The Investigations of Avram Davidson (5 page)

She was a very obedient daughter. That was what made it all so odd.

At eight Mrs. Benner let her get up. Sally took a shower and came down to breakfast, kissed her father, kissed her mother. The two women clung to one another, shed a few tears. Old Joe Benner looked up from his coffee and waffles and growled a bit. “Women,” he said, addressing the canary. “The way they cry about weddings makes you wonder why they bother about 'em at all.”

“You shut up,” said his wife, without malice. “You were so pale at your own wedding that the minister didn't know whether to marry you or bury you.” And she gave a little whimper of laughter.

“I've often wished it was the last,” Joe said—and pretended to duck as Mrs. Benner gave him a light smack on the cheek with her hand. “That's for being so fresh,” she said. He captured his wife's hand and held onto it and told Sally that he hoped she'd be as happy with her Bob as he and her mother had been with each other.

That was the way the start of the day went. No sparkling dialogue, exactly, no dramatics. The Benners were respectable working-class people. They had four children. The other girl, Jeannie, the eldest, had been married off long enough ago for Mr. B. (he said) to recoup his fortunes for the wedding of his youngest.

There was going to be a reception at the church, then a family supper at Leary's Restaurant, then a big reception (with dancing) at Anderson Hall. After that the newlyweds would take off on their honeymoon at—but of course no one presumably knew where that was to be except Sally and Bob. Mrs. Mantin, Sally's mother-in-law-to-be, had thrown out some pretty strong hints that
Someone
ought to know Where (meaning:
She
ought to).

“Suppose there's an emergency of some sort comes up?” Mrs. Mantin had asked her son more than once, with a snivel standing by in case her son—whom she was now about to Lose Forever—should talk sharply to her.

“Keep the old man out of the bottle and there won't be no emergency,” Bob said. But he told her after a while that his older brother Eddie was privy to the secret, and she had to be content with that.

After Sally went in to dress and her mother attacked the dishes and her father (he had his own plumbing business) prepared to just step around and check up on the arrangements, Mrs. Benner remarked, “Well, never let it be said again in my presence that the Lord don't answer prayers. How many years I been praying for Sally to find a nice fellow!”

“He took His time, though, didn't He? Seeing how Bob lives right down the block here. But,” Mr. Benner hastened, as Peg Benner turned on him ready for battle, “I'm not complaining. Long as they're suited,
I'm
suited.” But he didn't get off that easily; his wife let him know that it was seldom enough that
he
went to church, and it wasn't
him
who had the heartbreak all these years waiting and watching and worrying, and it was all for the best because early marriages weren't near as likely to last.

After he left, his married daughter Jeannie came over, and so did their two daughters-in-law, and so did Sally's best friend, and also Mrs. Benner's sister Emma. They examined the bridal gown and the guest list and the presents and they hugged Sally and started crying a little, to warm up for the evening. Suddenly it was ten o'clock and they looked up as the church clock started chiming and there was Sally, dressed to go out.

“And where do you think
you're
going?” Aunt Emma demanded, in a mock-ferocious tone. “You better behave—you're not too big to be hit, you know!”

Sally said she was just going out to pick up a few things at the store. She was a tall, quiet girl; pink and slow and sweet. The failure of the male race to snap her up years ago had long been held against it by all distaff branches of the Benner family.

“What things?”
demanded Aunt Emma. “What could you buy that ain't been bought already?”

Her best friend said she'd go with Sally. Her sister Jeannie said to wait just a minute, she'd drive them down. But Sally, for all her quiet and obedience, had a mind of her own. She said, “No, I'll just go by myself.”

“Ah, let her go,” said her mother. “Let her get a breath of air and take a little walk. Here's the whole lot of us jabbering away—let the girl alone.” She waved at her daughter, who waved back as she walked off down the street.

It was lined with two-story wooden houses; they were set right next to one another. They were all kind of on the small side, but each had a back yard and a front yard, a tree and a little garden and some potted plants, and some had a swing on the porch and stained glass in the front door. It was a comfortable neighborhood, a quiet one, known to even the older generation from childhood. It was safe, it was home.

