rinsed the mortal remains of the spider from the rag, then stopped suddenly. “So, what they’re saying is that the DuShane boy knew the Judge was fittin’ to work you into his will, and didn’t cotton to the idea of a split’?”

  “Tha
t’s the idea,” Heather replied. “Though, I can’t imagine how he knew, if I didn’t.”

  Kitty prefaced her comment with an ironical snort. “That’s no mystery,” she said. “The boy probably came over to ask for money, like he always did.” To Albert: “He was always asking the Judge for money. The more he got, the more he wanted. Like the government.” To Heather: “I imagine the Judge just got fed up with it. ‘Now listen here, son’ I can hear him saying. ‘No more. In fact, I’m writing Heather into my will.’

  “He’d say something like that to try to put a little gumption in the boy. Make him straighten up; pull himself up by his bootlaces.” Once more to Albert. “The Judge was harder on his relatives that he was on crooks. Always gave a crook a second chance rather than send ‘im to jail, Mr. Elmo. Figured their mommas beat ‘em, I guess. Though what that’s got to do with gettin’ ‘em off the streets, so honest folks can be safe is more than I know.”

  “What about Tanjore Trelawney?” Albert asked.

  “Tanjore!” Kitty exclaimed. “Where on earth did you hear about that sorry bag of bones?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Met him! He’s out?”

  Albert explained while Kitty ruminated.

  “Well, I guess it has been about that long, hasn’t it?” she said finally.

  “Tanjore Trelawney?” said Heather. “What an exotic name.”

  “Tanjore’s about as exotic as okra,” said Kitty. “He was a one-boy street gang. Took the highway to crime with both feet when he was about nine, and never looked back for dust. Judge gave him plenty of chances, though,” she said to Albert. “Like he did everybody. It was the good people of Tryon who finally had enough. Judge knew one more time, and that was it.

  “Well, he didn’t have long to wait. Tanjore broke into the Ben Franklin store one night. Stole everything he could carry and broke what he couldn’t with a baseball bat. Spite, just like that. That’s how he was. They caught him. Off he goes to prison for seven years without parole. Hard time.”

  Albert couldn’t reconcile people’s description of Tanjore with the man he had seen and spoken with. There was too much melancholy in his eyes. Still, it seemed unlikely there was another Tanjore Trelawney.

  “He threatened to kill the Judge, right there when they was draggin’ him out of court,” Kitty added.

  The words drifted in the air as their implication wheedled its way into the women’s brains simultaneously. They looked at one another wide-eyed. “You don’t think – !” said Heather.

  Kitty was about to say the same thing. Rather than be redundant, she closed her mouth and shook her head. “I ain’t paid to think. That’s the police’s job, and they can have it. All I know,” she said as she took a swipe at some imaginary fingerprints on the refrigerator, “is them door’s is getting locked tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  “So they still haven’t been able to track down his housekeeper?” Basil Carmody had been back at the home office in Buffalo. It was good to be back in the south where one didn’t have to conjure delusions of spring from scraps of sunshine. He’d arrived just in time for dinner, of which he took a bite in punctuation.

  “I know I’ve said it a hundred times,” said Alice Gould, her green eyes swimming in unison through her glasses like surprised fish in tiny bowls, “but I don’t remember Maudanne mentioning her mother. In fact, I’d be surprised if she were still alive. Maudanne’s no spring chicken, herself.”

  Albert noticed Sarah mimed the last two sentences. Apparently, she was the one to whom Alice had mentioned this a hundred times. It’s the first Albert had heard of it.

  The windows and doors were open, and the thick, sweet smell of honeysuckle, dogwood, and mountain laurel oozed through the room like fine wine on a butler’s breath.

  Sarah’s fried chicken, only slightly more pungent, had become Albert’s meal of choice. But it was one among many. For the first time in his life, he found himself anticipating mealtimes. He’d put on weight, they said. ‘Good thing, too,’ Cindy had remarked. ‘A starvin’ dog wouldn’t’ve gave you a second look when you first come here.”

  “Wouldn’t have given,” Sarah corrected matter-of-factly.

  “Wouldn’t have given you a second look when you first come here.” Cindy amended.

  “When you first came here,” Sarah added.

  “Shoot! I ain’t – I am not – ever going to get this talking good right!”

  Sarah smiled to herself and shook her head. “You’re coming along really well, Cindy. Don’t lose patience.”

  “Shoot!” Maylene yelped at Albert with happy eyes. People laughed. “Shoot!” she said to everyone in general, and laughed herself.

  “You know what, Basil?” Cindy said, her eyes wide with excitement and pride. “You ain’t gonna believe when you hear Maylene play the piano tonight! Aren’t going to believe, I mean,” she said, seeing the correction aborning in Sarah’s eyes. “Mr. Elmo’s like a magician!”

