A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

“You’ll have plenty of time to read it when we get back to the store,” he said. “And if I find that little Leon did his business on the floor, I’m gonna dropkick him over the telephone poles across the street.”

“I’ll never forgive you if you do,” I said and returned to the problem at hand: the handwriting next to the A&P advert, below the double-stamps Wednesday box. I puzzled over the challenge as I might a particularly difficult crossword clue. It was written in a childish hand and was muddled by the newspaper text underneath. I was going to be sick if I continued trying to read in a moving car. Especially one piloted by Fadge, who drove as if you scored points for each pothole and bump you hit.

“Forget about the dog. Your boy, Zeke, is in charge now. Pull over to the shoulder for a minute, will you?”

With the car stopped, I concentrated on the scrawl.

“So?” he asked. “What’s it say?”

“It looks like . . . ‘ROBINSON S FRIDAY MIDNIGHT.’”

“Who the hell’s Robinson?”

“I don’t know. It could be a meeting. Johnny had dinner with Lou Fleischman on Friday night. Do you suppose he met someone else afterward? Someone named Robinson?”

“Arson,” said Sheriff Pryor over the phone.

“You’re sure?” I asked with a gulp.

“As sure as the fire chief. He found three points of origin for the fire inside the barn. That’s pretty much impossible to happen by accident. Someone wanted it to burn and burn fast.”

“Anything else to indicate arson?” I asked, searching for confirmation as I’d been trained to do.

“Windows all smashed to let in more air. Every one of them. At least the ones low enough to reach on foot. The higher windows were cracked and smoked. Some were broken but in a different way from the lower windows. It was arson all right.”

“But if it was arson, that means those two people were murdered.”

“No doubt about it.”

CHAPTER FIVE

According to the sheriff, the coroner was surprised to find that the male victim had a small-caliber bullet—.22 or .25—lodged in his skull, right between the eyes.

“Dead before the fire began,” said Pryor. “The woman, on the other hand, was strangled to death. No smoke in either of their lungs.”

“Where does that leave us?” I asked.

“Us?”

That had been foolish of me. The sheriff surely didn’t consider me part of his investigation. And I doubted he understood the simple rhetorical device I’d employed when asking what would come next. I tried a different tack.

“Was there evidence of activity elsewhere on the farm?”

“None. We walked over the eight hundred acres. Pretty forsaken out there.”

“Have you established the victims’ identities?”

“Not yet. We’re still checking with local authorities for missing persons.”

“And Louis Fleischman? Have you spoken to him?” I asked, thinking he might be grateful for the tip. He wasn’t.

“Who’s that?”

“He owns Harlequin Stables.”

“This was Tempesta Farm, miss,” he said with all the condescension he could muster.

“Yes, I noticed the sign out front. But Harlequin Stables’ livery matches the bit of racing silk tied around the man’s neck.” I waited a few beats, allowing the drama to ripen, and, with it, a healthy dose of my own disdain. “And one of their jockeys has been missing since Friday night. A man by the name of Johnny Dornan.”

“Anything else for our investigation?” he asked, outdoing his previous personal best for rudeness. Still, I fancied I could hear him scribbling the name into a pad frantically as he spoke.

I almost didn’t tell him, but in the end I thought he should know. “Do you know anyone named Robinson?”

“No. Why?”

“Johnny Dornan’s landlady showed me his room. I saw a note there that suggested a midnight meeting with someone named Robinson S.”

Pryor wasn’t interested. He told me it sounded like a dead end. “Lots of people named Robinson. Could’ve been anyone.”

“But don’t you want to check into it?”

“I think I can take it from here,” he said. “But, uh, tell me. Where was this Johnny Dornan fellow staying?”

Fadge’s promise to stand me to dinner had evaporated along with his winnings, so I had to make do by myself. For an hors d’oeuvre, I scrounged some gin-soaked olives that I kept in the icebox, washed them down with a glass of whiskey—not a combination made in heaven—then dined on deviled ham straight from the can. I peeled and quartered an apple for dessert. Frank Olney was next on my list. I phoned him as I sat down with paper and pencil and my second drink.

“What’s the update?” he asked.

I relayed the details of my conversation with the Saratoga County sheriff, and Frank listened patiently.

“I spoke to him, too,” he said once I’d finished. “He didn’t share everything with you.”

“He’s holding out on me? Why?”

“He’s friendly with the Saratoga paper. Always hunting for votes, and you’re in the wrong county.”

“Is he up for reelection this year?”

“Not till sixty-four. But he’s always running.”

Given his winning personality, Pryor needed the head start.

“So what didn’t he tell me?”

“Don’t cite me as your source, or he’ll never tell me anything else.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“He said they turned up an empty pint bottle not far from the bodies. Near where one of the walls used to be.”

“What kind of pint bottle?” I asked, suspecting the answer. “Milk?”

“Brandy. Blackberry. But remember this is off the record.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll say that I saw the bottle myself when I was on the scene.”

“That’ll work. He also said there was the remains of a campfire. Same area of the building.”

“A hobo’s hotel.”

“Looks that way.”

I remembered having seen other outbuildings at Tempesta, including a dormitory formerly used by grooms, farmhands, and assorted workers. And a large caretaker’s house about four hundred yards from the foaling barn, on the far side of the training track. Why wouldn’t the hobos have set up housekeeping there? Surely it would have been more comfortable than a musty barn. Or was it the killer or killers who’d