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

to drive to Saratoga to interview the innkeepers in person, so I filled my purse with change acquired at a nearby Laundromat and started going down the list provided by the chamber of commerce.

As Saratoga hadn’t yet entered the world of direct distance dialing, I had to call the operator to connect me to my parties. After more than an hour of slipping nickels and dimes down the slot and asking for one hotel, motor inn, and boarding house after another, I’d gotten nowhere. No guests had disappeared without settling the bill, no one was missing, and several desk clerks I spoke to expressed doubts about the propriety of my inquiries. The man at the Gideon Putnam, in particular, seemed insulted by the suggestion that any of his guests would “skip out” without paying.

Finally, after moving on to the Yellow Pages, I hit upon a possible lead. The Friar Tuck Motel on Route 50 confirmed that a guest—a woman—had not returned to the establishment since leaving in a sedan late Friday night.

“Must’ve been after eleven,” said the woman who’d identified herself as Margaret. “But if she thinks she can run off without paying, she’s mistaken. I’ve got her stuff locked up where she can’t get it.”

“Anything worth coming back for?” I asked.

After some coaxing, Margaret admitted there was little of value beyond a dented cigarette lighter, a half-drunk fifth of cheap rye, and a suitcase of clothes. It took little effort to convince her to share everything she knew. Perhaps, like Mrs. Russell, Margaret thought I might help her collect from the deadbeat guest.

“She checked into a single room three days ago under the name of Mrs. Everett Coleman of Manitoba, Canada,” she recited as if reading from the register. “Of course I discovered later she was stashing a fellow in the room with her.”

“He was staying there, too?”

“One night at least. The bed was all mussed on both sides.”

“His name wasn’t Robinson, by any chance.”

“Don’t know what his name was. He didn’t register.”

“Can you describe what they looked like?”

“She was average. Mid to late thirties, I’d say. Best days behind her, but not bad.”

“What color was her hair?”

“She was wearing a rain hat when she checked in, but I saw her the next night getting into her car. All dolled up in a fur. Fox, I’d say. Looked to be a brunette. Maybe a redhead. Not a carrottop. More auburn.”

“And the man who shared her room? Did you get a look at him?”

“Just a glance Friday night when they were leaving.”

“You didn’t see his face?”

“No, he was wearing a cap or a hat of some kind. But I can tell you he was a shrimp.”

“A shrimp? Like how tall?” I didn’t want to influence her with leading questions.

“Put it this way,” she said. “Give him a red coat and paint his face black, and he could stand out front as a hitching post.”

I felt uncomfortable with her attempt at humor. Was she simply describing a jockey-sized man or adding a ham-fisted bit of racism to her joke? Either way, I needed more information. She’d mentioned a car.

“I assume you record the license plate numbers of your guests.”

“Of course we do,” she said and put down the phone. There was a sound of shuffling papers—most certainly the register—for several seconds before she came back on the line. “She was driving an older model Chrysler. Black. License B-Y-W-sixty-six.”

“B-Y-W-six-six,” I repeated, noting the number in my pad. “And that’s a Manitoba plate?”

“Nope. Good old New York State.”

Margaret’s bigotry notwithstanding, I felt encouraged by the information I’d gathered. “Maybe a redhead” and “a shrimp” fit the descriptions of the burned bodies as well as anyone could have hoped. Nevertheless, the characterization of the woman as being in her thirties with her best days behind her troubled me somewhat. That didn’t exactly match Jimmy Burgh’s “palindrome” of Micheline as a pretty young brunette with a shapely caboose. But for all I knew, Micheline had disguised herself for the consumption of the nosy motel clerk. If she’d wanted to hide her true identity, a wig, a frumpy outfit, and some strategically applied makeup might have done the trick.

I wondered about the timeline. Would she have had time to give Johnny Dornan “a ride” in his room at the boarding house, then drive with him to the Friar Tuck for a costume change? All within an hour and a half? Was I trying too hard to put Micheline in the burned-down barn? Would a dead Micheline make my story any easier to report? I asked myself why I cared either way if it was Micheline or not. I certainly took no pleasure in the thought of her murdered, then incinerated, in the foaling barn at Tempesta Farm. But if she hadn’t perished there, some other poor woman had. One way or another, two people were dead. Which brought my thoughts back to the shrimp. Margaret’s description pointed to Johnny Dornan as the man in the barn, especially when you took the racing silks into account. Which meant I’d been off base thinking this Coleman woman had been staying with the mysterious Mr. Robinson at the Friar Tuck Motel.

But the Coleman name itself bothered me. Wouldn’t it have been convenient if the woman had registered under the name “Mrs. John Dornan”? Instead, I had a mystery that stretched halfway across the continent to Manitoba, Canada. And where in Manitoba?

I slouched against the wall of the phone booth pondering these questions, wondering how to proceed. I could try Bell Canada Information, of course, searching the larger cities first. But Manitoba was a huge, rural province that stretched from the US border in the south to the Northwest Territories and Hudson Bay to the north. Who knew if they even had telephones outside of Winnipeg?

Digging into my purse, I counted the change I had left. About three dollars’ worth. Drawing a sigh, I picked up the receiver and dialed 0.

“Manitoba Information, please.”

“Mani-what?” came the operator’s voice.

“Manitoba, Canada.”