Published 2017 by Seventh Street Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
Cast the First Stone. Copyright © 2017 by James W. Ziskin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ziskin, James W., 1960-, author.
Title: Cast the first stone : an Ellie Stone mystery / James W. Ziskin.
Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, an imprint of Prometheus Books, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017000967 (print) | LCCN 2017006058 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781633882812 (paperback) | ISBN 9781633882829 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women journalists—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction | Nineteen sixties—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective /
Women Sleuths. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | GSAFD:
Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3626.I83 C37 2017 (print) | LCC PS3626.I83 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017000967
Printed in the United States of America
I dedicate this book to all those who have suffered fear, humiliation, and violence for the crime of being themselves.
All the world loves a hero. We worship fame and accomplishment, and reward with our devotion and reverence those who rise to the rarified heights of success. We marvel at the virtuosity of prodigies, admire the radiance of the beautiful, and applaud the gifts of the talented. With open hearts, we heap praise and affection on those remarkable individuals. And why? Without even knowing them, we accept an inexplicable shared acknowledgement that these people are our betters. Perhaps we are more generous than we believe ourselves to be. Or perhaps, well aware of our own shortcomings, we revel in the thrill of glimpsing a perfection that we will never approach in our own lives. Perhaps. But idolatry bestows its adoration only for as long as it will. It exists barely a hair’s breadth away from envy and animus. And from there, it passes to judgment and resentment in the blink of an eye. A hero walks a fickle path. And woe to him should he misstep. All the world loves to see a hero fall.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1962
Sitting at the head of runway 31R at Idlewild, the jet hummed patiently, its four turbines spinning, almost whining. The captain’s voice crackled over the public-address system to inform us that we were next in line for takeoff. I’d noticed him earlier leaning against the doorframe of the cockpit, greeting passengers as we boarded the plane. He’d given me a thorough once-over—a hungry leer I know all too well—and I averted my gaze like the good girl that I’m not.
“Welcome aboard, miss,” he’d said, compelling me to look him in the eye. He winked and flashed me a bright smile. “I hope to give you a comfortable ride.”
I surely blushed.
Now, just moments after the handsome pilot had assured us of our imminent departure, the engines roared to life, and the aircraft lurched forward from its standstill. Juddering at first as it began to move, the plane rumbled down the runway, gathering speed as it barreled toward takeoff. I craned my neck to see better through the window, holding my breath as I gripped the armrest of my seat and grinned like a fool. I sensed the man seated next to me was rolling his eyes, but I didn’t care. Of course I’d flown before—a regional flight from LaGuardia to Albany on Mohawk Airlines, and a couple of quick hops in a single-engine Cessna with a man who was trying to impress me with his derring-do. Alas, his derring-didn’t. But this was my first-ever flight on a jet plane.
Just forty-eight hours earlier, I’d had no travel plans at all, let alone a transcontinental trip to Los Angeles aboard a TWA 707 Jetliner. Late Saturday night, I’d been sitting as usual at the counter at Fiorello’s Home of the Hot Fudge, swiveling back and forth on the stool, as I chatted with Fadge Fiorello, my dearest friend in the world. The evening crush of teenagers had subsided, and things were quiet. Fadge was staring at the floor. I could almost hear the pitched battle raging in his head: to sweep or not to sweep? I usually could tell what he was thinking, at least when work, food, or sex was on his mind. Work, put it off. Food, shovel it in. And sex, if only. Once he’d decided the floor could wait another day to be swept, he asked where I’d like to go for our late-night pizza, Tedesco’s or Scafitti’s? I said it didn’t matter as long as there was something strong to wash it down. Then the front door jingled, and my editor, Charlie Reese, stepped inside.
“Hiya, pops,” I said.
Charlie removed his hat and gloves. Then, pulling off his overcoat, he frowned at me. He didn’t like me calling him “pops.” Made him feel old. He motioned to an empty booth in the back. I slid off the stool and led the way.
“How soon can you be ready to leave for Los Angeles?” he asked without preamble once we were seated across from each other.
I cocked my head. “Are you inviting me or sending me?” That surely made him feel young. He smiled.
“Sending.”
“When do you need me to go?”
“Tomorrow.”
I sat up straight in my seat. “Tomorrow? Wait a minute. Is this the Tony Eberle story? I thought Georgie Porgie was all set to leave tomorrow. What happened?”
Charlie drew a deep breath and looked away. He rubbed his arthritic left pinky finger as he sometimes did when searching for the right words. And other times when it was paining him.
“George can’t go.�
��
“Why not? This is his big chance to go to Hollywood and get discovered at Schwab’s.”
