No Stone Unturned

by James W. Ziskin

  I shook my head but didn’t argue; Frank knew where I stood on Julio. Instead, I turned to the subject of Jean Trent.

  “I’ve been thinking maybe I should ask her a few questions. Can I see her?”

  Frank shook his head. “She also hired Joe Murray, who told me Jean won’t talk to anyone, especially—quote, unquote—‘that little shit of a reporter Ellie Stone.’”

  “She specifically said she wouldn’t talk to me?” I asked.

  Frank nodded. “She thinks you got her involved in something she had nothing to do with. She’s off-limits. Should have talked to her last time I offered.”

  “All right,” I granted, not too worried about the long-term effects of the chill in my friendship with Jean Trent. “What do you know about her?”

  The sheriff shrugged, then downed the last swig of his coffee. “What’s to know? She’s been at the Mohawk for as long as I can remember.”

  “What about her husband? When did he die? What kind of money did he leave her?”

  “He died about seven years ago. Some kind of cancer. He was a small guy, quiet but kind of mean. He didn’t like people very much and kept to himself. I don’t know what money he left Jean, but she manages somehow. I’ll tell you one thing: what she makes from that motel couldn’t support a refugee.”

  I jotted down some notes as the sheriff spoke. “I’ve got an idea, Frank,” I said, putting away my book. “It’s Saturday; the offices upstairs are closed. Let’s take a quick look at Victor Trent’s will.”

  “Why are you so interested in Jean Trent?” he asked. “You’re not going to tell me she killed Jordan Shaw.”

  “No. But I’ve been wondering about her second car. Have your boys located it yet?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nothing to locate. Jean says the wagon died somewhere in Rensselaer County about six months ago. She junked it and hasn’t seen it since. End of story.”

  “That’s not true, Frank. I saw that green wagon parked behind the Mohawk just last week.”

  “Can’t be, Ellie. I checked with Motor Vehicles—registration expired several months back, and Jean never renewed it.”

  “I know it was her car,” I said, “because I checked with Motor Vehicles, too. The registration has expired all right, but someone’s been driving it here in Montgomery County very recently.”

  The sheriff scratched the back of his neck, considering the significance of the lie Jean Trent had spooned him.

  “Well, it doesn’t change anything,” he said finally. “Half the slobs I pull over for speeding are driving with expired registrations. She probably lied to save herself a ticket.”

  “So, do I get a look at Victor Trent’s will or not?”

  Frank and I climbed the stairs to the third floor, where the Montgomery County Administration shared a cramped space with the Department of Motor Vehicles. Had it not been a Saturday afternoon, I would have had to duck Benny Arnold, who had given me the dope on Jean Trent’s second car.

  These were the catacombs of New Holland’s legal patrimony, crumbling under the weight of time, moisture, and munching insects. We wound around a bulwark of high shelves and dusty files, traveling backward through time, searching for 1953, the year of Victor Trent’s death.

  “Why do you want to snoop through Victor Trent’s meager bequests?” asked Frank as we scanned the dates.

  “I’m interested in the will, what he left and to whom.”

  “I’d wager he didn’t leave a pot to piss in, unless you count the Mohawk,” and he roared with laughter, raising a cloud of dust from some folios on the shelf before him.

  “Here it is,” I said, hoisting a file box from its resting place. “Probate wills, 1953–1954.”

  Frank lugged the heavy box to the clerk’s counter up front. Flipping through the official stamps and, yes, even some red tape, we found Victor Trent’s will in short order. He had left his wife the Mohawk Motel and all his personal possessions, including $12,130 in a savings account, a coin collection appraised at $6,200 when the will was in probate, a garage full of furniture-refinishing equipment, and a life-insurance policy worth $15,000. But the document didn’t end there. Victor Trent owned seven acres of land on Winandauga Lake, about twelve miles north of New Holland, as well as a house his sister occupied in Johnston’s Mill, just west of the city limits, along the river. He left the house to his sister, Reba, with an executory devise that the property pass to Jean upon Reba’s death. The will stipulated further that the land on Winandauga Lake would remain in trust, to be shared equally by Reba and Jean, until the death of one or the other. At such time, the survivor could dispose of the property as she saw fit. Frank informed me that Reba had died two years earlier.

