Black Iris

By Randy Russell

Mal Townley is a failed, small-town private investigator who is on the verge of throwing in the towel when a baffling case comes his way: the disappearance of the enigmatic Iris Black, an eccentric, young novelist and author of The Days of Wine. Everyone Mal contacts about Iris has an opinion about her; however, no one seems to have a picture of her. The only likeness available is in the form of a beguiling painting titled: "Black Iris"—that seems to cast a spell over its admirers. Mal breaks the first rule in the P.I. handbook: never fall in love with the subject of your investigation—which also happens to be the recipe for a bizarre, rollicking, psychological mystery.

Mal's investigation introduces him to some strange and eccentric characters, including columnist Thornton Dorstone, bestselling author, Ruby Braithwaite, conceptual artist, Leroy LeRoy, and Iris' fiancé, Baxter Hawthorne. All of them seem to be hiding something—whether or not it's information about Iris Black remains to be seen. But then, quite by chance, Mal stumbles upon an enigmatic character who breaks open the case. Set in a small, Midwestern college town, in the late 20th Century, "Black Iris" is full of local detail and the warmth of nostalgia—but is also psychologically complex and deeply mysterious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667810935

Randy Russell

Randy Russell believes in ghosts. He conducts an annual ghost seminar for the State of North Carolina and can be found most summers sharing true ghost stories at visitor centers in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He wrote Dead Rules because he believes ghosts should be allowed to share their stories of encounters with humans. He lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

Book preview

One.

I SAT IN MY WINDOWLESS OFFICE on a gray, late-winter day and thought, this isn’t working. Maybe it’s time to go back to Xonecel and get my job back in the compliance department, listening to telemarketing cold calls. They were always hiring, and I had left on good terms, and it’s a steady, if not large, paycheck. Being self-employed is hard—and trying to make a go of it as a private investigator in a small college town is harder. Except for a couple of cases—college professor fooling around, young co-ed gone briefly missing—I didn’t have much to show for a year in business. The phone was not ringing—in part, because there was no phone.

I was about ready to pack it in and head for The Elms when a beautiful woman walked in the door, just like it’s supposed to happen, and asked if I was Mal Townley. It wasn’t that much of a stretch, since there was a tasteful, subtle plaque on the door: Mal Townley, Investigations. I looked up from the book I was reading and must have looked startled, because she laughed. I laughed, too.

That’s me. You just caught me.

Reading?

I was about to pack it in.

Good timing, then. Do you have a minute?

She said her name was Andie, or Randi, I wasn’t sure, and too tongue-tied to ask her to repeat it. She said she was there on behalf of a potential client, a man, apparently too busy to make the trip over here himself. She wanted to know if I could come by his place and talk. That evening.

Must be pretty important, I remarked, at the urgency. She reminded me of someone.

I can’t say, she said. I thought she said, "I can’t stay. When I gave her a funny look, then, she added, But I’m sure it is." Which confused me even more.

We arranged a time for that evening, and she gave me a name and an address on a street I wasn’t familiar with. The name I knew. Burton Gridley was a somewhat renowned book editor who chose to live in this small, college town rather than in one of the big cities that the publishing house he worked for was located. New York, London, Toronto, etc.

For whatever reason, I tried not to let on that I was as excited as I was, though I acknowledged that I knew he was the editor. I didn’t even know what publishing company, but it was a famous one that was now part of another famous one, which was owned by a larger company, etc. She said she wasn’t exactly sure anymore, either, when I asked.

Who can keep up? I said. Then I put my finger on it. She looked exactly like the actress, Ann Prentiss, who was mostly on TV, but was great in Robert Altman’s California Split (1974).

Even more exciting than that realization, and this appointment with Gridley, was that I thought I knew what this was all about. It had been in the news. A local woman, a published author by the name of Iris Black, had gone missing. This was a couple of weeks ago, I guess. No one had any idea. She was just gone, poof, just like that. Still missing, I guess. Police were involved, but as foul play was not indicated, the news tapered off.

Still, it was a mystery, and that’s where I came in. This was my lucky day, I thought. Then I imagined emphasizing each word in that sentence, one at a time. Oddly, every option worked.

Two.

I WALKED up there after I ate dinner at home—not much dinner, really, as jittery as I was. It was a pleasant, windless evening, with a light snow falling. A few streets on the north side of town dead-ended as they rose in elevation into the surrounding woods. I had occasionally heard about a party I wasn’t invited to in that neighborhood. Burton Gridley’s place was at the end of a little court, off one of the ascending streets. The house was old, and not particularly large, but striking in its ornate, magical look—a real standout in this bland town. I’d never noticed it before only because it was hidden, more or less.

