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

music to Rosamunde washed over me, relaxing me as if by an incantation. Then, just as I was putting thoughts of marauders out of my head, the door buzzer sounded, startling me enough to send half of my drink down my blouse and into my lap.

I glanced at my watch: 12:44 a.m. Who could be calling at that hour? I doubted it was Fadge. I’d watched him from my bedroom window closing up the store at least forty-five minutes earlier. And then I’d heard his Nash Ambassador backfire twice, sounding like two reports from a howitzer, before he roared away down Lincoln Avenue. I dashed to the kitchen and armed myself with the longest knife in the drawer. If someone intended to do me harm, he was going to pay dearly for the privilege. The door buzzed again.

This was silly, I told myself. Whoever was downstairs was still on the wrong side of a locked storm door. And what self-respecting marauder rings the bell? Congratulating myself on my pluck, I drew back the bolts, and, barefoot, I slipped out onto the landing, my thumping heart and rapid breathing contradicting my delusions of bravery. From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I couldn’t quite see the whole door at the bottom, which only heightened my unease. I descended slowly, taking each step with care and dipping my head to the side in attempts to make out who was calling at a quarter to one. A pair of men’s trousers rose into view. Then a jacket, checked, and an open collar. It was Freddie.

I bounded down the last few steps to let him in. He made a feeble attempt to appear sheepish, but my arms around his neck and my lips on his rather obviated the need for apologies. I wasn’t sure if it was entirely out of attraction that I was overjoyed to see him. There was also the question of my fears of an unwelcome midnight intruder interrupting my sleep with a pillow over my face.

I didn’t unload my worries on Freddie. At least not right away. A while later, as we caught our breath and pretended such exertions were normal for people of our short acquaintance, I told him about my visit to Tempesta that afternoon.

“That’s spooky,” he said, settling back into the pillow. He reached for his cigarette case on the bedside table, popped it open, and held it out to me.

I shook my head. “Spooky doesn’t quite describe it.”

“And you’re sure it was yesterday’s paper in the caretaker’s house?”

“Do you recall two Russian cosmonauts orbiting the earth at the same time before this week?”

“I see your point. So someone was in that house this week. Maybe he was up to nothing more nefarious than catching up on the news.”

“Did I mention there was a pistol on the floor?”

“A pistol? Where is it now? What did you do with it?”

“It’s in a safe place,” I said, knowing I couldn’t tell him. Not that Freddie would have turned Fadge in to the postal police, but he didn’t need to know the exact location.

“What about the newspaper?” he asked. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Hand it over to the sheriff.”

“What for?”

“Fingerprints, for one. Newspaper ink is wonderfully messy. Or maybe whoever was reading it wrote something inside.”

“Of course if you hadn’t taken the gun and the paper, whoever’s hiding in that house wouldn’t have known you’d been there.”

“He knew already,” I said. Freddie seemed confused. “I visited the farm two nights ago and left my car unlocked as I snooped around. When I got back, the glove compartment was open. Someone rooted through my car.”

“If I were you, I’d get rid of that newspaper as soon as possible. Give it to the sheriff. I’ll do it for you if you want.”

I rose from bed and crossed into the parlor where I grabbed the bottle on the end table. Back under the sheets, I poured a drink for each of us. Freddie stubbed out his cigarette, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me roughly against him, effectively putting an end to our conversation.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 17, 1962

In the morning—a couple of hours later, actually—I told Freddie more over a pot of coffee.

“Did you know that Johnny Dornan is an assumed name? Changed it nine years ago. He was born John Sprague Jr. in Winnipeg, Manitoba.”

“That’s news,” said Freddie, and he took a sip of black coffee. “Why did he change it?”

“Some kind of gambling scandal. I spoke to his father last night on the phone.”

“And he didn’t know the full story?”

“Maybe. But he wasn’t telling. Claims he hasn’t heard from or spoken to Johnny in nine years.”

“Gamblers might explain how he ended up in that barn.”

“Say, Freddie. You’re something of a horseman. Did you ever hear of Johnny Sprague down in Maryland about nine or ten years ago?”

“No.”

“What about the racetracks? You must know them. Where might a nobody from Manitoba have ended up riding down there?”

Freddie took a bite of the charred wheat toast I’d prepared especially for him and reflected on my question. I hadn’t burned it on purpose, of course. Cooking, alas, was not my long suit.

“Not sure,” he said.

“Didn’t you say you used to haunt those tracks? Isn’t there one where gamblers might have been fixing races?”

Freddie chewed his toast like a trouper, too polite to complain about the blackened bread he was crunching between his teeth.

“In Maryland, Pimlico is out, of course,” he said. “That’s where the Preakness is run. Not some backwater. Clean. Cheating’s pretty rare. And I’d rule out Keeneland, too. Nice place.”

“What about in Kentucky?”

“Not Churchill Downs, for sure. Can you imagine your Johnny what’s-his-name riding in the Kentucky Derby?”

“Maybe not. Anywhere else?”

Freddie gave it some thought, then said there were a couple of tracks he and his friends used to frequent several years ago. The Maryland Fair Racing Circuit. Not exactly the major leagues, but there were betting and fun times.

“I remember Hagerstown