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

and fell open with a groan. Inside, a worn Oriental carpet anchored the center of the room, along with a settee and two stuffed chairs for the comfort of its visitors. Alongside some portraits of long-deceased gray men in whiskers, a stately grandfather clock—its hands frozen at ten twenty—stood against the wall, opposite a glass trophy case. The judge offered me a seat on one of the chairs. He settled into the other. A large antique globe provided a geopolitical buffer of sorts between us.

“I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible,” he said.

I studied him carefully. His face was drawn, thinner than I’d remembered. His hair now showed more salt than pepper, and a bit of scalp as well. The two years since his daughter’s murder must have been hard on him.

“Did you know Johnny Dornan or Vivian McLaglen?” I asked, coming right to the point.

“You’re direct, if nothing else. No, I had never heard of the jockey, and I certainly didn’t know that woman. Why would you ask me that?”

“Because they died on your property.”

He frowned and shook his head.

“What about a man named Robinson?”

“Robinson? There’s a Robinson in my office in Albany. He’s a junior clerk. Is he involved in this?”

“Probably not. Johnny Dornan had a meeting Friday at midnight with someone named Robinson. Maybe Robinson and the initial S. I’ve been asking everyone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. As I said, I didn’t know either of the victims.”

“What about a man named Mack Hodges? Races horses down in Maryland.”

He shook his head.

“Isn’t your wife from Baltimore?” I asked. “Do you think she might know him?”

“Only if he was around twenty-five years ago. Audrey has lived in New Holland since we were married. And she was never much of a racing fan.”

I moved on. “Who is the legal owner of Tempesta Farm?”

“The farm is owned by the Sanford Shaw Trust. My two brothers and I are the administrators.”

“Is there any value to the property now?”

“Just the land. The buildings are worthless. That’s why when vandals burn them down every few years, no one pays much attention.” He stared at me for a long moment, then added, “Except you.”

He explained that the Saratoga Sheriff had told him how the bodies had come to be discovered in the barn.

“So, if not for you, Miss Stone, those two people might never have been found at all. They would have lain there for God knows how many years. Maybe forever.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. Was he grateful or put out that I’d unearthed the bodies? It was probably something of a headache for him and his lawyers, but that had nothing to do with me. I didn’t kill Johnny Dornan and Vivian McLaglen. I only found them.

“Can you tell me when the farm was last occupied? Who lived there and for how long?”

“Chuck Lenoir was our last caretaker. He passed away late last year. He’d worked for my father for many years, and we kept him on after he suffered an accident. A horse kick to the head. There was really no need for a caretaker once we closed the farm after the war, but my father wanted to make sure Chuck was taken care of.”

“So there was nobody else living on the farm during the past fifteen years? Just Lucky Chuck?”

The judge couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “You’ve done your homework on Mr. Lenoir, yet you didn’t tell me. I’d forgotten how efficient you are. You’ve always got a surprise for anyone who underestimates you.”

“Did he live alone on the farm? Or was he married? Any children?”

“He never married, and I’m certain he lived alone. In his younger days, he was a stableboy on the farm. I believe he worked mucking the barns and stalls. No one ever considered him for a job such as caretaker; he wasn’t smart enough. But when everything was closed down, my father felt he could handle watching the grass grow, so he put him in the caretaker’s house.”

“Are you aware of any problems with trespassers and squatters on the farm?”

He shifted in his seat and crossed his right leg over the left. “These are odd questions, even from you. Are you suggesting someone has been living on the farm?”

“I wouldn’t say living on the farm. But there may be someone hiding there from time to time. Inside the caretaker’s house.”

He treated me to a long probing stare, then asked if I’d been inside the house myself. I lied and said I hadn’t. I wasn’t sure how he’d take such news.

“But I visited the farm late Wednesday night. I wanted to see the burned barn again.”

“Then what makes you suspect someone has been staying there?”

“That night, when I returned to my car, I found the glove compartment open. It had been closed when I’d left it.”

He dismissed my concerns, arguing that I must have been mistaken. Or maybe the latch was loose. He was sure. So was I. I knew someone had searched my car. And that same person had been reading Wednesday’s edition of the New Holland Republic inside the caretaker’s house as late as Thursday afternoon.

“Is there anything else, Miss Stone? I really should be getting back.”

Now it was my turn to make him uncomfortable with a stubborn, intrusive stare. He reacted much the way I had. He squirmed, at least inside, then asked what I wanted to know.

“How do you think the fire got started?”

“The fire? I have no idea. Whoever killed those two people, I suppose. Why ask me?”

“Not the fire last Saturday,” I said. “The one in thirty-seven.”

His eyes grew wide, and he swallowed hard. “Thirty-seven? You mean the one that burned down the Racing Barn?”

“And killed twelve of your finest Thoroughbreds.”

“Why would you ask me about that? It was a tragedy beyond words.”

“I’m trying to understand everything about these murders. But, I confess, the fire of thirty-seven interests me for the horses that died. Do you believe, as some people maintained, that an