Stone Cold Dead

by James W. Ziskin

  “Precisely my point, Miss Stone,” he said with an unconvincing nod. “The shirking is a problem all week long. Correct it immediately, people. I will be monitoring your absences.”

  “I was home,” I said, returning to Charlie Reese’s question. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  He gave me a knowing look, but didn’t dare suggest I had been drinking.

  “What’s the big crisis anyway?” I asked.

  “George Walsh has been nosing around your story,” said Charlie. “He’s got a big scoop, and Artie Short has pulled you off, in part because we couldn’t locate you yesterday for your input on what George found.”

  “Off the story? He can’t do that.”

  “He already has,” said Charlie, waving a hand at me in frustration and turning to face the window.

  “What does George have that I don’t?”

  “Read it and weep,” said Charlie, tossing some pages onto my desk. “This will be in this afternoon’s edition.”

  I snatched the story off the table and read. It only took seconds to realize what kind of scoop George had landed. Mine. His article told the tale of Darleen Hicks’s bus ticket. “Missing Girl a Runaway” he led. A receipt for a one-way fare to Tucson, Arizona, had been found in her bedroom. She was thought to be in the company of an enlisted man at the nearby Fort Huachuca army base, and the Republic was spearheading the effort to locate the wayward girl there and bring her home “to the bosom of her modest, salt-of-the-earth, loving mama and papa.”

  “Charlie, this is my story,” I said, punch drunk. “I mean, I didn’t write this schlock, of course; it’s classic George Walsh, with the melodrama and the references to ‘this newspaper’ and ‘your humble correspondent.’ But this is my research.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “He must have gone through my notes. I saw him skulking around here the other day. I’d almost finished the story, and I’d left it and my notes in my desk.”

  I yanked open the drawer and rifled through its contents, but my story and notes were nowhere to be found. Georgie Porgie must have removed them in anticipation of my reaction.

  “My notes are gone,” I said. “But Norma knows. She can tell you I wrote it all down.”

  “That’s true, Mr. Reese. Miss Stone showed me her notes, and we discussed the entire story on Friday.”

  “If that’s so, why didn’t you finish it? Or tell me?” asked Charlie.

  I didn’t have an answer for that. There was the basketball game Friday, but that didn’t explain Saturday or Sunday. I should have written the article then, but I was glad I hadn’t. The truth of the matter was that Darleen Hicks had never boarded any Trailways bus for Arizona. The actual ticket was safe with the sheriff, locked away in his safe, along with ninety-seven dollars in cash. I couldn’t say any of this to Charlie, or even to Norma. For the time being, I had to bide my time and take my lumps as they came.

  As things turned out, I didn’t have to wait very long.

  Artie Short entered the City Room with George Walsh following behind. The publisher strode up to me and smirked right in my face.

  “I see you’ve found your way to work, Miss Stone. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “I’m very sorry for being late, sir,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

  That disarmed him for a moment. But being the odious worm that he was, he found his bearings in short order and resumed his attack with a new salvo.

  “Are you aware that I’ve taken the Darleen Hicks story away from you and given it to George here?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Reese just told me.”

  Artie Short didn’t like the direction our conversation was going. He was egging me on and wanted a strong reaction, probably so he could fire me on the spot for insubordination. Charlie looked uncomfortable, surely expecting me to rise to the bait, and Norma was green. Even George Walsh tried to shrink from sight.

  Short harrumphed. “Well, have you seen George’s piece for today’s edition?”

  I nodded meekly. That seemed to floor Georgie Porgie. He looked alarmed and relieved at the same time, if that’s possible. He must have expected me to cry foul and accuse him of having stolen my notes. I’m sure he had some phony defense all prepared, but I held my tongue, and so did he.

  “Very well, then,” said Short, his bullying petering out without my participation. “I want you to read that article again, young lady. Pay close attention as you do. You’ll learn something. That’s how a newspaperman writes a story.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But he wasn’t quite finished yet. He smiled at me with all the self-righteous condescension he could muster and offered this: “Even with the help that Charlie Reese provided for you—an assistant . . .” He leaned backwards to whisper to his son-in-law, “What’s her name?”

