Dead in D Minor

by David Crossman

  He had. “There’s nothing behind the Judge’s chair,” he said. “Just a little,” he outlined a nook with his fingers.

  “Nook?”

  “Yes,” said Albert, always glad of assistance. “If the Judge was sitting in his chair,” he put his hand on the arms of the old wooden chair he was sitting in, “nobody could get behind him . . . unless they climbed over the desk.”

  Standish sat down. Together they watched the shaft of sunlight turn from gold to melted butter that dripped off the table and onto the floor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You mean you hired Standish to prove DuShane is innocent?” said Cindy, in a loud whisper.

  Albert had been telling her what he did that day and, while he hadn’t said it in so many words, upon reflection it seemed that was the general idea. “Yes,” he said.

  “What did you do that for?”

  Albert had never experienced anything like the maelstrom of Cindy’s eyes, unplumbed depths of benign innocence, wonder, and mischief all at once. He held onto the stool to keep from falling in. “Because I think he’s innocent,” he replied a little feebly.

  “But, he’s already been convicted!” said Cindy. She glanced up from time to time, to make sure no one was listening.

  “Indicted,” Albert corrected.

  “Same thing,” said Cindy.

  Albert felt so, too.

  “What do you want, Clarence?”

  Clarence occupied a couple of stools at the end of the counter. “Nothin’,” he said reflexively. He fastened his eyes on his plate and didn’t lift them for the remainder of his meal. It occurred to him he could have asked for the ketchup or something. But it was too late, now.

  Cindy leaned over the box of moon pies and lowered her voice. “Trial’s Tuesday week.”

  “Well,” said Albert. “Just because they think he’s guilty, doesn’t mean he did it.”

  Cindy cocked her head. “Run that by me again, hon?”

  Albert was speaking from experience. “I had a . . . I knew someone who was put in prison. They said he was guilty. They proved it. But he didn’t do it.”

  “Oh, I know!” said Cindy, folding her arms beneath her breasts. Total eclipse of the moon-pies. Her eyes grew so wide Albert had to catch his breath. “Commander Beecham and Basil told me all about it! They said it was on the TV and everything. I swear,” she said with a smile, “I didn’t know you from Adam when you come in here that day. We don’t watch much TV, me and Maylene,” she said.

  “Maylene and I,” Albert corrected proxying for Sarah.

  “Is it?” said Cindy. “I don’t watch much TV. That’s right! Maylene and I don’t watch much TV. That’s good! Thanks!

  “Anyway, I wouldn’t never have asked you to give Maylene lessons if I’d known. Sarah said she bet I was awful embarrassed. But I don’t get embarrassed, do you?”

  Albert blushed at the question.

  “I don’t have enough sense, I guess. But you just kept right on working with her, just like you was a normal person,” said Cindy with admiration. ‘A normal person,’ three words Albert had never heard applied to himself. He must be doing something right. “So you figured since that fella – what was his name?”

  “Tewksbury,” said Albert, in memoriam.

  “Tewksbury. You figured since he was innocent, Marchant must be, too?”

  “No,” said Albert. Not necessarily. “It’s because Heather said he was smart.”

  “Who? Marchant?”

  Albert nodded.

  “Smart enough, I guess,” Cindy assented. “So? Smart people don’t kill people?”

  Albert explained his reasoning. It sounded even more convincing the second time, having been rehearsed on Standish.

  Cindy agreed there was some sense to the argument. “Don’t sound too smart, does it? So, what’s he going to do? Mr. Standish.” A little electric bell sounded on the wall whenever the door opened. It sounded now. Cindy looked to see who had come in. “Uh-oh!” she said on the exhale, as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her. Immediately she disappeared behind the counter.

  Albert stood up on the footrest of his stool and leaned over the counter. “What’s the matter?”

  She was huddled on the floor, suddenly quaking like a caged animal. Her eyes were wide with fear, brimming with tears, and she held her clench fists over her mouth. “Don’t let him find me, Professor! Here!” she said, taking a damp cloth from the sink and thrusting it in his hand. “Pretend to be wiping the counter!”

