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

to remembered the case very well and said that it was never solved. The poor girl just disappeared from the school one day and was never seen again.”

“Any other details?”

“She said there was plenty written about it in the paper. Some articles were even picked up by the AP.”

I thought it was a long shot to pursue that angle at that moment. If Brossard had been involved in the St. Winifred’s girl’s disappearance, there would always be time to comb through old newspapers later on. For now, I wanted to know about Darleen Hicks, and Louis Brossard was the man I wanted to ask about her.

“Nice work, Norma,” I said, standing to leave.

“But Miss Stone,” she said. “Don’t you want to see the article?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The article on the St. Winifred’s girl. I’ve got it right here,” and she produced a yellowing page from an October 1956 edition of the New Holland Republic.

“How did you . . . ? Where did you get this?”

“From the archives in the basement,” she said. “The lady at the Register-Star gave me the date of the girl’s disappearance, and since she said the AP had picked up the story, I thought we might have run it.” She smiled. “We did.”

Why was Norma Geary marooned in the steno pool? And the far end of the steno pool, for that matter. This woman was a dynamo. Charlie might not find ten more of me, but I was going to tell him about Norma Geary.

The AP article gave the details of the case. A thirteen-year-old girl, Geraldine Duffy, a boarded student at St. Winifred’s Academy, had gone missing from school grounds after hours on Thursday, October 25. Local police interviewed school officials, students, and local witnesses, but no trace of the girl was found. A Wirephoto accompanied the brief article: a rough, grainy picture of a beautiful girl smiling in her school portrait. I bowed my head and rubbed the bridge of my nose, drawing a deep breath. Geraldine Duffy was wearing braces and an all-too-familiar mischievous grin.

“Good morning, Mrs. Worth,” I said, presenting myself to the secretary at the junior high.

“Miss Stone,” she smiled. “What brings you here today?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Brossard.”

“May I tell him what this is about?”

“Just a couple of questions about Darleen Hicks,” I said.

“What an awful end to the story,” she said. “I heard they found her body in the woods.”

“You did? From whom?”

“My friend, Helen Semple told me. But it’s all over the school today. Buried in the woods!”

I always like to correct misinformation when I hear it, but in this case, I thought it better not to. Just taking a page from Frank Olney. The whole town would know the real story in a couple of hours anyway. As soon as the afternoon edition came out.

Mrs. Worth announced me, and soon I was seated in my usual chair before Louis Brossard. I studied his features as he wished me good morning. Nothing to betray a psychopathic killer of young girls. His broad face was inviting; his smile, genuine; his eyes, sincere. But that’s just what a psychopathic killer would want you to believe about him.

“Is something wrong, Miss Stone?” he asked finally, rousing me from my thoughts. “You look confused.”

“I have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Brossard,” I said.

“Of course,” he said. “Anything you want.”

I drew a deep breath. Here goes. “Where were you on the night of December twenty-first of last year?”

His smile wilted into a fretful glower. He squirmed in his seat and rearranged the pencil before him on the desk.

“I’ve already told you where I was that evening,” he said. “There was the superintendent’s banquet at Isobel’s.”

“Yes,” I said. “Ziti and meatballs. I even saw the photograph in the paper. You were sitting with Mrs. Worth.”

“That’s correct. Then why the question?” He was trying to build a smile, but it looked ready to collapse.

“Where were you before the banquet?” I asked. There went the smile.

“I was here in my office,” he said. “It was a normal school day.”

“The school day ends at three thirty, and the banquet didn’t start until seven.”

“I have plenty of work on my desk beyond normal school hours,” he said, managing some indignation.

“So you didn’t leave your office? Or the school until you went to Isobel’s?”

“Precisely.”

“Was there anyone here in the office who might be able to confirm that?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Isn’t it true that Darleen Hicks asked you for money, just as she asked Ted Russell?” I said, switching gears to keep him off balance. But I hadn’t forgotten my previous question; I intended to ask everyone—Mrs. Worth, Principal Endicott, and the janitor—if Louis Brossard had happened to leave early after school on December 21.

“That’s preposterous,” he said. “Who told you that?”

“Ted Russell.”

“Well, it’s a lie. And I certainly did not give her any money like that fool Ted did.”

“I think she did ask you,” I said.

“Too bad you can’t prove it,” he said with a forced laugh.

“But I can prove it. I have a handwritten letter from Darleen to Joey Figlio. She noted down everyone she’d hoped to get money from. And your name is on the list. Fifteen dollars’ worth.”

I’d cornered him. “That proves nothing. Just her word against mine. I swear I did not give her any money. And Ted Russell gave her twenty dollars. He told me so himself. And he admitted it to you. Why aren’t you asking him where he was on December twenty-first?”

“I’m talking to you right now,” I said.

“Well, this interview is over,” he announced, rising from his chair to indicate that I should leave.

“I can go,” I said. “But are you sure you want to send me packing with the information you’ve given so far? That you lied about Darleen Hicks asking you for money? That you can’t account for your whereabouts on the night she disappeared?”

“Why do you suspect me, Miss Stone?” he asked. “What have I done to make you think I am capable of