Charlie didn’t seem to care about those stories. He called me into his office to discuss Teddy Jurczyk instead.
“I just spoke to Artie Short,” he said, and I recognized his I-hate-this-job frown. “He got a call from Principal Keith at the high school. He says they don’t want you hanging around basketball practice anymore. What did you do, Ellie?”
“Why do you assume I did something wrong, Charlie? Why don’t you ever assume I’m in the right and then ask questions?”
“Come on, Ellie,” he said. “You’re always getting under someone’s skin. It’s your specialty.”
“I think it’s my skirt,” I said. “Anyway, I didn’t do anything to Teddy. For some reason, he thinks I’m a jinx to him.”
“Well, the principal said you can cover the games, but not the practices.”
I smiled.
“What is it?” asked Charlie.
“Just that I don’t need access to the high-school gym to finish my story. Louis Brossard said he’d fix things up for me with young Teddy.”
“Who’s Brossard?”
“Assistant principal of the junior high. And now he fancies himself an amateur detective.”
“How do you mean?”
“He told me he’s figured out that Darleen Hicks ran off because there was a bus-ticket receipt in her bedroom.”
Charlie scoffed. “Hardly discovering penicillin. That bus receipt kind of makes it obvious doesn’t it? Now it would be another thing if she hadn’t actually used the ticket.”
My face must have turned red, because Charlie asked me what was wrong. I shook my head and made up a lie. I left Charlie’s office in a funk. That bus ticket needed to come out, but my hands were tied. I wanted to kick a dent into Frank Olney’s car door. Instead I wandered back to my desk and slumped into my chair. It was nearly six anyway, so I thought I’d head home to wash the taste of the day away with some whiskey and ice. I grabbed my purse and stood to go. Then Norma Geary appeared.
As the room was empty, we sat down to talk without fear of being overheard. She asked me what progress I’d made on my Teddy J. story, and I gave her the short version.
“Lucky that Mr. Brossard showed up,” she said. “He’s probably got eyes for you.”
I shook my head. “I know when a man is interested, or at least entertains ideas, but there’s nothing there. He’s strangely detached or bored or indifferent when he talks to me. I noticed it today.”
“Is he married?”
“He wasn’t wearing a wedding band,” I said. “But not all men wear them. He strikes me more as the priestly type anyway.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Miss Stone,” said Norma. “I’ve seen how men look at you.”
Driven by turns sideways and vertical by strong winds, the rain drummed on the roof and ran down the windows in sheets. The snow was gone from the streets and sidewalks, and the slush washed into the gutters then disappeared, flushed away for good by the downpour. Mrs. Giannetti’s small rectangle of a lawn was exposed, brown and muddy grass, for the first time since Thanksgiving.
Thursday’s television lineup—mostly westerns—didn’t interest me. There was Donna Reed, but that just reminded me of what a mess my life was compared to hers. So I ignored the television and curled up with several whiskeys on the couch to read Lampedusa’s The Leopard. I liked history and far-flung places, and it was a bestseller. Sicily and the Risorgimento seemed like a tonic to take my mind off the unused bus ticket, and, at the same time, I conjured some peaceful memories of my father reading his beloved Italian literature and history. But alcohol and reading don’t mix, at least not for me. I couldn’t concentrate, kept losing the thread, and found myself pages ahead without remembering what I’d just read. It was getting late anyhow, and I was thinking about bed, when there was a knock at my kitchen door.
“Who is it?” I asked, a broom cocked behind my head like a baseball bat, in case it was a marauder on the other side of the door. I had received, after all, my share of unwanted visitors in recent days, and it was after eleven thirty. As I stood there, elbows bent, twitching the broom like Mickey Mantle waiting for a pitch, I realized that this attack position meant that the head of the broom, with its relatively soft bristles, would be employed to fend off any and all comers. Effective for chasing mice, perhaps, but against an attacker with nefarious intent, it was a poor choice of weapon.
“It’s Irene Metzger,” came the voice through the glass panel and sheer curtain.
