Stone Cold Dead (43 page)

MONDAY, JANUARY 16, 1961

My week got off to an early start. Arriving at the office at seven, I sat down to rewrite my murder timeline. I was now sure that the body had been tossed off the Mill Street Bridge; it was the only possibility. And before I could convict Louis Brossard of murder in my mind, I reviewed what I knew and didn’t know. What had he been doing on the Mill Street Bridge at such a late hour? Why had he been on the south side of the river? He lived in Northampton Court, after all, which was near the northern limits of the city. I knew he’d attended the Christmas banquet earlier that evening, but that had ended before ten thirty. And besides, Isobel’s Restaurant was on the north side of the river, on the West End. What had happened to Louis Brossard between ten thirty and one thirty in the morning? Had he been drunk at the banquet or had he fueled up somewhere else? There were plenty of taverns on the South Side, of course, so it was possible he’d tied one on over there. Or maybe he’d returned to the snow hills after the banquet to dig out Darleen’s body and deposit it in the river.

I wrote a note to Norma Geary, asking her to make some inquiries for me while I was tied up in editorial meetings later that morning. I slipped the envelope under her typewriter cover, where she would find it first thing upon her arrival.

Georgie Porgie was seated in the City Room for the Monday morning meeting, a large envelope on his lap and a smug grin on his lips. The meeting began as usual with a recap of the weekend’s breaking news. Charlie had a bone to pick with the entire staff.

“On Saturday, we put out a special early edition,” he began. “George, here, broke a big story on the Hicks girl and her unused bus ticket.” George beamed and sat up in his chair. “But then what happened?” asked Charlie. “We all took the rest of the weekend off to rest on our laurels while I was out of town. Does anyone know that they found the girl’s body on Saturday? And arrested three suspects?”

There was silence in the room.

“I know that,” I volunteered.

“Of course you do,” barked Charlie. “Everyone knows it now. What we needed was someone to get on it Saturday. Artie Short just chewed my head off because we missed the biggest break on this story. Now we have nothing for this afternoon’s edition.”

I waited for the echo of Charlie’s voice to fade before serving him his crow with a knife and fork. But Georgie Porgie beat me to the punch.

“I have here a photo of the Figlio boy,” he said. “It’s a school picture.”

“And what am I going to do with that?” snapped Charlie. “We don’t have any of the details of what happened, no pictures of the lock where the body was found, nothing to excite readers.”

“How about a photograph of Joey Figlio being arrested?” I asked. Everyone turned to look at me. “And two rolls of film of the sheriff and the hearse at Lock 10 on Saturday afternoon? Oh, and I have four articles for you. If you review them right away, all four should make the front page of today’s edition, this time with my byline,” and I threw a glance at George Walsh.

Charlie stared open-mouthed at me. The room was silent.

“I was here on Saturday afternoon when a tip came in about the body,” I explained. “I was on the scene minutes after they fished the body out of the dam gate.”

“This meeting is over,” said Charlie, a huge smile spreading over his lips. “Ellie, come with me.”

Once we were in Charlie’s office, I told him about George Walsh having stolen my story for his big scoop.

“That’s a pretty serious accusation,” he said. “You want to be careful about saying things like that.”

“Just ask Frank Olney who discovered the bus ticket in Darleen’s locker. I did.”

“Really?” he said. “Then why didn’t you print the story?”

“The sheriff asked me to wait, and I did.”

Charlie almost blew a gasket. “If Artie Short ever heard that, he’d fire you on the spot. Hell, I should fire you for it right now. The press has to be independent, Ellie. You know that. How could you do such a thing?”

“I know,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me. I feel bad enough already.”

“I’m telling you now if you ever do anything like that again, I will fire you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

Charlie was steamed. He wanted to toss me out of his office, but we had to discuss the stories I’d done over the weekend. He glowered at me as I produced the four stories from my purse. He read them quickly and softened. Then he congratulated me on my excellent work.

“Okay, Charlie,” I said, ready to bring out the big guns. “I’ve got more news, and I need your advice. I know who killed Darleen Hicks.”

He stared dumbly at me.

“I know who killed her,” I repeated.

“Who?”

I took a seat in front of his desk and smoothed my skirt. Charlie waited.

“Louis Brossard,” I announced.

“Brossard,” he mumbled. “I know that name from somewhere. Who is he?”

“Assistant principal of the junior high school.”

Charlie choked. “And you say he killed this girl? Why do you think an upstanding school administrator would murder a teenage girl?”

“At this point, all I have is circumstantial evidence. Not enough to nail him.”

“Like what?”

“He was collared by the New Holland police on the Mill Street Bridge in the middle of the night after Darleen Hicks disappeared. Drunk and weeping.”

“So? What’s the bridge have to do with this?”

“You’re always telling me you like good science stories, Charlie,” I said. “On December twenty-first, the Mohawk River was frozen over completely from Canajoharie past Lock 11 on the West End of New Holland.”

“Yes, I remember. It was a rare sight. What of it?”