  George whispered back, and Artie Short bellowed, “What’d you say? What’s her name?”

  “Norma Geary,” said George, loud enough for all to hear.

  “Yes, Norma Geary,” repeated Short, aiming his scorn back at me. “George, here, didn’t have an assistant, Miss Stone, and still he bagged the story. What do you have to say about that?”

  I said nothing. One word from me, and he would fire me. The humiliation mounted with each passing moment. So many witnesses to my dressing-down. I wanted to kick him in the shins and wring George’s neck.

  “I didn’t think you’d have anything to say,” he smirked. “Well, that cozy situation is over, young lady. Mrs. Geary is being transferred back to the steno pool.”

  I glanced at Norma whose expression told me she’d known about the change when I entered the room. In fact, she’d already gathered her belongings and put them in a box. Though I’d never asked for her, losing her would be a bitter pill to swallow.

  “You’ll have to make your way without unfair advantages and accommodations for your gender,” continued Short. “Men have it tough enough as it is, without us making things easier for women to supplant them in the workplace.”

  That was the last straw. I had been holding my temper in the hopes of staying on the story, but also because I wanted to keep this job. What were my options if I lost it? A secretary for some lawyer? I didn’t want to know what other humiliation Artie Short had in store for me. But I’d had a bellyful. Job or no job, I was going to tell Artie Short and George Walsh what I thought of them. I was going to tell them both where to get off, then quit in triumph. From the corner of my eye, I caught Charlie Reese’s terrified expression, practically begging me to shut up. But all went quiet in my head. Dead silence. I was resolved, decided, and ready to accept the consequences of my sharp tongue. My lips parted and squeezed into place for my first syllable. But then, satisfied he’d taken me down a few notches, Artie Short turned and looked to his son-in-law. I hesitated.

  “Now, George,” he said, “are you all set? All packed? Got your traveler’s checks from Millicent? Do you have your ticket?”

  Oh, my. I took my finger off the trigger. Was this really happening?

  “Now, it’ll take you almost three days to get there by bus,” continued Short, “so don’t go wasting my money phoning in from Peoria or Jefferson City to tell me about the weather. This is costing me enough already. Wire me when you reach Tucson. No long-distance phone calls. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” barked George.

  I shifted my mouth to park, my explosive invective holstered safely again, and hung on each word. This really was happening.

  “Your bus leaves in an hour,” he said. “Billy will drop you at the station. Have a good trip and bring home that story.”

  I nearly snorted a laugh, and Artie Short took it for a stifled sob. I played along, assuming the best hangdog expression I could manage. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, bit my lower lip, and tried to conjure up my saddest memories to beat back the laughter that wanted to burst out of my chest. It must have been quite convincing; Charlie told me later on that he’d almost stepp
ed up to punch Artie Short in the nose. I’m glad he didn’t.

  “Something to say, Miss Stone?” asked Short.

  “Yes,” I said once I’d wrestled my joy into submission. I took a deep breath and stared into George Walsh’s eyes. He seemed to flinch. “Have a nice trip, George,” I said. “You deserve this.”

  In spite of the satisfaction I felt at the prospect of the fool’s errand Georgie Porgie was about to embark upon—at precisely 2:15 local time, by the way—I was humiliated by the public flogging I’d endured at the hands of the publisher. I sequestered myself for twenty minutes in a stall in the ladies’ room before my eyes were dry and white enough to face the world. Charlie and Norma were sure to notice anyway.

  I wandered into Charlie’s office, curious to know how George Walsh and Artie Short could be so careless not to have contacted Wilbur Burch. Had they done so, they surely would have known that Darleen had never used the bus ticket he’d sent her. I asked Charlie as innocently as I knew how if George had spoken to Wilbur.

