Sarah and Alice looked at one another, as did everyone else at the table, except the Commander. He was looking at his plate.
“If I were the cops,” Carmody concluded. “I’d start digging up the basement.”
Sarah shuddered from head to foot, and a similar contagion spread around the table, reaching Albert at the same time it dawned on him what Carmody had implied. He shuddered, too.
“Oh, Basil. I surprised at you for thinking such a thing!” said Sarah.
“Hey!” Carmody objected. “That’s the trouble with society today,” he added with his mouth full. “No one wants to think about the obvious. You’ll state a fact, but don’t think ahead to the outcome. They call that ‘denial.’”
“Listen, I hope the housekeeper – what’s her name – is fine. I hope her mother and her great aunt Hermione and her pet python McIntosh are all enjoying perfect health. And if she comes back tomorrow, or the day after, I’ll be the first to stand up and cheer. But . . . ” he lowered his voice, narrowed his eyes, and shook his chicken, “until she does, I’d say we should report any unpleasant odors coming from the direction of the DuShane house.”
Everyone was subdued that evening. The Commander missed bothDaily Double answers. Albert was trying to figure out how Mr. Carmody knew so much about Marchant’s housekeeper – her great-aunt, and her pet python – but didn’t seem to know her name. Sarah washed the dishes in silence, and Alice went to bed early. Angela was off to the library, as usual, and Cindy was upstairs giving Maylene her bath. Basil, not altogether happy with himself for having cast a pall over the fellowship, sat reading in a corner. Of course, he hoped he’d never have to say he told them so, which is not to say he hadn’t.
Albert was dreaming that he was trapped in the body of a cigar store Indian and someone was knocking on his head. When he woke, the knocking continued. Someone was at the door.
“Who is it?” he said, fumbling for his glasses. He found the glass of water he’d left on the bedside table. He’d have to remember to clean it up.
“It’s me. Professor,” said the knocker. It was Cindy. “Can I come in?”
Having found his glasses, Albert put them on and squinted at the alarm clock on the dresser. 7:30. Cindy was usually at work at this hour. Albert was usually asleep. “Yes,” he said.
Cindy came in and sat on the bed, breathing heavily in a way that made the red name tag on her uniform rise and fall like the Roman Empire. “I ran all the way, “ she said at the end of a breath.
“From the restaurant?”
Cindy nodded and put a hand to her chest, probably to stop the heaving. That would make Albert feel better, too. “This fella got off the bus,” she continued, despite her lack of breath. “Came right in and asked if anyone had seen you – he held up this picture of you in a tuxedo without the beard. I didn’t say nothing, just held my breath while he showed it around to everybody.” Albert wished she’d hold her breath now. It was a small room.
“I tried catchin’ everybody with my eyes, you know? When he was turned around.” Having been harpooned by those eyes, Albert appreciated the effect. “And nobody said nothing all the way down the line, ’til they got to Swampy Prescott.”
“Prescott?” said Albert. He had the feeling his immediate future depended a great deal on this unknown individual.
“He was there the day you come – came – to town. He looked at the picture real hard, then looked up at me and says ‘Cindy? Ain’t this the little fella was in here that day you took up to Sarah’s? (He said ‘ain’t’. I’m just repeating him verbatim.)”
She smiled. ‘Verbatim’ was her word for the day, and she’d already managed to work it into a conversation.
Mr. Prescott thus passed in and out of Albert’s life. May he forever be tone-deaf.
“I told that man to let me holt that picture, so he come up to the counter and give it to me, and I looked at it for a long time trying to think what to say – then it come to me.”
“Came,” said Albert, unintentionally.
“Came to me,” said Cindy, without missing a beat. “‘No, that’s Mr. Elmo.’ I said. ‘He’s way healthier than this fellow. Got a beard, too.”
“‘Anyone can grow a beard,’ says the man. I said ‘I can’t’, and everyone laughed and the man put the picture back in his pocket. Anyway,” she said, “he said he wanted to see you.”
