Down the Rabbit Hole (11 page)

T
HEY ATE AT THE
kitchen table, under the sailing-ship calendar. It was different from dinner at Ingrid's. First, it was called supper. Second, it was happening earlier. Third, they were eating steak, banished from the Levin-Hills' table because of mad cow. Ingrid loved steak, especially medium rare and juicy, just like this.

“Been saving these,” said the chief, loosening his tie, a navy-blue tie that matched his uniform shirt. “How's yours?”

“Great,” Ingrid said.

“Pass down that A1, Joe, where she can get it.”

“That's all right,” Ingrid said.

“No A1?” said the chief. “How about ketchup?”

“I like it just like this,” Ingrid said.

“Me too,” said the chief. “Joe puts sauce on everything.”

“That's not true,” Joey said, although his steak was swimming in A1 and there was a pool of ketchup on the side.

The chief rolled up his sleeves—his forearms were huge, the links of his steel watchband stretched to the max—and poured himself a beer. Ingrid and Joey had milk—whole milk, which she'd hardly ever even tasted. So good, like a meal all by itself. There was a lot to be said for eating at Joey's.

“How's school?” asked the chief.

“Good,” said Ingrid.

“Ingrid's one of the brainy kids,” said Joey. She felt something press against her foot.

“That's clear,” said the chief.

Joey's foot. “I'm not,” said Ingrid. How could a foot pressing against another foot feel this good?

“What's your favorite subject?” the chief asked.

“English.” Joey pressed a little harder; it actually sort of began to hurt.

“Least favorite?” the chief said. “Send those rolls around, Joe. And the butter, for Pete's sake. What's wrong with you?”

Joey withdrew his foot fast.

“Math,” said Ingrid.

“Ingrid's—” Joey began, and then stopped himself. She knew what he'd been about to say, knew he'd realized he'd be opening a can of worms.

But too late. “Ingrid's what?” said Chief Strade.

“Uh,” said Joey.

“I'm going to be in Joey's math class,” Ingrid said. “Starting tomorrow.”

“Pre-Algebra?” said the chief.

“Yeah.”

“Where were you before?”

“Algebra Two.”

“Her teacher was a jerk,” Joey said, a streamlet of A1 leaking from the corner of his mouth. Ingrid felt the crazy temptation—totally whacked—to mop it up with her napkin.

“How so?” said the chief.

“It doesn't matter,” Ingrid said.

“Just being a jerk,” said Joey.

“Who's the teacher?” the chief said.

“Ms. Groome,” Joey said.

His father nodded, chewing slowly. Joey's eyes narrowed.

“You know her?” he said.

“Is she new?” the chief said. “From Hartford?”

“You know her?” Joey said again.

“I think she's going out with Ron Pina,” said the chief.

“You mean like dating?” Joey said. “But Ron's a cool guy.”

“Who's Ron Pina?” Ingrid said.

“Sergeant Pina,” Joey said. “He works with my dad.”

Ingrid, putting more butter on her roll, froze: Sergeant Pina.

“How's he doing, anyway?” said Joey.

“Be on crutches for six weeks,” the chief said.

“What about that hunting trip to Wyoming?”

“Had to cancel, and they're fighting him over the deposit,” the chief said. “Pass those potatoes down where Ingrid can reach them, Joe.”

Joey passed the potatoes. “Sergeant Pina was the one who chased the guy into the woods,” he said. “He ran into a tree.”

“Oh,” Ingrid said. A baked potato she was transferring from the bowl to her plate somehow got loose and fell to the floor. “Sorry,” she said, reaching down to pick it up, lying right next to one of the chief's enormous feet. The laces of his black shoes were untied, black shoes that gleamed even in the
dim light under the table; she could smell the polish and see where—what were those things called? bunions?—deformed the leather.

“That's all right,” the chief said. “Take another.”

Joey put another potato on her plate. “Ingrid's into Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

She glanced at him. How did he know that? He must have been talking to her friends. Ingrid wasn't sure whether she liked that or not.

All the heavy features on the chief's face seemed to lighten up. Was he really a hard-ass, like Stacy thought? “‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,'” he said.

“‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery,'” said Ingrid. One of her favorites.

The chief grinned. His teeth were huge, too, all different shapes. “I'm a big fan,” he said. He clinked his glass against Ingrid's. “Wonder what he'd think of the case.”

“The Cracked-Up Katie case?” Ingrid asked.

The chief's grin went away. “That's what people called her,” he said, “but there was never any evidence of actual insanity and no criminal record whatsoever. She did have her share of problems.”

“Mental problems, right, Dad?” said Joey.

