“Have you heard from him?”
“Sorry?”
“Have you heard from Denton? Do you know where he is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“This isn’t like him at all. Sometimes, he has to work overnight, on surveillance, but he always gets in touch at some point.”
I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I said, “He was at our house yesterday afternoon. Late afternoon. He was bringing us up to date.”
“I know,” she said. “I phoned him just after he left your place. He said he’d had another call, that someone had left him a message, that they’d call back.”
I remembered Abagnall’s phone ringing as he sat in our living room, how I had assumed it was his wife calling to tell him what she was cooking for supper, how he’d looked at it, surprised it wasn’t a call from home, how he’d let it go to voicemail.
“Did they call back?”
“I don’t know. That was the last I spoke to him.”
“Have you heard from the police?”
“Yes. I nearly had a heart attack when they came to the door this morning. But it was about a woman, up near Derby, who’d been murdered in her home.”
“My wife’s aunt,” I said. “We went up to visit her, and found her.”
“My God,” Mrs. Abagnall said. “I’m so sorry.”
I thought about what I was going to say next before I said it, given that I’d developed a habit lately of keeping things from people out of fears I’d worry them needlessly. But that was a policy that didn’t appear to be paying off. So I said, “Mrs. Abagnall, I don’t want to alarm you, and I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason your husband hasn’t gotten in touch with you, but I think you need to call the police.”
“Oh,” she said quietly.
“I think you should tell them your husband is missing. Even though it hasn’t been for very long.”
“I see,” Mrs. Abagnall said. “I’m going to do that.”
“And you can call me if anything happens. Let me give you my home number, if you don’t already have it, and my cell, too.”
She didn’t have to ask to get a pencil. My guess was, being married to a detective, there was a notepad and pen next to the phone at all times.
Cynthia came into the kitchen. She was on her way back down to the funeral home. Tess, bless her heart, had planned ahead to make things as simple as possible for her loved ones. She’d finished paying for her funeral, in small monthly installments, years ago. Her ashes were to be scattered over Long Island Sound.
“Cyn,” I said.
She didn’t respond. She’d frozen me out. Regardless of whether I thought it was rational, she was holding me, at least in part, responsible for Tess’s death. Even I was wondering whether things might have gone differently if I had told Cynthia everything I’d known at the time I’d known it. Would Tess have been in her home when her killer came to call if Cynthia had known how Tess was able to put her through school? Or would the two of them been someplace else entirely, working as a team, maybe helping Abagnall with his investigation?
I couldn’t know. And the not knowing was something I was going to have to live with.
We were both home from work, of course. She’d taken off indefinitely from the dress shop, and I called the school to tell them that I’d be off for the next few days and that they’d better get a substitute teacher who had a clear calendar. Whoever it was, good luck with my crew, I thought.
“I’m not going to keep anything from you from now on,” I told Cynthia. “And something else has happened that you should know about.”
She stopped before leaving the kitchen, but didn’t turn around to look at me.
“I just spoke with Denton Abagnall’s wife,” I said. “He’s missing.”
She seemed to list a bit to one side, as if some of the air had been let out of her. “What did she say?” Cynthia managed to ask.
I told her.
She stood there for another moment, put one hand up to the wall to steady herself, and then said, “I have to go to the funeral home, make some last-minute decisions.”
“Of course,” I said. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No,” she said, and left.
For a while, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, besides worry. I tidied up the kitchen, picked up around the house, attempted, without success, to attach Grace’s telescope more securely to its tripod-like stand.
I walked out of the kitchen and my eyes landed on the two shoeboxes on the coffee table that Abagnall had returned to us the day before. I picked them up, took them back into the kitchen, and set them on the table.
I started taking things out one at a time. Much the way Abagnall must have, I suspected.
When Cynthia had cleared things out of her house as a teenager, she’d basically dumped the contents of drawers into these boxes, including those from the bedside tables of her parents. Like most small drawers, they became a repository for things important and not, spare change, keys you no longer knew the use for, receipts, coupons, newspaper clippings, buttons, old pens.
Clayton Bigge wasn’t much of a sentimentalist, but he saved the odd thing, like newspaper clippings. There was that one clipping of the basketball team Todd was part of, for example. But if it had anything to do with fishing, it was even more likely Clayton would hang on to it. Cynthia had told me that he read through the newspapers’ sports sections for fishing tournament news, through the travel sections for stories about out-of-the-way lakes where there were so many fish, they practically jumped into the boat.
In the box, there were probably half a dozen such clippings that Cynthia must have dug out of Clayton’s bedside table years ago before the household furniture, and the house itself, were disposed of and sold off, and I wondered when she would realize that there wasn’t much value in saving them any longer. I unfolded each yellowed clipping, careful not to tear it, to make sure what it was.
There was something about one of them that caught my eye.
It had been saved from the pages of the Hartford Courant. A piece about fly-fishing on the Housatonic River. Whoever had cut the clipping from the paper-Clayton, presumably-had been meticulous about it, taking the scissors carefully down the gutters between the first column of this story and the last of one that had been discarded. The story had been placed above some unseen ads, or other stories, that had been stacked like steps in the bottom left corner.
That’s why it seemed odd to me that a news story, unrelated to fly-fishing but tucked into the bottom right leg of the story, remained.
It was only a couple of inches long, this story. It said:
Police still have no leads in the hit-and-run death of Connie Gormley, 27, of Sharon, whose body was found dumped into the ditch alongside U.S. 7 Saturday morning. Investigators believe Gormley, a single woman who worked at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Torrington, was walking alongside the highway near the Cornwall Bridge when she was struck by a southbound car late Friday night. Police say it appears that Gormley’s body was moved into the ditch after it had been struck by the car.
Police theorize that the driver of the car may have moved the body off the road and into the ditch, presumably so that she would not be noticed until sometime later.
Why, I wondered, had everything else around that article been so neatly trimmed away, but this story left intact?
The date on the top of the newspaper page was October 15, 1982.
I was pondering that when I heard a knock at the door. I set the clipping to one side, got up from my chair, and went to answer it.
Keisha Ceylon. The psychic. That woman the TV show had set us up with, who had inexplicably lost her ability to pick up supernatural vibrations once she realized the producers weren’t cutting her a fat check.
“Mr. Archer?” she said. She was still dressed against type, in a professional-looking business suit, no kerchief, no huge hoop earrings.