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

“There was plenty of suspicion to go around. Some said a groom lit the fire, but I couldn’t believe it. Even if an employee had been disappointed with his position or salary, he wouldn’t have killed those horses. Everyone associated with the farm loved the animals. I’m sure of that.”

“It’s a sad story.”

“I trust you’re not suggesting these two people found on the property had anything to do with the fire so long ago.”

“Of course not.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“I don’t like loose ends or remainders. I was curious.”

“That’s all fine and good, Miss Stone. But the tragic fire at Tempesta is really none of your business.”

“Funny,” I said. “The fire that killed twelve horses is the one you call tragic.”

That ruffled him. “Of course it’s tragic that those two people died, but the horses were in our care. They had no choice. We as a family bear the ultimate responsibility for their deaths. I can tell you that it turned me for good against breeding. My father, too. He couldn’t stomach the idea of raising more horses after that.”

“Was it Lucky Chuck Lenoir who started the fire?” I asked, flustering him yet again. “By accident, of course.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Maybe because your father felt guilty about the accident that left Chuck impaired, both physically and mentally. And because Chuck was devastated by the fire that he caused.”

“One minute I’m convinced you’re a bright young woman of remarkable talents, and the next you disappoint me with your irritating manner and wild suppositions. I am returning to the party downstairs.”

With that he stood and let himself out. It wasn’t lost on me that he hadn’t denied Chuck’s responsibility for the fire. From all I had heard about the tragedy, from Audrey Shaw, Fadge, Sheriff Pryor, and Frank Olney, I’d formed the opinion that Lucky Chuck Lenoir was a poor soul who’d served his lord as a loyal vassal would. His devotion was rewarded with the permission to live in the caretaker’s house for fifteen years after the farm had been shuttered and—as Judge Shaw had so aptly put it—to watch the grass grow. There was no reason to pursue the matter, of course. By all indications, the fire of ’37—the one that had nearly torpedoed Harrison and Audrey’s engagement—was a terrible accident, perhaps caused by a man with reduced mental capacities. Lucky Chuck was now one of the ghosts of Tempesta. I wouldn’t mention him again.

But there had been one more question I’d been itching to put to the judge. Perhaps I should have asked it before chasing him away with talk of Lucky Chuck Lenoir. It was a personal question for the judge himself. I wanted to know how he had been coping since the murder of his only child, the tragic—twelve Thoroughbreds tragic—and beautiful and talented Jordan Shaw. I knew I wouldn’t mention that to him either.

“Where have you been?” asked Freddie. “I’ve been looking high and low for you.”

“I had some work to take care of.”

“Work? Here? Come on. They’re about to herd us inside for dinner, and I want another drink before that.”

Armed with a couple of whiskeys, we entered the ballroom where dozens of tables had been laid with white linen, fine china, silver, and crystal. Guests were finding their places as waiters scurried hither and thither, pouring water and wine and slipping chairs under the backsides of the wealthy patrons. I took a moment to admire the octagonal stained glass windows adorning the magnificent vaulted ceiling. There must have been more than a hundred. I couldn’t see what scenes were depicted on the glass, due to the darkness outside.

Some of Freddie’s friends were standing off to the side, near one of the alcoves that segmented the walls of the ballroom at regular intervals. They were the same people I’d seen that afternoon in his clubhouse box, with a couple of new faces as well. Helen was at the center of the gathering, surrounded by the men. All smiles, they were hanging on the words of a tall strawberry-blond fellow, who was telling a joke. Freddie and I arrived as he delivered the punchline.

“So the tire salesman says, he says, ‘It’s our latest model, Mr. Cohen. It’s called the Firestein Nylon Supreme. Not only does it stop on a dime, it picks it up, too.’”

I stiffened a bit but managed to refrain from throwing my fresh drink on him, ice cubes and all. As Jewish jokes went, this was not the worst. Still, I developed an instant dislike for the man. I felt a twinge of shame, as well, for not saying something straight off. It would have been uncomfortable for everyone, of course. For Freddie most of all. But I hated myself for holding my tongue. And for not announcing to all present that I was a Jewess. With the exception of Helen, the others chuckled at the joke. It wasn’t funny enough to deserve a belly laugh. I glanced at Freddie to gauge his reaction. There didn’t seem to be any. He was just smiling gently at his friends. Then he cleared his throat and introduced me.

The one who’d told the joke was named Ned. Tall and gangling and a strutting ass. Then there was Todd, a little man with a round face and receding hairline. And Mark, a stocky man with jet-black hair and a Thomas Dewey mustache. The introductions complete, their conversation turned to talk of the Spa City.

“It’s gone downhill, for sure,” said Mark. “I remember coming here with my parents before the war. There were so many hotels and so much glamour back then.”

“And there was an active social scene,” added Todd. “Lots of parties and beautiful Victorians rented for the entire month by the out-of-towners.”

“So many of those homes have fallen into disrepair,” said Helen. “Such a shame.”

“I don’t know if I’ll come back next year,” added Todd.

“Are you kidding?” asked Freddie. “After that race we witnessed today? You’re not coming back? I