I opened the door and let her in. She brought the same smell of wet wool as she had the first time I’d met her on New Year’s Eve. She was wearing the same transparent rain hat as well. And once she’d sat at my kitchen table, I served her the same whiskey we’d drunk that night.
“I haven’t seen you in a few days,” she said, settling in with a cigarette between her fingers.
“Your husband threw me out,” I said. “He threatened me.”
She waved her hand and drew a deep drag on her cigarette. “He’s sorry about that.”
“I didn’t get the flowers and chocolates.”
“He’s a good man, miss,” she said, ignoring my remark. “Give him a second chance. We just have to find out what happened to Darleen.”
“The sheriff's your man. He’s on the case, isn’t he?”
She nodded. “Sure, but he keeps things to himself. He doesn’t tell us what’s going on. And we haven’t seen any articles in your paper since the lunch box was found. Have you given up on Darleen?”
I thought about the bus ticket yet again. How I wanted to tell Irene Metzger that I was still hot on the story of her daughter’s disappearance and had even written a significant piece for the paper just the day before. I wanted to tell her that my hands were tied, but that would have been a coward’s way out. I could publish the story if I wanted. I was just angry with myself for putting my loyalty to Frank Olney ahead of my own interests. The small bit of consolation I felt was that I actually had come around to Frank’s way of thinking: namely that withholding the evidence of the unused bus ticket was surely the wiser way to proceed. After all, if Louis Brossard had formed his conclusion on Darleen’s fate based on his ignorance of the unused ticket, perhaps others would as well. That could work in the sheriff's favor.
“I have not given up on your daughter, Mrs. Metzger,” I said, and we both took a sip of Scotch. “The trail is cold, but there’s the lunch box and the note inside.”
“Yes, the sheriff told me about that. He thinks the note could have been written some time ago, and the lunch box might have been lost earlier, too. But I know Darleen took it that morning.”
“Perhaps the sheriff just doesn’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Hopes?” she snorted. “Are you kidding? I ain’t got no hopes, except to find my little girl and give her a proper burial. Reverend Holman at the Presbyterian church in Tribes Hill tells me that a funeral gives a person solace. I sure hope so, ’cause that’s all I’ve got to look forward to.” She paused, took a gulp of whiskey, then added that she and Dick Metzger weren’t Presbyterians at all. “We just go to that one ’cause the closest Lutheran church is in New Holland. What church do you go to?”
“Saint John the Mattress,” I mumbled, repeating one of Fadge’s oft-told jokes.
“I see,” she said. “Catholic.”
“Why did you come here tonight?” I asked, pouring us each another drink. “Surely not to scold me.”
“I got some information to tell you that might help.” She had my ear. “We have a party line at our place, so we have to share with the neighbors. Mrs. Norquist hogs the line in the evenings when she does her telephoning.”
“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of waiting for Mrs. Norquist to take a breath.”
“Beg your pardon?”
I explained about my evening at the Karls’ place.
“Well, I had to break into her conversation the other night, and she said she heard about Darleen. Thought it was a terrible thing. And
then she said she overheard a strange phone call between Darleen and a man about a month ago.”
“A man? Did she know who it was?”
Irene Metzger shook her head. “No, she just heard a part of what they were saying.”
“And what did she hear?”
Irene clamped her lips down on a fresh cigarette, struck a match, and lit it, sucking its smoke into her lungs as if trying to prime a siphon.
“Mrs. Norquist said the man was older,” she said finally. “He was talking sweet to her. He wanted to meet her after school, but Darleen said no.”
“An older man,” I said, half to myself, the specter of Ted Russell raising its ugly head in my mind. “And you say Mrs. Norquist didn’t hear any names?”
Irene Metzger began to answer, but stopped mid-word. There was a creaking on my back staircase and the sound of footsteps climbing.
“You expecting someone?” she asked.