  Albert did as he was told. Something terrible had happened. He needed time to figure out what it was. The floor creaked behind him. He turned and locked eyes with the most unfriendly looking individual he’d ever seen.

  “I’m looking for Cindy McGinnis,” said the equally unfriendly mouth.

  Since his arrival in Tryon, Albert had heard the term ‘mountain man’, several times. This must be him. His thick black hair hung down to over the collar of his leather jacket and framed a face that overflowed with malice. Under the jacket was a scoop-necked t-shirt, and under that was hair-covered muscle. A great deal of it.

  “She was here a while ago,” said Albert, unable to lie outright.

  The man scoured the restaurant and its inhabitants with his eyes. “Where’d she go?” he said.

  Albert shrugged and took a couple of swipes at the counter. Look unknowing, that’s the thing. Shouldn’t be too difficult. He swallowed hard, but his saliva went down the wrong way. He choked and coughed. The man looked on disinterestedly.

  “She comes back, you tell her Jimbo’s in town. You hear?” he said, once the choking had died down. “She wants to change that, she knows how.”

  “Number three’s up,” said Joey through the little window as he put a plate of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and okra on the counter. Usually Cindy responded; ‘about time,’ or ‘oh, that customer died while he was waiting,’ something along those lines. This time there was no response. Joey’s attention was fetched back to the window. “Number three, Cindy!” he said. He looked out at the restaurant that was crowded with Cindy’s absence. His gaze fell on Albert, who had wiped the counter down to bare linoleum. “Where’d she go?”

  “Who?” said Albert. He didn’t want to say it. He knew it didn’t make any sense, and that it would only make matters worse, especially since Jimbo, whose breath he could feel down the back of his neck, was hanging on every word.

  “What are you up to, Professor? Cindy,” said Joey, not waiting for an answer as to why Albert was cleaning the counter to within an inch of its life. He poked his head out for a better view toward the front of the store. “Where’d she get to?”

  The suspense was almost more than Albert could bear. Everything began to happen as if in slow motion. As the chaos unfolded, he was reminded of an article he’d read once in which some brand of scientists happily proclaimed the inevitability that a meteor would one day, ‘probably very soon,’ collide with earth, and ‘end life as we know it!’ The impact upon Albert would be minimal, as he knew very little of life, but it would probably be profound on everyone else. But why announce it if it was inevitable and nothing could be done about it? What could it do but breed fear? His impulse had been “So?”

  This was pretty much the same. He could see exactly what was going to happen, but was powerless to stop it.

  Joey’s eyes were on Cindy, who was huddled as far under the counter as she could get, looking at Joey with her finger to her lips so that, when he finally saw her, which he surely would, he’d take the hint.

  “What are you doing down there, girl?” said Joey. He hadn’t taken the hint. “Did you slip on that bacon grease? Help her up there, Professor,” he continued with a laugh.

  Albert helped.

  “You okay?” said Joey, suddenly concerned by the look in her eyes. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

  “That would be awful, wouldn’t it”?” said Jimbo. Albert hadn’t turned around in the hope that, agai
nst all likelihood, the unpleasant apparition had vanished, like the ghost of Christmas future. “Here, let me help,” the mountain man continued. He leaned across Albert as if he wasn’t there and grabbed Cindy tightly by the arm.

  Albert’s perspective was obscured somewhat by the moon pies and the jar of pickled eggs that constituted the bulk of his horizon as the weight of the man pressed him into the counter, but he caught a glimpse of the fear in Cindy’s eyes as she was pulled to her feet. He’d seen the same look in the eyes of a girl on the cover of a book in a drug store.

  “You and me are gonna take a little walk, my girl,” said Jimbo. He was growling more than talking, through clenched teeth.

  “You and I,” said Albert. It had become a habit.

  Jimbo had forgotten Albert was there. He stood as much as his grip on Cindy would allow and, with his free hand, grabbed Albert by the scruff of the neck and dislodged him. “You got something to say, pismire?”

  “You and I,” Albert repeated, but his voice caught on the collar by which he was held aloft and came out gurgly.

  “You and me, what?” said Jimbo.

