“What can you tell me about her?” I asked, stubbing out my cigarette.
“Well, she’s a spirited girl, but she has a good heart. I remember that she felt sorry for Oedipus.”
“How’s that?”
“She felt sorry when Oedipus poked his own eyes out. We were reading Sophocles, and Darleen thought that Oedipus was a little too hard on himself. After all, he didn’t know Laius was his father and Jocasta was his mother.”
“Still,” I said, “one can understand his horror at the discovery . . .”
“Of course,” she said, taking a sip from her tea. “But Darleen didn’t quite grasp the concept of Greek tragedy.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Nolan, but why are you telling me this?”
“Because of Joey Figlio.”
I remembered that Irene Metzger had told me about him. He was Darleen’s boyfriend.
“Joey Figlio was in the same class,” she continued. “A bad egg, that boy.”
She sipped some more tea, and I waited for the punch line. After thirty seconds had ticked by, I cleared my throat.
“Oh, sorry,” she said after my prompting. “A smart aleck. I gave him detention once.”
“What for?”
“It was for Oedipus again. He made a tasteless joke in class when Darleen Hicks said she felt sorry for Oedipus. As I told you a moment ago, Darleen asked me why poor Oedipus should blind himself. And I said how would you feel if you killed your father and married your mother?”
“And then?”
She pinched her nose and sniffed. “From the back of the room, Joey Figlio started singing ‘I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old Dad.’”
I couldn’t quite suppress the laugh that snorted through my nose. Adelaide Nolan stared daggers at me and pursed her lips in disapproval. I apologized, but continued to struggle to stifle a smile. Joey Figlio had unsuspected wit. Mrs. Nolan quickly changed her opinion of me.
“I’m sorry,” I choked. “Please continue.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s it. That’s the story.”
“Excuse me, but why did you tell me about Joey Figlio, then?”
“Because you should be questioning him, not her teachers,” she said. “He’s no good, that one. Do you know that he writes obscene poetry? Disgraceful. Poems about Darleen. Go talk to him, and you’ll find out what happened to that poor girl.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I stopped by the paper to give Charlie Reese an earful about the Royal Lancer. I had always thought it was too nice a car for me, and now I had the proof. Millicent Riley, the publisher’s secretary, said Charlie was in a meeting with Mr. Short. That was my signal to scram. Artie Short hated me, and I was happy to return the sentiment.
“Not so fast, Miss Stone,” Millicent called after me. “Mr. Short said he wanted to see you when you came in.”
I froze. What did he want with me? I’d been keeping my nose clean for weeks, if you didn’t count getting sick at the high-school basketball game.
“Can’t you tell him you haven’t seen me?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, to be nice just once?”
She buzzed her boss inside the office. “Miss Stone to see you, Mr. Short.” Then she glanced at me and said, “You may go in now.”
“Look what the cat dragged in,” mumbled Short as I entered. “I didn’t know Miss Stone still worked here. Haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“Now, Artie, she’s been a good girl,” said Charlie. “She’s been covering the basketball games and the City Council meetings for me. Doing a darn good job, too.”
Artie waved a hand at Charlie. “Our Miss Stone knows we’re old friends,” he said with a scowl, pointing at a chair for my comfort. “Isn’t that right, Miss Stone?”
“Like Martin and Lewis,” I said.
“I called you in here to discuss this missing-girl case,” he said, ignoring me. “What’s her name, Charlie?”
“Darleen Hicks.”
“Yes, Darleen Hicks. She’s a ninth grader who disappeared a couple of weeks ago. Charlie wants you to look into this. I’m not convinced, of course. Seems like a lot of nothing.”
“By the way, what were you working on this morning?” asked Charlie. “I’ll reassign it.”
“Actually, I was working on the Darleen Hicks story.”
The two men exchanged glances. Charlie shrugged.
“Don’t you know what your staff is doing?” Short frowned, taking a seat at his desk.
Charlie threw me a withering look.
“Darleen’s mother came to meet me and told me the whole story. She asked me to help her.”
