A Stone's Throw James Ziskin (no david read aloud txt) 📖

by somebody. Anybody at all who wasn’t already lurking inside the Tempesta caretaker’s house.

Ten minutes later, I’d made my way along the highway back to my car. Surveying the area from the shoulder of the road, I felt certain the way was clear. No one had followed me, and no one was lying in wait for me. With key at the ready, I made a dash for my car. In a flash, I was inside, doors locked, engine roaring, and tires spinning in reverse. I wheeled the Dodge around, shifted into drive, and floored it.

Slipping into a hot bath, I willed myself to calm down. In the safety of my own apartment, I felt confident that I’d escaped Tempesta unfollowed. I wasn’t so sure I’d gone unnoticed, however. Was the creaking noise that had spooked me merely the sounds of an old house settling on itself? Or had someone else been there, watching me, listening? One thing was certain: someone had indeed been inside the house within the past twenty-four hours. I snatched the newspaper from the stool next to the tub and read the date again: Wednesday, August 15, 1962. I tossed it aside. My thoughts leapt to the .25-caliber Colt pistol I’d grabbed on my way out of the house, and I submerged myself in the soapy water, trying to disappear. Holding my breath under the surface, I wondered if taking the gun was an act of utmost foolishness or a wise decision in the spur of the moment. I knew one thing: I needed to stash it in a safe place until I could hand it over to Sheriff Pryor.

Clean and dressed again, I checked the locks on my kitchen door. A year and a half earlier, I’d had bars installed on the window panel along with a new deadbolt and three surface locks. My investigation into the disappearance of a fifteen-year-old girl inspired a spate of break-ins. I lived on the second floor of a duplex, and the only way into the apartment was through the kitchen door at the top of the stairs. The locks were secure, of course, but I worried that a determined intruder could get in despite the best efforts of the Segal deadbolt and an old wood-panel door. An ax or a healthy kick could destroy the door in a matter of seconds. And, short of a drop to the street below, there was no escape except through the kitchen door.

Why was I worrying about my security? I was sure no one had followed me home. But that provided little consolation in light of the open glove compartment I’d found the night before. If someone had indeed searched my car, he would have found the address of my employer, the New Holland Republic, on the automobile registration. That was dangerous enough, but my press pass had been there as well. With my full name. And I was in the phone book, which meant the mysterious squatter knew where to find me.

“What’s eating you?” asked Fadge, joining me in my usual booth in the back of his shop.

I’d been sitting alone, toying with the crossword puzzle, which wasn’t cooperating. Since it was the dinner hour, the store was quiet. Fadge sold a lot of ice cream in August, but during the week, most of his business came in after seven. He had a few minutes to chat with me.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Any progress?”

I shrugged without committing to an answer. I wanted to tell him about the newspaper from the farmhouse, but not if we were going to be interrupted any minute by a customer.

“How’d you do today?” I asked instead.

“Not bad.”

“What’s that mean? You lost a hundred? Two hundred?”

“A hundred and fifty. But I was close in a couple of races. I’m feeling encouraged for tomorrow.”

I held my tongue, but my face surely betrayed what I thought of his prospects.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, ignoring my silent reproach. “You’re coming with me Saturday, right?”

“What’s Saturday?”

He gaped at me as if I’d just asked what color Washington’s white horse was. “The big day. The Travers Stakes is Saturday.”

“Oh, right. Sure. I’ll go. But I have some work afterward, so I’ll have to drive myself.”

“What work do you have on a Saturday night?”

I lied. Or stretched the truth a bit. I told him I was covering the charity gala at the casino for the paper. Though there had never been any discussion between us, I suspected Fadge might not appreciate my parading some new beau in front of him.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got to get back here for the Saturday night crowd.”

A customer came in for cigarettes, so Fadge went to ring him up. When he returned he said he’d forgotten to congratulate me on my big story. The news that the sheriff suspected Johnny Dornan was the man killed in the fire was the talk of the racecourse after the Republic came out earlier that afternoon.

“Did you know that your boss sent a truckload of papers to the track? Sold every one of them.”

I was flattered. Tickled, really. And impressed by Charlie’s brain wave. Artie Short had been fretting over slipping circulation for the past two years. Maybe this would attract a few more readers in Saratoga County. And it wouldn’t hurt my reputation either. But in light of my two scares at Tempesta, I reconsidered my satisfaction.

“They were quoting you on the radio, too. WGY and WTRY. And—get this, El—Channel Six, WRGB. Television.”

“They mentioned my name?”

“No, but they quoted the paper as the source.”

That was as much as I could hope for. You don’t go into small-town newspaper reporting to become famous, after all. I smiled and thanked Fadge. But then I remembered the pistol that I’d found in the caretaker’s house. It was weighing down my purse at that very moment.

“Can I ask a huge favor of you?” I asked. He nodded. “Will you lock this in your post office safe until tomorrow?”

He