The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 7

  David Abbott looked out over the audience for the first time as though startled. With a flick of the wrist, he gave the gloves a good shake, and a white rubber ball appeared in each hand. He rolled them expertly between his thumbs and index fingers, then between his index and middle fingers, on down the line, and back. Then, grasping the balls in his palms, he threw them sharply to his feet where they bounced off the floor into the air above his head. At the peak of their arc, the balls disappeared in a puff of white smoke to emerge as a pair of doves that flew over the audience and into the rafters, leaving a trail of downy feathers. A scattering of polite applause followed. The show had begun.

  David Abbott was a fine fiddle of a man, elegant and commanding, for all that he was a powerfully built, ruddy-skinned brunet. His beard was neatly trimmed and black as tar, framing a handsome, if not swarthy, face. He was built to pitch hay, Elsbeth decided, and from the look on the faces of the female patrons, clearly they wouldn’t mind if he took a roll in it.

  Saying little and using simple props, Abbott engaged in his craft. As entertaining as he was, though, Elsbeth found her thoughts drifting. She was wondering how to arrange a private meeting with the man when the flash of a bulb coming from the press box distracted her. She stared at the journalists scribbling notes, and, just like that, she had a plan.

  When a prop was rolled onto the stage—a large, red door—she sat erect.

  David Abbott took another rubber ball from his pocket, rolling it between two fingers as he motioned for silence. “I would like to take a moment, if I may, to discuss the physical universe,” he said. He raised his arm and made as if to place the ball on an invisible shelf above his head. When he removed his hand, the ball remained frozen in place. Nodding, David pulled out two smaller balls.

  “As humans, we have a voracious appetite to understand it, to conquer it. The study of matter, energy, motion, force…” As he lectured, he suspended the smaller balls on each side of the larger one. “Do you know what an electron is?” He looked out over the audience. “No?” He returned his attention to the balls and, with a light tap, sent them orbiting around the larger one in opposite directions. “You will.” He chuckled, as if at an inside joke.

  “Our most brilliant minds are using the Galilean principle of undetectable motion, or relativity, to understand the nature of time and its relationship to our physical universe.” He clasped both hands behind his back. “Time. An interesting concept. How do we define it? Can we define it? We can certainly describe it.” He paused, his eyes trailing over the audience as he recited, “Time is the sequential relationship of an event that has the property of past, present, and future in continuous duration.”

  He began to pace. “Past precedes the present, which precedes the future. These concepts are immutable and cannot be interchanged. There is no present without a past, and the two certainly cannot occur simultaneously.” He stopped abruptly as if struck by a thought. “Or can they?”

  Baffled by the speech and where it was going, several audience members shifted in their seats. Mr. Abbott regarded them somberly. “Bear with me,” he said. “Certain civilizations such as the Mayans, the Aztecs, and even Native American tribes like the Cherokee do not believe in the linear relationship of past, present, and future. They live by different laws and seek to define time and space in different terms. The Cherokee specifically are rumored to have permeated the veil of space to travel what they called the ‘spiritual plane.’My labors into these mysteries, however, show that the Cherokee are misled. What they think is a door to a different plane is, in fact, a door to a variant time in this world.”

  He gestured toward the door behind him. “This is my masterpiece. The culmination of my studies in the mystical realm of temporal translation.” He looked back to the audience, raising his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, through this door, I can traverse time, bend space, and redefine the relative ‘now.’ I can dissect past, present, and future so that they are experienced in any order. The distant future is merely a step away, which I will demonstrate tonight, not in principle, but in action.”

  He ran his hand across the framing that held the door erect. “This is no trick, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “It is no counterfeit prestidigitation. It is real.”

  Having said that, David merely opened the door and walked through it to a blinding flash from the floodlights. When they dimmed, the stage was empty. A stagehand emerged and turned the door around three hundred sixty degrees. There was no one behind it. David Abbott had vanished, but in a spectacularly uninteresting way. The stagehand then turned the door another ninety degrees so that it was facing to the side.