“Don't know if you'd call them mental problems,” said the chief. “She got eccentric over the years, but at one time she must have been pretty normal. They say she was engaged to the most eligible bachelor in Echo Falls.”

“Who was that?” Ingrid asked.

“Philip Prescott,” said the chief.

“Of Prescott Hall?”

“Yup. The last of the Prescotts.”

“The one who took off for Alaska?”

The chief gave her a quick look. “How'd you know that?”

“Ingrid's Alice,” Joey said. “In the Wonderland play.”

The chief glanced at him in a way that said
Is this my son?

“My dad told me,” Ingrid said.

The chief nodded, helped himself to another steak from the serving platter, cut it into bite-size chunks. “That's the story,” he said. “Long before my time, of course. This must have been thirty years ago or so. I was a kid back then, younger than you two.”

“Here in Echo Falls?” Ingrid said.

“Oh, no. Thirty years ago I'd of been in Germany. Army brat.”

“He lived in Omar too,” said Joey.

“Oman,” said the chief.

“Amen,” said Ingrid; it just popped out, completely ludicrous.

But the chief seemed to find it very funny. His eyebrows, thick and almost meeting in the middle, shot up and he laughed and laughed. “That's a good one,” he said. “Have another steak.”

“I couldn't.”

“This one's barely two bites.” He plopped one on her plate. “They say her problems started up after he disappeared.”

“He just took off for Alaska?” Ingrid said. “Out of the blue?”

“He wrote a farewell letter to
The Echo
,” the chief said. “We found it among her effects, saved all these years.”

“What did it say?”

The chief reached for his briefcase, standing by the fridge. He opened it on the table and handed her a yellowed newspaper clipping.

My friends,
Ingrid read.

“Read it out loud,” said Joey.

“‘My friends, this may come as a surprise, but after our wonderful production of
Dial M for
Murder
, I feel a sudden and very deep need to refresh myself. My plans take me far away, to Alaska or even beyond. I want honest physical work, space, a chance to work things out in my head. Please don't think badly of me. Sincerely, Philip Prescott.'”

“That's so weird,” Joey said.

“What do you think, Ingrid?” said the chief.

Ingrid thought. She hardly ever got sick, so hardly ever stayed home from school; but when she did, she watched those afternoon shows on TV, soap operas, so unreal. Philip Prescott's parting letter reminded her of those shows. “Yeah,” she said. “It's weird.”

“He never came back?” said Joey.

“Nope,” said the chief. “Never heard from again.”

“What happened to all his money?” Joey asked.

“I wondered about that,” said the chief. “So I called old Mr. Samuels over at
The Echo.
If there's an Echo Falls historian, it's Mr. Samuels. Seems there wasn't much Prescott money left by then. They hadn't really worked for a generation or two. What was left behind got used up in taxes and maintenance over the years.”

Ingrid handed him the clipping. As he put it back in the briefcase, she noticed some color photographs
in there. The corner of the top one showed Kate's body on the floor, her arm flung out, almost as if reaching toward a pile of shoes in the corner. On top of the pile lay the red Pumas.

The chief pushed himself up from the table. “Wash up, Joe,” he said. “I'll take Ingrid home.”

A question popped up in Ingrid's mind. “What's
Dial M for Murder
about?” she said.

“No idea,” said the chief. He smiled at her. “Let me guess—you want to be an actress too.”

Or a director. But those were secret ambitions, so Ingrid said, “I don't know what I want to be yet.”

“Give a thought to criminology,” said the chief.

 

Out in the driveway, Ingrid started to get into the police cruiser. “Off duty,” said the chief, gesturing to a pickup parked on the street. He drove her home in that.

“Want some music? Joe likes music in the car.”

“Mr. Strade?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“These men—Albert Morales and Lon Stingley—why did they kill her?”

“The motive?” said the chief. “We don't know that.”

“Isn't it a pretty big crime not to know the motive?”

He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“‘The bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive,'” Ingrid said.

The pickup slowed down slightly, as though the chief's foot had come off the pedal. “‘The Blue Carbuncle'?” he said.

“‘A Case of Identity,'” said Ingrid.

He glanced at her again. “Right,” he said.

They turned onto River Road; Ingrid put a name to the street at once: She was learning Echo Falls. It was dark now, the river sliding by black and shiny, like licorice. Once there would have been barges out there, loaded up with shovels for the gravediggers.

“Just between you, me, and the lamppost,” said the chief, “very few cases end up being one hundred percent tidy.”

“What's untidy about this one?” Ingrid said.

