Stone Cold Dead

by James W. Ziskin

  “What do you think, Ellie?” Frank asked me. “Were there stories like this when you were in school? Or is Mr. Russell here a particularly attractive target.”

  Ted Russell looked at me, probably wondering what I was doing there, and if that was good or bad for him.

  “My teachers were mostly old maids,” I said with a smile.

  “But she was a student of yours, along with this Joey Figlio, wasn’t she?” asked Frank, turning back to our host. “Did you notice anything about their relationship? Were they going steady?”

  “I suppose they might have been,” said Russell. “I don’t normally pay attention to ninth graders’ love lives.”

  “Not normally,” mocked Frank.

  “No, sir.”

  “When did you last see Darleen Hicks?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Russell. “It must have been the week she disappeared.”

  “Wasn’t she in your music class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then surely you saw her the day before she disappeared: Tuesday. Unless you saw her the next day.”

  He shook his head adamantly. “There was the field trip on that Wednesday, wasn’t there? I couldn’t have seen her Wednesday because she wasn’t at school.”

  “You seem to be up to date on her whereabouts,” added Frank.

  “I read about it in the papers,” said Russell.

  “You might have seen her in the parking lot Wednesday,” I offered, catching him off guard. “Darleen returned to the school to catch the bus home after the field trip.”

  Ted Russell looked uncomfortable, but why not? He was being grilled by the sheriff and the press at the same time without his lawyer present. He managed an apologetic grin and repeated that he hadn’t seen Darleen at all on that Wednesday.

  “Where were you that afternoon?” asked Frank. “What time did you leave school and where did you go?”

  Russell tried to recall but could not produce a convincing alibi. He said he’d left school at his normal time. Probably about three forty-five or four. He said he’d returned home but doubted anyone saw him or could corroborate his statement.

  The sheriff’s men arrived at the door, having scoured the area, which they pronounced clear of Figlios. Frank asked Ted Russell if he felt confident of his safety. Russell shrugged and said he supposed so.

  “I’ll leave a man here for the night,” said Frank, pulling his coat on. “I hope you appreciate it, ’cause it’s cold out there. Tomorrow you’ll be on your own if this kid doesn’t show.”

  Ted Russell nodded his head, helped me into my coat, and saw us to the door.

  “I appreciate your help, Sheriff,” he said then caught my hand. I looked up at him startled, and he smiled. “Come back later,” he whispered so Frank wouldn’t hear. “Good night, Sheriff. And thanks again.”

  Outside, I asked Frank if he’d thought about searching Darleen’s locker.

  “Sure. I’ll look into it,” he said, climbing into his car. I doubted he thought it was worthwhile.

  I backed down the hill, knocking down a couple of trash cans as I went. No harm done, and it was too cold to stop to right them again. I turned west onto Route 5 and accelerated, intending to pour myself into a warm glass of Scotch as soon as I got home. The car responded, but there was a voice behind me.

  “Stop the car now.” Joey Figlio.

  Twice in one day! I felt ice-cold metal against my neck and took my foot off the gas.

  “You’re not going to take my car again,” I warned as I continued down the middle of the road.

  “Pull over,” he said. “We’re not going through this again, are we?”

  “Come on, Joey, be reasonable,” I pleaded. “You can’t leave me out here. I’ll freeze.”

  Then he nicked my neck with his blade, and I screamed.

  “Pull over or we both die in the wreck,” he said. “Darleen’s gone. I don’t have much to live for except to avenge her.”

  I pulled to the shoulder, wishing I had Stan Pulaski’s gun. I’d never fired one before, but I was sure I could put a bullet between Joey’s eyes at close range. I’m not normally a violent person, but for the first time in my life, I felt I could kill a man.

  The car came to a rolling stop, crunching heavily over the snowpack. I sat at the wheel, seething, holding my gloved hand to my bleeding neck. It was just a scratch, really. The night was absolutely still, frozen, and deserted on Route 5. No cars coming or going. We were four miles from New Holland, and I was not keen on walking them. The wipers continued to rattle back and forth over the ice, and I waited.

