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

crumpled notes he could find, he handed them over. I complained about the condition of the ones, and he told me I was lucky he didn’t have two hundred pennies handy. And with that, he returned to his paper.

By the time I left the track for the Friar Tuck Motel, Fadge was still up $130 for the day. Not too bad, considering he’d taken a bath on the sixth race, having lost eighty on Ridan. I thanked him for the wonderful afternoon, straightened his cravat, and told him I’d see him sometime the next day. He was fully absorbed in his Racing Form and barely noticed.

My favorite motel clerk, Margaret, showed me to my room, a serviceable if dingy affair with air-conditioning, where I showered and dressed carefully. I knew everyone was going to look fabulous, particularly Freddie’s blonde friend, and I didn’t want to let down the team. I sat before the mirror, applying more makeup than I normally wore, and, with twenty minutes to spare, slipped into my green gown and sat before the air conditioner to cool off.

I used the free time to phone Norma Geary. She was still at the paper, digging into Johnny Dornan’s checkered past. I shared the information Carl Boehringer had provided.

“Forget about the other place,” I said. “Narrow your search to stories involving a track called Hagerstown in Maryland. Johnny Dornan was implicated in some kind of race fixing there. Probably nine years ago.”

“That’s a help,” she said over the line. “Everything’s closed now. I’ll try in the morning, but tomorrow’s Sunday. I might have more luck Monday.”

“At least we know which haystack to search.”

As fate would have it, Freddie was fifteen minutes late. I was quite collected—cold actually—and dry by the time he knocked at the door.

“Oh, no. Is the gala this evening?” he asked as he stood there easy and sophisticated in a black dinner jacket and tie. Not a wrinkle in sight. “I thought we were going bowling. Now I’ve got to change.”

“Come on. Let’s go.”

“We’ve got time. No one arrives early for these things. And I’ve brought a little bottle of something.”

He produced a pint of whiskey from under his jacket.

“Great,” I said. “But didn’t you bring anything for yourself?”

The Canfield Casino was built in 1870. The three-story, red-brick Italianate building was humming with activity when we arrived at a quarter past eight. To protect my unruly hair from a windswept disaster, I’d insisted Freddie raise the roof of his convertible. It was muggy enough as it was; I didn’t need a tornado to redo my hair. A long line of sleek cars waited to disgorge passengers at the casino entrance. I watched through the window of Freddie’s roadster as bejeweled women in gowns, escorted across the lawn, up the stairs, and into the casino by husbands in black tie, floated as if on air. They greeted old friends and social rivals, exchanging hugs and kisses with equal doses of genuine affection or falsity, indistinguishable one from the other to the casual observer. Once he’d parked his car behind the east wing of the casino, Freddie offered me his arm, and we joined the swells inside the gaming room on the first floor. He was set upon by all and sundry, men and women, eager to shake his hand or kiss him on the cheek. Freddie suffered the attention gladly; I could see that he enjoyed the role of cock of the walk. And yet he never failed to interrupt the niceties in order to introduce the smallish girl on his arm to his friends. True, the wiseacre told them my name was Eleonora, but it was a gentlemanly gesture on his part. Still, I felt his impertinence deserved a sharp pinch of his side after the third introduction.

We worked our way through the throng into the bar, where Freddie managed to tackle a waiter holding a tray of champagne flutes aloft. He salvaged two for our consumption. I felt transported on the bubbles and on an intoxicating rush of self-satisfaction prompted by my companion’s attentions. Not normally one to have my head turned by the trappings of wealth, I felt, nevertheless, beguiled and enchanted by the elegance of the occasion. I told myself to get a grip. I was not Cinderella, and Freddie was not Prince Charming. This was a fun evening of make-believe with people who had more money than they knew how to spend. Have a good time, I muttered under my breath, and then get over it.

I found myself face-to-face with Georgina Whitcomb. She was resplendent in a peach organza gown and an effulgent smile.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here this evening, Ellie. And with my naughty little boy. Why didn’t either of you two say anything?”

“Would it help if I said I was here for the newspaper?” I asked.

“Not a bit. But you look lovely, my dear,” she said, taking my free hand in hers and squeezing it affectionately. “What a lovely gown. Come. I want to introduce you to some friends.”

I threw a backward glance at Freddie as I was led away—like a horse. He smiled at me and waved good-bye. Then he took a sip of his champagne and turned to greet another friend.

Given her role as chairwoman of the charity drive, Georgina Whitcomb was the hostess of the evening. She spoke to everyone in the room, devoting care and attention to each, surely making them all feel special in her estimation. And she presented me to every last person she addressed. I was the brilliant young newspaper reporter from nearby New Holland. Her guests indulged her the hyperbolic introduction and smiled politely.

“Have you met Helen Stansbury?” she asked as we sidled up to Freddie’s blonde racing companion. “Helen, dear, this is Eleonora Stone. Ellie to her friends.”

Her hair pulled back in a tight chignon, Helen was stunning in a gold lamé gown and a diamond choker that could have covered the gala’s fundraising