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

goal by itself. If it was real, that is. I couldn’t tell, of course, but I assumed others in the room could. Which meant it had to be genuine. And worth a king’s ransom.

“Hello,” she said, baring a row of straight white teeth behind her full, red lips. “What lovely hair you have.”

I had a doubt. Was she mocking me with false praise? While it was true some people thought my hair remarkable for its volume and curls, I usually found myself wishing it would behave, especially in the humid summer months. I smiled, nevertheless, and complimented her on her lustrous blonde tresses. She nodded as if she’d heard that a thousand times.

“Ellie is here as Freddie’s guest,” said Georgina.

A small gasp of recognition escaped Helen’s throat. “So you’re the Ellie he’s been telling me about. He certainly wasn’t exaggerating your beauty.”

Now I knew she was pulling my leg. Beauty was certainly an overstatement, as my trip to Los Angeles had confirmed the previous February. I was told more times than I cared to recall that I was pretty, but not “Hollywood pretty.”

“I must say hello to some old friends,” said Helen, signaling her departure. “Let’s chat later. I want to hear all about you.”

She shimmered off like a vision to join some attractive young people not far off. When she reached them, she made a quarter turn and glanced back at me. Her guard was down for a brief moment, and I saw the scrutiny in her eyes. She was assessing me as women sometimes do. A simple sizing up of the new girl. Or perhaps her intentions were more personal. I wondered if she considered me a rival to be chased off.

Whatever her feelings toward me might have been, I felt a twinge of disquiet that Freddie had discussed me with her in the first place. I weighed the possibilities. Should I be flattered? Or were Freddie and Helen simply pals in the habit of sharing laughs over the latest notches on his bedpost?

“Ellie, dear. You’re miles away.” Georgina took my arm and waded into another wave of well-heeled guests.

Every few minutes, I would lift my head and hazard a glance around the gaming room, searching in vain for a sighting of my escort amid the throng. Georgina was keeping me busy. Despite my strong memory, I struggled to absorb the sheer number of faces and names, which, I assumed, I was expected to remember.

“And here are some neighbors of yours,” she said. “This is Judge Harrison Shaw and his wife, Audrey. And this is my friend Miss Eleonora Stone.”

I would have swallowed my gum, had I been chewing any. Judge Shaw was the last person I wanted to see that evening. Even less so now that he’d been sprung on me without warning.

“We are acquainted with Miss Stone,” he said in his cold baritone.

“How nice to see you again, Judge Shaw.”

“Miss Stone—Ellie—and I chatted at the Gideon Putnam a few days ago,” volunteered Audrey Shaw. “She was very curious about Tempesta Farm and my first visit to New Holland all those years ago.”

The judge regarded her in what seemed to me a reproachful manner, as if he wished she’d informed him of our meeting before that moment in the gaming room. Perhaps he, too, would have preferred to steel himself before having to exchange social niceties with the likes of me.

“Then I shall leave you three old friends to talk,” said Georgina. “I see I’m needed by the event planner.”

And with that she flitted off to deal with some emergency or other, leaving me in the awkward company of the Shaws.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” said the judge.

“The paper wants a piece about the fundraiser.”

“And she’s turned the head of Freddie Whitcomb,” said Audrey Shaw to her husband. “Our Miss Stone is climbing the social ladder.”

I felt a sudden stiffening of my spine. “No, really. I quite know my place. I’m writing a profile on Mrs. Whitcomb, and her son generously lowered his standards to squire me around for a couple of hours. This is a charity event, after all.”

Audrey Shaw, I had come to know, was a damaged soul. Even after our—mostly congenial—visit a few days before, I labored under no illusions about her stability. She might smile one moment, then slap your face the next. And, of course, she associated me with her daughter’s murder. Why should I expect her to act like a decent person with me now?

Judge Shaw frowned. “No one is suggesting you’re not good enough, Miss Stone.”

After an awkward silence, which included a glare aimed at his wife, who kept smiling as if she hadn’t just insulted me, he asked me how I was keeping.

“Fine, thank you,” I said.

“I’ve been following your career with interest,” he continued. “You’re doing fine work at the paper. One of these days, Artie Short will promote you.”

I doubted that, but I kept my mouth shut. Another excruciatingly long pause interrupted our banter. Finally, I could bear it no longer, and, despite the social nature of the event, I brought up business, if only to break the silence.

“I’m sorry to discuss this at such a happy event,” I began. “But I was hoping I might ask you two or three questions about Tempesta Farm.”

He pursed his lips, then told me that it was bad manners to engage in work at a charity event.

“Nevertheless, it will only take a few moments, I promise.”

He huffed a sigh of annoyance and agreed. “Audrey, why don’t you go say hello to some friends while Miss Stone and I take care of business?” He pronounced the last word with ill-concealed disdain.

Pointing to the nearby staircase, he invited me to lead the way up to the second floor where we could speak in private. The red carpet muffled our steps as we trod down the long hallway—past the gold-flocked wallpaper, mahogany-and-glass cases, and dark paintings of noble horses—to a small gaming room. Judge Shaw tried the knob, which obeyed on command