Stone Cold Dead (21 page)

The crowd dispersed slowly once the sheriff had driven off with Frankie. Mrs. Giannetti sidled up to me on the porch. She’d seen everything, but could manage no speech. Not one snide remark. Finally, after a few moments of awkward silence had passed, she reluctantly forfeited her chance to shame me and slipped back inside her door. Fadge approached to see if I was all right.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, joining me on the porch.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, shaking, and not from the cool air. “It was all an act.”

He stared at me for a long moment, trying to gauge the level of my upset. “You want me to close up and stick around for a while?”

I scoffed with a forced smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine. I just want to go to bed.”

He looked uncertain, but finally wished me good night and crossed the street to the store. I trudged up the stairs, damning myself for what I’d done with Ted Russell, author of love notes to fifteen-year-old girls. I wanted to be alone.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 8, 1961

I awoke Sunday to find one of the new fifths of whiskey I’d bought half empty. If that wasn’t enough, the original bottle—the one I’d been sure wouldn’t last the weekend—was dead in the trash can. Whiskey doesn’t give me headaches, but I still felt fuzzy-headed. And ashamed. Not so much for the liquor I’d consumed, but for the reason I’d drunk it. How could I have done such a thing? How had Ted Russell managed to fool me?

I spent hours in bed, the pillow over my eyes, sleeping off my regret. Slumber provided a temporary tonic for my self-reproach. As long as I was unconscious, I could dream of other things. I lowered the shades and closed the drapes, shrouding the bedroom in total darkness. I felt anonymous and invisible to the world outside, and I liked it. I imagined myself in a strange city, holed up for days in a nondescript hotel, selected so randomly no one would ever be able to find me. With doors bolted and curtains drawn, no one could possibly know where I was, what I was doing, or what I’d done, and that comforted me. I would still have to face myself and the truth once I finally got out of bed, but for now, I wallowed in the indulgence of escape and solitude.

The phone rang a few times throughout the afternoon, but I didn’t answer. It may have been Charlie Reese or Sheriff Olney, but it was probably Fadge, wanting to know if I was okay. I told myself I’d drop in at the store in the evening then rolled over and fell back asleep.

Around ten p.m., I showered and dressed in a black skirt and cotton blouse. I didn’t bother with lipstick, figuring I didn’t need to impress Fadge. The store was empty when I walked in a half hour later. Fadge was putting off the end-of-day sweep of the floor and was holding down a stool with his rear end and the edge of the counter with his fat elbow. We chatted for a few minutes about the sudden warm weather, then he asked about the previous night’s scene with Frankie. I really didn’t want to talk about it, but I had no excuse not to. At least until Frank Olney strolled into the store.

“Just the girl I wanted to see,” he said, taking the seat next to me at the counter. He nodded to Fadge, “Hi, Ron. How’s business?”

“I’ve got two customers, Sheriff, and neither one of them has ordered anything.”

“Do you want us to order something?” I asked. “That would mean you’d have to get up and do some work.”

He considered it a moment then waved us off. Frank jerked his head toward a booth, silently inviting me to join him for a private powwow. We settled into my usual booth at the back of the store.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “So what’s up? You didn’t come here to buy me an ice-cream soda.”

“Tomorrow morning at nine, I’m going to the junior high to search Darleen Hicks’s locker. How’d you like to come along? It was your idea, after all.”

I sighed. “I’m not sure, Frank. It seems a waste of time,” I said, steeling myself to break the news that I’d been holding out on him. “I should tell you that I visited Irene Metzger and found some new information. Darleen had a bus ticket to Arizona. You were right all along. She just ran off to meet a fellow.”

Frank stared at me for a long time, breathing a little heavier with each moment that passed. At length, he fidgeted then began with great care: “I wish you’d told me sooner. But that doesn’t mean your story is finished. You’ve got a girl that’s run off.”

“Sure,” I said. “But this story is a dead end, Frank. I just want to forget it.”

“Something else is bothering you. I think it’s those Fulton boys. First Joey Figlio, now Frankie Ralston. I tell you, we can keep them away from you, Ellie.”

Joey. Damn. Wallowing in my self-reproach, I’d completely forgotten to contact Orlando Figlio. What did it matter, anyhow? Darleen was gone. No need now to pay social visits on the Figlios.

“I’m not worried about Frankie Ralston,” I said. “He’s harmless.”

“Well, Joey Figlio’s locked up tight at Fulton. No need to worry about him either.”

“That school couldn’t hold him if he had a handle. Arnold Dienst told me he’s escaped on several occasions already. Fulton is no Alcatraz.”

