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

I drew a breath of resolve and resisted the temptation to answer in kind. “I’d like to have a look at Joey’s things,” I said. “In his room.”

“What? What do you think you’ll find?”

“They’ve searched his possessions at Fulton, twice, and I’ve personally gone through Darleen’s room very carefully. No one has found anything to prove that Darleen returned Joey’s affections and was actually planning to elope with him. Without that, the police will try to show that Joey was pursuing her against her wishes. That will make the case against him stronger.”

“He never said anything about running away,” said Mrs. Figlio. “In fact, he hardly mentioned her to me. A couple of times many months ago.”

“Did he ask you for money recently? In the past two months?”

Her mien darkened. “As a matter of fact, he did. In November. Before he got sent up to Fulton. I cashed in two savings bonds and gave him forty-two dollars. Lost some value by cashing them in early.”

“May I have a look at his room?”

Orlando Figlio said he didn’t care either way. The boy was no good, and my rummaging through his things wouldn’t do anything to change that. Mrs. Figlio shrugged and pushed herself out of her seat.

“Okay,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette in the standing ashtray next to the chair. She didn’t quite smother it, and the butt continued to hiss smoke into the air. “If you think it might help my Joey.”

Mrs. Figlio led me down the dark hallway, walls papered with an old damask design, past reproductions of lithographic vistas of Naples and the Amalfi Coast and photographs of ancestors posing stiffly in their wedding finery. Of the three doors that squared off the end of the corridor—two bedrooms and one bathroom—Joey’s was on the left. Mrs. Figlio pushed open the door and motioned for me to go on in.

The bedroom was dim, close, and stale-smelling, like a cave, as if it had been moist and dark for too long. A small bed, its lumpy mattress covered by an old, blue, wool blanket and a single flat pillow, occupied the wall on the left, and a wooden dresser slouched nearby. On the next wall was the room’s only window, its roll-down shade shutting out almost all light from the outside. Across from the bed, a large banded trunk sat against the wall. That’s where I would start.

I found comic books, old clothes, newspapers saved for no reason that I could discern, and some scratched forty-fives and older seventy-eights. There was an empty pack of firecrackers, a collection of motor-oil decals, and matchbooks, empty, half used. Near the bottom, I dug out a box of old photographs, but those must have belonged to his parents or grandparents, as the newest picture of the bunch was at least thirty years old. Finally, stuffed into a corner, I uncovered a crumpled stack of papers that represented the sum of Joey Figlio’s literary output.

His poems, like the ones I’d found in Darleen’s room, appeared to have been spelled by a troll. The difference was that these were the filthiest verses I’d ever read. But aside from the spelling, punctuation, and dirty words, they weren’t badly written. Joey was a raw, undisciplined poet, to be sure, but he had a way with words. Foul, suggestive, forbidden words, especially so when you consider that a fifteen-year-old girl was the subject. And how could he write about Darleen’s most private places with such convincing detail if she was a virgin as Fred Peruso had assured me. I supposed the two might have engaged in some heavy petting, but this was clinical and suggested formidable experience and familiarity. A perverted collection of bad intentions and mad love for a dead girl. And yet, somehow, I was seized by the fantasy of some beau writing such shameless obscenities for me, about me.

Mrs. Figlio asked me what I was reading, and I blushed crimson. I had forgotten she was there, looking over my shoulder.

“Just some old school work,” I said, shoving the papers back inside the trunk.

Joey’s dresser was crammed with clothes: shirts, trousers, and socks, most probably too old and small for him to wear. Nothing at all to illuminate Darleen’s feelings for the crazy boy.

Then I moved the bed, searched behind and beneath it, finding nothing but a worn, empty valise. I tapped the floorboards for hollow spots, surely giving Mrs. Figlio cause to be suspicious of my sanity. Still nothing. With nothing to show that Darleen had any true feelings for Joey, I feared that, despite his having saved my life the night before, he might well have been delusional. He might well have murdered Darleen Hicks and convinced himself he hadn’t. Or perhaps he knew all too well that he had killed her and didn’t care. I’d run out of places to search.

I pushed the bed back into place. That’s when I noticed that the large, round finial atop the headboard’s post was loose. I nudged it then carefully twisted it. It spun effortlessly. I pulled it off and turned it over in my hand to examine it. About the size and shape of a softball, the finial sported a hole two inches deep, drilled to fit the post atop the headboard. The glue must have dried out. One look into the hole solved the mystery. There was a wad of tightly folded paper wedged inside.

Retrieving a pencil from my purse, I dug the paper out with great care. Unfolding it on the bed, I smoothed the wrinkles to find a long note addressed to Joey.

Dear Joey,

It won’t be long now. Soon we can leave and get married like we said. You will write me poems and make money from them. Maybe sell them to Brenda Lee or Roy Orbison. We’ll be rich.

So far I have $7.50 that I saved from chores and sneaking money from my dad’s jar. But I’ll get more, just like