A Stone's Throw

by James W. Ziskin

  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 can tell you I’ll be here next August. That was the greatest duel I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” said Todd. “But at a certain point, you have to weigh the excellence of the horseflesh against the general decay that’s starting to creep in. If they’re not careful, this place will end up like one of those backwater tracks in Maryland. Remember Timonium, Fred? And Hagerstown?”

  “Barely,” said Freddie.

  Todd laughed. “You used to haunt those places. Till you learned your lesson.”

  “Next year is the centennial of the Saratoga racecourse,” said Helen. “My mother’s on the planning committee. She’s been in touch with the governor and lots of muckety-mucks, including Senator Javits. Everyone is working hard to make the anniversary special and restore some of the former grandeur to the town.”

  “Who cares about all that?” said Ned. “I’ve got another joke for you.”

  “Not right now, Ned,” interrupted Freddie. Helen seconded his motion.

  “Why not? It’s a good one. And I promise it’s clean.”

  Helen, who was standing beside the oaf, leaned over, turned her head to hide her mouth, and whispered something in his ear. He gulped and turned a shade whiter than he already was. Then his eyes darted to me and back to Helen.

  “Really? She’s Jewish?”

  Helen shook her head in dismay and rubbed the bridge of her nose. How had she known I was Jewish? I actually found myself wondering if I looked particularly Semitic. Or had Freddie said something?

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” Ned offered by way of an inadequate apology to me. “I heard it the other day and thought it was funny. You know. A joke. Not to be taken seriously.”

  “Bad taste,” said Freddie. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I didn’t know she was Jewish.”

  I appreciated Freddie’s indignation, but wondered where it had been a few moments earlier when Ned told his joke. Was his pique sincere or a tardy reaction to discovering that I was actually a Jew? I couldn’t be sure. Had Freddie even known I was Jewish? And if he hadn’t, did he care now?

  “Let’s find our table,” he said, taking my elbow.

  My cheeks burned, surely bright crimson, as he led me away. Why was I letting him drag me off in defeat? I knew his friends’ tongues would be wagging as soon as I was out of earshot, and I wished I’d stood my ground instead of turning tail at Freddie’s urging.

  “Don’t worry, Ellie. I’ll change our table,” he said as we crossed the ballroom. “You won’t have to sit near Ned.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I said. “I want to sit with your friends. And right next to good old Ned.”

  Freddie stopped mid-stride and faced me. “You’re not going to make a scene, are you?”

  “I’m not the one who told the Jewish joke back there. And I have no intention of making a scene in front of you, your friends, or your mother.”

  Dinner was awkward, at least at first. I certainly didn’t enjoy breaking bread with Ned Eckleston, as I found out his full name was, but I was determined to take the high road. I wanted to give a good accounting of myself. And I’d be damned if I was going to run from a man who’d made a stale joke at the expense of my tribe. Ned, it turned out, spent much of the dinner finding excuses to flit from table to table, visit the restroom, or fetch himself a drink from the bar back in the gaming room. And I felt triumphant.

  With dessert, the speeches began. Georgina Whitcomb delivered another inspiring address on the importance of literacy and education for all races and creeds. A couple of library board members and the mayor of Saratoga also spoke about the noble mission of lending a hand to the less fortunate in our community—particularly the disadvantaged races—to better their social condition through education.

  When the live auction came around, I confess that I felt like a pauper. Dinners, books, gift certificates, and passes to the winner’s circle were sold to the highest bidders, who forked over outrageously generous amounts for relatively pedestrian offerings. The exercise was humbling for me but heartening, as well. Some extremely rich people were doing good with their unneeded cash.

  The evening ended with a plea for all those in attendance to dig as deeply as they could and donate something to the cause. I ponied up twenty-five dollars and still felt like a cheapskate.

  We repaired to the bar in the gaming room and enjoyed a couple of drinks while the crowd thinned. Freddie said he didn’t want to compete with the traffic, and I was happy to soak up a little more of the atmosphere of the old casino along with some champagne. I didn’t even mind being left alone with Helen and Todd—Ned had decamped—while Freddie disappeared
to hobnob as was his fashion.

  I asked Helen what Freddie had told her about me. She said not to worry; he’d only given my name, rank, and serial number.

  “He said you were a newspaper reporter. How glamorous.”