  “He wired his CO,” said Charlie, distracted, as he wrote a note to himself. “It seems Wilbur and his unit are finishing some week-long survival training hike, so George hasn’t been able to reach him yet.”

  “Bad luck for George,” I said.

  “Listen, Ellie,” said my boss, looking up from his desk. “I don’t want to do this, but Short is insisting. He wants you to take over the Society Page for a couple of days, just while Mrs. Stevens is visiting her sister in Rochester.” (Wow. Artie Short just kept kicking, whether I was down or not.) “Promise me you won’t blow your stack and get yourself fired over this. It’s just temporary, and I need you.”

  “Okay,” I said calmly, which seemed to upset Charlie even more.

  “Are you okay, Ellie?”

  “I’m fine. Just tell me what to do.”

  The Society Page’s staples were engagement announcements and wedding photos. January was off-season for weddings, though, so I only had two engagements, three ugly babies, and seven confirmations to report. These were mindless tasks that I performed with my eyes half closed.

  Mary Ellen Wikowski and Glenn Stanich were planning a June wedding and honeymoon in the Poconos. They were both twenty-one. Glenn was an electrician’s apprentice to Mary Ellen’s dad.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Dawson were proud to welcome their first child: an eleven-pound, eight-ounce bouncing baby boy named Gordon Jr. Eleven and a half pounds! Good God, that’s the size of a bowling ball.

  And then there were the confirmations. Little kids dressed in ill-fitting white suits and dresses, with bad haircuts, missing teeth, and hands pressed together in pious prayer. All I needed to do was get their names and churches right, and I was laps ahead of Mrs. Stevens.

  “What can I do next?” I asked Charlie as I handed him my piece around four in the afternoon.

  “You’ve finished already? That didn’t take two hours.”

  “It wasn’t that hard, Charlie. The wedding of the season, Baby Huey, and a conclave of Catholic kids.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie. “Come with me. I’ve got to have a smoke, and I don’t want to do it here. Doreen will tell my wife.”

  I followed Charlie downstairs, where we stood in the alleyway between our building and Wolfson’s Department Store. It was such a nice evening, so unseasonably warm, that we each smoked a second cigarette as we talked.

  “As you can see, Charlie, I’m being a good girl,” I said. “What’s my next assignment?”

  “You’ve got your pick: there’s a PTA bake sale at Clinton Avenue Grammar School . . .”

  “Hmm, tempting. What else have you got?”

  “Well, there’s also the big polka concert at Janakowski Hall. You could interview a big star and enjoy an evening of music at the same time.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on, Ellie. It’s the Al Stoyka Orchestra. They play all over the country.”

  “Isn’t there a pencil-sharpening contest I could cover instead? Next.”

  “I could make you do it, you know,” he mumbled, and he flipped his cigarette butt into the gutter. “Okay, how about the new firehouse they’re inaugurating? Or the SPCA? They’re holding a fundraiser. And you told me you like cats.”

  Oh, God, I thought. What sins had I committed in a previous life to deserve this? Then I realized that my present mess could well be punishment for the sins of this life alone.

  “I’ll take the firehouse,” I said. “Maybe I’ll meet Mr. Right.”

  We made our way back upstairs to Charlie’s office. I stood there waiting as my boss wrote out the details on the firehouse event for me on a pad of paper. I stared off into space, cursing my life and the bed I’d made for myself. Then something wonderful happened. Charlie’s phone rang.

  “Reese,” he said into the receiver. I watched as his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his silver hair. “Yes, she’s here, but . . . I thought you said . . . All right. I see.” He tore away the top sheet of paper from his pad, wadded it in his palm, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. So much for my firehouse story. He scribbled something new into the pad before him. “Okay, we’re on it,” he said and hung up the phone.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “That was Artie Short,” he said. Now I was worried.

  “Am I through?” I asked.

  “The sheriff just phoned looking for you while we were downstairs,” he explained. “No one could find you. He said it was important, so the switchboard tried to find me. Then they put him through to Artie.”

