“Is there a husband, ex-husband or boyfriend?” he asked. After I said no to all of those queries, neglecting to mention William Octavian Butler, he asked whether Abigail had committed any crimes, consumed alcohol heavily, or utilized illegal drugs.
“Certainly not,” I said.
“I’m not accusing her,” Grimsby said. “I just gotta ask. Regulations.”
Following ten minutes of further interrogation, Sheriff Grimsby informed us that he would alert the highway patrol and instruct them to be on the lookout for Abigail’s car. Then he asked us for our addresses and telephone numbers and promised to contact us should there be any result. We bid him adieu.
Five minutes later, as we walked through the parking lot, Constance said, “Dammit, Ishmael, I can’t believe you told him I’m her mother! What possessed you?”
“My apologies. I’m afraid it just spilled out of me, so to speak. I gave it no forethought.”
Constance gazed at me and gave forth a sound that bore a close resemblance to a growl.
When I maneuvered my vehicle into my driveway after taking Constance home, I noticed a somewhat portly gentleman whom I could not identify, sitting on the front stoop of the building, smoking a cigarette. Though it was dark, I was able to discern that a duffel bag, packed full like a sausage, lay beside him and that a fedora graced his skull. Fearing that he might be a burglar or some other species of interloper waiting for entry to the building, I quietly opened the trunk of my rental car and extracted a tire iron, although I knew I would not use it for I am not a man given to violence. It was merely a scare tactic. When he saw me approaching with this makeshift weapon, he casually flicked his cigarette butt into the street, missing my head by about ten inches.
With some jocularity, he asked, “Are you planning to use that thing as a weapon? Or do you have a car inside the house that needs a tire removal?”
The Southern accent first hinted at his identity, which was confirmed when I drew close enough to observe his facial features.
“Mr. Butler?” I asked.
“Bill,” he said. “Or William. Up to you.”
“I am—”
“Ishmael Archer.”
“A pleasure,” I said, extending my hand.
“Likewise.”
I was now confused. “Today is Friday.”
“I know.”
“I believe you were not scheduled to arrive in Highland Falls until tomorrow, which is Saturday.”
“Yes,” he said. “Saturday does usually follow Friday.”
“Indeed it does, although not on the Mayan calendar.”
“I decided to come a today so I could spend a little more time with Abby,” he said. “I called her this morning and left a voicemail and a text.”
“I see.” I realized then with some dismay that his earlier arrival would have coincided with my mentoring session with Abigail and would have thus spoiled my plans had they been fulfilled. “How odd that she did not inform me of this new development.”
“Last minute decision,” he said. “Somebody didn’t show up for the flight. I got lucky.” He then rose and grabbed the handle of his duffel. “Listen, do you mind if we go upstairs? I really have to take a piss.”
“Certainly,” I said. “How terribly rude of me.”
At that, I unlocked the front door and he followed me up the stairs to my apartment. When I pointed in the direction of the bathroom, he made a beeline for it. As he did not bother to close the bathroom door, I was able to hear the familiar sound of a stream of urine making contact with the toilet water, followed by the sound of a rising zipper and then the flush. To my disgust, he did not wash his hands but merely returned to the parlor. There was a certain swagger about him that I found somewhat annoying.
After he flopped onto my couch, he asked, “Where the hell is Abby? I texted her when I got to Syracuse. Said I was arriving this evening but she never texted back. I waited at the airport for two hours. She never showed up. Lucky for me, I caught a ride with a young couple from Highland Falls who took pity on me. Nice people except for their screaming baby.”
“Abigail seems to have gone missing I’m afraid,” I said. “I just returned from the police station. It is quite worrisome.”
He sat straight up. “Jesus! For how long?”
“I am not certain,” I said. “Since this afternoon I would guess.”
“Oh.” His countenance registered relief. “That’s not too long. You scared the shit out of me for a minute there, Ishmael.”
“Most people just call me Archer,” I said.
“Archer it is.” Then, perhaps noting the grim expression on my face, he asked, “Why are you so worried about her?”
“We had an assignation of some significance at eight o’clock this evening. She did not appear for that either and she is impeccably punctual. Moreover, she has not responded to any of my voicemails or texts either.”
He narrowed his eyes at me in a manner that implied suspicion. “What sort of assignation?”
“It just so happens that I am mentoring her,” I said. “At her request of course.”
“Hmm. You’re mentoring her, are you?” he said. “Uh-huh. I see.”
I got the distinct impression from his tone that he had interpreted the word mentoring as having an implication far less innocent than its actual definition.
“By the way,” I said. “I very much enjoyed your novel. It is indeed quite an impressive achievement. Congratulations on the reviews.”
“Thanks.” He then yawned expansively. “Listen, I’m kind of beat, Archer. Haven’t slept in a couple of days. I’ve had so many interviews and events to attend. You mind pointing the way to your guest room? Maybe we can discuss all this tomorrow.”
We both stood up simultaneously. “Right this way,” I said. I led him down the hallway. “Make yourself comfortable. There are clean sheets and
towels. Help yourself to anything that resides in the kitchen.”