  “Not really. The news is months or years of PTA meetings, punctuated by the occasional murder. My biggest scoop last year was the ten-year-old spelling bee champion.”

  Todd wanted to know about the murders, and I tried to dissuade him. Proud though I was of my accomplishments, I was uncomfortable holding forth. He and Helen seemed genuinely interested, though, so I obliged them. I left out the fact that one of my biggest triumphs at the paper had been the investigation of the murder of Judge Harrison Shaw’s daughter, Jordan. I focused instead on my recent success in Los Angeles, where I’d been dispatched to profile a local boy who was set to star in one of those beach pictures. His Hollywood ending never materialized, alas, but I managed to bring home a bigger story. With Todd and Helen keeping me busy with their salacious questions about the seedy underbelly of Tinseltown, I didn’t even notice that Freddie had been AWOL for twenty minutes. When he finally returned, he looked all in and suggested it was time to call it a night.

  “It’s only eleven thirty,” said Helen. “Since when did you become such a wet blanket? At least leave us Ellie. She’s been entertaining us with stories of debauchery and murder in Hollywood.”

  I was feeling fine after the inauspicious start to the evening. Gone were the memory of my difficult interview with Judge Shaw and the unpleasantness of Ned’s joke. Helen and Todd had turned out to be quite nice, and I wished Freddie hadn’t pulled me away so soon. But he was my escort, after all, and I didn’t want to walk back to the Friar Tuck in my evening gown.

  “Did you have a nice time?” I asked him as we sped down Route 50, convertible top down. I didn’t care if my hair ended up in knots now.

  “Of course,” he said in a most unconvincing fashion.

  I didn’t press the issue. I’d enjoyed myself and wasn’t about to beg him to cheer up. In my experience, moody men stayed that way if you indulged them. He drove on in silence for about a mile, and then he asked what Helen had said to me.

  “She said you told her all about me. Name, rank, and serial number.”

  “Nothing else? Nothing about my mother?”

  “No. What would she tell me about your mother?”

  He didn’t say a word for the longest time. Something was bothering him.

  “What would Helen tell me about your mother?” I asked again.

  “It’s . . . I have to work on her, that’s all.”

  “Work on her?”

  “I want you to come down to Virginia to visit after the meet ends. Maybe in October or November. Thanksgiving would be nice.”

  “Sounds serious,” I said. “So why do you need to work on her?”

  His jaw flexed. He stared straight down the road.

  “Freddie?”

  “She told me not to see you again.”

  I managed to squeeze a “why” out of my dry throat. Freddie twitched. He tried to put me off and avoid answering my question. When I finally broke him down, I saw his lip curl as he formed his words.

  “She said she doesn’t want me marrying a Jew.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Freddie begged me to stay with him at the motel. He promised he could convince his mother to accept me. And if she didn’t, he didn’t care. I told him through my tears that I didn’t want to marry him. I barely knew him. He understood, insisted those were his mother’s words, not his. He held me tight and comforted me, but I couldn’t do it. I bore him no ill will. He was a wonderful young man, one who’d lit a spark in me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. More than that, he’d captured my interest in a way that no man had ever quite done. He was witty and fun, attentive and urbane. And there was something elusive, too, that attracted me to him. I couldn’t explain why I liked him so. But neither could I stay with him that night. I didn’t care about the falsity his mother had shown me, her phony affection and insincere charity toward other races, other than how it pertained to her character. She was a horrid person, I knew now. A hateful wretch. And I had little interest in quoting Shylock to her across the Thanksgiving dinner table. I’d resisted that urge earlier when Ned told his joke. Nor did I want to feel sorry for myself now. Yet I did. And I felt fury. I was angry. I was powerless. God, I wasn’t in love with Frederick Carsten Whitcomb III, but I wanted the option to be.

  It was past one when I threw my small bag into the trunk of my car. I hadn’t even bothered to change out of my gown. I only wanted to get home and climb into my own bed with a glass of whiskey. Alone. I allowed myself a couple of tears as I raced along Route 67 toward New Holland. Not tears for Freddie, but for myself. Caused by the awful woman who’d hugged me, called me dear, then told her son I had horns and stripes. And that was the end of it. As I dried my cheeks with the back of my hand, I put to rest all sorrow and self-pity. Georgina Whitcomb—and her bigotry—disappeared into the swirling darkness behind me.