  “Leave him alone, Jimbo,” Cindy demanded. “You want to talk, we’ll talk. Just leave him be.” She tried to snatch her arm free in defiance, but was unable to.

  “No problem,” said Jimbo with a malevolent sneer. “I got no problem with that, do you pismire?” He tossed Albert aside like a banana skin, knocking him into a display of Tom’s Snacks which, individually and collectively, accompanied him to the floor.

  “Hey!” said Joey, who had been speechless as his brain caught up with events. “Hey!” he repeated, to maintain possession of the floor until he thought of something else to say. “You can’t do that!”

  Jimbo ignored him. “Come on,” he said, dragging Cindy to and through the little swinging door in the counter.

  Of the five diners in the restaurant, all but Clarence were halfway to their feet, but seemed to have encountered an obstacle at that point and froze like a lawn-full of plaster gnomes.

  Clarence was watching with his mouth full, but he’d stopped chewing.

  “Hey!” said Joey again, picking up a spatula. “You leave her be, you hear?”

  Apparently not. As the man pulled Cindy down the aisle he kicked at Albert, missing his head by half an inch, and toppling a metal pillar of yogurt-covered raisins and trail mix.

  Cindy screamed. Stopping in her tracks, she jerked down and backwards, tearing herself free. She darted a beseeching, horrified glance at Joey and the customers. “Help me!”

  Albert took inventory. Everyone was busy posing for a portrait of indecision except Joey, who held his spatula in one hand and the phone in the other. By the time he looked back at Cindy, Jimbo had seized her again and was pushing her toward the door, swearing at her and calling her terrible things.

  There are certain spontaneous actions that are dictated not by what a person consciously decides, for there is no time to think, but by who they are. It is these times that reveal their souls. Such a time had come for Albert.

  In retrospect, he should have gotten to his feet, but he didn’t. He’d probably just be knocked down again, anyway. Instead, he hurled himself through the raisins and trail mix on his hands and knees and lunged at Jimbo’s legs, throwing his arms around them and locking his fingers.

  Jimbo stopped and nearly fell. That would have been ideal, then everybody else could have jumped on top of him. But he didn’t. “Looks like you got a hero,” he said. He reached down and, pulling Albert up by the hair, kneed him sharply in the face. Albert’s neck jerked back with an audible crack and electric shocks raced down his arms to see if his fingers were awake.

  Cindy clambered aboard the white charger so recently vacated by her would-be champion. Seizing a Teflon pan from the aisle marked ‘Kitchen Goods’ she aimed a glancing blow at Jimbo’s head as he was stepping out of Albert’s senseless embrace. He turned on her with unchecked ferocity, backhanding her across the face. Lifted into the air by the force of the blow, she fell in a pile against the wall, her head bent at an unnatural angle.

  “Get up!” Jimbo yelled. Cindy didn’t move. “Get up!” he yelled again, seasoning the command with curses. Still she didn’t move. He glanced up nervously. The five customers had finally been galvanized into action and, having armed themselves with ketchup bottles, coffee pots, and napkin holders, were approaching warily. Joey was at their head. He’d traded the spatula for a carving knife. “That was her own fault!” said Jimbo, rubbing his head. “You saw what she did . . . hit me with that pan!”

  A siren could be heard in the near distance. Cindy moved slightly and sighed, opening her eyes. Edging toward the door, Jimbo shook his finger at her. “I’m not done with you, yet,” he said. “I’ll be back!”

  It was a threat Albert was not willing to let stand. Just as Jimbo turned to leave, he threw himself once more at his legs. This time he came up with only one foot, but he would die before he let it go.

  Instantly Jimbo began leveling blows at Albert’s head and back, but they were frantic and few found home. Albert held fast and was dragged through the door and out into the street. “What’s wrong with you, pismire!” Jimbo yelled, shaking his foot furiously. “Let go!”

  But Albert didn’t let go, and in a few seconds the cavalry arrived, with Joey at its head, and encircled Jimbo. Joey pressed the knife against the man’s stomach. “You let him go,” he said. “Now!”

  Jimbo bridled under false accusation. “Let him go! He’s the one doin’ the holdin’!”