  A knock came from the door, causing the audience to stir. The stagehand opened it and exited to the side of the stage as a bizarre profile began to emerge from the door frame, distending from the prop. It swelled, and a slick, man-shaped outline, both hideous and hypnotic, began to take shape. As more of the profile appeared, extruding farther and farther from the frame like a soap bubble from the oily film clinging to a hooped wand, Elsbeth was struck by a thought.

  It was as if the door had eaten Mr. Abbott on one side and was now spitting him out on the other. Locked onto this notion, she could not shake the image of the door as a huge, gaping maw from which Mr. Abbott—or an oily likeness—was regurgitated. Once separated from the frame, the oily integument covering David evaporated, and he turned to face the audience, holding a newspaper in his hand.

  Uncertain what they had witnessed, the members of the audience sat in stony silence until they realized that something defying explanation had just occurred. A scattering of applause awoke them, and the remainder of the audience joined in, confused. Abbott hushed them with a simple gesture before walking to the edge of the stage. He peeled off a section of the newspaper and offered it to a woman in the first row. “Madam, could you please tell the audience what this is?”

  She took it, saying, “It’s the financial section of the San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “And what is the date of the paper?” Abbott queried.

  “May twenty-ninth. Today’s date,” she said matter-of-factly. “How did you—” She was going to ask how Abbott managed to get a copy of today’s paper from halfway across the country in one day when he interrupted her.

  “Take a closer look.”

  Looking offended, she pursed her lips and glared at the print. She squinted her eyes, then gazed at Abbott incredulously. “Nineteen sixty-five?” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry, madam. I couldn’t hear you.”

  Louder, she said, “It reads nineteen sixty-five.”

  The man sitting next to her gasped, snatching the paper from her hand as whispers radiated outward until, in seconds, the place was in an uproar.

  Unperturbed, Mr. Abbott quieted the assemblage, holding out his hand. “Sir, would you kindly return the newspaper? Knowing what is written on these pages, knowing from where I just returned, knowing the future, I assure you, will only provoke discontent.” Since the man was reluctant to give up the item in question, Abbott had to lower himself to the edge of the stage and gently pry the paper from the man’s hand. Their eyes locked as Abbott stuffed it in his coat. Standing, he looked over the audience, then walked to the door, ran his hand across its surface, opened it, and disappeared for the second time.

  A minute passed, then two, then three. The crowd looked about in confusion, slowly coming to the realization that the show had come to a rather unorthodox close. They surged to their feet, some obviously angry, others shouting, “Encore. Encore.”

  Elsbeth, however, didn’t budge. This was confirmation of Annie’s suspicions, and she knew what she must do.

  She remained seated as the audience fanned out of the exits while engaging in a hundred distinct conversations that converged on two questions: Who did Abbott think he was? and Was it real?

  Half an hour later, the lights went down in the theater with a clunk and a trailing hum. Elsbeth got up from her seat and walked through t
he lobby to a door labeled with the sign Personnel Only. Looking about, she stepped through and wandered down a hall, where she confronted a man tossing around directions as stagehands scurried to oblige. After a brief exchange, he motioned for her to follow him.

  “Mr. Abbott, you have a visitor,” the theater manager said as he knocked on a dressing room door. “A Kansas City Star reporter, sir.”

  David Abbott opened the door, clearly preoccupied with the bow tie he was trying to loosen. His shirt was unbuttoned, giving Elsbeth an eyeful of a deep, muscular chest with an even coating of coarse black hair. The bow tie slid from his neck and he looked up, catching the first glimpse of his guest. He froze openmouthed for a heartbeat before hastily buttoning his shirt. “I’m so sorry! I would never—” He glared at the stage manager before meeting Elsbeth’s eyes. “I assumed you were a man.”

  “Quite all right, Mr. Abbott.” Her response was brusque, businesslike.

