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

have more time to write your bake-sale and garden-party stories,” he said, piercing my heart.

I know he meant well, but I nearly slapped him.

“Coach,” I said finally, “sometimes it’s better just to say thank you and nothing else.”

Once Mahoney had driven off, Fadge joined me in the back booth. “What did he want?” he asked, slipping into the seat opposite me. To tell the truth, he didn’t so much slip as stuff.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “He asked me to stop scaring his star player.”

“Teddy Jurczyk? What did you do to him?”

I waved off the question. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said. “The story’s over. It looks like Darleen ran off after all. I found a bus receipt in her room. One-way ticket to Tucson.”

Fadge pondered it a while, then suggested we go get a pizza at Tedesco’s.

“It’s only eleven thirty,” I said. “You’re going to close up early? What if you get a rush on penny candy?”

“Very funny,” he said. “Just for that, you can pick up the bill to cheer me up.”

He squeezed out of the booth and shuffled toward the front just as the door opened. I slid off the bench and looked to see who was delaying my midnight pizza. There, filling up the doorframe from floor to ceiling, stood Walt Rasmussen, looking like the Colossus, Helios, straddling the harbor of Rhodes. Okay, I’m embellishing, but he was huge.

“Hey, Walt,” said Fadge. “What’ll you have? A little cold for your usual, isn’t it?”

He shook his head and squinted in my direction. “Nothing for me tonight, Ron,” he mumbled. “I come to talk to that girl.”

My knees threatened to collapse beneath me. This was the man who’d shown off his ax-juggling skills for my benefit. I had no idea what he wanted with me, and I didn’t care to find out.

Fadge turned to look at me, mugged bewilderment, then told Rasmussen he could use the back booth. I wished he’d asked me first.

I was trembling as I retook my seat. If Fadge had trouble fitting into the booth, Walt Rasmussen almost ripped the table off the wall squeezing inside. His mammoth belly stretched the limits of the undershirt he wore under his open, checked flannel, fighting the edge of the linoleum table for dominion over the space. The wooden bench seat groaned under his weight, creaking in protest as he settled into a comfortable position. Folding his rough, red hands on the table between us, he towered over me, glaring in silence at me as he breathed through his nostrils like a horse. Unconsciously, I shrank deeper into my seat, and he appeared even larger.

“You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Rasmussen?” I asked once the silence had become too much to bear.

He grunted something deep and gruff that I took for a yes. Then he unfolded his hands and placed them flat on the tabletop.

“I saw that girl that day,” he announced. “Dick Metzger’s daughter.” His voice was rich and gravelly, and his small eyes peered out from his great ruddy cheeks at me, unsettling me at such close proximity. But I was determined not to blink or look away.

“Where did you see her?” I asked.

“It was along the highway. Route Five-S. She was getting out of a taxicab.”

“What time was that?”

“It was about four. I was in my truck, driving back from the feed store, when I saw her.”

“Did you notice anything else? Anyone else in the vicinity?”

He shook his head. “She got out, and the taxicab drove away. She looked put out. Annoyed. The road was empty at that hour, and it was already almost dark.”

“Did you stop to see what was wrong?” I asked.

“Why would I do that? It’s none of my business what her problems are. I just saw her on the side of the road, and I thought I should tell you about it.”

I couldn’t figure why he felt that way, but at least he was being friendly. For him.

“How far was she from home?” I asked. “Close enough to walk?”

“Only about two and a half, three miles,” he said.

“Three miles?” I gasped. “And you didn’t offer her a ride?”

“Like I said, it’s none of my business what her problems are. She looked healthy enough to me. It’s not like she was bearing burdens. She had no books. Just her lunch pail.”

I had to remind myself that Darleen was in sunny Arizona. None of this mattered. Or did it? I kept thinking back to the receipt. Still, I had a couple of more questions for him.

“What can you tell me about Bobby Karl?” I asked.

Rasmussen just stared at me. He didn’t move except to breathe through his nose. Then he said he didn’t know the first thing about Bobby Karl.

“His father’s farm’s on the other side of Dick Metzger’s. That’s all I can tell you.”

“You never saw him with Darleen Hicks?”

“Nope.”

“One last thing,” I said. “Why are you telling me this? I thought you didn’t like the idea of girl reporters.”

“I still don’t like the idea. It ain’t natural. But I thought I should tell you what I knew anyway. I felt bad about keeping it to myself when you come out to see me. So now I’ve cleared my conscience. Maybe you can print your story and help find out what happened to her.”

“I already know what happened to her,” I said. If he was surprised, it didn’t show on his face. “I think she ran off.”

SATURDAY, JANUARY 7, 1961

With the morning came the break in the weather we’d all been waiting for. After three long weeks of bone-chilling cold, the temperatures rose into the fifties by afternoon. These January thaws were common in these parts people told me as if perhaps I’d arrived on the banks of the Mohawk from some far-off, tropical land. New York City was, after all, just two hundred miles south of New Holland. We sometimes got the breezes from the north. The warmth was a welcome respite from the snow and ice