She watched intently as Albert’s face reacted to the news. “It’s that detective, ain’t it? The one the school sent out to find you?”
“What can he do to me?” Albert said, the look in his eyes melting Cindy’s already liquid heart.
“I don’t know, hon. He says it’s something about a contract you had with that school.”
Contract? He had a contract? Sounds like the kind of trouble his agent, Huffy, would have gotten him into.
“He asked if I could tell him how to get here, so I took him outside and sent him up over Powder Hill, down by the Grand Reunion and the road by the football field, then I run up here. He’ll be ten minutes, yet.”
“Hello, Professor,” said a voice in the doorway.
“You!” said Cindy. “How did you get here so fast?”
“I followed you,” said the man.
Cindy looked haplessly at Albert. “He followed me.” Suddenly a spark struck in her eyes. “See, I told you Mr. Elmo’s not the man you’re looking for. Doesn’t look anything like him at all, in real life, does he?”
“Miss, would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?” Cindy got up and stood hesitantly betwixt and between. “He’s just a piano teacher,” she said, desperately. “He’s teaching my daughter, Maylene, to play piano.”
The man smiled kindly, turned and took hold of the doorknob. “Miss?”
Cindy cast one last forlorn look at Albert, “I’m sorry,” she said. She hung her head and left the room. The man quietly closed the door behind her.
“You have a loyal following hereabouts,” said the man. His face betrayed no emotion. “Not many people a whole town would lie for. May I?” He nodded toward the chair and sat down. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Professor. Mostly in Georgia.”
“I wasn’t there,” Albert replied earnestly.
The man smiled. “No, sir. You sure weren’t. I guess I got a nice tan out of it, though.”
He did seem very fit.
“So, this is where you’ve been all along?”
It was.
“Nice place.”
It was.
“Nice people.”
They were.
“That one,” he said, nodding in the direction Cindy had gone. “Very pretty.”
She was.
“Don’t often see a figure like that outside a magazine.”
He was making conversation the way Tewksbury used to make conversation. He’d had a particular obsession with women’s breasts and there was no doubt Cindy provided a lot to obsess over. Albert rarely noticed such things himself, but Cindy’s demanded attention like party balloons at a funeral. So did Heather’s come to think of it, but not so loudly. Miss Bjork’s had, as well.
Maybe he noticed them more than he thought.
The detective didn’t say anything else for a while.
“The School sent you, didn’t they?” Albert asked, when he could stand the silence no more.
“Yes, sir. They did,” said the detective. “My name’s Paul Standish, by the way.” said Paul Standish.
“My name is –”
“I know your name, Professor. I can’t say I’m much into your kind of music, myself. My sister is, though. Her husband plays for the Boston Symphony. She’s a big fan. Took me there one night when you were playing. You’re pretty good.”
Albert didn’t respond.
“I tend a little more toward country music, myself.”
Albert continued not responding. “Are you going to arrest me?” he said finally.
“Arrest you?” said Standish, standing. “Hardly. I’m a pr
ivate detective, Professor. I couldn’t arrest development,” he laughed a little laugh. “All I can do is track you down, tell the School where you are. That’s all they really want to know. Where you are. If you’re alright. When you’ll be back.”
“I am not accustomed to having gentlemen in my home uninvited,” said Sarah, ushering herself into the room. “And I would appreciate it if you’d not bother my guests. Are you all right, Mr. Elmo?”
“Mr. Elmo’s fine,” said Standish with a smile. “And I’m just leaving. Job’s finished.” He tipped his hat. “Sorry to have bothered you, sir,” he said. “Is there anything I can do? Is there a message of any kind for the people who sent me?”
“You said – Cindy said something about a contract?”
“I did, yes. You see, the School has a contract with you – seems they share in the royalties on your music. Sort of your publisher, you know?”