  “And your name is?”

  “Elsbeth Grundy.”

  David gestured for her to enter and hurried to finish rebuttoning his shirt. As she stared about the dressing room, he apologized. “It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.” He removed several items of clothing from a chair, and Elsbeth seated herself, accompanied by a noise more like a creaking wheel than her customary snap and pop. Holding her purse primly in her lap, she fixed both feet on the floor and waited for Mr. Abbott to be seated.

  “I’m a bit surprised. I’ve already been interviewed by the Star.”

  “I’m not with the Star, Mr. Abbott,” Elsbeth said. “I’m not even a journalist. I said that to get past your little watchdog outside.” She looked apprehensively at the dressing room door, then back to Mr. Abbott. “Listen here, young man, I haven’t much time and neither do you, so I’ll get right to the point. You’re in danger.”

  David stared in open astonishment. He started to lift himself from the chair but, flustered, seated himself again. “Danger?” His expression turned grim. “Miss Grundy, I’ve had a long day and I’m very tired.”

  “This is not a laughing matter, and I’m no schoolgirl to be intimidated by your churlishness.” She brushed a crease from her skirt before continuing. “As a gesture of my sincerity, I will begin by saying that I am aware that the properties of the door used in your act are, for lack of a better term, real. How I have become aware of this fact is of no consequence. However, because of your door’s properties, I know you’ll be murdered tonight in your own home unless we take precautionary measures.”

  David rocked back, almost toppling his chair. He took a moment to collect his wits, then stood stiffly, grabbed Elsbeth by the arm, and led her forcefully to the door.

  “Mr. Abbott!” Elsbeth’s face flushed as she reached for her cane.

  “I don’t know what your game is, and frankly, I don’t care.”

  He slammed the door just as Elsbeth blurted out, “Tonight. Culler. Do not invite him into your home!”

  She looked up and down the hall, then back to the dressing room door. “Stupid, stubborn man,” she said while stomping her foot. Hiking up her skirt, she marched out of the theater and into the night, pausing to look at a billboard with David Abbott’s image on it. “I plan to save your skin whether you like it or not!” she said, then whacked the poster with her cane for good measure and stormed off.

  Back in the dressing room, David tossed a few items of clothing into a trunk. Tonight’s performances were the last of a sold-out run, and he was not pleased that his high spirits had been interrupted. He had twenty minutes to spare before the second show, after which he would be meeting Mr. Culler for a celebratory drink in the café. He pivoted, staring at the dressing room door. She’d said “Culler,” he realized.

  A knock at the door interrupted the thought, and he threw it open, scowling.

  The stage manager froze midknock and, seeing the look on Mr. Abbott’s face, cleared his throat. “Twenty minutes, sir. And I have a message from Mr. Culler, sir. He apologizes for the inconvenience, but he will not be able to meet for a drink. It seems that Mr. Danyer is back in town and the two must attend to some urgent business.”

  “At this time of night? Well, thank you, Stan.” David closed the door and stared at the floor. In a way, he was relieved. While he found Mr. Culler entirely acceptable, David didn’t care in the slightest for his associate, a reclusive man named Danyer but lovingly dubbed “Hatchet Man” for some reason David preferred not to speculate over. Danyer didn’t seem to care for the company his employer kept and always managed to make himself scarce. When asked about his associate’s odd behavior, Mr. Culler would only shrug and say, “Three’s a crowd.”

