Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  An old woman opened it, but only as far as the chain allowed, about four inches. She peered out at Ingrid. A real old woman, maybe the oldest person she’d ever seen. Old, old people like this creeped Ingrid out; she couldn’t help it.

  “I just bought some,” the woman said, her voice thin and wavery but angry too. “Not two days ago.”

  “Bought some?” said Ingrid.

  “Girl Scout cookies,” said the woman. “One whole box I didn’t need.”

  “I’m not a Girl Scout,” Ingrid said. “I’m working on a school project.”

  The old woman gazed at her. She wore a frayed pink nightgown, open at the neck. Her skin was all wrinkles and green veins and those liver spot things. Plus she had only a few wisps of hair on her head and was missing some teeth. But if you just looked at her eyes, not the sockets around them but right in the center of the eyes, they were actually quite beautiful, a kind of golden brown, and could have been almost any age.

  “My project’s about the Prescott Players,” Ingrid said.

  “Good luck to you,” said the old woman.

  “You’re Mrs. Kovac, right?”

  The woman nodded, pulling her nightgown closed at the neck.

  “The whole…history, Mrs. Kovac,” Ingrid went on, doing some improvising. “With bios and stuff on all the actors. I heard your daughter Kate was one of them.”

  “I have no daughter Kate,” said Mrs. Kovac.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ingrid. “I read about…”

  “I never had a daughter Kate,” said Mrs. Kovac.

  “But—”

  “She was my granddaughter.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you’ve got a long way to go,” said Mrs. Kovac.

  The golden brown eyes studied Ingrid through the four-inch gap. “Are those braces on your teeth?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Kovac closed the door. Then came the metallic chink of the chain falling free. The door opened.

  “Come in,” said Mrs. Kovac. “And be quick. Can’t you feel the cold?”

  Ingrid stepped into a tiny living room with two armchairs and a footstool, covered in a floral print. The chairs also had those—what was the word? doilies—actual doilies, which she’d read about but never seen.

  “Sit down,” said Mrs. Kovac. “My daughter is dead too, even if that’s not part of your project.” She went down a narrow corridor.

  Ingrid sat in the chair without the footstool. She sat down slowly—those last words of Mrs. Kovac’s had chilled her—and looked around. No other furniture in the room but a TV and a floor lamp; the footstool was piled with mail and a few packages, all unopened.

  Mrs. Kovac returned. She handed Ingrid a framed black-and-white photo of a girl about her own age. “Katie,” she said.

  Ingrid gazed at the photo. Not just the same age, but there was a bit of a physical resemblance between them, Katie and Ingrid. Katie had braces on her teeth, for one thing. Hey. Two granddaughters who wore braces. Wore braces and loved acting. Ingrid got a weird feeling, not nervousness, not dread, more like some forces were in the air.

  “Pretty, wasn’t she?” said Mrs. Kovac.

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Kovac took the picture, sat in the other chair with a wince, as though something hurt. She stared at the photo. For a moment her voice grew gentle. “A free spirit, as anyone can plainly see.” Then she turned the frame facedown in her lap. “What else do you want to know?” she asked, back to her previous tone, a tone that made Ingrid think of the Queen of Hearts.

  “Well,” said Ingrid. And a question popped out. “What happened to her?”

  “Off the rails,” said Mrs. Kovac. “It all went off the rails. Topsy-turvy.” She closed her eyes. The circles under them were deep and purple-black, the color of the sky after sunset but just before full night. “Is it too much to ask for my reading glasses?”

  “Where are they?” said Ingrid.

  “If I knew, would I be asking?” said Mrs. Kovac. “They’ve been missing for days. Why do you think I haven’t been opening the mail?”

  Ingrid didn’t answer.

  Mrs. Kovac opened her eyes, turned them on Ingrid. “Because I can’t read without my glasses. Couldn’t you have figured that out?”

  “Where should I look?” said Ingrid. She glanced around, didn’t see any glasses.

  “It’s not important,” said Mrs. Kovac.

  “Do you want me to go through the mail for you?”

  “That’s better.”

  Ingrid knelt by the footstool, went through the mail—mostly junk except for a few bills and one package that had come UPS.