Though he didn’t approve, Charlie knew I enjoyed a good chuckle at my colleague George Walsh’s expense whenever the opportunity presented itself, which was often. If Charlie’s discomfort was any indication, the reason for George’s change in plans was a doozy.
Georgie Porgie fancied himself the top reporter at the New Holland Republic, on an equal footing with the likes of Edward R. Murrow. But in reality, he was ill-suited to working at a newspaper. Folding one into a tricorne hat, perhaps, but not writing for one. He thought Eisenhower’s warning about the rise of the military-industrial complex referred to an army factory that was being built outside Washington, DC. But since his father-in-law, Artie Short, was the publisher, George Walsh always landed the best assignments, all the jobs that were deemed too important for a “girl reporter.” Artie Short hated me anyway and would probably have preferred it if I walked into a propeller. For my part, I made a habit of beating his son-in-law to the punch on the biggest stories, including a couple of recent high-profile murders in town. But the Tony Eberle story was the juiciest assignment to come down the pike in a long time: a chance to travel all expenses paid to California to interview the young New Holland native on the set of his first Hollywood movie.
“What happened?” I repeated. “Why can’t Georgie Porgie go?”
Charlie frowned and warned me not to laugh, which only succeeded in eliciting a ticklish smile on my lips. He warned me again, and I tamped down the urge.
“His wife had a dream,” he said finally. “A dream that the plane crashed. She’s a superstitious sort. Believes in that kind of thing. She told George he couldn’t go.”
“What did Artie say?” I asked, now grinning ear to ear. “Surely he doesn’t believe such nonsense.”
Charlie shrugged. “He told me his daughter has always had an uncanny knack for premonitions.”
“So Artie doesn’t care if the plane goes down with me aboard?” I asked, summoning some indignation despite the absurdity of his daughter’s dream.
Charlie dismissed my concerns, assuring me that nothing bad was going to happen to the plane. As the editor in chief, he didn’t often write news stories anymore, except for those he enjoyed, specifically scientific pieces. And so, sitting in a booth in the back of Fiorello’s on a frigid Saturday night, he treated me to a catalogue of statistics on the safety of modern air travel. I wasn’t listening. I was already planning my wardrobe for the trip.
“You’ll take the train down to New York tomorrow, then fly from Idlewild Monday. We’ve booked you a hotel in Hollywood. Artie says it’s a nice place. He stayed there a couple of nights during the war before he shipped out to the Pacific.”
“I thought the Battle of the Bulge was in Europe.”
Charlie stared me down. He didn’t need to say anything. Artie Short had seen action in the navy in the Pacific, and I shouldn’t have mocked his service. Still, he was carrying a spare tire around his waist, which had inspired my little joke.
“Why doesn’t Artie just send George by train?” I asked, steering my derision back to the nebbish. “It’ll take a couple of days longer, but that’ll give him time to memorize the alphabet.”
Charlie ignored my crack. “No time for a train. Artie’s worried that the Gazette is going to send someone out to Los Angeles to scoop us on this. They’ve been eating into our circulation for the past year and a half. Artie’s become obsessed with them.”
“Who are they going to send, Harvey Dunnolt?” I asked. “He doesn’t even get out of his car to cover city council meetings. Barely rolls down the window as he drives by.”
“Look, Ellie. Do you want this assignment or not?”
I smiled sweetly at my boss. “Sure, pops. I’ll bail you out on this one.”
Against all odds and George Walsh’s wife’s dream of a fiery plane crash, TWA Flight 7 arrived without incident at Los Angeles Airport at 2:50 p.m. on Monday, February 5. In fact, it was an incredibly pleasant experience, with fine food, plenty of drink, and smooth sailing. As I disembarked, the friendly captain smiled at me again.
“Welcome home, miss,” he said, his gaze darting from my eyes to linger on my bust before he remembered himself and his good manners.
“I’m not from Los Angeles.”
He arched a brow and cocked his head just so as if to flirt. “Perhaps I could show you around town,” he said. “Where are you staying?”
It took no small measure of self-control, but I managed to keep the name of my hotel to myself. I thanked him for a fine flight and stepped through the door and down the airstairs.
On the ground, I was greeted by a cool, gray day. About sixty degrees. It was still an improvement over the cold New York winter I’d left behind. I retrieved my luggage and made my way to the taxi stand. My driver, a chatty fellow who kept pulling off his cap to scratch his balding head, called me “sweetie” for the forty minutes it took to reach Hollywood. As we motored up La Brea Avenue, he pointed out various landmarks and places of interest, including the Perry Mason Studio near Sunset Boulevard. I nearly squealed with delight and asked him if he’d ever seen William Hopper around town. I’d had a big crush on “Paul Drake” for years. Something about that shock of white hair and the checked jackets he wore.
