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

“Yes, sir,” barked George.

I shifted my mouth to park, my explosive invective holstered safely again, and hung on each word. This really was happening.

“Your bus leaves in an hour,” he said. “Billy will drop you at the station. Have a good trip and bring home that story.”

I nearly snorted a laugh, and Artie Short took it for a stifled sob. I played along, assuming the best hangdog expression I could manage. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, bit my lower lip, and tried to conjure up my saddest memories to beat back the laughter that wanted to burst out of my chest. It must have been quite convincing; Charlie told me later on that he’d almost stepped up to punch Artie Short in the nose. I’m glad he didn’t.

“Something to say, Miss Stone?” asked Short.

“Yes,” I said once I’d wrestled my joy into submission. I took a deep breath and stared into George Walsh’s eyes. He seemed to flinch. “Have a nice trip, George,” I said. “You deserve this.”

In spite of the satisfaction I felt at the prospect of the fool’s errand Georgie Porgie was about to embark upon—at precisely 2:15 local time, by the way—I was humiliated by the public flogging I’d endured at the hands of the publisher. I sequestered myself for twenty minutes in a stall in the ladies’ room before my eyes were dry and white enough to face the world. Charlie and Norma were sure to notice anyway.

I wandered into Charlie’s office, curious to know how George Walsh and Artie Short could be so careless not to have contacted Wilbur Burch. Had they done so, they surely would have known that Darleen had never used the bus ticket he’d sent her. I asked Charlie as innocently as I knew how if George had spoken to Wilbur.

“He wired his CO,” said Charlie, distracted, as he wrote a note to himself. “It seems Wilbur and his unit are finishing some week-long survival training hike, so George hasn’t been able to reach him yet.”

“Bad luck for George,” I said.

“Listen, Ellie,” said my boss, looking up from his desk. “I don’t want to do this, but Short is insisting. He wants you to take over the Society Page for a couple of days, just while Mrs. Stevens is visiting her sister in Rochester.” (Wow. Artie Short just kept kicking, whether I was down or not.) “Promise me you won’t blow your stack and get yourself fired over this. It’s just temporary, and I need you.”

“Okay,” I said calmly, which seemed to upset Charlie even more.

“Are you okay, Ellie?”

“I’m fine. Just tell me what to do.”

The Society Page’s staples were engagement announcements and wedding photos. January was off-season for weddings, though, so I only had two engagements, three ugly babies, and seven confirmations to report. These were mindless tasks that I performed with my eyes half closed.

Mary Ellen Wikowski and Glenn Stanich were planning a June wedding and honeymoon in the Poconos. They were both twenty-one. Glenn was an electrician’s apprentice to Mary Ellen’s dad.

Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Dawson were proud to welcome their first child: an eleven-pound, eight-ounce bouncing baby boy named Gordon Jr. Eleven and a half pounds! Good God, that’s the size of a bowling ball.

And then there were the confirmations. Little kids dressed in ill-fitting white suits and dresses, with bad haircuts, missing teeth, and hands pressed together in pious prayer. All I needed to do was get their names and churches right, and I was laps ahead of Mrs. Stevens.

“What can I do next?” I asked Charlie as I handed him my piece around four in the afternoon.

“You’ve finished already? That didn’t take two hours.”

“It wasn’t that hard, Charlie. The wedding of the season, Baby Huey, and a conclave of Catholic kids.”

“Okay,” said Charlie. “Come with me. I’ve got to have a smoke, and I don’t want to do it here. Doreen will tell my wife.”

I followed Charlie downstairs, where we stood in the alleyway between our building and Wolfson’s Department Store. It was such a nice evening, so unseasonably warm, that we each smoked a second cigarette as we talked.

“As you can see, Charlie, I’m being a good girl,” I said. “What’s my next assignment?”

“You’ve got your pick: there’s a PTA bake sale at Clinton Avenue Grammar School . . .”

“Hmm, tempting. What else have you got?”

“Well, there’s also the big polka concert at Janakowski Hall. You could interview a big star and enjoy an evening of music at the same time.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on, Ellie. It’s the Al Stoyka Orchestra. They play all over the country.”

“Isn’t there a pencil-sharpening contest I could cover instead? Next.”

“I could make you do it, you know,” he mumbled, and he flipped his cigarette butt into the gutter. “Okay, how about the new firehouse they’re inaugurating? Or the SPCA? They’re holding a fundraiser. And you told me you like cats.”

Oh, God, I thought. What sins had I committed in a previous life to deserve this? Then I realized that my present mess could well be punishment for the sins of this life alone.

“I’ll take the firehouse,” I said. “Maybe I’ll meet Mr. Right.”

We made our way back upstairs to Charlie’s office. I stood there waiting as my boss wrote out the details on the firehouse event for me on a pad of paper. I stared off into space, cursing my life and the bed I’d made for myself. Then something wonderful happened. Charlie’s phone rang.

“Reese,” he said into the receiver. I watched as his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his silver hair. “Yes, she’s here, but . . . I thought you said . . . All right. I see.” He tore away the top sheet of paper from his pad, wadded it in his palm, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. So much for my firehouse story. He scribbled something new into the pad before him. “Okay, we’re on it,” he said and hung up the phone.

“What