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

I ordered an English muffin, dark, and coffee, black. Frank asked for his usual.

“What have you been up to lately?” he asked me once Billie had bounced off with our order. “You haven’t been around much.”

“Things have been quiet.”

“You don’t come visit an old friend?”

“You sound like a Jewish grandmother,” I said. Frank didn’t quite know how to take that. I gave him a break and changed the subject. “You said there’ve been other fires at Tempesta. Isn’t there a caretaker or a guard on the property?”

“There was a fellow named Chuck Lenoir. Lucky Chuck, they called him. He used to watch over things after everyone left. He was loyal to the Shaws. And them to him. Especially the judge’s father, Nathan. He might still be around.”

“Lucky, eh? Was that because he knew his horseflesh?”

“The name was . . . ironical. That’s the word. The only luck Chuck ever had was not dying when that horse kicked him in the head.” Frank chuckled. Then, perhaps thinking better of it, he coughed and added that Chuck was never quite the same after the injury.

“Actually, he suffered some brain damage. Went blind in one eye, limped, and slurred his words.”

“When did all this happen?”

“A long time ago. Mid-thirties, I’d say.”

“Anyone else I might contact about the property?”

Frank squinted at the ceiling. “There’s Issur Jacobs from the New Holland Savings Bank. He tied up some of the loose ends when the Shaw Knitting Mills moved south. Might still have some crumbs to take care of. He’s pushing eighty but never misses a day at the bank.”

My coffee arrived, and I took a sip. “Probably no reason to talk to either of them.”

Frank dropped me back at the Tempesta stud farm where I’d left my car. His deputy, Stan Pulaski, had shown up and, hands on hips, was surveying the scene. It must have been a slow day on the Montgomery side of the county line. A couple of Saratoga County cruisers were parked on the grass, and two deputies had taken charge of the scene.

“Stan’ll take care of you if you need anything,” said Frank as I climbed out of the car.

The day was overcast and cool for August. Barely sixty degrees. I felt clammy from the soot and the light rain, and my clothes reeked of smoke. It was barely quarter past seven, but I already wanted a second bath. The firemen had finished their task and long since decamped. Stan made small talk as I shot another roll of film in the daylight.

“You think they’ll let me take some photos inside?” I asked him.

“Inside where? There’s no more barn.”

The two Saratoga deputies leaned against the fender of a county car, puffing on cigarettes. I approached to ask if they minded if I took a few pictures inside what used to be the barn.

“Have yourself a ball,” said one of them.

“Do you think it’s safe?” I asked Stan. “Walking on the ashes, I mean.”

He took a couple of steps closer to the remains and offered that, though wet, it appeared cool enough. Over the past four years, I’d ruined many pairs of heels slogging through mud and water in pursuit of news stories that didn’t pan out. I’d finally learned my lesson. Now I traveled prepared with a pair of old canvas tennis shoes in the trunk of my car for just such occasions.

I learned later on that the destroyed building was one of the foaling barns. What remained of it now was swamped by large pools of sooty water. No hotspots anywhere, but the footing remained uneven and slippery. I picked my way through the mess, stepping over partially consumed planks of wood, as well as muddy embers and ash. Already soaked and black, my sneakers would have to go. Stan wandered around in his boots, lucky dog, without a worry in the world, until he took a careless step, slipped on a wet timber, and landed on his rear end in the slop.

“Careful, or you’ll fall.”

Stan picked himself up and scraped the muck off the seat of his pants with both hands. He called out thanks without irony. He tended to take things literally.

“Have you got everything you need yet?” he asked, now wondering how to rid his hands of the mud.

“Not quite,” I said, staring at a length of charred fabric at my feet. It looked like silk. Black-and-orange diamonds on white, and soaking wet. I squatted to investigate, tucking my skirt between my thighs and calves to keep it from touching the mud. I tugged at the cloth, which was caught beneath what was left of a long, wooden beam.

“What’s that?” asked Stan, arriving at my side.

I pulled harder on the silk, and the blackened beam rose and tumbled off to one side. I loosed a scream and dropped the fabric. Stan recoiled, tripped over his own feet, and landed in the slop again.

CHAPTER TWO

“What the hell?” said Sheriff Henry Pryor, who’d finally arrived at the scene with the county coroner on his heels. Standing there in baggy street clothes, hands resting on his wide hips, he glared at the mess. Judging by the creases in his furrowed brow, I estimated he’d spent about forty-five years on this earth perfecting his ill temper.

“It’s a body, Sheriff,” said one of his deputies. The one named Bell. “Two, actually.”

He hadn’t cared a whit about the fire until Stan and I stumbled over the bodies. Well, Stan did most of the stumbling. . . . Now the deputy was most officious and acting as if he’d discovered King Tut’s tomb.

“What were they doing in there?” asked Pryor.

Deputy Bell shrugged and pointed at me. “I don’t know. She found them.”

The sheriff nodded. “Yeah, Frank Olney radioed me that you were here. So what possessed you to go rummaging through the debris?”

“Just being thorough.”

“You didn’t take any pictures of the bodies, I hope.”

Wide-eyed, I shook my head, convincing