“Got it.” He stepped into the room, surveying it. “Thanks, Archer. I appreciate the hospitality. Good night and pleasant dreams.”
“To you as well,” I said. Before I could utter another word, he yawned again, this time even more expansively, and closed the door. Shortly thereafter, I retired, but I did not sleep a wink. I was too worried about Abigail.
The following morning, I was aroused by loud clattering sounds emanating from the kitchen. Although it was prior to my usual waking hour, I removed my sleeping mask, rose, and threw on a bathrobe to investigate. William Octavian Butler, who was clad in a pair of faded boxer shorts, flip-flops, and a wrinkled T-shirt that barely covered his belly, had brewed a pot of coffee and was presently opening and closing cabinets.
“Good morning to you, Archer,” he said. His hair was an asymmetrical tangle. “Where the hell do you keep the coffee mugs, in a wall safe?”
“Third cabinet beside the dishwasher which, incidentally, does not function.”
He then located a mug and poured some java, whereupon he meandered toward the refrigerator, yanked open the door, found a carton of milk, and poured some into the black liquid.
“Got any sugar?”
“Yes.” I opened a drawer and pulled out several packages, which I placed on the counter beside the milk. He tore one open and unloaded its contents into his coffee.
“I have orange juice if you’re interested,” I said.
“No, but a shot of whiskey in this coffee might hit the spot.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You wish to consume whiskey at eight o’clock in the morning?” Was he emulating the hard-drinking tendencies of Hemingway or Fitzgerald? “I do not stock hard liquor,” I said. “My apologies.”
“No problem. I can live without it.”
Armed with our coffees, we repaired to the parlor and
sat down across from each other.
He lifted his mug to his lips. “Do you think they’ve found Abby?” he asked.
“Sadly, I do not believe so, for I assume they would have contacted either my friend or me.”
“Mind if I smoke in here?” He leaned forward to extract a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes from the back pocket of his shorts.
“To be honest, I would prefer you did not. It causes the furniture to absorb the noxious smell, but you may venture out to the fire escape if you wish.”
I pointed to the window. Butler then strode across the room, opened the window and crawled through. While I watched him ignite his cigarette, the phone chimed.
“Dammit, Ishmael, the sheriff just called me,” Constance said. Her tone was that of a person who wishes to strangle someone. “He woke me up.”
“I am sorry, Constance,” I said. “Clearly, it wasn’t such a wise idea for me to prevaricate regarding your relationship to Abigail.”
“No kidding.”
“Well, I fear it is too late to disabuse him now. You must continue the charade. What precisely did he say?”
“They haven’t found her yet. No sign of her car either.”
“This is most upsetting,” I said.
“They want us to meet them at Abigail’s apartment in thirty minutes,” she said. “As her… ahem…mother, they will of course expect me to attend. Can you get there by then?”
Having concluded our conversation, I rose to commence my customary ablutions in the bathroom, whereupon Butler climbed back into the room. “Any news?” he asked.
“I am to meet the police at Abigail’s apartment in thirty minutes,” I said. “Perhaps we can chat later.”
“Okay.” He then collapsed on the couch, but a second later, sat upright. “Hey, maybe I should come with you?”
“That will not be necessary. The sheriff requested that only I appear. I trust you will find something with which to occupy yourself while I am gone.”
“Sure. I brought my laptop. Got some writing to do. By the way, where’s the goddamn library? I’m supposed to give a reading there later. Abby talked me into it.”
“Five blocks away,” I said. Thereupon, I gave him precise directions, handed him a spare key to my domicile, and left the room.
Present at Abigail’s apartment were Constance, Grimsby, and the latter’s deputy, a young man of about thirty who happened to be the sheriff’s progeny and was named Walter Grimsby Junior, although Grimsby referred to him simply as Junior, most likely to avoid confusion. Junior’s cheeks sported sideburns commonly known as muttonchops, a peculiar name that would imply a British form of ovine-derived edible. His were somewhat asymmetrical.
The sheriff sat down with his notebook whilst Junior made a cursory search of the premises, an act that involved opening and closing drawers, gazing behind doors, and inspecting the space beneath Abigail’s bed.
“Have a seat, Professor,” Grimsby said in an amiable tone. I kissed Constance on the cheek and sat beside her. “I just have a few questions. Shouldn’t last long.”
“Fire away, as they say,” I said.
Grimsby opened his notebook. “I understand that Ms. Bird is a student of yours,” he said.
“Correction, she was,” I said. “But she is no longer. And in point of fact, she was merely auditing the class so she was not enrolled in the college.”
“I see,” he said. “So you were her teacher. And you’re also her uncle.”
“Yes,” I said, stealing a furtive glance at Constance. “One can be both.”
“Did you socialize?”
“Of course. On several occasions.”
“And where did you go on these occasions?”
I sighed. What was the point of this insipid conversation? Did the man have some preposterous notion that I had assassinated Abigail?
“We partook of luncheon in the school cafeteria once; we attended a ghastly art fair in the town, and we engaged in a picnic near the waterfall.”
This monologue caused him to furrow his eyebrows. “What do you mean by ghastly art fair?”