The chief laughed. “Poor little Joe,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” said the chief. “I'll tell you what's untidy about this case. First, Morales and Stingley left prints in the house but only in the kitchen, and she was killed upstairs. We've got witnesses who say
they sometimes socialized with her, so the prints could date from some other time. Second, they really don't seem to know anything about the break-in that happened the next day.”

“Why is that important?”

“Because there's evidence of tampering at the crime scene. Who would take a risk like that other than a guilty party?”

“Tampering?” said Ingrid.

“Meaning that the crime scene was changed.” Before Ingrid could say she knew what tampering meant, he went on, “Plus there's the problem of Stingley's physical condition.”

“He limps. I saw it on TV.”

“Says he stepped on a land mine in the Gulf War, although the fact is he never served in the military and was born with a clubfoot. But it's hard to imagine just about anybody not being able to get away from him.”

“Then what makes you think he did it?”

“Morales ratted him out. We hadn't been questioning him more than twenty minutes before he described the whole thing, how the victim and Stingley…uh, went upstairs together, then he heard noises but got there too late.”

“Maybe he's just protecting himself,” Ingrid said. “Maybe he did it.”

“That's exactly what Stingley said the second we told him Morales's story,” said the chief, turning onto Maple Lane.

“This tampering,” Ingrid said. “What kind of changes were you talking about?”

They pulled up in front of ninety-nine, all lights shining inside. “Nice house,” said the chief. He turned to her. “You know the way Holmes always talks about the observation of trifles?”

“Yes.”

“After the break-in, I took a pretty close look at the crime scene. That's basic. And something bothered me. Couldn't put my finger on it, naturally. Like Joe, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But procedure says to take photographs before the body is removed, so back at the office I had a look at them. Sure enough, something was missing.”

“What was that?” Ingrid said.

“A pair of red shoes. Can't make out what kind, maybe those bowling ones. But we're working on it.”

“You…you think it's important?” Ingrid said.

“Got to be. Who else would do that but a guilty party, like I said?”

“Guilty of what?” said Ingrid.

“Maybe they had an accomplice,” the chief said. “It's even possible that they were set up and the real killer is still loose.” He glanced out the window. “Starting to rain. Better get inside.”

Ingrid went into the house. Her legs felt wobbly. Mom was waiting on the other side of the door.

“I had a very disturbing call from the guidance counselor today,” she said.

Dad called from the living room: “Is that her?”

D
AD HAD EXPLAINED
the whole calculus track thing to Mom. If Ingrid dropped down to Pre-Algebra now, the calculus track was out and all hope of Princeton or any other top college or university was dashed forever, at the age of thirteen. Mom went into the school the next morning, met with Ms. Groome and the guidance counselor, and made a deal. Ingrid's math homework would be monitored for the rest of the year, meaning Mom or Dad had to sign a slip saying they had seen the completed assignment and that Ingrid had done the work herself. As a bonus, Mom threw in the fact, unknown to Ingrid until that moment, that she'd
been grounded for a month. The reward was getting to stay in Algebra Two with Ms. Groome.

“Grounded?” Ingrid said in the hall outside the guidance office, the deal done, just her and Mom.

“They weren't going to go for it otherwise,” Mom said. “I could sense it.”

“What am I?” Ingrid said. “A real-estate deal?”

“Ingrid. Don't be silly.”

Ingrid stormed away.

 

She sat in history class, smoldering. They were learning about Tom Paine. Ingrid was barely listening, just enough to form the impression that he'd done some smoldering too. A real-estate deal. Toss in the freezer, the pool table, the curtains in the den, the patio furniture, the hunting prints, the portable safe. Ingrid had heard it all. She knew real estate backward, could ace the licensing exam right now. Sometimes she wondered how Mom could stand it, all that infighting over commissions, co-brokes, advertising, show fees, up time. No more. Mom had just thrown her to the wolves, was clearly suited to that harsh world, maybe even destined to—
bzzz.

One of those little sparks of inspiration went off in Ingrid's head: The keys to every listing hung on a
Masonite board across from Mom's desk at Riverbend Properties. “Every listing” had to include 337 Packer Street, the house where Albert Morales and Lon Stingley had their basement apartment. Was a pair of paint-spattered Adidas sneakers lying around somewhere in there? She had to know. This was all about shoes, especially now that Chief Strade thought the owner of those red ones might have been in on the murder.
Oh, by the way, Chief, they're mine.
How was that going to work?

A great idea. Mia was smart. They Googled Philip Prescott.

One relevant hit—linked to prescottrevival.org, the site Mom had designed for the Heritage Committee. Philip Prescott was barely mentioned, but there was lots of stuff about the renovation; Ingrid had scanned in some of the visuals herself.

