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

party would break the routine of their humdrum lives. So even if Audrey Shaw was right that few would care about lending a helping hand to minority children, they would still enjoy the photos and stories of the rich and glamorous. My article, however, promised, at best, to be a two-paragraph snoozer. Fifty rich ladies decked out in their finery doing their part to help the underprivileged, each trying to out-donate the last, but within reason, mind you. I imagined they’d met beforehand to establish a pecking order of generosity and how much each would give. A bit of charitable collusion. Okay, some of Audrey Shaw’s cynicism may have rubbed off on me.

I stashed my notes in my desk, leaned back, and rocked in my chair. The locked filing cabinet against the wall caught my eye. It was past six, and almost everyone had punched out for the day. But I’d noticed George Walsh skulking around about twenty minutes before. Unsure if he was still polluting the sector, I surveyed the newsroom, then peeked down the hall. No weasels in sight, so I returned to my desk and retrieved a key from my purse. Rummaging through the cabinet, I located the file I needed, rolled the drawer closed, and locked it up again. Georgie Porgie had stolen one too many of my stories, and I’d learned my lesson the hard way. I now kept all my notes and contacts locked up tight. Well, not the garden party story; George was welcome to that one if he wanted it. But the folder I held in my sweaty little hands was different. I ran my fingers over the name tag I’d pasted to the top—Jordan Shaw Murder.

I stashed the folder in my purse, slipped the cover over my typewriter, and headed home. I needed privacy and a stiff drink for the phone call I was about to make.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I dialed Judge Shaw’s home number at half past eight, hoping he and his wife had finished their dinner. Perhaps she’d gone straight to bed after the garden party. I never found out; the judge himself answered the phone on the third ring. I lost my nerve and hung up.

I debated whether to run across the street for a chat with Fadge, but I was tired and ready to turn in. I decided one short drink wouldn’t hurt, so I made a withdrawal from the freezer, nearly ripping the skin off the palm of my hand on the metal handle of the ice tray. I poured myself an inviting two fingers; then the downstairs doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock above the stove—a few minutes past ten. A little early for Fadge to be closing the store. I climbed down the back stairs to open up. It wasn’t my dear pal standing on the stoop.

“Surprise,” said Freddie Whitcomb, who seemed—rightly so—a little embarrassed.

“Hi,” I stammered. “This is a surprise. How did you find me?”

“You’re in the book.”

I wasn’t sure how to react. On the one hand, it was mildly flattering that this attractive man had taken great pains to seek me out. Well, perhaps flipping through a telephone directory didn’t qualify as great pains, but he had driven all the way over from Saratoga. On the other hand, I wondered if I should be alarmed that he had done all that solely on the basis of our brief acquaintance. Should I slam the door, lock it, and call the police? Or invite him up to share my drink?

“Look, I know this might make you feel uncomfortable,” he said. “But I assure you I’m only here because you were irresistible at the track. And I promise I’m harmless.”

I softened a bit. Maybe a lot. “If you’re harmless, why on earth would I dream of letting you in?”

I allowed Freddie Whitcomb to join me upstairs for a couple of drinks. We chatted in my parlor, me with my Dewar’s, him with some brandy I’d been saving.

“Lovely place you have,” he announced, raising his snifter, which I took as an indication of his seal of approval.

“It’s all right. Although I do have to be mindful of my landlady downstairs. You, too, by the way. She’s a light sleeper and hears every footstep.”

“I’ll tread as lightly as a sprite,” he said, then took a big gulp of his brandy.

“So what brought you here tonight?” I asked. “I thought we had an arrangement for Saturday at the casino in Saratoga.”

“We did. And we do. But I must say, Ellie, that your charms should not be dispensed without a license. You’re intoxicating.”

I snorted a laugh. “And you’re a shameless flatterer. You wanted a drink and didn’t know where to find one.”

He threw his most seductive smile my way and said he knew very well where to find a drink, but he wanted one served by me. I liked that. Two points for Freddie.

“I have a secret,” I said, tipping my glass in his direction.

“I’ve got loads of secrets.”

“But this one involves your mother.”

Freddie feigned shock. “Not Mother. Oh, dear.”

“I’m meeting her tomorrow at the Gideon Putnam in Saratoga. For a story I’m writing for the paper.”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t mention my name.”

“Thanks for the tip. I wasn’t planning on it.”

“She doesn’t approve of me, I’m afraid.”

I glanced at my watch. It was approaching eleven. I rose and switched off the light in my bedroom. Then the light in the kitchen.

“It’s getting dark in here,” he said.

I didn’t explain to him, but in case Fadge had it in his head to drop by unexpectedly after work for a visit, I wanted there to be no doubt that I was in bed.

“Would you like to go out and grab a bite to eat?” he asked. “I saw a little ice-cream shop across the street.”

“I’m not hungry. And I’ve got some peanut butter and Spam if you’d like something.”

Freddie’s appetites, however, were running in other directions that night.

WEDNESDAY,