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  “They just found a lunch box near Darleen Hicks’s house. Artie wants you to get out to the Metzger farm right now. You’re off the bench.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  George Walsh was on a Trailways bus, probably just past Syracuse, incommunicado, with “Wonderland by Night” by Bert Kaempfert playing over the bus’ speakers for seventy-two hours straight. (Perhaps not, but a girl can dream, can’t she?) And he had orders not to waste time or money phoning home, so he would be in Arizona before he realized he was on a wild-goose chase. Artie Short was already painfully aware of that fact.

  I pulled to a stop a few yards behind the last of the county cruisers. Up ahead, a diesel generator was roaring, supplying power to the four sets of floodlights the sheriff had aimed at the snow hills at the end of County Highway 58. This was the place where Gus Arnold had turned the school bus around the day I’d hitched a ride to speak with Darleen’s friends.

  Pauline Blaine, the widow who lived near the Metzger farm, had phoned the authorities when her two boys arrived home from school around four p.m. with a lunch box they’d found in the melting snow while playing in the hills.

  “Hiya, Frank,” I said, once I’d located the sheriff at the center of the command post.

  “There you are,” he said. “For a while I thought Artie Short wasn’t going to send you. What did you do to get him so riled up?”

  “I wore a skirt,” I said. “What’s the story here?”

  “A couple of kids found a lunch box in the hills where Brunello’s standing over there,” he said, pointing to his deputy about thirty yards away. “Buried pretty deep. The boys were digging and uncovered it.”

  “Are you sure it’s Darleen’s?” I asked.

  Frank nodded. “Pretty sure.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There was a note inside, addressed ‘Dear Darleen.’”

  “What’s it say?” I asked.

  “‘I’ll meet you near the buses before you go home.’” said Frank in a monotone as he read from a scrap of paper.

  “Any idea who wrote it?”

  The sheriff folded the paper, secured it in his breast pocket, and motioned for me to come closer. He whispered in my ear, “Ted.”

  I flushed. The sting was sharp, but I couldn’t let on to Frank. “Can I get a picture of it?” I asked, wanting desperately to compare the handwriting to the love
note Frankie had brought to me.

  The sheriff shook his head. “This is evidence, Ellie. I can’t risk our case by showing it to you. And, by the way, I don’t want any news of the note in the press for now. Same as with the bus ticket.”

  “But, Frank, what am I going to write?” I asked. “You’re not leaving me much.”

  “No mention of the note, okay? You can say we found a lunch box that may or may not belong to Darleen Hicks. There’s no name on it, so it could be anyone’s.”

  “Except for the note.”

  “Right. Which remains a secret for now.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering when I had stopped working for the New Holland Republic and signed on with the sheriff. I distracted myself from my self-recrimination by plotting how I might make Ted Russell pay for his crimes. In a moment of painful honesty, I wondered if I wanted to punish him for having debauched Darleen or for having taken me in. I shook the thought from my head. I still had a job to do.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on here now?” I asked Frank.

  “We’re searching as best we can all through this area,” he said, indicating the snow hills with a wave of his hand. “So far we haven’t turned up anything.”

  “So what’s next?”

  Frank pulled his cap off and scratched his head. I could see the perspiration on his scalp. The weather wasn’t exactly tropical, but it was still in the low fifties, even with the sun down.

  “I’ve decided to have the county haul this snow out of here starting tomorrow if we don’t find anything tonight.” He paused, looking out over the tons of snow. “That girl is in there somewhere, and we’re going to find her.”

  I took some pictures of the lunch box. It was one of those plain, dark-gray, workman’s lunch boxes, scuffed, with some dents, and a metal buckle to snap it closed. Inside was some crumpled waxed paper, a chilling reminder that the missing girl had used the lunch box just three weeks earlier—that she had eaten from it, and evidence of her last meal remained. I wondered what she had drunk to wash down her lunch. Perhaps a couple of swigs of whiskey on the bus to Canajoharie. But, of course, the whiskey had never left her locker. And there was no thermos found with the lunch box.