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

heaped their praise upon her as if with a shovel, and then I approached her for a photograph for the paper.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said. “I’m Georgina Whitcomb.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” I said. “I know who you are. My editor sent me to interview you. My name is Eleonora Stone from the New Holland Republic.” There was an awkward pause as she undoubtedly searched her memory for that reference. “It’s a local newspaper about twenty-five miles from here,” I added, hoping to resolve the confusion.

Why had I introduced myself as “Eleonora”? For one thing, I hated that name. And for another, did I think it made me sound better born? What was wrong with my birth anyway? Ladies like Georgina Carsten Whitcomb didn’t usually put me off my game, but I was on her turf. A Jewess from Manhattan among the Mayflower set. And I was underdressed.

“Lovely to meet you, Eleonora,” she said, beaming with kindly eyes. “What a beautiful name. Yes, I was told you’d be joining us today.”

She posed in a confident, practiced way for several photographs, producing one winning smile after another. I sensed there wasn’t a throwaway frame in the bunch. She’d done this kind of thing before.

“If you have some time now, we could get the interview out of the way today,” I said once I’d finished. “Then I won’t need to bother you again.”

“My dear Eleonora, you are a lamb. But I’m afraid these ladies have me tied up as tight as a drum today. Might we try tomorrow? You can reach me here at the hotel.”

Rats. “Of course,” I said.

“Then I’ll expect you for tea at four.”

She grasped the tips of my fingers with her gloved hand and squeezed ever so gently. Then she shimmered off, surrounded by the society’s president and two other ladies with lavender-colored hair.

I rewound my film and drew a sigh of relief. The speechifying hadn’t been so bad, and I had no intentions of sticking around for the cucumber sandwiches. But then I noticed a woman staring at me from five feet away.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stone,” she said.

I was startled. The queer grin and penetrating, unblinking eyes unsettled me, even more so because I recognized her all too well. It was Audrey Shaw, wife of Judge Harrison Shaw, and mother of the murdered Jordan.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.

And I never would have wanted to cross her shadow at such an event. Or any other, for that matter. She made my skin crawl.

“Mrs. Shaw. How lovely to see you again.”

She regarded me for a long moment, her head tilted a touch to the right. She forgot herself for an instant, her eyes betraying the unspoken animosity she bore me. Then, presently, the façade went back up.

“I’d like a drink,” she said in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “And I’m sure you’d prefer something stronger than tea after that performance. Let’s talk inside.”

I followed her—reluctantly—into the hotel bar. Audrey Shaw was an alcoholic, that much I knew from experience. She and I had shared a bottle of the judge’s finest Scotch one chilly afternoon in December nearly two years earlier. On that occasion, she’d taken a particularly savage joy in twisting the dagger of my father’s murder into my heart. It made her feel better about her own loss, I figured. But I still hated her for it.

As she led us to an out-of-the-way table, I scolded myself for having avoided my necessary interview with her husband about the murders on Tempesta Farm. Not that such a meeting with Judge Shaw would have spared me from this calvary, but at least I would have felt like less a coward. Now, at a table in the elegant Gideon Putnam Hotel, I sat face-to-face with Audrey Shaw. She was exquisite in a pencil skirt and mother-of-pearl blouse, that is if you didn’t mind the perfectly horrid pink toque and its faux-silk flowers perched on her head like a bathing cap. Her nails drummed on the tabletop as I scanned the room, desperate for a waiter. A busboy would have sufficed. She smiled at me.

“What brings you to this garden party?” she asked at length. “Are you interested in helping little Colored children?”

How was I supposed to answer that without sounding wretched? I ignored the second half of her question and told her I was there in my capacity as a reporter.

She chuckled in a most condescending manner. “Really? This is going into the Republic? Does anyone in New Holland care about educating Negro children?” She paused for maximum effect.

“I care,” I said, though I doubted she’d been expecting an answer to her gem of cynicism. “It’s a good cause.”

“Perhaps you’ll donate five dollars to soothe your conscience.”

I stared daggers at her.

“Please, Miss Stone. I’m only having some fun with you. The judge and I are donating two hundred dollars today, so I believe I have the right to kibitz, as your people would say.”

“You wanted to speak with me?” I said, no longer trying to conceal my pique.

“Is it wrong to want to catch up with an old friend?”

“We’re not friends, Mrs. Shaw.”

She pursed her lips and signaled to a waiter, who arrived at a trot. “Two whiskeys, please,” she said. Then to me, “You still enjoy your Scotch, don’t you, Miss Stone?”

“I do.”

The waiter withdrew.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We have a history, you and I.”

“Why did you want to talk to me?” I asked again.

“The truth? I was bored. I thought we might have a chat. Maybe start over.”

“You want to be my friend? That’s not necessary.”

“I went through hell two years ago, as I’m sure you can imagine. I was hard on you.”

“I’m a big girl. No apologies necessary. But I would like to ask you something.”

“About Jordan? About your father?”

“No,” I said. “About Tempesta Farm.”

“Tempesta? What about it?”

“You know there was a fire out there early Saturday morning. Two people died.”

She nodded.

“I was wondering if your