  Victor Trent’s estate was an impressive show of wealth for a small-town innkeeper. But it wasn’t all that unusual in New Holland; the mills had been good to a great number of sensible, hard-working Joes who had saved their money, bought land whenever they could afford it, and ended up retiring to their Social Security checks and rental incomes. Most failed to take any personal advantage of their relative wealth, sticking to the habits of a lifetime of honest toil and moderation, and left it all to their children instead. What I found puzzling, however, was Jean Trent’s situation. Why would she continue to live in the gloom and squalor of the Mohawk Motel when she had inherited enough money to see her comfortably through her last days?

  I backed my car away from the Montgomery County Jail, swinging to face Route 22, and saw the deep-maroon, metallic paint half-hidden by some trees. I swore to myself, straining to make sure it was Pukey Boyle’s Hudson Hornet. It was. I sat at the wheel of my car for several moments, considering my options. I could barrel out of the parking lot and take my chances, or I could leave my car at the jail and sneak away through the woods on foot. The first choice seemed dangerous, the second was downright cowardly, which was okay; I am a girl, after all. Then I noticed a third option: if I was willing to risk a few scratches on my company car, I could squeeze through a narrow break in the shrubs leading to the rear of the building and a small dirt road. Convincing myself that this was a brilliant feint, I eased my car through the brush and gained the back road unnoticed. I turned south on 22 and drove right past Pukey, whose eyes, I could see, were glued on the county jail.

  Charlie Reese insisted that I cover the New Holland high school basketball game Saturday night because his regular sports photographer had the day off for his daughter’s Confirmation.

  “Short won’t let you work just one story,” he said. “He’s making noises again about handing the murder case to Walsh. Now I’m ready to make allowances for you, but you’ve got to help me out on nights like tonight. It’ll keep Artie off our backs.”

  I agreed, figuring a basketball game was better than a VFW Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting or some other such event I might have landed. So, at eight o’clock, I was courtside to watch the Falcons of Albany High crush the New Holland Bucks, 85 to 63.

  On my way back to the paper, I stopped at Korky’s Liquors and bought a fifth of Scotch for later on. Hot time in the old town tonight. I left the bottle on the front seat and let myself into the office to develop my film.

  For Monday’s edition, Ralphie Fisher, the Republic’s sports editor, chose a tight shot of a grimly determined New Holland player defending against a much taller opponent from Albany.

  “By the way,” said Ralphie, “Bobby left a lens adapter for you. It’s in the lab.”

  I’d been meaning to try a longer lens I’d bought years earlier for a different camera, and needed the adapter to attach it.

  “Thanks, I’ll grab it before I leave.”

  After I’d captioned the film, I sat in front of the typewriter and tapped out two articles related to the Shaw murder. One examined the links between the two murders and Tufts’s Engineering Department, while the other concentrated on the medical and physical evidence in the two cases: blood, fingerprints, and autopsies.

  By the time I dropped the stories on Char
lie Reese’s desk, it was after midnight. I walked out into the brisk night air, yawned, and stretched. I hadn’t forgotten about Pukey Boyle, whose constant presence in my rearview mirror had not endeared him to me, and I wondered if he might be waiting for me. A quick inspection of Main Street allayed my fears.

  I drove up Market Hill, heading home, then realized I’d forgotten to take the lens adapter from the lab. I turned around at Summit Avenue, the crest of Market Hill, and headed back down the incline. As I neared Division Street at the bottom, I pumped the brake pedal lightly and felt the car slow. On the second pump, the brakes responded momentarily and then released, and the pedal hit the floor. The car began to accelerate down the hill, pulled by gravity and its own weight. The brakes were gone. I shifted to low, slowing the rate of acceleration, but not the acceleration itself. The grade of the hill seemed to grow steeper as the car’s transmission screamed against the speed. The last reading I remember on the speedometer was thirty-four miles per hour. I saw pedestrians ahead and instinctively steered the car directly into a large elm tree just beyond the sidewalk. It was the only impediment in sight. The crash propelled the car several feet straight up into the air, and only a fortuitous quirk of physics prevented it from somersaulting down the street into even more mayhem. Instead, the car bounced to rest a few feet from where it had hit the tree. Glass rained down about me after impact, and some dislodged parts of my Plymouth, including three of the four hubcaps, rolled away from the scene of the accident, clattering in the quiet night. The fifth of Scotch I’d left in the car smashed to pieces against the dashboard, splattering whiskey everywhere. I slumped over in the driver’s seat, stars in my eyes and a lump growing on my forehead. I heard dogs barking and voices calling out to each other.