“Never seen him,” said the driver. “But I dropped Raymond Burr at Musso and Frank once about a year ago.” He performed a feathery hand gesture as he pronounced the name, presumably an indication of the actor’s predilections. Was he suggesting that Perry Mason was queer? I said nothing for fear of coming off as a rube unfamiliar with what seemed to be common knowledge.
We drove to my hotel on McCadden Place, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. Before the brakes had even stopped squeaking, I asked the cabbie if he hadn’t perhaps made a mistake. Peering out the window, I saw a dingy brick building with a torn awning and a faded sign announcing the McCadden Hotel. Two shady-looking men were pitching pennies against the stoop. One of them was the bellhop.
“I’m afraid this is it, sweetie,” said the driver.
“But my boss assured me this was a nice hotel. He stayed here during the war.”
“Which war?”
I paid the fare and climbed out of the cab. The driver fetched my bag from the trunk and wished me luck. Upon seeing me, the bellhop reluctantly tore himself away from his game, but not before his opponent had gathered up his winnings. The bellhop frowned, undoubtedly mourning the loss of his penny. Then, putting on a brave face, he straightened the little drummer-boy cap on his head, welcomed me to the McCadden, and grabbed my suitcase. I followed him up the stairs and into the dark lobby.
The McCadden had been built when heavy velvet curtains, oriental rugs, and flocked wallpaper were all the rage. Probably before 1920. And no one had thought to remodel since. Or clean. The odor of cigar ashes gave the place much of its dry-cough charm, and you could scarcely ignore the vague smell of sulfur lurking underneath. I figured the dusty old gentleman manning the reception desk had recently polished off a luncheon of hard-boiled eggs.
“Your room’s been paid up for the week,” he said, straining to read from a note he’d retrieved from a cubbyhole behind the desk.
He handed the key to the bellhop, who by now must have considered himself my friend because he introduced himself as Marty. He lugged my bag up the stairs to a room on the second floor. Once inside, he gave me the grand tour, pointing out the bed, a Philco radio on the scratched desk, and the radiator valve against the wall. Finally, he threw open the curtains to present the view: a brick wall painted over with faded letters spelling out “Selma Hardware.”
I considered my new friend, Marty, in the quiet of my room. He looked to be in his late twenties, tall and lanky, and in need of a shave. His uniform was a sea of wrinkles, except where the fabric showed shiny patches, the result of too many scalding ironings. The sleeves of his jacket fell three inches short of the finish line of
his bony wrists. I could see now that his hat had lost most of its shape, as a sweaty pillow might during a particularly hot spell, and I figured he’d probably slept or sat on it one too many times. Marty told me it was going to rain.
“I heard it was always sunny in California,” I said, feeling cheated on my first trip to Los Angeles.
“When it rains it pours. And the weatherman is calling for ‘pours’ day after tomorrow and all week after that. I’ll leave a newspaper for you in the mornings so you can check the forecast.”
Looking around the grim room, I wondered where I might find better accommodations. I tipped Marty a quarter. That ought to keep him in pennies for a while.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 1962
I managed to sleep through the night none the worse for wear, with no bites from bedbugs. And the door to my room had dispatched its duties, keeping any and all marauders, junkies, and thieves on the other side. At 6:00 a.m. I was wide awake, thanks to the time difference and my excitement at the prospect of meeting Tony Eberle on the set of his movie. The bathtub proved to be a pleasant surprise, dispensing plenty of hot water and good pressure. By seven, I was ready for the day.
Having skipped dinner the night before, I felt hollow and needed something to eat. The McCadden provided no food service, but the same dusty desk clerk from the previous day steered me to Hody’s Coffee Shop a couple of blocks away on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. I almost gave it a miss when I saw the giant creepy clown on the sign atop the roof. I swear the eyes were following me. But my appetite won out. Inside, a friendly waitress poured me a cup of piping hot coffee before I’d had the chance to ask, and the vulcanized eggs were edible if rubbery. The English muffin was perfectly charred, and the butter soft. I studied my notes as I picked over the remains of my breakfast.
Tony Eberle had grown up on Clizbe Avenue in the Rockton district of New Holland. His mother, Louise, a Hagaman girl, kept house for her family, which included a daughter three years older than Tony. Joe Eberle, Tony’s father, had delivered milk and eggs for Stadler’s Dairy for more than twenty years.
Cast the First Stone Page 1
