Stone Cold Dead (33 page)

By halftime, the New Holland Bucks
were leading the Flying Horses of Troy by fifteen. (
Flying
Horses? Who named these teams?) Ted Jurczyk had scored sixteen points on seven-for-twelve shooting and two-for-two from the foul line. I turned in my seat behind the scorer to see his father beaming in the middle row at center court. Beside him was a little blonde girl of about nine. She laughed and chatted with her father’s friends, who treated her like a little princess. When the teams took the court to warm up for the second half, I turned again to snap a picture of the little girl watching her big brother. I focused my zoom on her bright face. That’s when I saw the little crutches leaning against the bench next to her. She hadn’t stood the whole time I’d been watching her. Then, through my lens, I saw the flash of metal on the poor little thing’s legs. I lowered my Leica without squeezing the shutter release.

Ted Jurczyk cooled off a bit in the second half, scoring only eight points. But he managed the last six for New Holland, who eked out a win 52–50 and reclaimed a share of first place in the Class A League.

I was packing away my camera and pulling on my coat when Frank Olney sidled up to me.

“Good game,” he said.

I mumbled something like yes.

“I haven’t seen you since our little talk at the jail.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “Work keeps me on the run.”

He nodded. “And late-night intruders?”

I jerked my head to look up at him. “What do you know about that?”

“I know a lot of what goes on in this town,” he said. “Ellie, why didn’t you just call me? I would have put a man on your house.”

“I’m all right,” I said.

A long pause ensued. It was getting to the point where someone had to say something, so I obliged.

“I wanted to thank you for sending Don to get me out of jail,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Frank dismissed my thank you with an uncomfortable pshaw.

“Really, Frank,” I said. “And after our . . . little chat, you still came through for me.”

He shuffled his feet a bit and looked around at the emptying crowd. He coughed once or twice then said it was nothing. “I wasn’t about to let you rot in Pat Finn’s jail.”

“Even after I said I was going to publish that story?”

“What do you take me for?” he said.

“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to print it.”

Frank sighed. He looked as if I’d pierced his heart. “Ellie, whether you print your story or not, I’m not going let the New Holland cops bully you.”

I was a little overcome. I wiped my eyes, tried to compose myself, then looked up at the big guy. A warm tear rolled down my cheek. “Did you know Ted Jurczyk’s little sister had polio?”

After the game, I dropped in at the office and wrote out my story on the game. That took about forty-five minutes. I dropped it off in Composition then found my way to Fiorello’s, where the kids had descended to celebrate the victory. I felt safe in the crowd, but was dreading returning home where intruders had no qualms about entering uninvited.

Fadge was too busy to pay any attention to me, but Bill, the dishwasher, was only too happy to chat. He listed the catalogue of products he’d bought that day entirely with coupons at Louie’s Market on the East End. His haul included wilted, unwanted produce, dented canned goods, remainders, and bargains of every description. Bill packed groceries for tips at Louie’s by day and washed dishes at Fiorello’s by night. He was known far and wide for his frugality and refusal ever to throw anything out. Fadge called him the third, retarded Collyer brother. Bill also liked to share embarrassing information.

“Do you know why they wouldn’t take me in the army?” he asked me, apropos of nothing, the first day we met.

“Flat feet?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Breasts like a woman,” he announced proudly.

There were no seats free in any of the booths, and the counter was full. I leafed through a
Look
magazine and waited for someone to leave. A girl had the same idea, stationing herself next to me and grabbing a copy of
16 Magazine.
I wouldn’t have given her a second thought, but Fadge looked up from the egg cream he was stirring to bark at us.

“Hey, you two. This isn’t a library,” he said. “Buy something or get out.”

I stuck my magazine back onto the rack and reeled around to look at him, blushing from the public censure, and saw that it was Carol Liswenski standing next to me. We exchanged embarrassed glances. Then, upon recognizing me, Fadge turned white.

“Ellie, sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t see you there.” He scanned the counter and zeroed in on Zeke, a fifteen-year-old regular who was always begging Fadge for a job. “Over here, Ellie,” said Fadge, snatching a half-drunk cherry Coke from the boy. “Zeke was just leaving.”

“Hey,” protested Zeke, but his time was up. He slid off the stool and, head down, shuffled out of the store.

I took his seat at the counter, feeling vaguely guilty and ordered a cup of coffee. Fearing he was next in Fadge’s sights, the young man next to me downed his drink, wiped his lips on his sleeve, then slipped away.

“Carol,” I called to the girl, still standing near the magazines but now too afraid to touch them. “Carol, there’s a seat here,” and I patted the red Naugahyde to my left.

She accepted my invitation warily and climbed up onto the stool.

“I’ll stand you a Coke,” I said. “What would you like?”

“A hot-fudge sundae,” she said softly.

“Okay,” I said, eyeing Fadge. I’d offered a Coke, but never mind . . .

Carol was alone, and I asked her where her friends had gone.

“Susan is with her new boyfriend, Rick Stafford,” she said. “And Linda always has family dinner at Johnnie’s Seafood on Fridays.”

“You’re a long way from the Town of Florida,” I said. “How are you getting home?”

“I’ll get a ride from one of the girls, I guess. If not, I have enough for a taxi.”