  “I still can’t get used to that name,” said Carmody. “Why in blue blazes couldn’t you come up with something sensible like Smith or Jones?” He was looking at Albert as if it was his fault.

  “Maylene named him after a Muppet,” said Angie. “I think it’s a cute name.”

  “Well, it’s a fine name for a Muppet, but . . . ” He looked at Albert as if he was about to say something else, but he changed his mind. “On second thought,” he said, “never mind. Anyway,” he continued, the word swapping places with a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth. “He says he was in bed when the Judge was murdered.”

  “With the flu,” Alice added.

  “Right,” Basil nodded. “And that this housekeeper –”

  “Maudanne,” said Sarah.

  “Maudanne,” Basil said, “he says she’ll swear to it. Well, I’m no lawyer, but even I could shoot holes in that.”

  “How so?” said the Commander. He’d been chewing his food carefully, like his doctor told him to. ‘Chew twenty times each mouthful.’ By the time he got to twenty, most of his meal had become one with the inner man.

  “Simple. He played sick so she’d think he was in bed, slipped out the window after dark, did the deed, back in the window . . . ” Basil was animating the conjecture with gestures. His left hand played the part of Marchant DuShane, his right the supporting roles of windows, doors, tiptoeing, and knives.

  The Commander placed his fork on his plate. “Ah,” he said, “but you’re forgetting he was murdered in late afternoon.”

  “All right. Afternoon, then,” said Carmody. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You don’t suppose someone would have seen Marchant crawling in and out of windows – not to mention crossing lawns? It’s been my experience that few things pass this way unnoticed,” he said, with a clandestine nod toward Sarah and Alice. “He might have made it one way – though I consider even that unlikely – but both ways? Impossible.”

  “Well . . . ”

  “Besides,” Sarah added, “Marchant’s bedroom is on the second floor.” In response to the following silence, she added, “I’ve happened to see him there from time to time, at night. He always puts up the screen and spits out the window.

  “And it’s all straight down from there. No shed roofs or lattices, like in the movies. Not so much as a drainpipe. And you’re right, Commander,” she continued, looking at that gentleman in a way that made Albert glad he wasn’t the one being addressed, “not much passes this way without my knowing it. But I am not a busybody, as you imply.”

  “I wasn’t implying . . . “

  “I am a certified member of the Neighborhood Watch. The decal’s right there on the front door for all to see.”

  “Really, Sarah, I wasn’t – I was just . . . “

  “I know you wasn’t, you was just,” Sarah chided. “This isn’t the world you and I grew up in, Commander. Year after year, the school looses teeming swarms of illiterate miscreants and reprobates onto the streets like cl
ockwork.”

  “An annual spawning of existential evolutionaries,” Alice interjected.

  “Precisely,” Sarah agreed. “A whole generation of people who believe they descend from animal and vegetable matter and are determined to prove it by their actions and their reasonings, individually and collectively. Against such,” she concluded with her arms folded atop her bosom, “vigilance is a prudent precaution.”

  The Commander cleared his throat and licked his fork. “Well, I certainly didn’t mean to offend. I was – ”

  Basil tossed a lifeline. “Somewhere in Kentucky, he said.”

  “Yes,” said Angela Marie. “She’ll be back once her mother – well, one way or the other.”

  “If ever,” said Basil darkly.

  “What do you mean by that?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, I don’t want to toss fuel on any fires, but don’t you find it stretches things a bit? This housekeeper disappears the same day the Judge is murdered – gone to visit her sick mother; who Alice has never heard of; and then Marchant turns around and uses her for an alibi.” He let his hypothesis settle like dust on the subconscious of his hearers. “Now, regardless whether he crawled out the window or walked out the front door, let’s just assume for the sake of argument that he’s guilty of one murder . . . why stop there?”

  “Oh, Mr. Carmody!” said Sarah, aghast. “Surely you don’t believe for a moment . . . !”

  “Believe what?” said Alice, taking the words from Albert’s mouth.

  “Mr. Carmody is suggesting that Marchant DuShane might not have killed only his stepfather, but, if I infer correctly, Maudanne as well.”

  Alice was speechless, but her huge, watery eyes blinked once, twice, three times, in their glassy bowls. “Na . . . but . . . ” she said. Albert couldn’t make anything of that.

  “Think about it,” said Carmody, leaning forward with a grin on his lips and a chicken thigh in his hand. “She hasn’t been seen or heard from since that day, has she? And he says he doesn’t know where she’s gone, specifically. Somewhere in Kentucky?” He leaned back and took a satisfied bite of chicken. “Excellent chicken, Sarah,” he said with a smile. “Kentucky my eye.”