“What have you got so far?” asked Short as he shuffled through some papers.
“I’ve interviewed the mother, the neighbors, and two of her teachers.”
“What’s next?” he said, not even looking at me.
“Her friends,” I said. “A couple of girls and her boyfriend.” I paused. “Then there’s her stepfather. And of course the sheriff.”
Short rose from his desk and began digging through a filing cabinet against the wall. “I still don’t think there’s much of a story here,” he said, his back to me. “If I did, I’d put George on it, you can be sure of that. He wrote the first couple of stories on this when it happened. He says it’s a dead end. And I don’t like the idea of wasting manpower.” He turned halfway around to look at me. “Or should I say girl power in this case?”
“There could be something to this disappearance,” said Charlie. “Let’s give her a week to dig around.”
Artie Short yanked some papers from the filing cabinet and returned to his desk. He wrinkled his nose, as if something in the room smelled bad, and cocked his head.
“I don’t like it,” he said, shaking the papers in my general direction. “But if she doesn’t neglect the basketball and other assignments . . .”
That was our cue to leave. Charlie and I stood and made for the door. Short called after him, “I’m expecting her to deliver on this. I don’t like wild-goose chases.”
Charlie and I filed out of Short’s office and headed toward the newsroom. We didn’t speak as we went, but we both knew a debriefing was in the offing. I followed him into his office and leaned against the bookcase.
“Well, that wasn’t so hard,” he said. “Now you’d better get something on this story, or Artie will kill it.”
“And if I do find something, he’ll hand the story back to George Walsh,” I said.
Charlie had no answer for that. Instead he asked me what I had learned so far. I filled him in, saying I wasn’t even sure if she’d been the victim of foul play or if she’d simply run off.
“Is there any legwork I can do for you? Anyone giving you trouble? Or maybe there’s someone you can’t reach?”
I shook my head. “I can manage. But speaking of your help, I know the car you got for me was pulled out of the lake last August. Thanks a lot.”
He stared dumbly at me for several seconds. Then he got that trapped-animal look in his eyes.
“Sorry about that, Ellie,” he said finally. “I just couldn’t swing another. As it is, after you drove the first car into the tree, Artie wanted to take it out of your salary.”
“You make it sound as if I hit the tree because I was primping in the rearview mirror. Someone cut my brakes, Charlie. They were trying to kill me. Not like Fred ‘One for the Road’ Blaylock. What’s he driving these days, by the way? Something shiny and brand new, I’ll bet.”
“I told Artie it wasn’t your fault, but he’s old-fashioned. Doesn’t like the idea of women in the workforce, let alone behind the wheel. That’s why you’ve got to lie low and keep up with your other assignments.”
I pouted, dissatisfied with the car discussion. “Why can’t Georgie Porgie take some of what I’m doing? Local theater, for example. The Mohawk Valley Players are doing South Pacific this year. Give that to George. But d
on’t tell him how the war ends; you’ll spoil it for him.”
Charlie said nothing. He often indulged me, especially where George Walsh was concerned. George was Artie Short’s son-in-law and strutted around the newsroom like the cock of the walk. George’s antagonism toward me was well known to all at the paper. He routinely tried to insult me by talking down to me in meetings and asking me “to be a good girl” and fetch him some coffee. He stopped doing that once he noticed the coffee I’d given him had an odd taste.
But when it came to getting the better of George, it was mostly George who did the heavy lifting anyway. His miscues were legend at the paper, like the time in June of 1959 when his headline proclaimed, “Ingmar Bergman Knocks Out Floyd Patterson in the Fourth Round.” (He even got the round wrong.) Twice he referred to Pat Summerall as the placekicker for the San Francisco Giants, who don’t play football. And in general, his sports stories rang false; his shallow knowledge of the games and awkward grasp of their lexicon always bled through the ink. He wrote strange headlines like “Speed-Ball Ace Timmy Vardon Twirls Two-Hit Gem in New Holland Tilt.” Georgie’s articles had the mawkish, homespun feel of a Boys’ Life story from 1925.
