“At least we know which haystack to search.”
As fate would have it, Freddie was fifteen minutes late. I was quite collected—cold actually—and dry by the time he knocked at the door.
“Oh, no. Is the gala this evening?” he asked as he stood there easy and sophisticated in a black dinner jacket and tie. Not a wrinkle in sight. “I thought we were going bowling. Now I’ve got to change.”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“We’ve got time. No one arrives early for these things. And I’ve brought a little bottle of something.”
He produced a pint of whiskey from under his jacket.
“Great,” I said. “But didn’t you bring anything for yourself?”
The Canfield Casino was built in 1870. The three-story, red-brick Italianate building was humming with activity when we arrived at a quarter past eight. To protect my unruly hair from a windswept disaster, I’d insisted Freddie raise the roof of his convertible. It was muggy enough as it was; I didn’t need a tornado to redo my hair. A long line of sleek cars waited to disgorge passengers at the casino entrance. I watched through the window of Freddie’s roadster as bejeweled women in gowns, escorted across the lawn, up the stairs, and into the casino by husbands in black tie, floated as if on air. They greeted old friends and social rivals, exchanging hugs and kisses with equal doses of genuine affection or falsity, indistinguishable one from the other to the casual observer. Once he’d parked his car behind the east wing of the casino, Freddie offered me his arm, and we joined the swells inside the gaming room on the first floor. He was set upon by all and sundry, men and women, eager to shake his hand or kiss him on the cheek. Freddie suffered the attention gladly; I could see that he enjoyed the role of cock of the walk. And yet he never failed to interrupt the niceties in order to introduce the smallish girl on his arm to his friends. True, the wiseacre told them my name was Eleonora, but it was a gentlemanly gesture on his part. Still, I felt his impertinence deserved a sharp pinch of his side after the third introduction.
We worked our way through the throng into the bar, where Freddie managed to tackle a waiter holding a tray of champagne flutes aloft. He salvaged two for our consumption. I felt transported on the bubbles and on an intoxicating rush of self-satisfaction prompted by my companion’s attentions. Not normally one to have my head turned by the trappings of wealth, I felt, nevertheless, beguiled and enchanted by the elegance of the occasion. I told myself to get a grip. I was not Cinderella, and Freddie was not Prince Charming. This was a fun evening of make-believe with people who had more money than they knew how to spend. Have a good time, I muttered under my breath, and then get over it.
I found myself face-to-face with Georgina Whitcomb. She was resplendent in a peach organza gown and an effulgent smile.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here this evening, Ellie. And with my naughty little boy. Why didn’t either of you two say anything?”
“Would it help if I said I was here for the newspaper?” I asked.
“Not a bit. But you look lovely, my dear,” she said, taking my free hand in hers and squeezing it affectionately. “What a lovely gown. Come. I want to introduce you to some friends.”
I threw a backward glance at Freddie as I was led away—like a horse. He smiled at me and waved good-bye. Then he took a sip of his champagne and turned to greet another friend.
Given her role as chairwoman of the charity drive, Georgina Whitcomb was the hostess of the evening. She spoke to everyone in the room, devoting care and attention to each, surely making them all feel special in her estimation. And she presented me to every last person she addressed. I was the brilliant young newspaper reporter from nearby New Holland. Her guests indulged her the hyperbolic introduction and smiled politely.
“Have you met Helen Stansbury?” she asked as we sidled up to Freddie’s blonde racing companion. “Helen, dear, this is Eleonora Stone. Ellie to her friends.”
Her hair pulled back in a tight chignon, Helen was stunning in a gold lamé gown and a diamond choker that could have covered the gala’s fundraising goal by itself. If it was real, that is. I couldn’t tell, of course, but I assumed others in the room could. Which meant it had to be genuine. And worth a king’s ransom.
“Hello,” she said, baring a row of straight white teeth behind her full, red lips. “What lovely hair you have.”
I had a doubt. Was she mocking me with false praise? While it was true some people thought my hair remarkable for its volume and curls, I usually found myself wishing it would behave, especially in the humid summer months. I smiled, nevertheless, and complimented her on her lustrous blonde tresses. She nodded as if she’d heard that a thousand times.
“Ellie is here as Freddie’s guest,” said Georgina.
A small gasp of recognition escaped Helen’s throat. “So you’re the Ellie he’s been telling me about. He certainly wasn’t exaggerating your beauty.”
