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

ninety-seven dollars here,” he said once he’d thumbed through the bills twice. “Where does a fifteen-year-old girl get that kind of money?”

“Probably the same place she got this,” I said, handing him the paper from the pouch.

“What’s that?” he asked.

I sighed. “It’s Darleen’s bus ticket.”

Besides the unused bus ticket, there was a short letter in the envelope, written in a clumsy chicken scratch, dated November 20, 1960.

Dear Darleen,

I saved up enough to buy the ticket. With the hundred dollars I wired you and this ticket, there’s no reason we can’t be together and get married right away. A hundred dollars! If you got the fake driver’s license like you said, we’re set now, baby girl. I’ll meet you in Tucson in four weeks. Don’t miss that bus!

Yours always,

Wilbur

Frank procured a new padlock from the janitor and slapped it on Darleen’s locker to secure its contents. Then he hustled me down to the principal’s office along with the new evidence. This was my chance to have a word with Brossard about Ted Russell. I got lucky; Frank needed to make a phone call to the jail to bark some orders at Pat Halvey. The sheriff plunked himself down at Mrs. Worth’s desk, and I slipped behind him and knocked on Brossard’s door.

“Come in,” he called from inside. He looked up at me quizzically when I entered. “Miss Stone. What is it?”

“I need to speak to you about Mr. Russell,” I said, taking the seat before him. Brossard waited. My face felt flush. “I have reason to believe he was behaving badly with Darleen Hicks. Perhaps other students as well.”

Brossard let loose a short laugh. He stared at me, brandishing a half-cracked smile for several beats. Finally he asked me what reason I had to believe such a thing.

“I’ve come into possession of a note. A handwritten note from Ted Russell to Darleen Hicks. A love note.”

Brossard’s smile fell, and he leaned forward in his seat. “Now that’s a very serious accusation, Miss Stone. I’ve already told you that I investigated the allegations and found them to be false. Both Mr. Russell and the girl insisted there was nothing.”

“I’ve got the note.”

“Did you find it in her locker just now? May I see it?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t have it with me.”

“And you’re certain it was written by Ted Russell?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was signed by him.”

Brossard looked troubled. He eased back into his seat and frowned at something out the window. “What did the note say?” he asked, his voice slow and gruff. Suddenly, he sounded as if he had smoker’s cough.

“It said, ‘Darleen. Each time I see your bright face, my heart leaps.’ And it went on for a bit after that.”

Brossard banged the table with his hand and shot out of his chair. He paced back and forth at the window for about thirty seconds before drawing a restorative breath and turning to me.

“I just can’t believe it,” he said, dismissing my evidence. It had sure looked as though he believed it a moment before. “It’s not possible,” he continued. “I’ve known Ted—Mr. Russell—for two years. We socialize. We’ve bowled together. He took me under his wing and showed me around town when I arrived here from Hudson. I interviewed Ted and the girl, and I tell you I’m sure there was nothing between them. There must be some mistake.”

“Hudson?” I asked, veering off course. “Are you from Hudson?”

“No,” he said. “I’m from Yonkers originally, but I was deputy headmaster at a small denominational boarding school in Hudson. St. Winifred’s.”

“Why did you leave? I’m always interested to know how people end up here in New Holland.”

He shrugged. “It was a good opportunity. I would like to be a principal or superintendent one day. St. Winifred’s was a bit of a dead end.”

“Do you have a sample of Mr. Russell’s handwriting?” I asked, returning to the subject at hand.

“I think this has gone far enough. I’m not going to give any handwriting samples. Not Mr. Russell’s and not mine.”

“I didn’t ask for yours.”

He stared at me. His nose twitched just ever so, then Frank Olney walked in.

“I meant I would no sooner give my handwriting sample than I would Mr. Russell’s,” he said.

“There you are, Ellie,” said Frank. “What’s all this about handwriting samples?”

“Miss Stone is under the mistaken impression that Mr. Russell misbehaved with Darleen Hicks,” said Brossard.

“Her and me both,” said the sheriff deadpan. “It does look suspicious.”

“Nevertheless, it’s false,” insisted Brossard. “You must be mistaken, Miss Stone. That love note is surely from someone else.”

“What love note?” asked Frank.

“Frankie Ralston gave it to me,” I said through my teeth. “I forgot to mention it to you.”

“All right,” said the sheriff, lips pursed, exhaling through his nose. He wasn’t happy to learn about the note this way. “Let’s go, Ellie.”

“What about Darleen Hicks’s locker?” asked Brossard. “Did you find anything new?”

Frank stared at him long and hard. “Nothing at all. Just girl stuff.”

Frank zoomed up Market Hill, heading for Route 40 and the jail. “Ellie, I’ve got to ask you nicely not to mention anything about this money and bus ticket for now,” he said. “Nothing in the paper, please. Sometimes we have to withhold information from the public so as not to tip off the bad guys. This proof satisfies me that Darleen Hicks did not run off to Arizona, or anywhere else for that matter. And I don’t want anyone who might have been involved with her disappearance to know that we know that. I’m happy to share information with you when I can, and you can print it when it’s time. But for now, I’m asking you to play ball. Is that clear?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. The sheriff had been cooperative with me—a true gem—ever since the Jordan Shaw murder investigation got under way, but my job was to bring in the story. Should I—could I—put my responsibility aside and do