“Ty? I'm going into the office for a while. Better let Nigel out.”

Stacy typed in
whats w/her?
but Ingrid, already rushing downstairs, didn't see it come up on the screen. Mom was putting on her coat.

“Going somewhere?” Ingrid said.

“The office,” said Mom. “Just for half an hour.”

“Maybe I'll tag along.”

Mom raised an eyebrow.

“Going a little stir crazy in here, Mom.”

“But it's only day one,” said Mom.

“STIR CRAZY,” Ingrid said.

“Okay,” said Mom. “I don't see why not.”

Ten minutes later, the key to 337 Packer Street was in Ingrid's pocket.

 

Being grounded didn't mean missing organized activities. Mom dropped Ingrid off at Prescott Hall for the first
Alice
rehearsal. She went into the huge octagonal entrance hall. A tall man with short-cropped gray hair was standing in profile to her, examining the reconstruction plans. It took her a moment to place him: Vincent Dunn. She hadn't realized quite how tall he was. He put on half-glasses and bent closer to one of those artists' renderings.

“Hi, Mr. Dunn,” she said.

But he didn't hear. Ingrid could almost feel how hard he was concentrating on the picture. She went closer to see what was so interesting. Her shoe squeaked on the marble floor.

Vincent Dunn jumped, almost right off the floor, as though she'd given him an electric shock. He whirled toward her, eyes wide. She jumped too.

“Sorry, Mr. Dunn,” she said. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn't scare me,” he said, his voice a bit snappish. It softened as he went on. “Surprised would be more like it.” He gazed down at her without recognition.

“I'm Ingrid, Mr. Dunn. We auditioned together.”

“Ah,” he said. “You got the role?” Now he did look surprised. But just for a moment. Then he said, “Congratulations,” and held out his hand. Ingrid shook it, a very long, delicate hand like the hands of saints in paintings by that Spanish painter El Greco.

“Thanks, Mr. Dunn,” Ingrid said.

“You did a wonderful job, of course, very acute,” he said. “And call me Vincent.”

“Vincent,” she said.

“Ingrid,” he said, making a little bow; she'd never been on the receiving end of a bow before. “How
appropriate for an actress.” He looked doubtful for a moment. “You've heard of Ingrid Bergman?”

“I'm kind of named after her,” Ingrid said.

“Your parents are movie buffs?” said Vincent.

“I wouldn't say that,” Ingrid said. “But my mom's favorite movie is
Casablanca
.”

Vincent seemed to think that over. His eyes, dark and liquid, got a faraway look. “Have you seen
Gaslight
?” he said.

“Is that a movie?” said Ingrid.

“Schlock, like
Casablanca
,” said Vincent. “But she was much better in it.”

Ingrid too thought that
Casablanca
was schlock. They were going to get along just fine. She turned to the artist's rendering on the wall. “What were you looking at?” she said.

He glanced at it without much interest. “Nothing, really.”

“This is a real big project. My mom's on the committee, and I helped with the website.”

“There's a website?”

“Prescottrevival dot org.”

Something about that struck Vincent as funny. He laughed, a short, sharp laugh, much louder than his speaking voice.

“What's so funny?” Ingrid asked.

“Oh, you know. Internet, web, dot, backslash, all that.”

Ingrid didn't quite follow. She looked a little closer at the artist's rendering, one she'd scanned onto the site herself. Vincent was right: It wasn't very interesting, just showed everything all dug up during the construction phase.

“They're redoing the whole foundation,” Ingrid said.

Vincent opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, the inner door opened. A tall man came out, although not as tall as Vincent, more Dad's height; a tall man she hadn't seen in a year or two. He wore a trench coat of soft black leather and had a perfect haircut.

“Hi, Mr. Ferrand,” Ingrid said, wondering
What's he doing here? I got the part.

He glanced down at her, at first like Vincent without recognition; then it came to him. “Ingrid,” he said; the sight of her didn't seem to please him. “I suppose congratulations are due.”

“Thanks a million, Mr. Ferrand,” which was maybe pushing it, since his cheeks went a little pink.

“I just dropped Chloe off,” he said. “She's accepted
the March Hare role. Chloe's always been a team player.”

“That's good news,” said Vincent, coming forward. “Vincent Dunn,” he said. “Mad Hatter. I thought her audition was splendid.”

“Tim Ferrand,” said Mr. Ferrand, shaking hands. “Maybe you'll rise to director one day.”

Vincent smiled. He had perfectly shaped teeth, but yellow. “I have no ambitions on that score,” he said.