Walsh and his father-in-law hated me, never more so than during the Jordan Shaw investigation just a month earlier when George tried to muscle in on my story. In the end, despite his aversion to me, Artie Short had to hold his nose and go with the girl reporter over his own son-in-law.
“I’ll try to get you another car,” said Charlie.
“Forget it. I love that car now, mildew and all. It’s mine.”
“There must be some help you could use. I can put Norma Geary at your disposal.”
“Norma? From the steno pool?”
“She’s smart, Ellie. And eager. She can make calls, run errands, get you coffee. Give her a chance.”
“But isn’t she a little old?”
Charlie frowned. “She’s younger than I am.”
“That’s not saying much. You’re Methuselah’s older, uglier brother, Pops.” I could get away with that remark because Charlie was the handsomest, most dignified gent in the city. Tall and trim in his broad-lapelled pinstripes, he looked like “Dad” in a pipe-cleaner ad, and he was proud of his full head of silver hair.
“I’m fifty-six,” he announced proudly. “And you’ll get here one day, so watch what you say. Poor Norma lost her husband last year and had to find a job. She’s got a retarded son to care for.”
He looked pathetic.
“Okay, spare me the waterworks. I’ll take her.”
Norma Geary was seated at a desk near the back of the steno pool, head cocked to the right, reading from a sheet of handwritten paper clipped to a stand. She tapped furiously on an old black Smith-Corona with green keys, while all around her, younger women were clicking along on much newer machines. There were even a couple of stylish electric IBMs for the fastest girls. But Norma didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I fancied I could see a small grin on her lips as she typed.
“Are you Norma Geary?” I asked.
She continued typing without looking up at me. “Yes, and you’re Miss Stone.”
How could she read, type, and speak at the same time? And to top it all off, she was chewing gum.
I told her Charlie Reese had said she might be interested in helping me on the Darleen Hicks story. She stopped typing mid-word and beamed at me.
“Yes, Miss Stone,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”
I had an hour and a half to kill before the junior high let out. Not enough time to drive to the reform school and back, so I thought of my old friend, Sheriff Frank Olney. I wanted to talk to him about Darleen Hicks, but there was more to do still.
“Norma, would you be able to look up a couple of things for me?” I asked, once she’d set up her desk in the City Assignments area where I sat. “I need copies of the Republic from December twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-third.”
She scribbled the dates silently in shorthand on a pad. Then she looked up at me over her round glasses, which were tethered to her neck by a long, golden chain.
“Yes, miss,” she said. “What else?”
“And the Canajoharie paper, too. Same dates. You’ll probably have to drive out there. I can get you a voucher for gasoline.”
“Yes, miss,” she said again, making a note. “The Courier Standard.”
“Then I need the addresses and phone numbers of these girls.” I handed her the list of Darleen’s friends. “And finally, can you call the Fulton Reform School and make an appointment for me for tomorrow morning? I’d like to talk to a student named Joseph Figlio.”
“That’s a rough place,” said Norma, finishing her notes with a flourish that broke her pencil nib. “I’ll take care of it.”
“So that’s it,” I said. “It’s not too much?”
“Not at all,” said Norma.
The Montgomery County Administration Building was a few miles north of New Holland. I swung onto Route 22 and sped toward the Town of Poole. No problems from the Royal Lancer now. I patted the dashboard and encouraged her. Then I switched on the radio and heard the last strains of Johnny Burnette singing “You’re Sixteen.” “Western Movies” came on next, and I’d had enough. I twisted the knob to off and enjoyed the frozen landscape in silence. Why did I even bother with the radio? I was becoming as particular as my father when it came to music. Another thought to push to one side.
“Eleonora!” boomed Frank Olney when I entered the warm office building. He knew I hated that name. He was standing over Deputy Pat Halvey, reviewing some papers. “What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to see my favorite cops,” I said.
“Like fun you did. Let’s see, what cases have we had recently that might interest a clever reporter like you?” he asked, scratching his bald head. “It wouldn’t be that teenage girl who ran off, would it?” He squinted an accusatory eye at me.