  Ten minutes later, two firemen pulled me from the wreck. I ignored their advice to lie down and, instead, leaned on the unscathed left rear fender of my demolished car.

  After they’d stopped my bloody nose with gauze and I was able to identify the correct number of fingers held up for my inspection, the patrolman investigating the crash asked me to walk a straight line.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumbled. “I can hardly stand up.”

  “It’s either that or a blood test,” he said.

  I assured him that I hadn’t been drinking, that the whiskey had been unopened before the crash. But he wasn’t buying it, and the ambulance took me to the hospital for observation and a blood test.

  Sam Belson, the young doctor on ER duty at St. Joseph’s, siphoned some blood out of my arm at the insistence of Patrolman William Trevor, badge 479, who was undoubtedly hoping for the first collar of his career.

  “Look officer,” said Sam. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but any fool can see that this woman hasn’t had a drink all day.”

  “She sure smells like booze,” said the cop.

  “Her clothes, yes, but there’s nothing on her breath.”

  “We’ll let the blood test determine that,” answered Trevor, though I could see he was beginning to doubt his conviction.

  “Do you know this is a respected writer from the paper?” Belson warned the cop, who ignored us both.

  I asked an orderly to call Charlie Reese to tell him what had happened. He arrived fifteen minutes later and, with threats of a nasty lawsuit, convinced the police officer to accept the good doctor’s professional opinion.

  Sam Belson and Officer Trevor left Charlie and me alone in the ER waiting room. Charlie wanted to know exactly what had happened. After I explained that my brakes had failed, he chewed me out for neglecting my car maintenance.

  “I had the brakes checked two months ago when the car passed inspection at Ornuti’s Garage,” I argued. “And you know Dom Ornuti; he wouldn’t give his own mother a sticker if her tire pressure was low.”

  The ER doors swung open, and Big Frank Olney strode in.

  “Who invited you?” I asked, holding an ice pack to my forehead.

  “I just wanted to shake hands with the human cannonball,” he said, swallowing a growing smile. “Actually, I heard what happened on the scanner about a half hour ago. I went over to Market Street to check out the damage you did. Something about that tree you didn’t like?”

  “Where’s my car now?” I asked.

  “New Holland police towed it to Phil’s. But you’re not driving that heap again; it’s totaled.”

  “I don’t want to drive it, Frank,” I said, pulling the ice away from my cold head. “I want Dom Ornuti to have a look at the brakes.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to know how they were cut.”

  I went home and climbed into bed, nursing a terrific headache. Charlie Reese ordered me to take a few days off to recuperate. The sick leave was opportune, freeing me of all editorial responsibilities except those I wanted to take on. No more NHHS basketball games or VFW meetings to interfere with the Shaw murder.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1960

  Despite a banging head and some dizziness, I had no time for bed on Sunday morning. At eight, I called Frank Olney, who had arranged for Dom Ornuti to meet us at Phil’s Garage at ten. After a cup of coffee, four aspirins, and a warm bath, I dressed and headed to Fiorello’s to borrow Fadge’s car, a ’57 Nash Ambassador.

  Never stoic where pain was concerned, Fadge winced at the bandage over my nose and my blackening eyes. Not a good look for a girl. I said it was nothing and sat down in a booth to do the Sunday crossword puzzle over another cup of coffee. As I passed the time waiting for my appointment at Phil’s Garage, Tommy Quint walked in.

