Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

“I seen her articles in the paper,” repeated Junior. “She wrote all about Jordan Shaw’s murder.”

The mother shook her head and returned to her stew. “I don’t like talk of killing, especially at suppertime. Girls shouldn’t get caught up in things like that.”

“Have you ever seen Darleen with any men or boys?” I asked the group, braving Mrs. Karl’s disapproval. “Do you know anything about her that might help me locate her?”

Mr. Karl said he’d seen her from time to time on the road and doing chores. And she’d delivered a pie to him in September, compliments of her mother.

“Real nice of Mrs. Metzger to think of us,” he said, eyes beaming. “She’s a fine-looking woman, too.”

Mrs. Karl bristled in silence.

“What about Darleen?” I asked. “Did any of you see her leave home the morning she disappeared?”

“Not me,” said the father. “But, Bobby, didn’t you say you seen her getting on the bus that day?”

Bobby had his chin in his bowl, spooning the last of the stew into his mouth. He looked up, startled.

“I was spreading some hay for the horse over by the fence,” he said. “She was walking to the bus stop on Fifty-Eight. The girl, not the horse.”

“You can see her property from here?” I asked.

“Not from here,” said the father. “But the horse pen is over that way. Still kind of far, though. How’d you see her from there?”

Bobby wiped his mouth with his napkin and said the horse had wandered over to the boundary. “Likes to scratch himself against the fence. I went after him and seen the girl walking down her drive.”

“Did you speak to her?” I asked. He shook his head. “Isn’t it dark at that hour? How could you have seen her?”

“Maybe I just heard her. She walked down the drive like always and got on the bus five minutes later.”

“Like always? Are you always up and chasing horses at that hour?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, stumped by my question. “We rise early around here.”

“So you did or didn’t speak to her?” I asked.

He looked at his mother then his father. They offered no advice.

“I didn’t talk to her, no. I never spoke to her much. She was just a kid, you know.”

The Karls finished their supper quietly after that, topped it off with coffee and some Minute Tapioca pudding. (The empty box was standing on the counter, between the stove and the mouse’s breadbox.) I sat there fidgeting, waiting for an opportunity to bolt out the door. When they finally pushed back from the table, patted their stomachs, and began picking their teeth, I seized my chance.

“Well, thank you for your time and hospitality,” I said, rising from my chair. “And the milk.”

The mother and father glared at me as if I’d drunk from the finger bowl. Mr. Karl and Junior reached out their hands and took mine before I could make good my escape. All three shut their eyes again and squeezed hands. I was yanked back into my seat.

“Give thanks to the Lord,” wailed Mr. Karl, “for he is good. His mercy endures forever. Amen.”

“Amen!” That was me. “Well, I’ll just go now. Don’t get up. I know the way out.”

They did get up—all three of them—and waved goodbye from the porch as I climbed into my car. They stood there watching as I turned the key, pumped the gas, and turned the key again.

“Please, start!” I begged. I tried again. “Start, you no-good . . .”

I pumped and turned three more times, until the engine groaned like a dying swan and fell silent. She was dead. I banged my head on the steering wheel. Exhausted though the battery may have been, it had the strength to bleat one last whimpering cry from the horn. That summoned Mr. Karl to the car. I cranked down the window, and the frigid air rushed in.

“Sounds like a dead battery,” he said. “Come back inside, and Doris will get you something to eat. You’re going to miss your dinner date.”

Like fun I was.

“Can’t you give me a jump?” I asked.

“Sorry. Lost my truck three months ago to the bank. I got a tractor in the barn, but the fan belt’s busted. Battery’s dead besides. Just like yours.” He smiled.

I remembered something about a horse but thought better of it.

“Do you have a phone, Mr. Karl?”

“That we got,” he said and stood aside for me to open the car door. “Of course it’s a party line, and Mrs. Norquist usually does her telephoning after supper. We can visit while we wait for her to finish.”

Back inside, I declined all offers of nourishment, planting myself next to the plain, black phone, which sat atop a lace doily on an end table. Mrs. Norquist was indeed monopolizing the line. I checked in from time to time, lifting the receiver hoping for an operator, but getting an earful about Mrs. Norquist’s late husband instead. Finally, when my hosts left the room, I grabbed the phone and interrupted the call.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Who’s that?”

“It’s CONELRAD, ma’am. We’ve issued a warning. Please go to your bomb shelter or root cellar. Whatever you’ve got.”

“I thought CONELRAD was a radio warning,” she said.

The old bird was sharper than I had expected.

“We’ve recently added telephone warnings as a new service in the event of nuclear Armageddon.”

“Oh, my!” she gasped. “Lillian, this could be it,” she said to the woman on the other end of the line. “If this is it, Godspeed. If not, I’ll see you at bingo on Thursday.”

I tapped furiously on the cradle until the operator came on. I gave her Fadge’s number and waited for him to pick up. It was a Monday evening in January, not his high season. When he answered, I told him I needed a ride, no excuses.

“I’m working,” he said in his defense. “Can’t you call a cab?”

“I’m stuck out here with Ma and Pa Kettle and their halfwit son,” I whispered frantically.