  “What’s that?” said Mrs. Kovac.

  Ingrid read the label. “It’s from the Norwich National Bank.”

  “I don’t have an account there,” she said, very suspicious.

  “It’s addressed to you.”

  “Open it then,” said Mrs. Kovac. “Is that what you want me to say?”

  Ingrid opened the package. Inside was a letter, a sealed manila envelope, and a box wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a bow.

  “Is that a letter?” said Mrs. Kovac.

  “Yes.”

  “Read it.”

  Ingrid read the letter aloud, “‘Dear Mrs. Kovac, As discussed, we are hereby forwarding the contents of your late granddaughter’s safe deposit box. In deepest sympathy, Evelyn White, assistant manager.’”

  Mrs. Kovac blinked a few times. “As discussed?” she said. “When in God’s name…” Her voice trailed off. She closed her eyes again, or maybe the eyelids closed on their own, unstoppable. “What’s in the box?”

  “Do you want me to open it?”

  “Is it going to open itself?” said Mrs. Kovac.

  Ingrid took off the bow, careful not to damage it, then removed and folded the tissue paper. Inside was a small turquoise gift box. “It’s from Tiffany’s,” she said.

  Mrs. Kovac’s eyes opened with surprising speed. She held out her hand. Ingrid laid the Tiffany box on her bone-white palm.

  “You know what this is, don’t you?” asked Mrs. Kovac.

  “No,” said Ingrid, but if she’d had to bet money—

  “The engagement ring Philip Prescott gave her,” said Mrs. Kovac.

  She would have won.

  Mrs. Kovac opened the box, took out the ring. She held it up to her eyes, very close. “Diamonds,” she said. “Worth a pretty penny.” She looked across the footstool at Ingrid. “I’ll thank you to close the door on your way out.”

  “But we haven’t talked about—”

  “I’m asking nicely,” said Mrs. Kovac, thrusting the ring deep in the pocket of her nightgown and keeping her hand there. “Why make this unpleasant?”

  Ingrid started to rise. “Thanks for showing me the picture, Mrs. Kovac.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Kovac. “Nice and tight. The door.”

  At that moment, Ingrid did something terrible. Rising like that, right by the footstool, it wasn’t hard to do. That sealed manila envelope practically slid into her hand. Terrible. But: She and Katie shared things, little things like braces and big ones like love of acting and doubts about mercy being all around. Katie deserved to have her murder solved. Maybe that was a kind of mercy. Ingrid closed the door nice and tight on her way out.

  She turned back, listening for movement, a shout, anything, but it was quiet in the trailer. On top of an earth-filled flowerpot by the door, she saw a pair of glasses. They had one of those bands for wearing around the neck. Ingrid hung them on Mrs. Kovac’s doorknob.

  twenty-five

  INGRID DROVE BACK down Moodus Road, toward the junction of Route 392. But after a few hundred yards, she couldn’t wait any longer. She stopped the car and tore open the manila envelope. Maybe she should have steered over to the side first and then stopped, but—

  What was this? Another envelope inside the manila one, an ordinary-size white letter envelope, although the paper had gone slightly yellow, th
e way paper did with age. Thick, heavy paper, and in the top left-hand corner was a return address, the letters in blue, bumpy to the touch, expensive-looking: Philip Prescott, Prescott Hall, Echo Falls, Connecticut. In the center of the envelope was one typed word: Katie. Ingrid opened it with care.

  “My darling Katie,” it read, the whole thing typewritten:

  I’m leaving this where I know you’ll find it. Soon there will be a letter from me in that ridiculous rag, The Echo, but I want you to know the truth. Something horrible happened last night. David came up from New York to see me. He asked for money to back some play he’s written. Naturally I said no. Finances aren’t great right now, as you know, and my record as an angel on Broadway hasn’t been stellar. David got very angry. He said outrageous things, the kind no man can let pass. The worst was that I’ve used my money to buy your love. He can’t believe you prefer me to him. This all goes back to when you turned him down, that time he approached you in the wine cellar. He got incensed. He believes you actually do prefer him but are blinded by my (supposed) money. Well, that was a disgusting thing to say about you. I pushed him. It wasn’t even a particularly hard push, and besides, he’s bigger than I am and—and anyway, Katie, he fell. And somehow he hit his head on a corner of one of those brass radiators—this was in the theater—and oh God he just lay there. Dead. He was dead. Is this really happening? All I know is I can’t go to jail. Murder, Katie, or some kind of manslaughter at the very least. It’s unimaginable. No one will ever find the body and maybe he won’t be missed—just another wandering actor—but I’m leaving before dawn. I don’t know where, and anyway the information would be too dangerous for you to have, Katie. I don’t know what’s going to become of me, so there’s nothing I can promise you. Best to forget about me and go on with your beautiful and talented life. Please burn this letter. I’m so sorry.

  Philip

  Ingrid sat in Grampy’s Caddy, stopped in the middle of Moodus Road, Philip Prescott’s letter in her hand. The sky was darkening. Grampy would be waking up soon, if he wasn’t up already. But her mind was busy—too busy to allow her to do anything else—connecting the dots. Philip Prescott killed David Vardack and ran away, maybe to Alaska, as the letter to The Echo said, maybe not. David Vardack stopped appearing in movies long ago because he’d been dead all these years. And now Katie Kovac was dead too, also murdered. What did Holmes say? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. The impossible suspects were Albert Morales, Lon Stingley, and Mr. Ferrand. Was this the remaining truth, then: that Philip Prescott was a murderer, that he’d returned and met up with Katie, that Katie, now half crazy or more and blaming him for her lost life, had threatened to turn him in—and so he killed her too? It made sense, linked two murders neatly, like one of those division problems that came out evenly.

  If so, where was he? What would Philip Prescott look like today? All she had to go on was that engagement photo. Back then he’d looked like Chris Farley. Also, he wasn’t tall, about the same height as Katie. A short Chris Farley, but thirty years down the line. Had she seen anyone like that around? No. And—wait a minute. One more thing. Was it possible that Katie would have had trouble recognizing him too?

  She began to fit two things together. That footstep she’d heard upstairs the first time she’d been in Katie’s house was one. The other was the way Katie had gone all weird when Ingrid mentioned the Prescott Players. At the time it had just been part of Katie’s craziness. But…but could it have been a bulb lighting up in Katie’s head? Ingrid had heard her climbing the stairs, just as Murad the taxi driver honked outside. Oh my God.

  Ingrid folded the letter, put it back in the manila envelope. She found the headlights switch and turned them on. Then she shifted from P to D and started driving. This time, turning left on Route 392, she even remembered the turn signal. But she was no longer having fun. Her hands were in the proper ten to two position, locked to the wheel. The river blinked at her through the trees, electric blue, holding on to the dying light.

  When Ingrid walked into the kitchen, the Caddy safely back in the barn, Grampy was at the table eating peanuts, shells all over the place.

  “A little nap,” he said. “Had it up to here with naps. Manage to keep yourself amused?”

  “Yes,” Ingrid said. “Mr. Borum called. He said he heard a boom.”

  From the expression on Grampy’s face, she could tell he wasn’t pals with Mr. Borum. “What did you tell him?” he asked.

  “That we still had electricity.”

  “Good girl,” said Grampy. “And honest too. Peanuts?”

  “No, thanks, Grampy. I better be getting home.”

  “Take the pickup,” Grampy said.

  Oh my God. “What did you say?”

  Grampy laughed. “Just a little joke,” he said, rising. “Driving the tractor around the farm’s a lot different from a car on the open road. Don’t have to tell you that. You’re one of those kids with natural-born good judgment.”

  Ingrid laughed too.

  He drove her home in the pickup. Night had fallen. Grampy was quiet. The headlights bored a long tunnel in the darkness. Ingrid felt very safe there in the cab with Grampy, which was kind of crazy.

  For no reason at all, she said, “You’re lucky, Grampy.”

  “Hell, I know that,” said Grampy. “I’ve got you.”

  He parked in front of 99 Maple Lane. Lights were on inside and the MPV was in the driveway. Ingrid opened the door, the manila envelope under her jacket.