Now I knew she was pulling my leg. Beauty was certainly an overstatement, as my trip to Los Angeles had confirmed the previous February. I was told more times than I cared to recall that I was pretty, but not “Hollywood pretty.”
“I must say hello to some old friends,” said Helen, signaling her departure. “Let’s chat later. I want to hear all about you.”
She shimmered off like a vision to join some attractive young people not far off. When she reached them, she made a quarter turn and glanced back at me. Her guard was down for a brief moment, and I saw the scrutiny in her eyes. She was assessing me as women sometimes do. A simple sizing up of the new girl. Or perhaps her intentions were more personal. I wondered if she considered me a rival to be chased off.
Whatever her feelings toward me might have been, I felt a twinge of disquiet that Freddie had discussed me with her in the first place. I weighed the possibilities. Should I be flattered? Or were Freddie and Helen simply pals in the habit of sharing laughs over the latest notches on his bedpost?
“Ellie, dear. You’re miles away.” Georgina took my arm and waded into another wave of well-heeled guests.
Every few minutes, I would lift my head and hazard a glance around the gaming room, searching in vain for a sighting of my escort amid the throng. Georgina was keeping me busy. Despite my strong memory, I struggled to absorb the sheer number of faces and names, which, I assumed, I was expected to remember.
“And here are some neighbors of yours,” she said. “This is Judge Harrison Shaw and his wife, Audrey. And this is my friend Miss Eleonora Stone.”
I would have swallowed my gum, had I been chewing any. Judge Shaw was the last person I wanted to see that evening. Even less so now that he’d been sprung on me without warning.
“We are acquainted with Miss Stone,” he said in his cold baritone.
“How nice to see you again, Judge Shaw.”
“Miss Stone—Ellie—and I chatted at the Gideon Putnam a few days ago,” volunteered Audrey Shaw. “She was very curious about Tempesta Farm and my first visit to New Holland all those years ago.”
The judge regarded her in what seemed to me a reproachful manner, as if he wished she’d informed him of our meeting before that moment in the gaming room. Perhaps he, too, would have preferred to steel himself before having to exchange social niceties with the likes of me.
“Then I shall leave you three old friends to talk,” said Georgina. “I see I’m needed by the event planner.”
And with that she flitted off to deal with some emergency or other, leaving me in the awkward company of the Shaws.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” said the judge.
“The paper wants a piece about the fundraiser.”
“And she’s turned the head of Freddie Whitcomb,” said Audrey Shaw to her husband. “Our Miss Stone is climbing the social ladder.”
I felt a sudden stiffening of my spine. “No, really. I quite know my place. I’m writing a profile on Mrs. Whitcomb, and her son generously lowered his standards to squire me around for a couple of hours. This is
a charity event, after all.”
Audrey Shaw, I had come to know, was a damaged soul. Even after our—mostly congenial—visit a few days before, I labored under no illusions about her stability. She might smile one moment, then slap your face the next. And, of course, she associated me with her daughter’s murder. Why should I expect her to act like a decent person with me now?
Judge Shaw frowned. “No one is suggesting you’re not good enough, Miss Stone.”
After an awkward silence, which included a glare aimed at his wife, who kept smiling as if she hadn’t just insulted me, he asked me how I was keeping.
“Fine, thank you,” I said.
“I’ve been following your career with interest,” he continued. “You’re doing fine work at the paper. One of these days, Artie Short will promote you.”
I doubted that, but I kept my mouth shut. Another excruciatingly long pause interrupted our banter. Finally, I could bear it no longer, and, despite the social nature of the event, I brought up business, if only to break the silence.
“I’m sorry to discuss this at such a happy event,” I began. “But I was hoping I might ask you two or three questions about Tempesta Farm.”
He pursed his lips, then told me that it was bad manners to engage in work at a charity event.
“Nevertheless, it will only take a few moments, I promise.”
He huffed a sigh of annoyance and agreed. “Audrey, why don’t you go say hello to some friends while Miss Stone and I take care of business?” He pronounced the last word with ill-concealed disdain.
Pointing to the nearby staircase, he invited me to lead the way up to the second floor where we could speak in private. The red carpet muffled our steps as we trod down the long hallway—past the gold-flocked wallpaper, mahogany-and-glass cases, and dark paintings of noble horses—to a small gaming room. Judge Shaw tried the knob, which obeyed on command 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 employee started that fire?”
“There was plenty of su
spicion 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.
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