“I’ll ask the city police to watch your place. You’ll be fine.”

“You’re going to ask Chief Finn to look out for me?” I said.

“Okay, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check in with Fulton to make sure your boy’s still there.”

Frank pushed his way out of the booth, forcing a squeal from the table, then sauntered over to the phone booth and stuffed himself inside. He didn’t close the folding door. Probably had forgotten his shoehorn and figured it was too much trouble without it. I heard the jingle of change slipping down the slot then the whir of the dial as he wrenched it around and around. He asked in his deep voice to speak to a night guard. A few moments later, he squeezed back into the booth opposite me and smiled.

“Everything’s fine. Said there hasn’t been one escape today. So stop worrying about Joey Figlio and Frankie Ralston.”

I picked at my fingernails and probably chewed my lip. He was far off the mark; I was thinking of Ted Russell and just wanted to slither away.

“Ellie, my dad taught me to finish what I started. No matter what. He said he didn’t mind if I didn’t do anything at all. But if I started it, I had to finish.”

“Cool your jets, Frank,” I said finally, thinking it was preferable to waste an hour pawing through a junior-high-school girl’s locker than to explain the true reason behind my gloom. “I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

“Don’t take it so hard. There’ll be other stories. Better ones. I shouldn’t say this, but you’re good at this newspaper stuff. You run circles around George Walsh.”

I grunted a thank-you.

“Eight forty-five okay? I’ll pick you up,” he said, sliding out of the booth like the Queen Mary down the launch.

MONDAY, JANUARY 9, 1961

I rose early the next morning and packed a bag of clothes: a couple of skirts, blouses, shoes, toiletries, and underthings. After some toast and coffee, I emptied the perishables from my icebox into the trash, then I settled down on the sofa and picked up the letter Fadge had wanted to use as a coaster. It had been sitting there unopened for nearly a month. I had been either too busy or too stubborn to open it. I knew what was inside, of course, but some things are just hard to look at.

December 1, 1960

Dear Miss Stone
,

As discussed in our first meeting in February of this year, a proper burial is an essential tradition in the completion of a life. The ritual honors the departed in a holy ceremony and provides a measure of solace and peace for the loved ones left behind. We encourage mourners to show respect for the departed by fasting, sitting shivah, and donating to the needy or religious organizations of their choosing
.

We also implore you not to neglect an important part of this ritual: the selection and placement of the headstone. You will recall that we showed you a wide variety of options in February, and you expressed interest in a simple granite marker. I’m writing now to remind and beseech you to consider finalizing the arrangements at your earliest convenience. The yahrzeit is fast approaching, and you should not fail to mark this solemn occasion
.

Please telephone or wire us with any queries you may have in this time of somber reflection and remembrance. We, at Berg and Raphael Statuary, are at your service, should you require assistance
.

Sincerely
,
Moises Rafael

I folded the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into my purse.

I waited on the porch, soaking in the warmth of the day. It wasn’t exactly swimsuit weather, but the forecast called for temperatures touching sixty by early afternoon. The sheriff arrived as promised at a quarter to nine. I climbed into the car and smiled good morning. Frank switched on the radio: instrumental rubbish not rising to the level of swing or jazz. It sounded old and dusty. The kind of stuff you’d hear in a men’s barbershop. He maintained silence for the ten-minute drive to the school.

We met Assistant Principal Brossard in his office a little after nine. He offered us coffee, but I wanted to get the search of the locker over with. I had places to go. Still, I wanted to have a word with him privately about Ted Russell. If I was bothered about my own indiscretion with the handsome teacher, I was outraged that he may have had his way with a fifteen-year-old girl. But I had to speak to him alone, away from the sheriff.

Brossard led Frank and me to a bank of gray lockers in the first-floor corridor. There we met a Negro janitor, who was carrying a long metal bolt cutter. Brossard consulted a slip of paper in his hand for the number of Darleen’s locker. A moment later, standing before number 432, Brossard nodded to the janitor, who made short work of the padlock, clamping the jaws of the bolt cutter around the shackle and biting it off with a smart click.

“Thanks,” said the sheriff, pushing past the assistant principal, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you sure you don’t need some help?” he asked.

“I can manage,” said Frank, without even looking back over his shoulder as he yanked the locker door open.

Reluctantly, Brossard shoved off, taking the janitor with him, and left us alone in the corridor. Frank stood there a moment staring at the contents, blocking my view. Then he snatched a composition book from the shelf inside and flipped through it.