“Listen here, Peg,” Aunt Emma demanded. “I wanna see that seating list. If you've put me and Sam next to Maymie Johnson like you did at
Jeannie's
wedding—”

Mrs. Benner gave the sigh of one who has—or as nearly as makes no difference—married off her last child, a daughter aged thirty, and for whom life holds no further problems; and she said to her sister, “Oh, if you didn't have something to complain about, Emma, I honestly believe you'd
die.
Maymie Johnson, poor thing, hasn't set foot out of her house in
munce.
” Emma said, No! and asked what was wrong, and Mrs. Benner said, “Well, she had like what they used to call dropsy, but nowadays the doctors gave it another name.…”

*   *   *

S
ALLY ROUNDED THE
corner and came face to face with Bob Mantin, on his way back from the barber shop with his brother Eddie. She said, “Oh!” and blushed. Eddie cried, “Hey, you ain't supposed to see your bride the day of the wedding, it's bad luck!” and he playfully put his hand over Bob's eyes.

Bob pushed aside the hand. He and Sally gazed at each other. Neither, it seemed, could think of anything to say. Finally Eddie asked Sally where she was going, and she said, to the store to get a few things. He said, “Oh.”

Bob broke silence at last. “Well, I'll, uh, see you tonight, honey.”

Sally nodded, and they parted.

*   *   *

“—
SO
I
SAID
to her, ‘Well, it's up to them, Mrs. Mantin,' I said. ‘Joe and me, we put it up to them,' I said. ‘We let them choose. Do you want a big wedding or would you rather have the money to buy furniture?' we asked them. And they talked it over and the decision was entirely theirs. ‘I know it's very nice of you and Bob's father to move all your things off of the second floor and put in a kitchen and all,' I said. ‘But if they want to buy furniture, I mean such expensive furniture, that they have to do it on time, why, that's up to them,' I said. ‘That's up to
them.
'” Mrs. Benner's sister, her older daughter, her daughters-in-law, and her younger daughter's girl friend, all listened to Mrs. Benner and nodded. Occasionally they punctuated her recital with Believe
Me
or
I'll
Say and Imagine
That!

And then the church clock began to chime eleven. The expression on Mrs. Benner's face (at once combative and self-excusing) changed immediately. “Why, what's happened to Sally?” she exclaimed.

At first her emotion was one of mere affectionate annoyance. By half-past eleven she had begun to feel vexed. By twelve she was experiencing a definite anxiety. Jeannie got into her car and went to look for her sister. Mrs. Benner got on the telephone and began calling places where it was possible Sally might have stopped off, to get so engrossed in conversation as to forget this was her wedding day. The girl friend (a thin girl with a skin condition, named Agnes, who had—after the first outburst of joyful congratulations—begun to moan that after the wedding Sally wouldn't want her around any more) left to call on a few people who had no telephone. One of the sisters-in-law went around the corner to Mr. Benner's shop, as his line was busy.

“What is he doing there, anyway, so long?” fretted his wife. “He should of been back here long ago—hello, Sadie? Peg. Is Sally there? Oh … Well,
was
she there? This morning. I mean. She wasn't? All right, Sadie, I'll see you this—no, no, it's all right, I just thought she might of dropped by. Tonight, then, Sadie. 'Bye.”

And so it went. Sally hadn't been to anybody's house, even the Mantins'. Bob's brother Eddie answered the phone. He told of their having met on her way to “the store.” When? Oh … a little after ten. No, she didn't say which store. “Should I tell Bob? I mean, I will right now if you want me to, but—I mean, she'll prob'ly turn up any minute now, so why get him nervous for nothing? But if you want me to—” Mrs. Benner said, no, he was right, there was no point in getting Bob upset, too.

By half-past one they had canvassed all the stores in the neighborhood. The only one where Sally had been seen was Felber's Pharmacy. She had bought some things, the druggist said, at about ten or fifteen minutes after ten. She had seemed okay. When Mr. Felber said to her, handing over the package (cosmetics, hairpins, chewing gum), “Well, today's the big day, eh, Sally?” she had smiled and said, “I'm so happy, Mr. Felber.” He had wished her all the luck in the world.