I was hoping to see Andie or Randi again, but Gridley, an older white man with good posture, answered the door himself and put me at ease with his smile and warmth. He had the hint of a British accent, but I couldn’t be sure. He welcomed me into a comfortable, cluttered kitchen, where I got the impression he spent most of his time.

I hope you don’t mind the kitchen, he said. It’s essentially my office. The study, library, drawing room—all a bit stuffy for me. Gridley was wearing a moth-eaten but comfortable looking sweater. With his shaggy gray hair, moustache and beard, and thick, plastic frame glasses, he looked more like the stereotypical English professor than an influential book editor.

I assured him that I was just as happy in the kitchen as anywhere. He offered me a drink from several bottles he had arranged into a makeshift bar at the end of the counter. I opted for Scotch and let him pick the bottle. He poured a liberal amount into a simple, short glass. I declined ice.

We sat at either side of a large kitchen table where there was a typewriter set up and what looked like piles of mail. He asked me if I was familiar with Iris Black, and I let him know that I was aware that she was a local writer, and I had read about her recent disappearance in the papers.

I’m afraid the local press didn’t get much further than the police, he said, and then he told me what he knew, which wasn’t too much, either. Gridley was Iris Black’s editor and, he claimed, closest friend. It’s not that we speak that frequently, generally. Except when we’re working together. But the depth of our understanding is that only rivaled by siblings. Or lovers.

Hmm, I said.

We’re both a little old-fashioned, he continued. Don’t care for the telephone. We live in the same town, so we’re comfortable dropping in on each other, unannounced.

What’s for dinner, I said.

Exactly. So I’m not… exactly sure when she went missing. I had tried getting ahold of her, with some questions about her manuscript. She wasn’t home. I tried calling. Nothing. That’s when I started to get in touch with some acquaintances of hers, who all made similar observations.

Did you determine who saw her last?

As far as I could tell, maybe Baxter Hawthorne, her fiancé. Sounds like they had a bit of an argument. According to Iris’ roommate, Stella Cameron.

I’ll talk to this Hawthorne, of course. And the roommate. I wrote the names in my little spiral notebook. Odd that Iris Black had a roommate. And if you could give me a list of any friends, coworkers—anyone you can think of who might have something to tell me about her.

He began jotting names down on a piece of thick, beige paper. I admired his fountain pen—one of those old-fashioned ones—but this looked actually old, and not overly large or ornate.

I love this pen, he said. Not everyone on this list will agree to talk to you, I’m afraid.

That’s okay. I can be persuasive. I’m not trying to make friends. Persuasion was just about my worst quality, in that I wasn’t any good at it, but he didn’t have to know that.

I’m probably forgetting someone.

That’s okay. If you think of someone else—or any other details you think will be helpful, make a note. I’d say call, but my phone’s been turned off.

I like that you don’t put on airs.

I don’t figure phone service is synonymous with any good quality.

Good point.

Maybe you could send… your assistant. The one who stopped by…

He said her name, but I still didn’t get it.

Right.

If she’s not too busy. I don’t like to work her like a dog.

No.

Why don’t we arrange a regular meeting time, he brightened. If that would work for you. Some public place, perhaps?

How about The Elms? I made the suggestion quickly, before he was able to propose The Chalet, the local default, it seemed, for bloodless meetings. I didn’t think I could stomach another New York Style bagel.

The Elms. I could tell he was consulting a mental map. Haven’t been there in years.

It hasn’t changed much. If at all.

That works for me. Now he seemed to be looking through a mental calendar. I did the same, but mine was empty. Say, dinnertime? Seven p.m., each day?

I agreed to the time, thinking, I like this guy. He’s okay.

Before I left, I asked to use the bathroom. It was a long walk back to my place. But more than that, I was curious. He showed me to a powder room off the entrance hall, which was clean and seemingly never used. There was a huge bar of off-white soap with an intense floral fragrance—I wanted to guess gardenias, but I’m no expert.

Three.

ON MY LIST of people to talk to, the most formidable and intimidating by far was the columnist, Thornton Dorstone. Since I’m someone to tackle the unpleasant and impossible tasks straightaway, I called his office first thing in the morning, from a payphone at the Mighty Shop, my closest convenience store. I like to save dessert, if there is dessert, for later, after the day had beat me up and spit me out.

I figured I might not get through to, or ever hear back from, Dorstone, but his secretary, who apparently spoke to him while I was on the phone with her, insisted there was urgency in the matter. He agreed to meet me over coffee, in his office, that morning. I hurried to get ready. Well, I thought. It seems that Iris Black is quite a calling card, or magic key, or what have you.

An hour later I entered the office building, one of the few older, stone, two-story buildings in town that I had probably admired at one time or another. No sign out front, or even on the door—just an address. I waited in a small foyer, with a comfortable chair, for only a few minutes before a secretary, a stern, middle-aged woman, came out to apologize that Dorstone wouldn’t be able to meet with me after all. Something had come up.