  David fetched a clean shirt from the rack, reliving his first interaction with the enigmatic Mr. Danyer. It was in the alley behind the theater. He’d stepped out back for a smoke when a shifting shadow so startled him that he'd choked on the fumes, dropping the cigarette into a fold of his waistcoat. He’d looked up in alarm, slapping at the embers, as a silhouette broke into the filtered light coming from a window to convey a message from Mr. Culler in a low hum of a voice before walking away without waiting for a reply—not that he was prepared to give one anyway. David had caught a glimpse of what he thought was a cowl, and a shudder ran down his spine before he realized the figure was simply wearing a duster with the collar pulled above his ears and a cowboy hat pulled low over his brow.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  In the Closet

  Down the block and across the street, Elsbeth stormed into her hotel room and snatched a Kansas City directory from the desk. She looked up the name Abbott, David C., finding a Westport address as Annie had mentioned in her letter. Turning to the map in the back of the directory, Elsbeth plotted a path to Mr. Abbott’s home. The journey would require a good amount of walking, but time was on her side— his second performance had only just gotten under way.

  She gathered her cane along with her handbag, stomped out of the hotel, and took a trolley to the third stop on the Westport line. After a thirty- minute walk down streets lined with massive oaks and magnolias, she found herself standing where David Abbott’s drive met the street.

  The sun was setting over his house as Elsbeth leaned against a lamppost, staring at his front door.

  After only a minute or two, a gleam like the glow of a cat’s eye caught her attention. She ignored it, but another flash of light teased at the edge of her sight, and she traced the source to a boy standing under an oak and examining three silver dollars in his open palm. He practically jumped out of his overalls when she appeared from a bend in the hedge.

  “Holy— ” The boy quickly pocketed the coins, his eyes trailing everywhere but at her. “You scared me, ma’am.”

  “What’s a little thing like you doing out here at this hour? Stirring up mischief, are you?”

  “I ain’t stirring nothing, ma’am! Just taking a shortcut home.” He nodded toward the house. “Are you staying at Mr. Abbott’s? I’m sorry for cutting across his yard. My pa don’t shine to that.”

  Since she was a schoolmarm of vast experience and knew a thing or two about the inexhaustible font of children’s mischief, Elsbeth’s instincts told her there was more to the story, but she really didn’t have the time to ferret it out. She nodded. “You run along then.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Elsbeth watched the boy bolt across the lawn, then made her way back to the streetlight just in time to see a carriage pull up to Abbott’s drive.

  Focused on the carriage, she didn’t notice the boy circle back along the line of a hedge to the oak tree, where he was joined by a shadowy figure, the two of them watching her with great interest.

  She did notice, however, that Mr. Abbott was in a mood.

  David stepped from the carriage with a sour expression on his face and made his way slowly up the gravel drive to his front door. Fumbling for his keys, David opened it and headed directly for the bar to pour a scotch—a hint of red playing in the corner of
his eyes. He looked up to find his stage prop in the corner of the room. Taking a swig from his drink, he dropped onto the divan and stared at it for a moment, his thoughts troubled.

  He was beginning to wrestle with a throw pillow when he noticed a tiny baseball mitt resting among porcelain figurines and a metronome on the side table. He picked it up and smiled for the first time that day, looking toward the bedroom off the kitchen.

  A woman, red cheeked and thick as a beer stein, entered the room while he toyed with the mitt. She waited grim-faced as he placed it back on the side table.

  “Yes, Hannah?”

  She motioned to the glove. “That baby ain’t one year old, and already you have visions of Cy Young’s second coming.”

  David looked at the glove, then to the nanny.

  “You’re setting everybody up for a world of hurt when that child don’t want to play ball, is all I’m saying.”

  David took a quick swallow, looking over the top of the glass. “Experience has taught me that when a woman says,‘That’s all I’m saying,’ I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Hannah put her hands on her generous hips, refusing to take the bait. She cocked her head toward the door sitting by the bar. “Stan dropped that by earlier, and the baby’s fast asleep.”

  David grunted. “Anything else?” he asked.

  “There was a bit of a mess. The blanket is drying on the line.”

  “Thank you, Hannah. You can head on home.”

  David heard her leave through the back door and held the cold glass to his head, feeling a headache build.

  The doorbell chimed. Irritated, he got up and slowly made his way to the front of the house. He’d only cracked it when the source of his headache barged into the living room, turned, and faced him, looking like the very devil.