  “Move it,” he said, shoving me to the passenger side, as he climbed over the seat.

  I slid over, hoping for some kind of opening to take the knife out of his hands, but in reality I doubted I could overcome him anyway.

  “Now get out and start walking,” he said.

  “Joey, I’m not getting out of this car,” I said. “Not again. It’s five degrees out there.”

  He shoved me again with his right hand, which was clutching the knife. I flailed, slapped at his arm, and tried to hide my face. Then I remembered the door. The door that wouldn’t close. I leaned back and, risking knife wounds to my ankles, kicked him as hard as I could with both feet. I pushed and kicked and thrust, knowing that everything depended on it. He yelled in protest, recoiled, moved back against the driver’s door, which opened obediently, and Joey Figlio suddenly found himself on the frozen pavement. There was no time to lose. I scooted across the seat, threw the car into drive, and gunned the engine before I’d even squared myself behind the wheel. The tires spun, and the car jumped forward. Joey was on his feet again, but I was already out of reach. Soon I was roaring down the highway, driver’s door flapping open and shut in the icy wind, as I watched Joey Figlio recede into the black night of the rearview mirror. I hooted and hollered in victory. I’m not proud of it but, if I’m honest, I have to confess that I actually wished him frostbite and worse for the trouble he’d caused me that day.

  About a half mile down the road, I slowed and pulled over at a lonely phone booth. I jumped out and quickly dialed the sheriff’s office to inform them of Joey’s reappearance and whereabouts. Deputy Wycek patched me through to Frank over the radio.

  “Joey Figlio tried to steal my car again,” I panted into the receiver once I had the sheriff on the line. “He’s about a quarter of a mile behind me on Route Five, heading toward the city.”

  “Got it, Ellie. Sending Stan right now,” said Frank. “Get in your car and get out of there.”

  I hung up and climbed back into my warm Dodge. Shifting into drive again, I threw a glance in the rearview mirror, and what did I see but Joey Figlio jogging out of the darkness into view. He was yelling for me to wait. With sadistic relish, I released the brake and pulled away from the shoulder. Driving no faster than ten miles an hour, I maintained a safe distance from my pursuer, who never got any closer than ten yards or so. I accelerated when needed, braked when I felt a carrot was in order, then gunned the engine again to leave him in my cold dust. I marveled at his persistence. I reveled in it. He just wouldn’t give up. He ran desperately, lunging to reach the car, but falling short each time as I teased him with a well-timed acceleration. Pulling him along like a yo-yo, I continued this strategy for about ten minutes, laughing at his stamina and stupidity, until I saw the cherry top appear on the horizon behind us. In two minutes, Deputy Stan Pulaski had corralled a frozen and exhausted Joey Figlio. I threw the car into reverse and backed up fifty yards to enjoy my victory.

  “Add attempted murder to the charges,” I told Stan. “That little JD tried to cut my throat.”

  Joey Figlio stared vacantly at me from the fender of Stan’s cruiser, huffing in the frozen air. His eyes told me nothing.

  By the time I’d made a statement at the sheriff’s office, it was nearly eleven. Joey Figlio would spend a night in the county jail before a morning appearance with the family-court judge. Joey was, of course, a
minor. I was scheduled to attend to give testimony against the rotten little thug.

  I turned south out of the County Administrative Building’s lot and pointed my Lancer down Route 22, confident there was no juvenile delinquent waiting in the backseat. I intended to have that Scotch, and perhaps two more, and curl up on the sofa with the newspapers Norma Geary had collected for me. The Wilkens Corners Liquor Store appeared on the horizon to my right, a diffused white glow in the frigid night. I pulled into the gravel lot and climbed out. The door was still frozen open, but I wasn’t worried about Joey Figlio anymore.