“Well, the river was not frozen under the Mill Street Bridge.”

The penny dropped. “So that’s where the body must been thrown into the river,” he said, smiling broadly. “Ellie, that’s brilliant. How did you come up with that?”

“Just trying to retrace the journey the body must have taken.”

Charlie sat down and scribbled some notes into his pad. “I see your point, though,” he said as he wrote. “There’s no proof that this Brossard fellow is guilty, but his presence on the bridge certainly looks bad for him. Does he live anywhere near there?”

I shook my head. “Northampton Court. And his car was traveling south to north over the bridge. What was he doing on the South Side at that hour?”

“Any other circumstantial evidence to support your theory?”

“Just that Brossard was deputy headmaster at St. Winifred’s Academy in Hudson before he came to New Holland.”

“And? What’s the school have to do with this?”

“A girl disappeared from St. Winifred’s at the time Brossard was there. They never found her.”

“Okay,” said Charlie, looking up at me. “I’m with you. I think you’ve got the right guy. Now, how do we prove it?”

“That’s just it, Charlie,” I said. “I don’t know. If there were some physical evidence in his car, maybe that would do it. But it’s been four weeks. Surely he’s had ample opportunity to clean out the trunk of his car.”

“Still, we could ask the city police to take this on. They’ll get a warrant and scour his car and his house while they’re at it.”

“I’d rather go to the sheriff for that,” I said. “The city police think Joey Figlio killed Darleen. Besides, she was from the Town of Florida and was found in Cranesville. This isn’t the city police’s jurisdiction.”

“Good point,” said Charlie. “And it won’t hurt that Frank Olney is a good pal of yours. Okay, so you go to the sheriff. Any other ideas?”

“I’m going to talk to Brossard this morning,” I said. “And I’ve asked Norma Geary to contact St. Winifred’s.”

Charlie whistled. “Great. Okay, you’re on this exclusively. Forget about your other stories. I’ll take care of them. You get on this Brossard guy. Just be careful, Ellie. You never know how he might react.”

“Okay, Chief,” I said and stood to leave.

“What about your film?” he asked.

“In the lab with Bobby. Should be ready by now.”

“Great work, Ellie,” he said, all smiles, as he walked me out the door. “Where can I get ten more like you?”

I thought about reminding him that he’d nearly fired me five minutes earlier, but thought better of it. I would surely need his good will again, and men, like dogs, don’t appreciate having their noses rubbed in their mistakes.

Norma Geary strolled by my desk as I was grabbing my coat and purse. She made a subtle hand gesture for me to follow her. She took me to the break room beyond the steno pool. There were some tables, a coffee pot, and a cigarette machine. The room was empty at ten past ten.

“I telephoned St. Winifred’s as soon as I got your message,” she whispered. “They weren’t too helpful, but they confirmed that Mr. Brossard used to work there. He was the assistant headmaster from August 1954 to June 1957. I also called the junior high and confirmed that he was hired as assistant principal in the summer of ’57.”

“How did you manage to get all that information?”

“I said I was with the New Holland Savings Bank. Routine check for a car loan,” she smiled. “Everyone likes to help a person buy a new car.”

“What about the girl who disappeared from St. Winifred’s?” I asked.

“Well, I couldn’t very well ask the school about that. Not if I was calling from a bank. So I called the
Register-Star
in Hudson. That’s the local daily. The woman I spoke to remembered the case very well and said that it was never solved. The poor girl just disappeared from the school one day and was never seen again.”

“Any other details?”

“She said there was plenty written about it in the paper. Some articles were even picked up by the AP.”

I thought it was a long shot to pursue that angle at that moment. If Brossard had been involved in the St. Winifred’s girl’s disappearance, there would always be time to comb through old newspapers later on. For now, I wanted to know about Darleen Hicks, and Louis Brossard was the man I wanted to ask about her.

“Nice work, Norma,” I said, standing to leave.

“But Miss Stone,” she said. “Don’t you want to see the article?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The article on the St. Winifred’s girl. I’ve got it right here,” and she produced a yellowing page from an October 1956 edition of the
New Holland Republic
.

“How did you . . . ? Where did you get this?”

“From the archives in the basement,” she said. “The lady at the
Register-Star
gave me the date of the girl’s disappearance, and since she said the AP had picked up the story, I thought we might have run it.” She smiled. “We did.”

Why was Norma Geary marooned in the steno pool? And the far end of the steno pool, for that matter. This woman was a dynamo. Charlie might not find ten more of me, but I was going to tell him about Norma Geary.

The AP article gave the details of the case. A thirteen-year-old girl, Geraldine Duffy, a boarded student at St. Winifred’s Academy, had gone missing from school grounds after hours on Thursday, October 25. Local police interviewed school officials, students, and local witnesses, but no trace of the girl was found. A Wirephoto accompanied the brief article: a rough, grainy picture of a beautiful girl smiling in her school portrait. I bowed my head and rubbed the bridge of my nose, drawing a deep breath. Geraldine Duffy was wearing braces and an all-too-familiar mischievous grin.