Albert didn’t know. Nor did he care. There wasn’t any music anymore. Just a mazurka or a march, now and then.
“And you teach there, right? I guess that’s under contract, too.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, technically – legally it means they could compel you to honor the terms of the contracts, whatever they are.”
“You mean make me go back and teach?”
“Or sue you.”
“Mr. Elmo,” said Sarah through the straws she was grasping at. “I think this gentleman has you confused with someone else.”
Albert adopted the forlorn looked he had inherited from Cindy and turned it loose on Sarah. “He knows,” he said. “Could they?” he asked, looking once again at Standish.
“Well, legally they’d be within their rights, I suppose,” Standish replied. “However, because of who you are, that’s not likely to happen. They just need to know where you are. Protecting their interests, I’d say.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to take him away?” said Sarah, her relief showing.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that, ma’am,” said Standish. “What I would like you to do, Professor . . . ” he reached in his pocket and withdrew a business card, “is call this number if you plan to move again. Save us both a lot of trouble. It’s my beeper.”
Sarah took the card and tucked it in the mirror. “We can do that, can’t we Mr. Elmo? Well there. You see? I’ve gotten used to calling you that. Fits you. I guess that’s alright now, isn’t it? You have an office up north Mr. – “
“Standish,” said Standish.
“Standish – like the Pilgrim? You know, that was one of my favorite stories, about Miles Standish and, what was the girl’s name he was in love with? Hester Prynne? No. Cotton Mather! I remember his name – what was the girl’s name?”
“No relation,” said the ninth generation grandson of Miles Standish. “I’ll just tell them where you are – that you’re alright,” he said to Albert. “That’s my job.”
“I don’t want to go back,” said Albert.
Standish nodded. “I guess that’s between you and the School. I expect they’ll be in touch.”
So did Albert. But worst things first. “What about the newspeople?” he asked, hesitantly. He might have been an Irish monk asking if the Vikings had arrived, thought Sarah.
“Well,I’m certainly not going to say anything,” Standish replied. “In fact, the School is pretty determined to keep the whole thing under wraps, from what I gather. They don’t want other schools getting the idea you’re a free agent, so to speak.”
Albert didn’t feel like a free anything.
“But I’ve got to tell you, theyare looking for you.” He leaned against the door casing, crossed his legs, folded his hands and rubbed one thumb over the other. “The School’s been trying to convince them they know where you are. I guess the press finally figured they were blowing smoke.” He raised his head and looked more at Sarah than at Albert. “They’re not far behind.”
“Oh, dear,” said Sarah, looking less at Albert than at Standish. “What can we do?”
Standish shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve seen those people in action, and I’ve seen a pack of crazed hyenas attack a wounded animal and pull it to pieces. Apart from the fur, there’s not much difference.”
“Come here,” said Sarah, peremptorily, taking Standish by the sleeve and dragging him into the hall. “Don’t you worry yourself about it anymore, Professor,” she said, leaving her head behind as the rest of her left the room. “Alice has some apple pecan crumble in the oven.” Allowing this seductive phrase to take her place, she closed the door and, drawing the detective down the hall, spoke in hushed tones. “Mr. Standish,” she said. “I don’t know how much you know about the Professor – all he’s been through in the last few months.”
“I know the spectacular aspects of the story, Mrs. Grandy,” he said. “Like everyone else in the free world. It was hard to get away from this spring.”
“He’s a very – he’s not – he’s very sensitive,” said Sarah. It was the first time she’d tried to describe Albert, and it was no easier for her than it had been for Heather. “He’s not an idiot,” she said, struggling. That wasn’t what she wanted to say. There was a term for what she thought Albert was, but she couldn’t think of it. “He’s a genius,” she opted, “but I’m afraid anything outside music pretty quickly gets the best of him, if you know what I mean? Lately his life’s been turned inside-out.
“Well, that’s what he came here to get away from, you see? It’s bad enough we’ve got a murder of our own –”
“I’ve heard something about it. Not my business.”