That’s more like it, I thought.

She asked for my phone number, of course, to reschedule, and then frowned when I told her I didn’t have one. She frowned even more as she struggled to think of a solution—or perhaps some other way to keep me from calling back.

You must know where all the payphones are, she said. I’m not sure if she intended that as a joke.

I’m never without dimes. I smiled.

Just a minute. She disappeared again into some back office. She reappeared pretty quickly and jotted something on a business card and handed it to me. It was Thornton Dorstone’s card, simple and elegant, with nothing but his name and the address of the building we were at. She had included a number and the name of a familiar street in town.

Can you make it to the house, tonight at seven?

I told her I could. She didn’t need to write down the time. I’ll be there, I said.

Good, she said, and if it was possible, frowned even more. She excused herself to an inner office, and I quickly left, before anyone could change their mind.

Then I remembered my appointment with Burton Gridley and made a mental note that I’d have to call him and reschedule. Too bad, because I was already coming up with a list of questions for him. And I more or less expected to get to Thornton Dorstone’s place and be turned away by a butler or someone, telling me that he’d been called away at the last minute to meet with a movie star, CEO, or king.

Four.

I SPENT the rest of the afternoon at the fine, old, university library doing research. If that doesn’t sound very glamorous, I should add that there is no activity more pleasurable for me. As different as we all are, with our politics and religious beliefs, ultimately we’re all not so different. But it might be the wildly varying pursuits of pleasure that really separates us. One man’s mind-numbing drudgery might be another’s ecstatic joy—while a particular individual’s revelatory, orgasmic awakening might be, to another, a screaming nightmare in Hell. I don’t think it’s necessary for me to list examples.

I took the scenic route there, past Thornton Dorstone’s home address, just because I was curious. It happened to be the largest, oldest, most lavish and ostentatious mansion in town—it was so ridiculous that it had never registered with me, and I guess I had assumed it was some kind of historical museum owned by the university, or else gutted to create soulless, open-concept team space for the local office of a multi-national ad agency. In short, something with big money and no pulse. So… this was Dorstone’s humble abode. I guess I was right about the big money part. I was hoping I’d find out about the beating of, or lack of, a heart.

There was an old-fashioned phonebooth at the library—it even had a folding wooden door with a glass window, which would turn on a dim dome-light in the ceiling when closed—my favorite payphone in town. It turned out that Burton Gridley was glad I called, as something had come up and he was going to have to cancel our meeting that evening. I momentarily felt the planets aligning, until he revealed that—since he had no way to contact me—he’d planned to send Andie (I’m pretty sure he said Andie) to our meeting on his behalf. But he was happy, now, that he wouldn’t have to inconvenience her. Naturally, I was devastated—and convinced more than ever that Dorstone would also cancel. It’s called Murphy’s Law.

The first article I found about Iris Black was about how she sat as the model for what was now a somewhat famous painting that made its permanent home in one of our local art museums. It was a kind of old-fashioned, oil portrait of her, titled: Black Iris—by local artist, Leroy LeRoy. I remembered seeing it in my wanderings through the museum, but it hadn’t made an impression on me. I’d have to revisit it.

Other than that, my initial research didn’t seem to bring up much but a lot of book reviews—which I figured I should wade through—though I wanted to read Iris Black’s novel, The Days of Wine, first. Then I came upon a particularly gaudy profile of Iris Black, published just after the novel came out. It was written by Thornton Dorstone and was in BLUE magazine, that ambitious, deep-pocketed arts and culture magazine that had made a big splash when it was launched, as it was supposed to be the new Vanity Fair or something. Dorstone was an editor, and frequent writer, for a while.

The profile wasn’t extensive, and only included one photograph, which was the LeRoy portrait. The article was titled, Black Iris, as well. First it talked about the book, and how brilliant it was, and then went onto how private, and even reclusive, Iris was, and how she never allowed herself to be photographed. It went on to say how she had dated some of The Center for the Story’s literary stars, including Tom Fitch, Will Bowdre, and Joshua Coe. Also, that she could often be found sipping a Sazerac cocktail at The Hunt Club, the local watering hole for young writers. Or she might be breakfasting at The Diner, enjoying their avocado toast—hobnobbing with Bill Clinton when he breezed through—campaigning for local Democrats. Or perhaps reliving her not-far-in-the-past youth by enjoying a strawberry ice cream soda at the counter of Brayden Pharmacy. The whole thing was about as phony as a three-dollar-bill. Reading it, I even laughed out loud a couple of times.

That bit of sterling journalism dampened my enthusiasm for dealing with the library’s antiquated microfiche magazine and newspaper archive system, and so instead I repaired to