I shook my head no, eyes fixed on the kitchen door. The steps climbed higher, softly, carefully, as if whoever was out there wanted to be quiet. It might have been someone not wanting to disturb Mrs. Giannetti downstairs. Heck, it might have been Mrs. Giannetti herself, having heard noises upstairs and wanting to catch me in flagrante. I doubted it was Fadge. He’d closed up the store about an hour earlier and asked if I was interested in a late-night cheeseburger and fries at Whitey’s. I told him I had retired for the evening and wasn’t putting my face on again for a cheeseburger. Besides, Fadge made more noise climbing the stairs than the Rough Riders charging up San Juan Hill. And he wouldn’t have troubled himself about disturbing Mrs. Giannetti’s sleep. (Fadge enjoyed an antagonistic relationship with her, having once emptied his garbage can on her lawn after she’d complained he wasn’t keeping the store’s stoop clean enough for her liking.) In any case, I was alarmed. I was certain it wasn’t Fadge and couldn’t imagine who else would be creeping up my stairs in the middle of the night.
“Dick?” called Irene Metzger, startling me with the volume and coarseness of her voice. The creaking on the stairs stopped. “Dick, come on up so you can say your apologies to Miss Stone properly.”
There was no answer from the stairs, and Irene Metzger looked puzzled. “Dick!” she roared.
The only answer she got was the sound of retreating steps scrambling back down the staircase. Irene Metzger and I both leapt up from the kitchen table. I grabbed my trusty broom and committed the same blunder as the first time, holding the hard end, ready to attack with the soft. Irene Metzger lunged for the back door and didn’t hesitate to follow the visitor down the stairs. I made my way down more cautiously; I’d had a few more drinks than she.
Outside, I stood on the porch, looking up and down Lincoln Avenue through the rain, seeing no one except Irene Metzger crossing the street to her husband’s green pickup, parked directly in front of Fiorello’s.
“Dick?” I heard her call. “Dick, what did you run away for?”
Braving the wind and rain, I joined them across the street. Irene Metzger now wore an expression of distress. She squinted into the darkness and rain in both directions, trying to see something.
“What is it?” I asked, still clutching the now-wet broom.
Dick Metzger echoed my question. “What the hell’s wrong, Irene?” he demanded.
She turned to me, ignoring her husband for the moment. “Dick was fast asleep in the truck just now.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The city police arrived ten minutes later. I doubted the utility of asking for their help after the treatment I’d received the day before, but Irene Metzger had insisted. I breathed more easily when I saw the responding officer climb out of his patrol car. Vic Mature had come to my rescue. Over a cup of coffee at my kitchen table, Officer Palumbo listened patiently as I described the eerie visit. Irene Metzger nodded and embellished, peppering my account with her details as well. Dick Metzger leaned against my icebox and said nothing.
“Well, it’s not a lot to go on,” said Palumbo in his deep baritone. “No breaking and entering, no assault. You didn’t even see him to give a description.”
I stared at him, knowing full well that there was nothing he could do. Still, I wanted him to say something useful to help me make it through the night. My flimsy kitchen door had been breached before, just a month earlier when I’d made the wrong person nervous investigating the Jordan Shaw murder.
“I can ask the duty sergeant to put a patrol in the neighborhood,” he offered.
“Who’s on duty tonight?” I asked, afraid of the answer.
Palumbo cleared his throat. “Joe Philbin.”
My head fell into my hands. I could call Frank Olney, but what kind of person would that make me? Ready to ignore his wishes one minute, then begging him to fight my battles the next. There was Fadge, of course. But I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. And Steve Herbert? No thanks. Why did I need to run to a man anyhow? Because I was terrified, that’s why. It could have been Joey Figlio on my stair, a bully of a city cop, Ted Russell, Bobby Karl Jr., or someone worse. I didn’t know who was responsible for Darleen Hicks’s disappearance, which made my sense of security even shakier. In fact, one of the men I suspected most of all was standing in my kitchen at that very moment, preventing my icebox from falling over, glowering at me the whole time. And he still hadn’t apologized or offered flowers or chocolates.