  A fifth of Scotch safely tucked into my overcoat’s hip pocket, I climbed back into my car and reversed onto Route 40. Change of plans. Instead of heading south, I turned across Wilkens Corner Road, then down Upper Church Street to the East End, where I picked up Route 5. Ten minutes later, I was knocking on Ted Russell’s door.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ted Russell was hardly the answer to my prayers, but I wasn’t asking for much. I just wanted to see where the evening could go with a handsome man and plenty of booze. There was always the chance it could lead to something unexpected or provide a temporary elixir for the tedium of the bitter-cold winter.

  My host was happy to see me, if eyes lighting up like the flash of an H-bomb meant what it used to. He took my coat, poured me a drink, and shoved a log into the Franklin stove in the parlor. He put some Nat King Cole on the hi-fi: “Pretend.” Before the second track came on, his arms were around me, and moments later my drink was orphaned on the side table, surely leaving a ring as the ice melted and the glass sweated. Ten minutes after that on the rough rug, I lifted myself onto my elbows, pushed my hair out of my face, and reached for my clothing. Ted huffed and puffed, red-faced, and covered himself with the afghan from the sofa.

  “Wow,” he said, wiping his brow. “That was . . . wonderful. Was it good for you, too?”

  I smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Let me get you a fresh drink,” he said, jumping to his feet, but I stopped him.

  “I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I said. “I should be going.”

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 5, 1961

  By the time I’d parked my Lancer on County Highway 58, the heater was cooking with gas, but the car hadn’t quite reached toasty. It was still dark, the air frigid, but I had a hot cup of coffee inside me. No breakfast. The mailbox had no name on it, but I knew it was Carol Liswenski’s house. I’d watched her climb down from the bus the day before. Now, with an arctic breeze blowing across the road, I saw her emerge from the long drive leading to her house. She was wrapped in snow pants, rubber boots, and a blue coat with a gray faux-fur collar. She clutched a plaid lunch pail in one hand and three or four books strapped together in the other. I switched on my headlamps, startling her, and I inched the car closer.

  “Don’t be frightened, Carol,” I said through the window. “It’s me, Ellie Stone from the newspaper.”

  She shivered in the cold, squinting into the glare of my headlamps, and waited for me to say something.

  “Climb in until the bus gets here,” I said. “It’s warm. Come on.”

  Carol didn’t hesitate. She jumped in and soaked up the heat with relish.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

  “So you’re waiting outside my house for me?”

  “I have to see Mrs. Metzger later. I’m a little early.”

  She shrugged and switched on the radio. She seemed happy with Anita Bryant singing “My Little Corner of the World.” I wasn’t.

  “Since I have you here, I wanted to ask you something,” I said. “You told me that Darleen got off the bus in the parking lot at the junior high the day she disappeared.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What about it?”

  “You also said she got off the bus to talk to somebody. Can you tell me who that was?”

  Carol ran her tongue over her braces as she thought it over. Then she shook her head and said she didn’t see who Darleen had spoken to. I still felt she was hiding something and asked her again.

  “Was it a student? One of Darleen’s boyfriends? A teacher, perhaps?”

  Carol almost said something, but just then the headlights of the school bus appeared over the crest of the hill in the distance. It was about a half mile away, and I knew I had only a few moments left to question her.

  “What about Darleen’s father, Mr. Metzger?” I asked. “You said he was scary. What did you mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Here comes the bus. I should go now.”

  “You’ve still got a minute,” I said. “No sense waiting in the cold. What happened at the sleepover?”

  She thought about it for several seconds then said she’d promised not to tell.

  “Susan doesn’t want you to tell, is that it?”

  Carol nodded. My face remained calm even as my insides roiled. How could I get her to talk before the bus arrived?

  “I think Mr. Metzger is kind of scary, too,” I said. “He stared at me with those eyes. I didn’t like it one bit.”

  “He came into our room,” said Carol suddenly. “We were talking and giggling when we were supposed to be sleeping, and Mr. Metzger came into the room without knocking.”

  “And? What happened?”

  “He told us to quiet down and go to sleep.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

  “Then he came over to the big bed where we were and kissed Darleen good night.”

