“Yes, awful.” Chris paused. “But what cottage are you talking about? I thought you said Jamie found him at home.”
“They have a cottage out back, behind the house.” Dr. McElroy motioned to the A-frame, as they drew closer. “Abe called it his writing cottage. You know he loved literature and he wrote short stories and poems. I think he might have entertained the notion of writing a novel.”
“Really,” Chris said, as they were approaching the front door. “So where is the writing cottage?”
“It’s in the backyard. I’m terrible at measuring distances. That was where Abe did his writing, he used it as his own private retreat. Other writers do that, he told me once even Philip Roth did that.”
Chris tried to visualize it. “If the writing cottage is in the backyard, I’m surprised that Jamie didn’t see the lights on and know that Abe was there.”
“The lights weren’t on. Jamie told me he thinks Abe left the lights off on purpose, so he wouldn’t see him and stop him.”
“Oh, I understand.” Chris still had his suspicions. “So I assume there wasn’t a suicide note?”
“No, there wasn’t a note.” Dr. McElroy shuddered. “It’s so sad to think of the pain that Abe must’ve been in. I’m glad he didn’t leave a note, and the police told me that it’s not uncommon for there not to be a note.”
“Oh, you spoke with the police?”
“Yes, they came to the school yesterday and talked to me about Abe. I told him about the previous attempt, but Jamie had told them already, too.” Dr. McElroy sighed heavily. “So tomorrow morning we’ll have an assembly, and grief counselors will be there, and Jamie told me that there will be a proper memorial service later this month.”
“When is the funeral?” Chris had read the online obituary, but it hadn’t given any details about scheduling.
“There’s no burial. Abe wanted to be cremated, so Jamie honored that request.”
“Of course.” Chris masked his dismay. If Abe’s body had since been cremated, it couldn’t yield any further evidence about whether he had been murdered. Under state law, there had to be an autopsy, but it must have been routine, since suicide was suspected. A toxicology screen wasn’t done routinely, but it would’ve showed if there was alcohol, tranquilizers, or another drug in his system, which could have incapacitated Abe and facilitated someone’s hanging him. Now that evidence would be gone. It wasn’t a mistake that a big-city medical examiner would’ve made, but Central Valley was a small town.
“I’m sorry this happened, so early in your time with us. We’re usually a quieter town than this.”
“After you.” Chris opened the front door for Dr. McElroy, who stepped inside, and he followed her into a house brimming with guests.
Dr. McElroy got swept up with some students, and Chris got the lay of the land. The living room was of dramatic design, with glass on the front and back walls, and a ceiling that extended to the floor in an immense triangle. To the right was a living area furnished with tan sectional furniture around a rustic coffee table, and on the left was a glistening stainless-steel kitchen. A few casseroles, a sandwich tray, and soft drinks sat on a table, and a handful of guests talked in small, subdued groups. Jamie was in the kitchen, surrounded by an inner circle of friends that included Courtney and her husband and Rick and his wife.
Chris headed for the back of the house, so he could get a better look at the writing cottage. The backyard was lush grass, with a pool covered by a green tarp, and behind that was a smaller version of the A-frame main house, the writing cottage. He sized up the distance, and if the lights had been off inside the cottage at night, there would have been no way to see Abe inside. Ambient light would have been nonexistent, and there had been a cloud cover Friday night.
He eyed the cottage with more questions than answers, the obvious one being who was the last person or persons to talk to Abe before he died? What had been his state of mind? Why now? Had he given any indication that he was about to commit suicide? Where was his phone? His computer?
Chris turned from the window, scanning the crowd. He didn’t know any of the couple’s friends, but he knew Courtney and Rick, and they seemed the best place to start, so he went over. “Hey, everyone, how are you all?” he asked, when he reached them.
“Horrible, I still can’t believe it. He seemed fine to me.” Courtney shook her head sadly, and her husband Doug put his arm around her, drawing her close.
“I know.” Chris sighed. “You know, it’s shocking because we all got together for lunch on Friday? Abe seemed fine.”
“That’s what I keep saying.” Courtney looked at Rick, stricken. “Right, Rick? We can’t believe it. His parents are so upset, too. They’ll be here tonight. They’re the nicest people.”
Rick sighed. “They are. We met them when we went out there. It’s just awful. But I get it, I understand. We went through it with him, last time he tried. He took pills. We all thought he was over it, but I guess he wasn’t.”
Chris remained skeptical, but hid it. “Had you noticed him becoming depressed again?”
“Honestly, I didn’t,” Courtney interjected, her bloodshot eyes bewildered. “I think he was having a hard time with the rejection though, I know that. He told me that.”
Next to her, Rick nodded. “I think that’s what did it. It put him over the top.”
“What rejection?” Chris asked, keeping his tone less urgent than he felt.
“His poems,” Rick answered. “He was trying to get his poems published. You should read them. But he kept getting rejection after rejection.”
Courtney scowled. “These agents, they’re really the worst. He wrote to one in New York, and the agent emailed him, ‘We don’t have time to take any more clients, and if we did, we wouldn’t take you.’ Isn’t that so mean?”
“That’s terrible.” Chris supposed it answered why Abe would commit suicide now, but still. “Rick, did you talk to Abe Friday night? Did he call you or anything?”
“Well, yes.” Rick’s expression darkened, and a deep frown creased his forehead. “He did call me, but I couldn’t take the call. I keep thinking, what if I had? What if I just taken the five minutes to talk to him? Maybe he wouldn’t have—”
“Rick, no, don’t say that.” His wife, Sachi, rubbed his back, her expression strained. “We were at my mother’s that night, and she’s been in chemo, so she wasn’t feeling well. Rick was helping me with her—well, you don’t need to know the details. I asked Rick not to take the call right then, I thought it was a social thing. I never realized that…”