  “Hey, Tom,” smiled Fadge. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “I came home for the funeral Monday and stayed. I’m going back to Rochester this afternoon.”

  I lifted myself out of the booth and joined them at the counter. “Hi, Tom. Remember me?”

  The young man recoiled when he saw me, and I couldn’t be sure if it was my face or my presence that troubled him. He nodded hello and took a stool at the counter.

  “What time are you going back?” asked Fadge.

  “Later. I’m not in any hurry.”

  “Taking the bus?” I asked.

  Tommy turned on his stool to face me, still looking horrified at the sight. “I’ve got a car.”

  I remembered that he had taken the bus the weekend before, two days after Jordan’s murder.

  “Don’t you usually take the bus?” I asked.

  “What business is it of yours?” he said, his discomfort turning hostile. “I don’t take the bus to Rochester because it stops a million times.”

  “What about last weekend? You took the bus then, didn’t you?”

  He glared at me, sweating. “Yeah, my car was in the garage. I picked it up at Ornuti’s Thursday. Go ask Vinnie Donati if you don’t believe me.”

  “I’m meeting Dom Ornuti about a half hour from now,” I said. “I can check your story very easily.”

  “Leave him alone, Ellie,” said Fadge in a low voice.

  “I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” said Tommy, suddenly at the point of tears. “I told you I loved Jordan. Everyone in town knew I did.”

  He wiped his left sleeve across his wet nose and caught his lip on his watchband. It must have hurt like the devil, because he hopped around swearing for about thirty seconds. I thought it was pretty funny, but Fadge frowned and shook his head disapprovingly at me. Then he handed Tommy a napkin and put his arm around him.

  When I left Fiorello’s a few minutes later, I bent over and examined the ground under Tommy Quint’s dented, white Plymouth. Piece of junk, but clean. I wondered, though, if it had been leaking oil the Friday before.

  I had met Dom Ornuti only once: the time two months before when he inspected my Belvedere. He wore a thin mustache over his long mouth and bluish lips. His skin color betrayed a liver problem (due to heavy drinking, according to rumor), and he smoked like a Turk: Lucky Strikes. A lean, sullen type, Dom was no conversationalist.
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br />   Frank had invited him to Phil’s, a competing garage, to assess the damage and give an opinion on the brakes he had so recently pronounced fit for the road.

  This day at Phil’s Garage, he grunted hello to me. He dropped to the pavement, scooted beneath the twisted chassis, and loosed a satisfied hoot a few seconds later. Shimmying back out from under the car, he popped to his feet and beamed smiles at the sheriff and me.

  “You thought I missed something, didn’t you?” he accused me, now gloating and cocky. “Well, think again. Someone did a job on your brakes.”

  “Shit,” said Frank in frustration. He was tired, I could see that. But then he took a deep breath and rejoined the game. “All right,” he continued. “Let’s get a winch under that thing and lift it up so I can see.”

  At first glimpse, the damage was hardly evident to Frank and me. But Dom explained, pointing a flashlight toward one of the brakes.

  “You see the line leading to the drum?” he asked, and, after taking turns, Frank and I answered yes. “That’s how your man cut your brakes,” he continued. “This guy knew what he was doing. And there she is,” he announced, pointing to a pinhole with a grease-stained finger.

  Now the damage was plain to see, even for a nonmechanic. The blackened hydraulic tube had been punctured cleanly.

  “What do you make of that?” asked Dom, as if to bait me.

  “I’d say someone wanted to let the fluid drip out slowly. So the brakes wouldn’t fail before I’d picked up a good head of steam.”

  “That’s right,” said Dom. “It was a cold night, and brake fluid thickens up in the cold. But after the car had a chance to warm up, the fluid just ran out, and so did your brakes.”

  “Couldn’t it be rust?” asked Frank.

  “Not a chance. See the way the hole is formed? Sharp, clean. Probably used a little nail. Whoever did this did a good job; the leaking brakes were strong enough to stop the car in ordinary conditions, but coming down Market Street . . .” he chuckled. “You just pumped the last of the fluid onto the pavement! You’re lucky you didn’t flip over and kill yourself.”