  “You okay, Mr. Elmo?” said Joey, keeping a keen eye on his captive. Albert held fast. Blood trickled freely from his nose and puddled on the pavement. His head rang like so many bells it was impossible to ascertain the predominant key, and his ears were stuffed with the ‘what-the-hell-was-that!’ irregularity of his heartbeat.

  The police arrived and, piecing the story together from six accounts delivered simultaneously, arrested the mountain man. It took two of them a full thirty seconds to detach Albert from Jimbo’s foot.

  “You ain’t never seen anything like it, Sarah!” Cindy sang loudly.

  “Have never seen,” Sarah corrected calmly.

  “Oh, shoot,” said Cindy, “I’m too excited to talk good! Alice, you should’ve seen him. He grabbed hold and just hung on like cold death!”

  Albert was sitting at the top of the stairs. The doctor had been by, stopped the bleeding and given him a thorough examination and four or five aspirin. Apparently there was no permanent damage; it just felt that way. Rest and a hot bath would help. Albert swallowed the prescription whole, sleeping through supper and bathing through dessert andJeopardy!. He felt better.

  What now, though? He’d heard Cindy in the parlor as he started downstairs. She was talking about what happened. He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to forget. All he wanted was something to eat . . . and to give Maylene her piano lesson.

  “Ah! There’s the hero, now!” The Commander had glanced up the stairs on his way to the parlor from the dining room with his second helping of dessert and coffee. Albert had put his fingers to his lips, but to no avail. It hadn’t worked for Cindy as she’d cringed under the counter, either. Maybe the sign had gone out of fashion. “Come on down, Professor,” the Commander continued good-heartedly.

  “You’re the next catestent!” said Maylene with a giggle as she hove into view on the Commander’s lee side.

  The Commander laughed. “He’s the next contestant!” he echoed. He placed a gentle hand on the wild mass of Maylene’s nut-brown hair and patted her softly. She wrapped an arm around his leg and leaned against him. “I think she watches too much television. Wouldn’t you like some dessert?” he said.

  Albert stood up slowly in order not to disturb the more delicate connections in his brain. By this time Cindy and Alice had appeared in the doorway.

  “Professor!” said Cindy. “You’re awake. How’s your head, darlin’?”

  As Albert nodded,
it became apparent that his eyes were adrift in their sockets – like those of a rag doll – and kept nodding after his head had stopped. He clutched the banister with his left hand and nursed himself down another step or two. “I think I’ll be . . . the Doctor said I’ll be alright,” he said. Maybe the doctor was a faith healer. If so, he had faith in abundance.

  “And that’s what happened,” said Cindy. Albert noticed the story changed subtly with each telling, becoming grander and more polished. This was probably the fourth or fifth telling. One for Sarah. One for Alice. One for everyone in the house. And this one for Heather who came over early the next morning with commiserations. Fourth. The fifth would be for Basil Carmody when he returned at the end of the week, assuming no more renditions were required in the meantime.

  Not that there was no benefit in the telling.

  Albert learned that Cindy had run off to Asheville with Jimbo after she and Maylene had been at Sarah’s a little less than a year. Cindy was lonely, she thought she was in love: “Same old story,” she kept saying.

  Albert didn’t know that old story.

  “Sarah was right,” she’d said. “You was – were right, Sarah. You knew what I was gettin’ into. He beat me like a dinner gong. Poor Maylene would curl up in a corner, quaking and cryin’. Couldn’t nobody hear it up there in them hills. Just up past Biltmore,” she said, clarifying the location of the offense. “You know Biltmore? Half killed me one night.”

  Biltmore must be Jimbo’s last name.

  “All I wanted was to run away, but there wasn’t nowhere . . . there wasn’t anyplace? . . . “

  “There was no where,” said Sarah gently.

  “There wasn’t nowhere to go. He took all the money I’d saved – four hundred eighty three dollars and seventy-six cents – can you believe it? Seventy-six cents! Didn’t even leave me enough for a phone call. “

  “You could have come back here,” said Alice. She’d said it fifty times since, she’d say it every time the story was told.