he stepped into the sunshine and stood on the kerb waiting for a break in the traffic. Wiping his damp palms on his jeans, he crossed the road and ducked into the shade cast by the awning of the café. He hesitated and his pulse beat faster. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and opened the door.
The restaurant looked the same as it had the last time he’d been there, ten months before. Cardboard fishing boats on a plastic ocean and nets made from kitchen twine evoked a tawdry nautical flavour. He glanced at the table in the corner, the one under the plastic lobster, and suppressed a shudder. He’d been sitting at that very table eating a hot turkey sandwich when the police came for him. The fork was still in his hand when the handcuffs closed on his wrists with the snap of doom. Now Ed resisted the urge to rub his wrists and sauntered over to the counter where Mavis Bigelow was wiping the formica surface with a grey dishcloth. Even this scrap of towelling looked the same, as did the pink skirt and blouse which hugged her generously proportioned body. But when Mavis looked up, Ed was jolted back to the present. Instead of the friendly smile he remembered, an expression of fear twisted her painted, forty-year-old features.
‘Hello, Mavis.’ Even to Ed’s own ears his voice had a strained edge.
‘You!’ Mavis backed away, her hand at her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Getting coffee.’ Ed pointed to his watch. ‘Ten o’clock – my usual time.’
‘Not any more, it isn’t,’ snarled a voice from behind him.
Ed whirled around. ‘Barry … I didn’t see you there.’
Barry advanced like a storm front, his meaty fists held like a boxer’s before him, his bow legs splayed apart at every step. ‘You stay away from my sister.’
‘But –’
‘We don’t serve murderers in here.’
‘I’m no murderer and I’ve proven it in a court of law.’ Ed’s voice cracked as it slid up the scale. ‘I didn’t kill Tracy.’
‘We know different. Those legal folk don’t know nothin’.’
Ed retreated before Barry’s threatening right, unable to take his eyes off the dancing paw.
‘It was your blond, pretty-boy looks that got you off. That and your lady lawyer making eyes at the judge. I know, I was there at court a couple of days. I seen you.’
Ed had never been called a pretty boy before – only an ugly bull of a man like Barry would have considered him one. The restaurant owner used to remind Ed of a teddy bear but now the image of a grizzly flashed in his mind.
‘Come on, Barry.’ He’d backed up until the edge of the counter dug into his spine. ‘It’s me, Ed. The guy you played poker with, the one who’s bought coffee and doughnuts from you every day for four years.’ He held his hands out, palms up, offering peace. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mavis wide-eyed at the far end of the counter.
‘Let me get him his coffee, Barry, then he’ll go away,’ she squeaked.
Neither of the men paid any attention. Barry’s projecting jaw quivered with rage. ‘Me and Tracy were good friends – very good friends – till you came along and busted us up –’
‘That’s not true.’ Ed knew that when Tracy had split from her husband she’d gone out with Barry once or twice but that had been before he’d come to Atawan. Tracy had told Ed she was afraid of Barry’s temper and now he could see why. He felt like a jelly fish confronted by a shark.
Barry ignored Ed’s interjection. ‘– then when she got tired of you, you killed her.’
The fist hovered inches from Ed’s nose. He slid along the counter. ‘Forget the coffee.’ Only pride kept his exit from looking like a complete rout.
Two of her errands completed, Catherine walked along the street towards the record store. The morning was already hot and humid and she clung to the narrow band of shade near the buildings. In her mind she replayed a snatch of her conversation at the bank. Everything had gone smoothly. The young woman at the ‘new accounts’ desk had been smiling warmly as she took down the details. ‘Address?’ she had asked.
‘317 Elm Street,’ Catherine replied.
The woman’s smile froze. ‘Is that the Tomachuk house?’
‘Yes.’ By now, Catherine knew the answer to this question. ‘Why?’
‘No reason,’ the teller said hastily. ‘It has been vacant quite a while …’ She rustled the papers in front of her. ‘Telephone number?’
What was wrong with ‘The Tomachuk house’, Catherine wondered. Her musing lasted until she arrived at the door of the long narrow music shop. A bell tinkled as she opened the door and ducked into the cool gloom. After the brilliant sunshine outside, she blinked a few times until her eyes grew accustomed to the lower light. A rustling to her left attracted her attention and she saw a smiling face pop up from behind the low counter. ‘May I help you?’
‘Well … I thought I’d just look around first.’
‘Take your time.’ Still looking very short behind the counter, he gestured at the rows and rows of tapes and compact discs. ‘Alphabetical by composer.’
Catherine smiled her thanks and turned to the racks. It didn’t take her long to discover that Albert’s Arpeggio carried only classical music. Heaven, she thought, and wandered along the aisles scanning the extensive collection. He even stocked a complete set of Dmitri Shostakovich symphonies and she finally chose the number eleven and took it to the desk.
The smiling elf with the thick glasses tapped the tape with his forefinger. ‘Good choice. Did you know Carl Sagan chose this music to represent the immensity and wonder of space in his television series Cosmos?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ As he manoeuvred his wheelchair to the cash register, Catherine understood why he looked so short.
‘It was a great series,’ he continued. ‘You should watch it when it comes on again.’ He rang up the sale and she handed over the money. ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ he said as he shoved the cash drawer shut. ‘I’m Albert Terron. I own this little oasis of culture in the desert of philistines.’
She shook his proffered hand. ‘Catherine Edison.’
He cocked his head to one side. ‘Just passing through?’
‘I’m going to be at Agromics for a few months.’
‘Great. You’ll like it here.’ He laughed. ‘And I really didn’t mean what I said about the philistines. It’s just that not too many of the good folks of Atawan appreciate real music. They want Garth Brooks and Tammy Wynette. And the kids want Def Leppard or 2 Live Crew. Or Megadeath.’ He shook his head and sighed.
Catherine smiled in sympathy. ‘I must say I was surprised to find such a wonderful store here.’
Albert laughed again, the crow’s-feet at the edges of his blue eyes deepening. ‘I get mostly mail-order business. I actually have quite an extensive clientele.’
Catherine
