A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📕

match on the grounds that we hadn’t hit it off. It was a perfect plan. He’d be free to marry his girl, and I’d spend four years at Trinity College before settling down with a good man.” She stopped herself to make a correction with a small chuckle. “I still think of it as Trinity College, even though they renamed it Duke my sophomore year.”

“What about Jonathan?” I asked.

“As they say, the best laid plans of mice and men . . . We stuck to our script. All was going according to plan until Jonathan’s parents worked him over. After a weekend of high pressure, he lost his resolve and said he’d marry me after all.”

“Oh, my. What did you do? Marry him?”

“Not by a long shot. I disappeared for a week, stayed with a cousin in Philadelphia, and lay low.”

“But how did you manage to avoid the marriage?”

Georgina Whitcomb rocked back in her seat and allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. “Well, Ellie, I had one trick left in my bag. I knew the name of Jonathan’s beloved. She was a girl from a good family. Not at the top of the social register, perhaps, but good Methodist stock. I arranged a meeting with her and me and Jonathan at a fish-and-chips house in Cape May. It was all very cloak and dagger. But as soon as they saw each other, the deal was done. They sealed their union over fried fish and potatoes and tartare sauce. I was off the hook.”

“I can’t exactly quote you on that for my story,” I said.

“Of course not, Ellie. Jonathan and Anna are still fast friends of mine. Let’s say instead that I fervently wish all children, regardless of race or creed, to enjoy the same opportunity to succeed in life. And the first step on that journey is a good education.”

Before heading back to New Holland, I paid a visit to Grossman’s Victoria on Broadway. It was nearly six, and I figured as likely as not that Lou Fleischman would be in, perhaps getting ready for dinner. As a matter of fact, he was sinking into an armchair on the front porch, nose buried in the newspaper.

I interrupted his reading. He recognized me as the Jewish girl reporter, but he couldn’t quite put a name to my face. We’d only met once, after all. Once I’d prompted him, he warmed and promised he wouldn’t forget it again. I asked if he had some time to chat, and he invited me to join him for his evening stroll around nearby Congress Park.

“I was hoping to speak to you some more about Johnny Dornan,” I said as we headed up Circular Street at a snail’s pace. Lou Fleischman was no Thoroughbred and complained of hip and foot pain as we walked.

“You’re not the only one wanting to know about Johnny. I’ve been dodging a reporter from the Saratogian all week. And the Albany papers have been calling, too.”

“I have an idea to get everyone off your back.”

“How will you accomplish that?”

“I’ll ask you a few questions, you’ll answer them, and then I’ll quote you in my newspaper.”

Lou stopped in his tracks, right there on the sidewalk of Circular Street, huffed a couple of breaths, and told me I had to be kidding.

“Not at all. Come, let’s keep walking, and I’ll explain.”

He seemed unconvinced, but probably figured I could do him no harm if he refused to answer. We turned into the park on a footpath and strolled along in silence until we reached the World War Memorial Pavilion. He finally asked what questions I wanted him to answer.

“First,” I said, “I’d like to know if you’ve been contacted by the sheriff’s office about the fire.”

“Why would they want to talk to me?”

“Those were your racing silks they found, weren’t they?”

He nodded. “Yes. And I suppose I can answer your question. The sheriff came to see me on Saturday afternoon, but since it was the Sabbath, the hotel manager convinced him to come back on Sunday.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “I saw you last Saturday. You weren’t keeping Shabbos. You were at the racetrack.”

Lou blushed. “Okay, I confess. I’m not the most observant Jew. I like bacon and shrimp and working seven days a week. It’s a sore point with my wife, Rose.”

“I’m not judging you. So what did the sheriff ask you?”

Lou chewed on that one for a while, undoubtedly debating whether he should answer. In the end he did.

“He came back Sunday and wanted to know if Johnny Dornan was missing. What could I do? I told him the truth.”

“And did he ask you about anyone else by name?”

“He might have.”

“Did he ask if you knew a woman named Vivian Coleman?”

“No.”

I sensed a caginess in his answer. “Okay, Lou. Did he ask you if you knew a woman named Vivian McLaglen?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Damn it. Was Lou holding out on me? There was still the same guarded tone in his answer, so I went over my questions again in my head, repeating them in hopes of finding the technicality he was hiding behind to avoid telling me the truth.

“So no one named Vivian,” I said. “On Sunday. Did Sheriff Pryor perhaps mention someone named Vivian to you another day?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, he did bring up that name. On Tuesday. Both names, now that you mention it.”

“You’re a tough witness, Lou.”

“And you’re a damn good inquisitor.”

“So the sheriff came back to ask you more questions on Tuesday.” It was a statement on my part, not a question. Frank Olney must have done exactly as he’d promised and shared the names with Pryor.

“Can I assume that Micheline wasn’t the woman in the barn?” he asked.

“I can’t be sure. What did the sheriff tell you about her?”

“Nothing. And I didn’t mention her name, either. Information is a valuable thing, Ellie. I learned a long time ago not to give it away for free.”

“I have another question for you,” I said. “I’d