When I think about the writing of Peter Abrahams, I’m reminded of something the late film critic Roger Ebert said about actor Michael Keaton: “Michael Keaton is a fast-talking actor, who may be the best in the business at showing you how fast he can think. He projects smartness, he sees all the angles, he sizes up a situation and acts on it while another actor might still be straightening his tie. … He knows he’s right, he knows he’s late, he knows what he has to do, and he’ll explain everything later.”
I thought about that while reading DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE, Abrahams’ first novel for children. Ingrid Levin-Hill may be thirteen, and dealing with mundane things like braces and soccer and a first stumbling romance and an annoying older brother, but in many ways she’s a typical Abrahams character who stumbles up against murder and finds herself deciding, even before she understands why, that it’s best that she keeps her mouth shut about what she knows because some primal instinct tells her that she’s uniquely qualified to solve the mystery. And it’s not just because she’s an admirer of Sherlock Holmes’ methods of detection; it’s just something she knows about herself. Before she really knows it.
Like Abrahams himself, Ingrid bristles with intelligence beneath her placid surface, and even as events seem to sprinting ahead of her, she catches herself catching up to them, often with a bit of Holmesian wisdom — “The more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as commonplace face is the most difficult to identify” — married to her own feral, free-range intelligence. As a result, interesting things are happening around her, often because she acts on instinct, and the product of those instincts — reckless and haphazard as they seem at the time — have a chemically catalytic effect on the plot, and keep things moving even they might appear to be standing still.
The plot? Ingrid, racing to make it to soccer practice, gets turned around in her hometown of Echo Falls, Connecticut, and winds up at the house of the town eccentric, “Cracked-Up Katie.” Katie takes her in out of the rain, lets her call for a cab, and the next day Ingrid learns a) that Katie has been murdered; and b) that she left her soccer cleats behind in Katie’s house. And in the course of dealing with ‘b,” Ingrid gets a little too invested in “a.” And, with that, the game’s afoot.
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE, the first of three Ingrid Levin-Hill novels, isn’t perfect. I’ll be honest: as much of an admirer I am of Abrahams, coherent plotting isn’t his strongest point. And I was more aware than I would have liked that Ingrid doesn’t seem to have age-appropriate reactions to death and things death-adjacent. People get seriously hurt because of things Ingrid has instigated in her haphazard investigation, and she has much to feel guilty about, only she doesn’t seem to feel bad or guilty about much of that, because, I’m guessing, that would interfere with the lightly jocular tone of this middle-grade novel.
But what Abrahams does, he does better than just about anybody in the crime-fiction game. One: More than almost any author I know, his stories are infused with a smooth, almost seamless sense of glide, of sentences that slip into one another like velvet gloves onto manicured hands, even as things—events and realizations—bump into one another beneath the surface of the prose.
And two: Abrahams is the undisputed master of off-the-nose prose. No character in an Abrahams novel ever says anything directly; and their evasions are so smooth that the other characters take a while to catch up to what they’re really saying. They almost never say yes or no, or exposit anything in reply to an inquiry; they’re constantly saying things like “In a manner of speaking” or “Something like that” or “Nothing worth mentioning” or “Oh, here and there. Various places.” These bits are delicious in the moment, and even more delicious later when the Ingrids of Abrahams’ works realize the secrets those characters are protecting with their evasions. Secrets that they are often willing to kill in order to protect, usually with no small degree of dark theatricality. And the Ingrids of the world are uniquely well-positioned to expose them because they too are masters of the evasion game, and Ingrid in particular is a particularly smooth liar, even as the weight of those lies — to her parents, her friends, the police chief — pile up higher and heavier than a thirteen-year-old girl can reach, or carry.
Another thing Abrahams does well here is plant series-arc seeds: What explain the pockets of cold between Ingrid’s over-striving parents? Why are they so determined to make “Grampy” sell off a piece of his farmland, and why os Grampy so determined to resist? Why is Ty, Ingrid’s brother, so quick to anger? What will happy between Ingrid and Joey, the police chief’s son? Like all good mysteries, all will be revealed in due course. And so I’m on to the next Ingrid Levin-Hill mystery, and I’m on to the next story about a thirteen-year-old girl, as a man in late middle age, because the writing and sentence-by-sentence storytelling is good that I cannot resist it.