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

drive back to the highway and turn west. There’s a turnoff about a quarter mile past here.”

“Do you take naps there often?” I asked.

He drove on, shoulders hunched as he leaned over the steering wheel. “I like the quiet. No one there to bother me.”

We passed Darleen’s house again, and I watched it melt into the dark behind us. I turned forward to take in the view through the windshield, looking past the driver. Ahead, on the side of the road, a giant figure stooped to grab the post from his mailbox. We rolled past him just as he righted himself. Walt Rasmussen glared through the bus’s windows; he was almost tall enough to look me in the eye and give me a fright. It was as if he’d recognized me in the dark.

I sat quietly for the ride back into town. The giant had spooked me. Gus Arnold dropped me off at the junior high school at 4:47. The bus depot was perhaps ten minutes farther. That made for about thirty-five minutes from the end of his route back to the depot. I knew he hadn’t changed a flat tire that day. And if he’d finished his route at four twenty, then snoozed for thirty minutes, he should have been back at the depot by five thirty. That left nearly an hour of his time unaccounted for.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I put my feet up on the ottoman and hoisted a stack of newspapers onto my lap: the ones that Norma had collected for me. My feet were stinging from the exposure to the cold that morning. I wriggled my toes, trying to urge some warm blood into my feet. I squirmed in my seat, searching for a comfortable position for my sore bottom. It felt as if I’d been kicked by a mule. I cursed Joey Figlio again then reached for my drink on the end table.

The television was humming quietly; the second act of Hong Kong was just beginning after a commercial. I didn’t know much about the show, but I kind of had a thing for Rod Taylor, and I liked the exotic setting. Better than Wagon Train, which aired opposite it. From the top of the pile of papers on my lap, I unfolded the Canajoharie Courier Standard from Wednesday, December 21. The front page proclaimed, “First Day of Winter” and “Christmas Decorations Pageant Lights up City.” There was a dark photo of Main Street with garlands and festooned streetlights. And there was a second photo accompanying the “First Day of Winter” story: a view of the Mohawk River, completely frozen over, from Lock 12 in Tribes Hill.

I picked up the December 22, edition of the Republic and scanned the local news. Nothing noteworthy had happened in the city the day before, if you didn’t count the mayor’s toy drive for the poor. But then I noticed a group photo of the school superintendent’s annual Christmas banquet at Isobel’s Restaurant on Division Street. The administrative staff of the entire district was assembled, from grammar-school, junior-high, and high-school principals and assistants to secretarial staff. I recognized Principals Keith from the high school and Endicott from the junior high. At a table near the middle of the room, I could make out Mrs. Worth, the secretary from the junior high, sitting with Louis Brossard.

“A Merry Christmas to All” read the caption. “Superintendent Mitchell Plays St. Nick.” The article said the dinner had broken up at ten p.m.

Then the phone rang. It was the sheriff.

“We just got a tip someone saw a kid prowling around near Ted Russell’s place,” he said. “I’m heading there now. You want to come along?”

“Do I?” I said, sitting up and dumping the papers on the floor.

“You can’t ride with me. I’ve got to run up to Fonda afterwards, so you’ll have to follow in your own car. Two minutes, Ellie. Be ready. I won’t wait.”

Two minutes was plenty of time to grab my camera and four rolls of film, and wrap myself in my overcoat. Then I downed my drink in one go: antifreeze for the cold evening ahead.

Once in the car, I rubbed my cold gloves together, started the engine, and cranked up the heat. The driver’s side door was still frozen and wouldn’t close properly, but the lock held it in place. Mrs. Giannetti emerged from her door in an overcoat and boots, yoo-hooing to me as I waited in the car for Frank Olney.

She inched across the icy porch and down the steps, steadying herself on the rail, then scurried up to my car and tapped on the window. “Going out, dear?” she called through the glass.

“Yes, Mrs. Giannetti,” I said, leaning across the seat to roll down the passenger window.

“A date? On a night like this?” Her breath froze as it left her mouth.

I looked at her pointedly. “A date?”

She shrugged. “I just thought that since you have so many dates . . .”

She stood there for a few moments before she spoke again, and I let her, wondering how long she could brave the cold. Finally, realizing I wasn’t cooperating, she shivered and caved in.

“You’re always running off somewhere and staying out late.”

“I spend most evenings at home watching the television,” I corrected her.

“And enjoying a nice drink of something,” she added. “That’s fine, of course. I’m all for it, but the delivery boy from Corky’s has a loose tongue. He tattles to Mrs. DiCaprio about my one little bottle of crème de menthe. I sometimes like a cordial after supper. Just a sip,” she said, indicating a small measure with two fingers of her gloved hand. “If he gossips about me, I can’t imagine what he must say about you.”

My ears were burning in the cold. I craned my neck to see down the street, wondering how Frank’s two minutes had stretched to four.

“Has the delivery boy said anything to you, Mrs. Giannetti?” I asked.

“Oh, no, nothing. It’s just that, well . . . A girl wants to be