Mr. Ferrand nodded. He glanced at the drawings and blueprints on the walls with distaste. Ingrid knew what he was thinking:
I'm paying for a big chunk of this and what does my daughter get? The March Hare.

 

They sat in a semicircle on stage, Jill in the middle, her black curly hair shining, her whole body radiating enthusiasm. “Let's all introduce ourselves, real names first, characters second,” she said. “And feel free to throw in a word or two about what you'd like to accomplish with this play. Let's start with you, Mr. Santos.”

“Harvey Santos,” said Mr. Santos. “Accomplish? I dunno. Maybe get some good reviews, open up new
avenues, you know what I'm saying? Take that heavyset guy in
Analyze This
and
Analyze That
—why couldn't I put on a few pounds, play him?”

A brief silence fell after that, the only sound Ingrid could hear a mean little voice in her own head:
No additional pounds necessary.

“And your role here in
Alice
?” said Jill.

“Caterpillar,” said Mr. Santos.

 

“Meredith O'Malley.” Meredith O'Malley wore a miniskirt and a little top, resembled Marilyn Monroe, the way Marilyn Monroe might have looked if she'd lived to middle age and let herself go. “I play the Dormouse. What I'm so hoping for with this play”—beginning to slide into a British accent, always a danger with Meredith—“is that we all dig down deep to expose the rough edges of our characters, the raw emotions, good along with the bad.”

She put a finger to her collagen lips in thought. That gave Ingrid a chance to remember where she'd heard most of that speech, and recently—on
Inside the Actors Studio
, where that intense bearded guy let Hollywood stars shoot off their mouths for hours; always so disappointing, compared to what they could do in the movies.

“I want,” said Meredith, “to expose the character beneath the character.” Finger quotes—plump and red-nailed—around that second
character
.

Character beneath the character? You're a rodent, for God's sake.

 

“Chloe Ferrand.” Chloe had her hair up, that spectacular golden-blond hair of course, and looked a lot older than thirteen. “The March Hare.” Everyone waited for her to say more—she had one of those faces that could make you wait, no denying that—but she did not.

 

“Vincent Dunn,” said Vincent. “The Mad Hatter.” He licked his lips, lips almost colorless but a tongue surprisingly red. “As for my hopes, I think we all know we're in good hands with our director, and I look forward to going where she leads us.”

“That's very nice,” said Jill. “Vincent is new in town. He's going to be a real asset to the company.”

“What line of work you in, Vince?” said Mr. Santos.

“Vincent,” said Vincent in his soft voice. “I'd like to open a bed-and-breakfast.”

“You mean you're in the market to buy a place?” asked Mr. Santos.

“I suppose you could say that,” said Vincent.

“Isn't Ingrid's mom a real-estate agent?” asked Meredith O'Malley.

 

Ingrid came last, after the White Rabbit, the Mock Turtle, the Duchess, and all the others. “Ingrid Levin-Hill,” she said. “Alice.” Just saying the word filled her with excitement, and a little pride too. As for goals or accomplishments, she hadn't been able to think of any even though she'd had the most time. “Let's have fun,” she said.

That brought smiles and head bobbing from almost everyone, but not Chloe, who was looking at her funny. At her mouth, to be specific, eyeing her…yes, braces, for sure. Ingrid, smiling too, snapped her mouth shut.

 

Jill handed out the scripts, urged them all to get off book as soon as possible. Everyone left except Ingrid, because no one was there to get her, and Jill, who had to stay behind to lock up. Jill turned off all the lights and set the security system. She handed Ingrid her cell phone.

“Mind calling them?” she said. “I'd drive you myself, but I've got to be in New York tonight.”

Ingrid called Mom's cell. Mom turned out to be on her way back from a meeting in Hartford, couldn't get there for an hour. “Call Dad,” she said.

Ingrid called home, no answer, called Dad's cell, got his voice mail. “Hi. This is Mark Hill. I can't take your call right now, but—”

Ingrid, still listening to Dad's message, thinking,
Pick up, this is embarrassing,
followed Jill into the octagonal entrance hall. Vincent was still there, looking at the blueprints and artists' renderings again. He turned with a smile. “These are really something,” he said.

Ingrid handed Jill the phone. “My mom can't be here for an hour and I can't reach my dad.”

“Some problem?” said Vincent.

Jill explained the problem.

“I'm happy to drive Ingrid home,” Vincent said.

“I really couldn't,” said Ingrid.

“It would be my pleasure,” said Vincent, “as long as you can tell me where you live—I'm still learning my way around.”