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

“Anything else to go on?”

“A license plate. The car the woman was driving. But that means talking to Benny Arnold. And you know I don’t want to do that.”

“Leave him to me,” said Fadge. “He owes me a favor.”

MONDAY, AUGUST 13, 1962

I bolted from the gate Monday morning, grabbing a quick coffee and a hard roll at Fiorello’s before heading down to the New Holland Savings Bank. I hadn’t set foot in the place since an unsatisfactory tryst with a teller two years earlier had left me with little choice but to transfer my passbook account to another bank. Maybe my erstwhile quick-draw Lothario was on vacation, I told myself. Or perhaps he’d be too busy with the early-morning crowds to notice me. As things turned out, I ran smack into him on the marble steps leading up to the polished brass-and-glass entrance. He pretended not to know me, which suited me fine.

Issur Jacobs was high in the saddle at 9:00 a.m. A clerk announced me to the venerable man, and in short order I was seated before him in his office.

“What’s this about Tempesta Farm?” he asked, polishing his pince-nez.

“There was a fire in the early hours of Saturday morning,” I said. “Two people died in one of the old foaling barns.”

“My God. How terrible.”

“You didn’t hear about it? No one phoned to let you know?”

“Why should anyone let me know? I no longer have any dealings with the Shaws. We tied up the last of their business four years ago. Now their lawyers handle everything to do with their assets here in New Holland.”

I sized up the man sitting behind the leviathan desk that dwarfed him. He was impeccably groomed, small, and bald with fine features. I figured he went for a haircut and shave once a week, and had his nails clipped and buffed at least as often. He sat bolt upright in his leather chair, looking like a captain of industry from the last century. His bow tie was perfectly straight and dimpled at the knot, his vest tight, and his shirtsleeves pressed and starched. Indeed, the only concession he appeared to make to comfort and the summer heat was that he’d doffed his pinstriped jacket and draped it over a hanger behind his desk.

“Then you’re not familiar with who’s running the farm?”

“No one that I’m aware of. There’s nothing left up there except the old barns and the caretaker’s house. What you should do, young lady, is speak to Judge Shaw. He was the executor of his father’s estate. He’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”

I must have looked doubtful, since he softened.

“I’ve seen your articles in the paper, Miss Stone,” he said. “Including two years ago when poor Jordan Shaw was murdered. Is that why you’re reluctant to speak to the judge?”

“Of course not,” I said, in a pathetic attempt at bravado. “I met Judge Shaw several times during the investigation. And his wife, too.”

“Yes, Audrey Shaw.” He nodded but offered nothing else to illuminate his thoughts on her.

He didn’t really need to. I knew Audrey Shaw and her cold enmity toward me all too well. She had wielded her maternal grief like a dagger to slice out my heart as I struggled to come to grips with my own father’s murder a year before her daughter’s.

“Then there’s nothing I can do to help you,” he said.

I stared at him, wishing so much that he could offer something more. Something to obviate the need to meet or speak with Judge Shaw or his cruel wife.

“You seem like a nice girl,” he said. I had my doubts. “A nice Jewish girl. Why don’t you come to services next Friday?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Services. At the temple on Mohawk Place. Friday. We’ve a fine rabbi and a new cantor. The community is starved for new faces. And there are a couple of nice young boys I could introduce you to. From good families.”

“Oh, Mr. Jacobs, I don’t think so.”

“You’ve been away too long from your faith. Your people, young lady. Come back.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Jacobs,” I said, averting my eyes from his persistent stare. “I’ve got to be going now.”

As Vinnie Donati gassed up my Dodge Lancer at Ornuti’s Garage, I phoned Norma Geary at the paper from the booth inside. She answered her line on the first ring and greeted me with congratulations for my story, which was set to appear in the afternoon edition. I asked her to try to dig up some information on Johnny Dornan. Where was he from? Where did he learn to ride horses? Anything she might find would be helpful.

“And can you search the local phone books for him and a man or a business named Robinson S.? That might be an initial. Or maybe nothing. I don’t know.”

“Will do,” she said. “What else?”

“I’m also trying to find the name Everett Coleman, but not in the phone directory. I’ve already got that. I’m wondering if there’s a newspaper article. An arrest, a wedding, anything.”

“I’m on it, Miss Stone.” Norma liked to call me that despite my many attempts to convince her that I preferred Ellie. I’d finally given up and accepted it as a charming quirk of our relationship.

Back outside at the pump, Vinnie asked me if I’d heard about the fire out at Tempesta Farm. I said maybe.

“Five people and ten horses died,” he announced.

I forked over three dollars for the gas. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Vinnie.”

There was a stop downtown I should have made on my way out of town, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to pay a visit to Judge Shaw’s office on Main Street. Sure, I told myself, I’d call him later. Maybe that same day. But my trip to Halfmoon was more important. In truth, I doubted I’d find anything of value on my fishing expedition. The phone had been disconnected, after