“That’s not a good idea,” I said. “I’ll drive you home if you need a ride.”

She nodded okay.

“I wanted to ask you something, Carol.”

“Okay,” she said, a little doubtful.

“The day Darleen disappeared from the bus,” I began in a low voice. The chatter surrounding us drowned out our conversation, rendering us inaudible in the middle of a crowd. “You said she got off the bus to see someone. And you said you didn’t see who it was.”

She nodded just as Fadge put a hot-fudge sundae and a glass of water down in front of her. She lit up and dug in.

“I think you or Susan or Linda
did
see who it was,” I said, and Carol chewed more slowly, her mind working on an escape or an excuse. “And you three must have discussed it a hundred times since Darleen vanished. Now, I’m going to say a name, and you’re going to tell me if I’m right.”

Carol looked up at me, a smear of melting ice cream on her lower lip. She looked like a child; she was only fourteen after all.

“It was Ted Jurczyk, wasn’t it?”

Carol choked, wiped her chin with a napkin, and took a sip of her water. “How did you know that?” she hissed in a whisper. Her eyes darted from side to side to ensure no one was listening. Then she leaned in closer to me. “Darleen made us swear not to tell, and Susan would kill me if I did.”

“So Darleen took the time to swear you three girls to silence before she got off the bus to talk to Teddy?”

Carol looked confused by my question, but nodded finally. “Yeah, I guess. She didn’t want Joey to find out because he was so crazy jealous.”

“I thought you said she was over Joey.”

“Well, yeah, she was. But he was still in the picture. You know, when Darleen had nothing else going on, there was always Joey.”

“Joey had quite a different idea about their relationship. He said they were going to run away together to get married.”

Carol shrugged and turned back to her sundae. She stirred the ice cream and hot fudge absently. The spoon clinked against the bowl, and there was another tinkling as well. A charm bracelet on her wrist.

“Nice sweater you’ve got there, Carol,” I said. “And you’ve changed your hair, haven’t you?”

“I guess.”

“That’s a swell charm bracelet, too. It looks new.”

SATURDAY, JANUARY 14, 1961

The rain had moved on during the night and so had the unseasonably warm temperatures. By Saturday morning, we were back into the upper thirties, with sun and blue skies. I had retired late the night before, looking for any excuse to stay away from my apartment as long as possible. First, I drove Carol Liswenski home to the Town of Florida, but it wasn’t yet eleven when I returned to Lincoln Avenue. I talked Fadge into joining me for a late-night pizza at Tedesco’s. In truth, it didn’t take much convincing, and the big lug insisted on picking up the bill. By the time we’d finished, it was after one, and the moment of truth was upon me. I had to go face the night alone in my place.

I didn’t want Fadge to know what was bothering me. That would just worry him. But I had no intention of entering that apartment by myself at one thirty in the morning. I invited him up for a nightcap, but he begged off. He whined that he was tired and the pizza and beer weren’t agreeing with him.

“Maybe next time don’t eat so much,” I lectured. “Come on up, and I’ll give you a Bromo-Seltzer.”

Thank God he agreed. I made sure to make as much noise as possible climbing the stairs, asking Fadge loud questions to alert anyone who might be inside that I was not alone. Fadge thought it strange that I went from room to room, switching on the lights and peering behind doors before I fetched him his Bromo-Seltzer, but it satisfied me that we were alone.

“Here you go,” I said, handing him the fizzing glass.

Once he’d left, I barricaded the kitchen door with a dresser and left all the lights on before retiring for the night. Despite my fears, I managed to sleep for seven hours. It was a luxury to rise at almost ten, and one glance out the window proved that Fadge had done the same. The store was locked, “Closed” sign hanging in the window, and the newspaper bundles left on the stoop had already been opened and thinned by early patrons.

I took a second look out the window an hour later to see if Fadge had arrived. He hadn’t but the
New Holland Republic
delivery truck was just pulling away from the curb, having left two bundles of papers on the stoop. That was odd, I thought, since the
Republic
was an evening paper.

I showered and dressed, still thinking about the special early edition. Surely Charlie would have told me about it. But then I remembered he’d left for Utica the previous afternoon for a weekend with his in-laws.

Fadge was just tying on his filthy apron when I walked in. He grunted good morning, and I reached for the
Republic
from the stand near the door.

“Good morning,” he repeated.

“Sorry,” I said, unfolding the paper to scan the headlines. “Good mor—”

I froze. There, in the upper right-hand corner of the front page was the headline: “Missing Girl No Runaway.” And the byline read “George Walsh, senior reporter.”

My heart sank, and no amount of sympathy from Fadge helped. I read it over and over again. Nearly verbatim, my story had been stolen by George Walsh yet again. I had forgotten having left it in my desk, and, especially while George was out of town, I hadn’t been worried about a repeated theft. Now my story was gone, and the sheriff would be furious. Darleen’s killer now knew what the authorities knew.

“He comes in here from time to time,” said Fadge. “I’ll make sure he gets something extra in his next sundae.”

“Thanks,” I said, staring at the special edition in disbelief. “You’re a good friend, Fadge, but that won’t help. Please, by all means, go ahead and do it. But it won’t help.”