By now it was half-past two. Suddenly Aunt Emma, who had been saying, “Oh, I wouldn't
worry,
Peg, she's prob'ly just wandering around in a kind of sky-blue-pink daze”—Aunt Emma suddenly burst into tears and said, “Well, I don't care what
anybody
says:
I
think we oughta call the
police!
”

And all the women broke down and began to wail, and so Mr. Benner found them when he returned. And after he got them quieted down, that was what he did. He phoned the police.

*   *   *

T
HE WEDDING WAS
called off, but quite a number of guests turned up anyway—some, because they hadn't got the word, others because they thought Sally might turn up in time for the wedding to take place after all. Naturally, they all made their way to the house; and the police decided not to turn them away because—who knows?—one of them might know something that would shed light on the matter.

But no one knew anything.

Late that night Detectives Bonn and Steinberg were talking about it with Captain Foley. “Everybody says the same thing,” Bonn observed. “She was a nice, sweet, quiet girl. She was a homebody. She's had no broken engagements, no troublesome ex-boy friends. She never even went steady before. So far as anybody knows, the girl was perfectly happy with the marriage. Except for the fiancé, his brother, and the druggist, though, nobody seems to have seen her once she left the old lady's sight.”

Steinberg took up the tale. “The fiancé seems to be okay. Nobody knows anything against him, and even if they did, he's been with some member of his own family all day long—brother, mother, father.
He
says she
couldn't've
run off by herself. Crying like a baby, the guy was. At the same time he doesn't want to admit she maybe met with foul play. So he says it's got to be amnesia.”

Bonn was dark and thin, Steinberg was red-haired and stocky. Captain Foley, who was pale and bald, asked, “What about the druggist? And don't give me that line. He sold her vanishing cream.”

Bonn said, “Well, as a matter of fact, Captain, he did. Vanishing cream, face powder, deodorant, hairpins—and a pack of chewing gum.”

Foley shook his head. “That don't sound like no suicide to me. I know, I know—people have committed suicide on the eves of their weddings before. But a girl who's going to kill herself don't buy deodorants and chewing gum. Even if the river
is
only five blocks away, I'm not buying suicide. No, either she made a voluntary disappearance—in which case she ought to have her butt smacked, not letting the family know—or else it was foul play. And if she was attacked, she's most likely dead by now. They've been through every empty building in the neighborhood?”

“Not only in the neighborhood, but in that whole section of the city,” said Steinberg. “How could she be the victim of violence in broad daylight, at ten o'clock in the morning, in a place where everybody knew her?” But Captain Foley said the violence needn't have occurred in the neighborhood. A car pulls up to the curb, a guy offers her a ride, she gets in—what's to notice? he asked. And then the car drives off. She wasn't the kind of girl to accept a ride from a stranger? Then maybe it wasn't a stranger.…

*   *   *

T
HE STORY WAS
in the morning papers, and the usual crowd had gathered (or rather, was circulating; the police wouldn't let them stop) near the Benners' house. Mrs. Benner was in her room, having failed to fight off the effects of a sedative the doctor made her take. Joe Benner and Bob, red-eyed, were sitting together in the kitchen drinking black coffee.

“It was amnesia,” Bob repeated for the thousandth time. “She wouldn't run off. Not Sally. Her picture's in the papers, somebody's bound to see her.”

“Sure,” Sally's father repeated, his face reflecting no such optimism. “Sure.”

Bonn and Steinberg mingled with the crowd. They looked and listened.

“They ought to call in the FBI.”

“Can't do that unless there's evidence of a kidnapping.”

“They oughta drag the river.”

“Evidence—whadayacall evidence?”

“They must of had a quarrel. Don't tell
me.
They had a lover's tiff, and the boy friend's ashamed to say.”

“They oughta drag the river.”

“My cousin he run out on his own wedding once. But a guy, that's a different thing. Know what I mean?”