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

stared bug-eyed at the Colt pistol I’d just removed from my purse. Then he gaped at me and back again to the gun. “Where did you get that?”

“Tempesta. The caretaker’s house. Will you keep it safe for me? And this too.” I produced a paper bag that contained the newspaper I’d swiped.

Fadge agreed and locked up both items, even though we both knew he was breaking several federal statutes in the process. I slipped into the phone booth and dialed the Saratoga sheriff ’s office. The deputy who answered stonewalled me, insisting Pryor was unreachable. I left a message for him to call me back right away, giving both the number at Fiorello’s and my apartment across the street.

Back at my table, I took up my crossword again to battle my jittery nerves. Then the bell above the front door jingled. Another customer. I heard a man’s voice order a cup of coffee, then ask where he could find the john. Fadge never liked the idea of customers invading his sanctum sanctorum, especially ones who ordered only coffee. Nevertheless, I heard him dispense instructions, and a figure brushed past my booth on its way to the back room. A minute later I became aware of a presence hovering above me. I glanced up from my puzzle and gave a start. A most unsettling smile greeted me.

“There she is,” said the man. “I been looking for you.”

It was Jimmy Burgh.

He took the seat opposite me without a by-your-leave. I watched him, wondering what he wanted with me, since I hadn’t printed his name anywhere in my articles, respecting his wishes to the letter. And I worried about his sudden appearance so close on the heels of my adventure in the caretaker’s house. Could Jimmy Burgh have been the one skulking around Tempesta Farm? I glanced to the counter to find my three-hundred-pound bodyguard. Where the hell was he?

“Don’t worry your curly little head, miss . . . Eleonora, isn’t it?” said Burgh, aiming for friendly, I could only assume, but landing squarely on menacing instead.

“I prefer Ellie.”

“As you wish. And please call me Jimmy. All my friends do.”

“How may I help you . . . Jimmy?”

“I want to ask you a couple of questions. I seen your story in the newspaper today. You weren’t lying about being a reporter, were you? I thought you might’ve been exaggerating.”

I shrugged, unsure of what to say to that.

“Anyway, two things,” he said, lowering his voice and dispensing with the off-putting grin. “First, how’d you come to know that Viv McLaglen was the lady killed in the barn?”

“I never wrote that she was the lady in the barn,” I said.

“Not in so many words. But you made it clear it’s likely.”

“Yes, I did. I believe it was her. Now I’m trying to prove it.”

“What makes you think it was Viv?”

“It sounds as if you know her.”

“We’ll get to the part where you ask the questions in a minute. I’ve got something for you. But for now, why do you think it was her?”

“I called every motel and boarding house in Saratoga County until I found one where a lady had disappeared last Friday night without settling her bill.”

Burgh’s bushy black eyebrows inched up his lined forehead. “Pretty smart of you. And, boy, was I surprised to read that Viv and Johnny Dornan were keeping company, even if it was ex post facto.”

I believed he meant “posthumously” because what he’d actually said didn’t make any sense.

“Anything else that points to Viv as the lady?” he asked.

“Not much was left of her. Just the smallest scrap of a fox stole, a little red hair, and an earring.”

Burgh cocked his head and clicked his tongue, as if to say “tough luck.” There was no real sorrow in his reaction, only vague fatalism.

“The second thing is, what can you tell me about Micheline? Any news on her?”

“Not yet. I spoke to her roommates, but they don’t seem to know anything. They’re worried. And a little secretive about their business.”

“I know you talked to Joyce. She don’t know nothing,” he said in a low voice. “That other one, though, Brenda. I don’t like her. Looks like a lady wrestler. And she don’t like me none neither.”

“Are you worried about Miche?” I asked.

“Sure. She’s a good kid who does well for herself. And me, too. Naturally I’d like to know that she’s okay.”

“Have you tried Lou Fleischman?”

“He claims he never saw her after supper on Friday.”

Jimmy Burgh was behaving himself, and I felt in no way threatened by his presence. But still I wondered where Fadge had gotten to. Then I heard a giggle coming from the direction of the counter. I leaned out of the booth to see him holding down a stool with his considerable carcass as he flirted with none other than Joyce Stevens. Jimmy flashed his gold tooth at me in another of his off-putting smiles. She’d come with him, of course. Despite myself, I felt a twinge of anger. It wasn’t Fadge’s attentions to the pretty young thing that I resented; it was hers toward him. I fumed to think that she was leading him on. Not that he couldn’t take care of himself, but I wouldn’t have wanted to see some of his hard-earned winnings go into her purse for an hour of contracted passion.

“Your friend seems to like Joyce,” said Jimmy. “If he wants, I can arrange something for him.”

“Please, don’t.”

“Suit yourself. But your big friend over there looks game to me.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,” I said.

“I think he does. He knows real well what he wants, and her name’s Joyce.”

I let him have the final word on Fadge’s wants and desires then changed the subject. “Now that I’ve answered your questions, may I ask you one or two?”

“Fire away.”

“Why the interest in Vivian McLaglen?”

“I knew her back when. About eight, nine years ago. She did some work for me from time to time.”

“And did she ever land in county jail for