I had no idea how this particular query pertained to his investigation, but I replied nonetheless. “Well, the art was beyond horrendous,” I said with a laugh. “All those infantile renderings of that ridiculous waterfall.”
The sheriff gave me a hard look. “For your information, Professor, my daughter, Tilly, exhibited a bunch of her paintings of the Falls at the art fair.”
I proffered a weak smile. “I’m sure hers were the exceptions. I did not see everything. Just a few examples.”
Grimsby squinted at me. “Tell me about this picnic of yours.”
“I do not see how any of this pertains,” I said.
“Humor me.”
“There is nothing much to tell. We hiked through a forest to a glade that she frequented. We consumed lunch, which consisted of some delicious sandwiches and other morsels that she had prepared. Would you care to hear the details of the menu?”
“Not particularly. Please continue.”
“Following the ingestion of said repast, Abigail sunbathed while I offered her some interesting information pertaining to the relationships between several characters in Wuthering Heights by Ms. Emily Brontë. Have you perhaps read it, Sheriff Grimsby?”
“Maybe in high school, I don’t remember.” His voice sounded a trifle irritable. “Go on. What else happened at this glade near the Falls?”
I attempted to think back upon that day’s activities. “Oh yes. Abigail performed some aerobic exercises—deep knee bends, jumping jacks, and so forth.”
“And then?”
“And then she decided to climb a staircase of rocks beside the Falls. It appeared somewhat perilous to me so I attempted to dissuade her from undertaking this venture, but she would not hear of it, informing me that she had performed this vertical journey without incident many times before after her jogging expeditions and found it most enjoyable. In particular, she appreciated the glorious view it afforded of the valley.”
Sheriff Grimsby was now staring at me for reasons that I did not comprehend. As Constance and I sat there, he proceeded to remove from his belt a communications contraption known as a walkie-talkie. Static erupted when he switched it on. When the noise abated, he spoke into it; to whom he spoke, I did not know.
Our search party consisted of Sheriff Grimsby, his son Junior, Constance, and yours truly. We did not see Abigail’s car parked off the highway, which I interpreted as a bad omen but I speculated that Abigail might have jogged to the area as she often did and stationed her vehicle elsewhere.
Naturally, as I was the only one in the group who had made this journey through the forest on a prior occasion, I was chosen to lead the way. After a number of wrong turns, one of which took us back to the highway, I somehow managed to escort our little ensemble to the area in question. It was there that we immediately beheld a horrifying sight that caused Constance and me to gasp in unison—Abigail lay seemingly unconscious at the foot of the rock wall. A trickle of blood, now dried, had meandered down her forehead.
Struck by the fear that Abigail had succumbed, my first instinct was to run toward her but the sheriff physically restrained me.
“You two stay put until I’ve had a chance to look things over.” His voice had a firm quality. “That’s an order.”
I struggled to get free. “We must go to her posthaste! Kindly step away, Sheriff! Time is of the essence! We must determine whether she is still alive!”
“I’ll do that,” he said. “I need to examine the scene first.”
“Why?” I said. “Kindly let me go!”
“This could be a crime scene, Professor.” At that, Grimsby turned his head toward his deputy. “Junior, get your ass over there and help me out for Christ’s sake.”
“A crime scene?” I said in a mocking tone. “Poppycock. Stuff and nonsense. It’s quite obvious that she fell!”
Grimsby was growing impatient. “You can take a few steps closer but don’t step into the surrounding area. There might be evidence. Now please, do what I say so I can see if she’s alive.”
Leaving Junior to guard us, Grimsby walked gingerly toward Abigail, squatted beside her, and placed two fingers on the side of her neck.
Part Three
Chapter Eleven
Fortunately, the Highland Falls Medical Center was reputed to be the most distinguished medical facility in the county. Why a hospital of such lofty status was situated in a town of such insignificance was a mystery to me, although on this particular day, I was grateful for its proximity.
Constance and I had been transported there in the backseat of Grimsby’s police car as it sped, sirens loudly wailing, behind the ambulance. Later, she and I placed our buttocks into uncomfortable molded plastic seats in the hospital’s unpopulated waiting area as Abigail was wheeled into a room to undergo various tests.
“I have a class in two hours,” Constance said.
“As they believe you to be her mother, I think it might appear suspicious if you were to depart,” I said. “But I suppose I can, as they say, hold the fortress if you must be off.”
“I’ll stay for a while,” she said. “My presence may calm you.”
“Thank you, Constance. I am most appreciative. You are an excellent friend, and I shall not forget this act of kindness.”
As neither Constance nor I had partaken of nourishment for many hours, I inserted several coins into a nearby vending machine and purchased some edibles and two paper cups of barely potable coffee, whereupon Sheriff Grimsby appeared before me.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions, Professor?” he said.
“Whatever for? Do you by chance consider me a suspect? I am her uncle.”
“Standard procedure, Professor.”
I sighed and allowed him, albeit reluctantly, to make his inquiries, which consisted primarily of questions regarding my whereabouts on Friday. He prefaced his remarks by informing me that his forensics department had already postulated that the accident had occurred early Friday afternoon.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 13