“You see right through me, Frank,” I smiled.
“Yeah, well, you’re pretty transparent that way, aren’t you? I’ll bet you think she didn’t run off at all. You think there was foul play.”
“I don’t know what I think yet. But I’m here to cover the bases.”
Frank hunched over and started to pour himself a mug of coffee from the percolator when he realized the machine was empty.
“Damn it, Halvey,” he roared at the deputy. “I told you to make sure there was always coffee. Now what can I offer Ellie?”
“There’s a doughnut,” said Pat. “And we can make some tea.”
“Tea? What is this? A garden party? Make some damn coffee!” Then he motioned for me to follow him inside to his office.
“Sorry, Ellie, the coffee will take a while,” he said, lowering himself into his swivel chair. “Now what can I do for you?”
“Irene Metzger came to see me New Year’s Eve,” I began. Frank groaned. “She asked me to look into her daughter’s disappearance.”
“That woman is a nuisance,” said the sheriff. “She’s been pestering me for more than two weeks. Called me at home on Christmas.”
“Have a heart, Frank. She’s worried sick. Lost her only child.”
The sheriff waved a bearish hand at me. “Run off is more like it.”
“Can you give me a little background on the case? Who did you talk to?”
“Just about everyone, I suppose. Her friends, family, teachers. I really did look into this, Ellie. No one knows a thing. The girl just disappeared.”
“What about her boyfriend?” I asked.
“Yeah, I talked to that little JD. If anything bad happened to her, he’d be my prime suspect. But like I said, she’s just run off somewhere.”
“But he’s got an alibi, doesn’t he? He’s been locked up at Fulton for a couple of weeks.”
Frank smirked. “I guess you didn’t know he slipped out the night before Darleen Hicks went missing. They caught him two days later and took him back to Fulton,” said Frank.
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“What about the bus driver?” I asked, changing gears. “Did you talk to him?”
“Just to ask if he’d seen her that afternoon. He insisted she got on the bus. Remembers seeing her climb on before he drove off. But no one else said she was on the bus. Later on, he changed his mind and said he’s not sure if she ever boarded the bus at all.”
“That’s puzzling.”
Frank shook his head. “He’s an old drunk. Obviously can’t remember straight. In fact, when I questioned him, he said he parked the bus just behind the snow hills near the Metzger farm to take a half-hour nap after finishing his route. That’s baloney, of course. He was drinking is more likely.”
“Snow hills?” I asked. “What’s that?”
“The county plows the snow, collects it if it doesn’t melt, and dumps it in a clearing at the end of that road. That’s where the bus driver says he took his nap.”
Frank gave me the driver’s name and address: Gus Arnold, sixty-one, a former city sanitation worker. He lived by himself in a trailer next to Drusek’s Scrapyard, northeast of town off Route 29.
“You can find him at the school district depot around five,” said Frank. “That’s off Grove Street on Polack Hill. Try to catch him before five fifteen, or he’ll be halfway to the bottom of a fifth of rye.”
I told Frank of my plans to pay a visit to Fulton to speak to Joey Figlio.
“The hell you will!” he said. “Damn it, Ellie, you can’t go up there alone. It’s not safe for a young lady. I’ll send Stan or Halvey with you.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said, feeling touched and annoyed at the same time. “They have guards at Fulton, don’t they?”
“It’s too late to go over there today anyway,” grumbled Frank. “They’ll be locking down those animals in an hour or so.”
Polack Hill, so delicately named for the Polish folk who lived in the humble duplexes around Upper Church Street, dominated the city’s East End from above. On the corner of Church and Tyler, St. Stanislaus Church stood white and tall, bounded by the Polish-American Veterans Club on one side and the Lithuanian Club on the other. Nearby, Jepsen’s Lumber spread out over four entire city blocks, its tall green fence surrounding the yard like a palisade. You could hear the shrill buzz of the saws and the banging of hammers inside; smell and taste the smolder of fresh pine passing under the spinning teeth of the blade; and—if there was no rain—you could see the fine sawdust hanging in the air and feel it settle on your hair.
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