“Thank you just the same,” I said to Officer Palumbo. “I’ll take my chances with the thugs and murderers prowling about.”
Palumbo smiled softly. I love it when big, tough guys smile like that. And when they’re cops, well, doubly so.
“I’m on duty till morning, miss,” he said. “I’ll circle around Lincoln Avenue a few times and keep an eye on things.”
I’d have preferred he just spend the night, but thought better of suggesting that. I nodded and thanked him instead.
Irene Metzger asked me to keep her informed of my progress, then she and her husband took their leave. As they stepped through the kitchen door, Dick Metzger turned and regarded me uneasily. Still no apology. We stared at each other for a long moment as I considered my options. He was very close, but Officer Palumbo was just behind me. That was no guarantee of my safety, but I thought I’d never have this kind of protection again. So I asked him. Slow and measured: “Did you ever kiss your daughter on the lips?”
He blanched. His wife grabbed his forearm to still him, and his eyes bulged the same way they had the last time I’d asked that question. But then they darted to my left, over my shoulder, just for a split second. He pinched his lips together, holding back his rage. I didn’t move or breathe. I just stared deep into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts, waiting to see what secrets they might betray if he finally consented to answer my question.
“Yes,” he said, quiet but hard. “It’s our way to kiss our loved ones, including children.” He drew a difficult breath through his flaring nostrils. We stood so close that I could smell the hatred in his words, which passed over my face, almost strong enough to move the ringlets of stray hair around my temples. “My mother kissed me that way,” he continued. “I kissed my daughter that way. And no pretty, little city girl with a dirty mind is going to tell me that it’s wrong.”
He turned and followed his wife down the stairs, and I finally drew a breath. Palumbo had turned white. He stood there big and tall, filling up my kitchen. Then he cleared his throat again, like a shy suitor, and told me he would watch the street that night.
And with that, my only protection—besides the soggy broom—left me in my kitchen to face the rest of the night alone.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 13, 1961
I was slow out of the gate on Friday, due to a sleepless night. As tired as I was, though, there was no question of phoning in sick. For one thing, I didn’t want to add to Artie Short’s Friday absenteeism ammunition, and, for another, I wanted to get out of that house. I felt like a sitting duck, waiting for someone to come for me. On my way out the door, Mrs. Giannetti
caught me and questioned me about the night before.
“I heard a party going on,” she said. “I thought I was clear about entertaining during the week.”
“There was no party,” I said. “Just the police.”
“Oh, my!” she gasped. “What have you done now, Eleonora?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said. “Someone was prowling around last night, so I called the police.”
“A prowler? Again? That’s twice in a month. What’s this town coming to?”
I stopped myself from pointing out that both intrusions, actual and attempted, were not part of a greater crime wave or loss of civility in New Holland. They were the direct result of my poking around on murder stories: Darleen Hicks’s and Jordan Shaw’s. If I minded my own business, Lincoln Avenue could retake its rightful spot in a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Did they catch him?” asked Mrs. Giannetti.
“Who?”
“The burglar. I won’t be able to sleep if they didn’t catch him.”
I churned through my purse, searching for the car keys. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Giannetti,” I said, climbing into my car. “He wasn’t after you.”
The rain had started again. I wrestled my umbrella open then made a dash for the office from my parking spot down the street. The wind was strong enough to blow me off course a couple of times. I arrived at the brass-and-glass door of the Republic offices at the same time as George Walsh, and we nearly bumped into each other as we tried to squeeze through the entrance with our dripping umbrellas. Inside, we exchanged stiff good mornings then had to make our way up the stairs together in awkward silence. Finally, I broke the ice.
“Nice tan you got in Arizona,” I said as we reached the second floor.
I spent the morning preparing my feature on Teddy Jurczyk. All I needed was ten minutes of his time and a couple of nice action shots from the game that evening. Louis Brossard called mid-morning to let me know I could meet Teddy at three after his last class ended.
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