  I passed Tempesta Farm and spotted far ahead, atop a hill about a half mile off, six or seven cherry tops spinning. As I came nearer, I slowed to see what was going on and caught sight of Frank Olney’s large profile in the flashing lights. Sheriff Pryor was there as well with a couple of his deputies. I pulled over to the shoulder thirty yards past the county cruisers and made my way back to the scene in my heels and long green gown.

  “Is that you, Ellie?” asked Stan Pulaski, who was directing what little traffic there was at one thirty in the morning on a deserted Route 67. “Wow. You look beautiful.”

  What a sweetheart Stan was. His eyes glazed over, and, after my disappointing evening, I almost threw my arms around his neck for a tight hug. I resisted the urge.

  “What’s going on?” I asked instead.

  “Someone reported a car behind the trees down there. And there’s a body inside.”

  The news set my heart pounding. “It’s not a young woman, is it?”

  Stan nodded.

  “Don’t tell me it’s a black Chrysler.”

  “It is. How did you know that?”

  “I can tell you the license number, too,” I said. My memory was pretty strong when engaged in a search. “B-Y-W-sixty-six.”

  Frank Olney made time to speak with me once the ambulance had carted away the body. He was kind enough to refrain from commenting on my attire. Pryor stood at his side, none too pleased to see me there, and without the good manners Frank had shown. He said Halloween wasn’t for another two months. I asked him if he was planning on masquerading as a sheriff for trick or treat. That stung, especially when Frank Olney laughed. After my little funny, Pryor said I was neither needed nor welcome at the crime scene and told me to leave.

  “You see that signpost over there?” Frank asked him as dry as a bone. Pryor and I both turned our heads. “It says you’re in Montgomery County, Henry. I’ll speak to whoever the hell I please.”

  Pryor shuffled a bit, and, clearly cowed by his large colleague from the neighboring jurisdiction, he changed his tune. “Sure, Frank. I was only trying to help.”

  “Was that Micheline Charbonneau in the car?” I asked.

  Frank nodded. “Looks like it. There’s a passbook in her purse. And a bill from Niagara Mohawk in her name.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The fellow who owns this land discovered the car parked behind a grove of trees down there.” He pointed to the southeast. “Car doors locked with a dead lady at the wheel.”

  “Has Fred Peruso been out here to examine the body?”

  “He’s over there. Writing up his preliminary report. You can talk to him when he’s through.”

  I noticed Pryor watching closely as Frank and I talked. Whether he was curious, surprised, or simply cheesed off, I couldn’t say. But our familiarity and spirit of cooperation must have confused him. In fact, a change seemed to come over him, as if he wanted to be part of o
ur little coterie. The moments passed, and his interest grew. He even started to smile and pretend to share in our trust.

  “The ignition was still on,” said Frank. “Not running, though. And the tank was empty.”

  “So the car ran until all the gas was gone?”

  He nodded. “Appears so. Probably a day or more, depending on how full it was.”

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning?”

  “Not quite. Her neck was snapped. Someone placed her in the driver’s seat. Maybe to make it look like she was driving. But as far as we can tell, she didn’t even have a license.”

  “How long has she been there?”

  Frank motioned in the direction of the county coroner.

  “Fred will have a better idea than anything I might estimate. Still, I’d say it’s been a while. Skin doesn’t turn that color overnight. Not a pretty sight.”

  “Maybe a week?” I asked.

  “She was pretty ripe,” said the sheriff. “If I was a betting man, I’d say she died the same night as the other two on Tempesta Farm.”

  “And barely a half mile away.”

  Pryor finally found speech and broke in. “I’d say it was the same murderer. Ditched the body and the car here after he killed the others and set the barn on fire.”

  “So we’re after the same guy?” I asked.

  “We already found him,” he said. “I picked him up this afternoon at the racetrack. A guy by the name of Robertson.”

  “Bruce Robertson?”

  “That’s right. Do you know him?”

  “No. But I heard he was a gambler shopping around information on Johnny Dornan’s past. Some kind of betting scandal in Maryland nine years ago.”

  “Exactly. This seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said. “Gamblers and jockeys. It’s a bad combination. I think Robertson tried to blackmail Dornan to throw a race or two. Maybe Dornan didn’t want to cooperate.”