His business or not, Sarah stuffed the salient points in a capsule and fed it to him whole. “Right next door,” she concluded. “So, you see, he’s got enough to contend with. So, why don’t you stay and protect him?” she proposed as she convened him at the landing. The thought had come upon her as a complete surprise, and she wanted to get it out before she had time to think about it.
“Protect him? From what?”
“Those hyenas you were talking about! What else? If you could just help us keep up the Mr. Elmo ruse . . . “
“It’s not much of a ruse, I’m afraid, Mrs. Grandy. Besides, that’s not what the School’s paying me for,” Standish replied, equally surprised.
“Aren’t they? Didn’t you just say they were interested in keep the whole business under wraps?”
“Well, as far as that goes – “
“Why don’t you just give them a call. Tell them you’ve found him and that he’s alright. And if they want him to stay that way – protect their investment, like you said – then they should hire you to keep the press off his back.” Having delivered this stream of consciousness in one breath, she drew another from the well of the winds. “Besides, even if they don’t pay, he can. Mrs. Bridges will take care of it.”
“Bridges?”
“She’s his banker, up north,” said Sarah, who had come to know Mrs. Bridges quite well. Albert had presented her with Mrs. Bridges’ name and phone number on a mutilated scrap of paper, in lieu of cash – as directed by Mrs. Bridges – when she’d inquired about the rent.
She had found Mrs. Bridges a capable and reasonable business woman, very professional. But what impressed her was the woman’s concern for Albert.
“I can make the arrangements.” She studied him earnestly, begging him with her eyes. “Please, Mr. Standish. There must be something you can do.”
Standish thought for a while. Finally an orphan smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “Perhaps there is,” he said. “I’ll call the school.”
Sarah shook his hand warmly and asked him if he’d like some apple pecan crumble.
Chapter Ten
Albert heard the voices in the hall, but not what they were saying. He wasn’t listening. He was sitting in bed in his t-shirt and boxer shorts, with the sheets tangled about his waist, staring at the picture of Lizzie.
Still sad.
He wondered what
had made her that way. Had something happened the day the photographer took that picture? That moment? Maybe she was just a sad person. She must have smiled at one time or another in her life, but it was hard to imagine.
Heather said there might be a name on the picture.
He yanked the sheets from the bed and, gathering them to himself like those of a reveler too long at the bacchanalia, shuffled across the floor in his argyle socks. As he reached to take the picture from the wall, the sheets fell to the floor and piled knee-high around his legs, like a pedestal.
A piece of brown paper covered the back of the picture. There was no name on it. Nothing but a faint water stain. It was very brittle. As he peeled it off the frame, it disintegrated in his fingers, revealing another piece of paper. This one was white but faded and had been neatly folded. He removed it and laid the picture carefully face-down on the bureau.
The paper was yellowed along the creases and had a distinctive smell. He waved it once or twice in front of his nose. Faint, but unmistakeable. Lilac.
An immense lilac bush squatted by the back door of his mother’s house in Maine. She had always called it ‘Regina’ because it reminded her of a woman she used to play bingo with who was given to big flowery dresses and too much perfume. Lilac, the one flower Albert knew by smell.
Unless, of course, all flowers smelled the same.
His heart set a cadence to the unspoken excitement that surged through him as he carefully spread the paper out on the bureau and pressed it flat.
‘My Dearest Robert,’
It was a letter. The writing was tiny, but graceful and straight, even though there were no blue lines on the page. Since first grade, Albert had had a mortal dread of paper without lines.
‘You needn’t have left in such a hurry after all. The footsteps were Angelina putting away the linens. She would never have come into my room.
‘Mother has arranged for her to go with me to Aunt Rebecca’s. Baltimore, of all places! Think of it, our child a Yankee, just like your daddy. (I’ve never had a Yankee in my family. You see how much I love you!)
Dead in D Minor Page 11