  I turned up my nose at the thought of that man kissing his stepdaughter good night, but I still didn’t see how that qualified as scary.

  “On the lips,” added Carol.

  Worse. I know some people kiss their children on the lips—midwesterners, I’d heard—and there’s nothing untoward about it. But I could never understand it. My parents had been free enough with good-night kisses, but they always planted them on my cheek or forehead.

  The bus was just a hundred yards away when Carol turned to me, almost in desperation, and made me swear not to breathe a word to anyone.

  “I promise,” I said. She hadn’t really told me anything I would want or need to share. “I won’t tell about the good-night kiss.”

  But I soon found out that her plea for my silence wasn’t for what she’d already told me, but for what she was about to say.

  “Darleen always has a bath before bed. She said her father insisted on it. So after Mr. Metzger kissed her, he kind of sniffed her head a bit, and told her to go have her bath. She didn’t want to, since us girls were all there, but he made her go. When I went to find Darleen twenty minutes later, Mr. Metzger was standing outside the bathroom, looking through the crack in the door at Darleen. He caught me and stared at me, real mean-like. I was so scared. I ran back to bed.”

  The bus arrived at the mouth of her drive, and Carol opened the passenger door. The dome light came on and she glanced at me in terror for one brief moment. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes were wet.

  “Please don’t tell anyone I told,” she said and jumped from the car to run for the bus.

  “Miss Stone,” said Irene Metzger, clutching her sweater to her throat as she stood in the doorway. “I wasn’t expecting you. Please come in.”

  The Metzger house was a drab collection of worn-out furniture, faded wallpaper, dim lights, and stale odors of fabric and farmers. It was chilly inside; the fireplace yawned empty and cold in the center of the sitting room, and the potbellied stove in the corner sat in disuse, as if forgotten or broken.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” said Irene Metzger. “It’s the warmest room in the house.”

  She offered me a cup of coffee from a chipped enamel-coated pot on the counter next to the giant utility sink, used for laundry and dishwashing. We sat at the wooden table, and Irene Metzger lit a cigarette.

  “Have you come with news about Darleen?” she asked.

  “Actually, I wanted to
ask more than tell,” I said.

  She looked disappointed.

  “Well, I’ve spoken to the sheriff, the assistant principal, the bus driver, Joey Figlio, your neighbors, and Darleen’s friends.”

  “And?”

  “So far, not much to go on. No one will admit to having seen her after three o’clock that Wednesday.”

  “What about that teacher of hers? The music teacher who was so sweet on her?”

  “Mr. Russell?” I asked, and she nodded, taking a deep drag on her cigarette.

  “He claims there was nothing improper about his relationship with Darleen. The assistant principal backs him up on that.”

  “Then why did he telephone her at night?”

  “Ted Russell phoned Darleen?” I choked. “Are you sure of that?”

  Irene Metzger tapped her ash into a tin tray before her. “I don’t know. That’s who I suspected it was. He called lots of times, or someone did. Used to call her in the evenings. It drove Mrs. Norquist to distraction.”

  “Just to be clear,” I began, “you can’t say for certain that Ted Russell telephoned Darleen, but you suspect it. Why?”

  “Well, her friend told me.”

  “Which friend was that? Carol Liswenski?”

  Irene nodded. “I could always count on Carol to tell me the truth when Darleen was unwilling. Carol told me about the rumors going around school about him and Darleen. When I asked Darleen, she denied it.”

  “But you believed Carol, not Darleen?”

  “Well, yeah,” she said, a tad defensive. “You know how it is with girls. They lie when it suits them.”

  I thought about Carol and her reluctance to talk. Sure, I’d managed to get her to tell me about Mr. Metzger, but I sensed she was holding back on what happened in the parking lot the day Darleen disappeared. If she’d opened up to Darleen’s mother, why not to me? I resolved to corner her again and get an answer out of her.

  “Is your husband at home?” I asked.

  “No, he’s out in the fields. He’s an early riser.”