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

about it and then some. I was due to have dinner at Tedesco’s with Officer Mike Palumbo in little less than an hour’s time.

So, if the river had been flowing at Lock 11, someone could have thrown Darleen’s body into the river there. In fact, it was the closest span to the snow hills where I assumed Darleen had met her end: about four miles as the crow flies. Dumping a body off the lock would surely take great care, especially in extreme weather conditions, but one could climb up to the maintenance walkway and reach the middle of the lock and running water. That is, if the water had been running on that day.

The time had gotten away from me. I would have to finish the timeline later, after I’d spoken to Jimmy Tedesco. Rushing to freshen up and change my clothes, I stepped into my finest underwear and a new pair of nylons. I selected a navy, wool suspender skirt and a pearl-colored blouse I hadn’t worn for a while, figuring the look was flattering and would keep me warm. Finally, I touched up my lips and eye makeup just before the doorbell rang. No more unannounced visitors letting themselves in downstairs; Mrs. Giannetti had replaced the entry door with a sturdy model and a dead bolt. She told me she’d had it installed more for her own sleep than my safety. Then, unable to resist, she added the dig I’d been expecting:

“The men climbing up your stairs are usually invited anyway, aren’t they, dear?”

I raked a comb through my hair and tamed it with a black hair band. Hopping into my shoes and coat, I grabbed my purse, with my stories folded carefully inside along with my camera, billfold, and various compacts and lipsticks. I made sure I had enough money for carfare in case Vic Mature turned out to be a louse. Then I headed down the stairs.

I opened the door to find Mike Palumbo standing as large as a house, a bunch of flowers in his hand. I smiled and took them from him, wondering where I was going to put them. In the end, I trudged back up the stairs and threw them into a vase of water.

Beneath his overcoat, Mike—as I now addressed Officer Palumbo—looked stylish and handsome in a checked blazer and open-collar shirt. He’d made sure to park facing east, passenger door lined up perfectly with the sidewalk for my convenience. He held the door for me.

Inside the car, which was spanking clean, I noticed the smell of his pomade and aftershave. A mite potent, I thought, but I’d been subjected to worse. His conversation was polite, and he talked about me, not himself. When he smiled, I noticed a row of perfect, bright, white teeth and big, twinkling, brown eyes.

It was eight. I hadn’t eaten since morning, so when we arrived at Tedesco’s my stomach was growling. I jiggled my purse to cover the noise, but I’m not sure I fooled anyone. As I waited for Mike to open my door, I caught sight of Lock 11 spanning the river in the dark, and a chill went up my spine. I thought of Darleen.

The light was low as usual inside Tedesco’s, which was slow—also as usual—on a Sunday night in winter. We had our pick of where to sit, and Mike suggested a quiet booth near the back. The growing emptiness in my stomach was giving me that low-blood-sugar feeling, and I began to sweat and shake with chills. The waitress—Amy, I believe her name was—took our order. Normally, I would have asked for something light, but I was starving. I ordered a hot-meatball sandwich with fries and gravy. I knew I would never finish them, but when your blood sugar’s low you can’t reason with yourself. Mike looked quizzical, but not so much to suggest that I’d lost him right out of the gate.

“Sorry,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I haven’t eaten since morning.” That sounded stupid. What was I doing, saving up to gorge myself on my date’s dime? “I had a busy day,” I elaborated. “No time to stop for anything.”

“That’s fine, Ellie,” he said and nodded from across the table.

“And your usual to drink?” asked the waitress.

I wasn’t aware she knew what I drank, but perhaps my sense of anonymity was exaggerated. I blushed and said yes. A double.

“That is your usual,” she said. “And for you, sir?” she asked Mike.

He ordered the veal Parmesan and a glass of Chianti. A few moments later, the waitress returned with a basket of bread and butter, and I fell on it like a lion on a wildebeest. That did the trick. Then our drinks arrived. After the first one I felt better. Soon, I could feel my heartbeat slowing, and my temperature stabilized. Control restored, I stopped shaking, patted the shine off my nose, and smiled at Mike. By the time I’d settled into my second drink, the crisis had passed, and I was my old self, though no longer hungry.

When a lady is invited to a first dinner date, she is acutely aware of the attention she will receive from her escort. He’s bound to observe, ask himself questions, and form judgments about her. Why is she drinking so much? Why isn’t she married? A steady boyfriend, at least? And look how she’s stuffing her face. Very unladylike. So whenever I’m out with a fellow, I’m careful to cut my food into small, delicate pieces that I lift to my mouth slowly and daintily. I chew in a leisurely manner, as if I could take or leave the dish before me, and I make certain to dab my lips with my napkin after each bite.

That evening, there was no need to pretend to eat like a bird; I was full from the bread and drinks. I toyed with my food, spreading it around the plate to give the appearance that I’d eaten more than I