Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

But as things turned out, it wasn’t Mrs. Giannetti at the top of the stairs after all, but a strange woman in a clear plastic rain hat and a dark coat. In the dim light of the landing, I could smell the wet wool of her overcoat, the vague odor of time and wear. Her eyes were pink, like a white rabbit’s, as if she had a cold, hadn’t slept, or had been crying. Maybe all three. She looked to be somewhere in her late thirties, a little worse for wear—what my friend Fadge so delicately describes as “ridden hard and put away wet.” But in her severe face, you could almost discern the shade of a once-fresh beauty whose light had faded with the passing years. Life had been hard on her, that much was clear.

“I think you have the wrong place,” I said, holding the door fast between us. “There’s no party here.”

She sniffled, staring at me. “I’m not looking for a party,” she said, her upstate twang an ideal candidate for a phonological study. “I’m here because you didn’t answer my calls.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I left messages for you down to the paper, but you didn’t call me back. My name’s Irene Metzger.”

I blinked at her. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell. Are you sure it’s me you’re looking for?”

“You’re Eleonora Stone, that girl reporter from the Republic, aren’t you?” I nodded. “I called you about my daughter.” She paused and drew a short breath. “Darleen Hicks.”

Now that name I knew. Darleen Hicks was a ninth grader from the wrong side of the tracks. She’d disappeared nearly two weeks earlier, shortly before Christmas, having missed her bus home from school. No one knew anything more.

The investigation never really got off the ground, and the hunt cooled off quickly with the Christmas holidays. Both New Holland chief of police, Patrick Finn, and Frank Olney, sheriff of Montgomery County, liked their investigations short and sweet, and a down-and-out fifteen-year-old girl from the farming hills beyond the South Side didn’t merit much of their attention. They probably figured she’d run off with some hood who’d have her pregnant within a week.

“Please,” I said, hoping Eddie Robeleski had the good sense to stay out of sight, and I opened the door. “Won’t you come in?”

I invited her to sit at my kitchen table and offered her a cup of coffee.

“I’d rather something stronger,” she said.

I fetched some Scotch from the cabinet in the parlor and pushed a tumbler across the table. I offered ice but she said she’d manage as is. Suited me fine; I wouldn’t have to risk freezing my hand to the metal lever prying the ice out of the tray.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this, Miss Stone,” she began once she’d taken a good swig of whiskey and lit an Old Gold. She paused to pick a bit of tobacco from the end of her tongue. “But the cops won’t do a thing to help me find my Darleen.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I seen your articles in the paper about that Shaw girl. Jordan Shaw. So I figured you could do the same for Darleen. Investigate and write stories to help find her.” She hesitated a moment, brushing the tablecloth absently with her right hand. “I can’t pay you.”

I was flattered but still no more confident that I could do anything to help her. Who knew if there was anything to be done anyway? My guest waited for me to say something.

“You don’t have to pay me,” I said, embarrassed for her. “Could it be she went somewhere with someone?” I asked, trying to steer her away from talk of money.

“Don’t tell me she’s run off. I’ve had a bellyful of cops saying she’s run off with some older fellow and that she’ll come home when she’s good and ready.”

“But can you be sure? I mean, maybe . . .”

“Impossible,” she interrupted. “Darleen would never do that. She had no reason to go. A mother knows.” Her expression was assured, her tone commanding, brooking no dissent.

For all I knew, Darleen Hicks had skipped town with some older guy. It wouldn’t have been the first time a foolish young girl had done so. And I didn’t know Irene Metzger from Adam. How could I be sure she knew better than experienced cops like Frank Olney and Patrick Finn?

“Okay,” I said, throwing a glance over my shoulder. No Eddie. “Let’s start at the beginning. When did Darleen disappear?”

“Wednesday, ten days ago,” she said swallowing a mouthful of smoke. “December twenty-first. She left for school like always, took her lunch pail, and caught the bus at the end of our road about six fifteen. Her class was going on a field trip to the Beech-Nut factory up to Canajoharie that day. I had to sign a permission slip.”

“Was she excited about the trip?” I asked.

“Would you be?” Her voice, pickled and scabrous, rasped like tires over loose gravel.

Probably not.

“Of course, she does like chewing gum,” she granted. “Especially that Black Jack gum. She’s always chewing that disgusting stuff.” She took a drink as if to wash down the taste of the foul chewing gum then drew another deep drag on her cigarette. “But Beech-Nut don’t make that brand.”

“When did you realize Darleen had gone missing?”

“About five thirty that evening. She doesn’t always catch her bus, but she always manages to make it home for supper. We eat at five.”

“You live out in the Town of Florida, don’t you?” I asked, vaguely recalling a story I’d read in the paper. “That’s pretty far from the junior high school. How does Darleen get home when she misses the bus?”

“Well, I don’t like it at all, but sometimes she takes rides from strangers.”

My eyes popped open.

“Or taxis,” she continued. “At least part way, if she’s got some pocket money, which ain’t often. She’s a clever girl, though. Always finds a way to get by, even without money.”

“That