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

It sounds exciting. Tracking down the person who might have been the last one to see Johnny Dornan alive.”

“More likely a dead end.”

“I’ll say I’m calling from a radio contest and ask them if they follow horse racing and can name the last Triple Crown winner. If they have no idea, they can’t possibly know Johnny Dornan.”

She was a clever one, our Norma Geary. Stuck in a low-paying job because she was too old, invisible, and—let’s face it—because she was a she in the first place. And yet she could outthink an anvil like George Walsh any day of the week.

Putting that to one side, I asked her to patch me over to Charlie Reese. I needed to check in. He told me Artie Short wanted to know what I was up to.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I covered for you.”

“Oh, no. What did you sign me up for?”

“Since I know you’re up to your skirts on this Tempesta story, I told him I’d assigned you to cover a garden party in Saratoga today. Some of the fancy set are raising money for charity. It’s perfect for you.”

“What?”

“Take it easy,” he said. “You can write that piece in your sleep. And I made some calls. You’ll have to interview the head lady tomorrow or the day after. That’ll free you up to do some digging in Saratoga. And it’ll keep Artie out of our hair.”

I drew a sigh. “Where is it and when?”

I knew where to find Fadge. He was hunched over his program, calling out two-dollar wagers at betting window fifty-seven. Out of respect—and horror at the sum of his bets—I waited till he’d finished and caught his breath. He was counting his change and checking his slips when I tapped him on the shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Is that how your mother taught you to greet a friend?”

“You surprised me, is all.”

I told him I’d been in the neighborhood after wasting the morning in South Glens Falls.

“No luck with the sheriff either?”

“None. But I spent a half hour over at the training track talking to a horse.”

“Anyone I should bet on?”

“No. He’s spooked by the starting gate. And besides, he’s not running today.”

We made our way over to the clubhouse, and Fadge showed a pass. Since I was with the press, the nice man at the gate let me in as well.

“You don’t usually pay for the clubhouse,” I said. “Moving up in the world?”

“I get better access to the owners and trainers in here. I sidle up to the ones I recognize and pretend to read the Racing Form.”

“And that works? You eavesdrop?”

“That’s the idea.”

I suggested we try it. We identified a couple of swells in linen suits chatting outside the Jim Dandy Bar on the first level, and agreed they were good candidates.

“I think that’s Carl Hanford,” whispered Fadge.

“Who?”

“The famous trainer. Pay attention, El.”

We edged close to the two men. Fadge opened his paper, and I pretended to admire the flowers in the pot by the bar door.

“The thing is, folks don’t realize how bad he’s hurting,” said the man Fadge had identified as Carl Hanford. “He hides it well. But his knees are in bad shape.”

Fadge threw me a wink.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Joe,” said the other man. “Arthritis is a terrible curse. Please give my best wishes to your dad. I hope he’s back on his feet again real soon.”

I resisted the temptation to laugh. Fadge slunk off to watch the first race.

“May I get you a drink?”

A waiter. How lovely. Seated in the Jim Dandy Bar, I glanced up to place an order and did a double take.

“You?” I asked.

“Who else would I be?”

It was the fresh young man I’d spoken to that morning at the training track. He repeated his offer of a drink.

“You realize I mistook you for the waiter.”

“I’m at your service.”

“Gin and tonic would be nice.”

My new friend nodded brightly and—I’m fairly certain—clicked his heels. Then he set off to the bar to fulfill his errand.

“There you go, miss,” he said a few moments later, placing my G and T on the table before me. He held a drink of his own in his other hand. A highball glass, sweating from the ice inside.

“So, you’re not actually a waiter,” I said as he took a seat opposite me.

“Afraid not.” He smiled a toothy grin. The dimples, one in each check and a third on his chin, seemed to wink at me. “Mind if I join you?”

I returned his smile without the dimples.

“Freddie,” he said, extending a hand across the table. His grip was cold from holding the drink.

“Just plain Freddie?”

He blushed, artless and charming. Only a shade or two. Not a full-blown sunburn. “Frederick Whitcomb.” He withdrew his hand. “Freddie to my friends.”

“That’s an odd name.”

“Girls named Eleonora shouldn’t throw stones.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your press card,” he said, pointing to my purse where I’d clipped it earlier.

I slid the pass back inside my bag, as if covering my nudity.

“Actually, to be perfectly honest, I still beat you,” he continued. “My full name is Frederick Carsten Whitcomb the third.”

“I’ll make a deal with you. Call me Ellie, and I’ll call you Freddie. The third.”

“Deal.”

Viewed properly from the front, Frederick Carsten Whitcomb III was no Greek statue, but he had charm to spare. Well mannered and well groomed, he called to mind a young Lord Peter Wimsey, only without the monocle. His tanned skin and fit physique gave him an athletic air, like a tennis player or a golfer. I was glad of his company, for the moment. At least until my four o’clock appointment in the penalty box: the garden party fundraiser.

“You know I’ve never waited tables,” he confessed.

“Too bad. I like a man in uniform. If you’re not a waiter, what is it you do?”

“I help my father with the family business. Manufacturing and some tobacco farms.”

“That’s it?”

“I dabble in the stock market.” He reconsidered. “I mostly just watch the share