  “That little Greenpeace episode?” said Grampy. “Let’s keep it between you and me.”

  Ingrid knew that wouldn’t be a problem. Secrets had different weights. The Greenpeace secret was a light one, easy to bear. Other secrets, she was learning, were much, much heavier.

  “Night,” said Ingrid.

  Grampy coughed. “Night,” he said, then coughed a few more times, the last one with a little wheeze at the end.

  “Grampy, you all right?”

  “One hundred and ten percent,” said Grampy.

  “Chores?” said Mom. “What kind of chores?”

  “You know,” said Ingrid. “Chores.”

  “And aren’t you supposed to be grounded?” Mom said.

  “But Grampy’s family. That’s still grounded.”

  A tricky point of family law. Mom gazed at her, then nodded. “How was he?”

  “In a pretty good mood,” said Ingrid.

  “Really?” said Mom. “Did he talk about…the real estate thing at all?”

  “Talk about it?” said Ingrid. “No.” Strictly true.

  Dad came in, golf clubs over his shoulder.

  “Hi everybody.” He leaned the clubs against the mudroom wall.

  “Did you return those movies to Blockbuster?” Mom asked.

  “Damn,” Dad said, snapping his fingers.

  “They’re overdue already,” Mom said. She glared at Dad.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad said. “Geez.”

  Yeah, c’mon Mom—it’s only a late fee. Sometimes Mom went way over the top about the littlest things.

  The glare faded from Mom’s eyes and she sighed. “I’ll do it.”

  “I will,” said Dad.

  “I have to go in anyway,” said Mom.

  Bzzz. Inspiration zap. “I’ll go with you,” Ingrid said.

  “Have you done your homework?” Mom said.

  “Uh-huh,” said Ingrid, meaning not exactly done if you meant actually finished and completed, more like it was going to get done, nothing to worry about.

  “All right,” said Mom.

  “The Accused Will Rise?” said the clerk at Blockbuster, gazing at his monitor. “Nope. Try Wally’s.”

  Ingrid turned to Mom. “Can we go to Wally’s?”

  Mom wrinkled her nose. Wally’s was a grubby little video place in the Flats, with an adults-only room at the back.

  “What’s The Accused Will Rise?” Mom said.

  �
��This old movie,” said Ingrid.

  “Ever seen The African Queen?” Mom said. “That’s old too. You’d like it. Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn sail down a—”

  “Don’t have it either,” said the clerk.

  Mom drove her to Wally’s. It was closed.

  Back in her room, Ingrid did her homework. She found herself doing a first-class job, checking all the algebra problems twice, answering every question in the Declaration of Independence packet in whole sentences complete with punctuation, reading the required first three chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird with care, absorbing every word. When the homework was all done, another funny thing happened: She wished there were more.

  Her door banged open. “Phone,” said Ty, tossing it to her.

  “Hello?” Ingrid said.

  “This is Vincent. How are you doing?”

  “I feel bad about Jill.”

  “As do I,” said Vincent. “My clumsiness was the cause, if you want the honest truth.”

  “I spilled the drink,” said Ingrid. “It was my fault.”

  “Not at all,” said Vincent. “Let’s call it an accident. Accidents happen. Jill’s exact words, by the way. I spoke to her this afternoon and she’s doing fine, specifically said she didn’t want you to fret.”

  “She did?”

  “Why would I make that up?” said Vincent, his soft voice rising slightly. “But it’s not the purpose of my call. I’ve scheduled an extra rehearsal for tomorrow at seven.”

  “I’ll be there,” Ingrid said. “Oh, and Vincent?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ever heard of an actor named David Vardack?”

  Something seemed to change in the phone wire, or wireless wire or whatever it was, like more electricity was pulsing through. Maybe Vincent heard it too, because he was silent for a moment. Then he said, “How are you spelling that?”

  Ingrid spelled Vardack.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Vincent. “Why do you ask?”

  “He was in this movie called The Accused Will Rise. With Barbara Stanwyck.”

  “Oh?” said Vincent. “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t really know,” Ingrid said. “But David Vardack was a Prescott Player, a long time ago.”