Authors: James W. Ziskin
Styx & Stone
Published 2013 by Seventh Street Books™, an imprint of Prometheus Books
Styx & Stone.
Copyright © 2013 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.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke
Cover image © Patrick Mac Sean/és/Corbis
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Ziskin, James W., 1960-
Styx & Stone : an Ellie Stone mystery / by James W. Ziskin.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-61614-819-5 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-61614-820-1 (ebook)
1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Columbia University—Fiction. 4. Nineteen sixties—Fiction. 5. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 6. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3626.I83S78 2013
813’.6—dc23
2013022056
Printed in the United States of America
To Lakshmi
SUNDAY, JANUARY 24, 1960
About halfway between New Holland and Schenectady, a narrow road cuts through a fault in the wooded hills above the Mohawk: Wolf Hollow Gorge. Local lore has it that Iroquois Indians, poised on the lip of the ravine, ambushed a party of Algonquin invaders early one morning in 1669. The attackers poured down the walls of the dark glen in waves, whooping like demons, and slaughtered the Algonquins trapped below.
One mild Sunday evening in January, I found myself in Wolf Hollow, a willing prisoner in the backseat of a black Chrysler 300. I’m what people call a modern girl. The kind who works for a living in a man’s world. I can hold my drink and I’m a good sport. I’m the kind who has her own place and sometimes invites a gentleman in for a nightcap. The finer the gentleman, the faster he slides from his end of the sofa to mine, the more roughly he gropes me. But his lips are soft, his tie is loose, and his arms have me pinned anyway.
Steve Herbert, barracuda lawyer with a square jaw and sharp, white teeth, had been pursuing me—the object of his baser desires—with devoted attention for some time. In the absence of a more suitable escort, I had recently been spending the odd evening with Steve, who was divorced, morally bankrupt, but good-looking and a fun time. I was too old for sock hops and earnest teenage boys, and my romantic options were otherwise few. Over his warm, heavy breathing, I became aware of an approaching noise outside the car.
I lifted my head to investigate, but Steve wrapped his big hands around my hips and pulled me back down on the seat. He planted the sting of gin on my lips, and his prehensile tongue drew me inside his mouth in an oral tug of war.
Then a light flashed in the window, and someone began tapping on the glass. I shrieked and elbowed Steve in the eye as he scrambled to right himself in the seat. The pint of Gilbey’s fell to the floor and emptied at my feet. My heart thumping in my chest, I squinted into the light at the large shape outside the fogged-up window, shielding my eyes with one hand while I wiped the glass with the other.
“What the hell?” bellowed Steve as he caught sight of the figure outside the car.
Once the window was clear and I could see the dullard’s grin, I knew we were in no danger.
“It’s all right, Steve,” I panted. “It’s just Stan Pulaski.”
“Who’s he?”
“Deputy sheriff.”
“Damn! The gin!”
“Don’t worry,” I said as I adjusted my brassiere and smoothed my hair—long, curly, and quite unruly in situations such as this. “He’s not a real cop. It’s Stan Pulaski.”
I rolled down the window, and Stan stuck his melon head inside.
“Ellie? What are you doing in there?” He craned his neck to view Steve better. He pursed his lips then announced that the car smelled like a distillery.
“What can we do for you, officer?” asked Steve, barely concealing his annoyance.
“The sheriff wants us to shut down this lovers’ lane, sir.” Then he turned to me. “Where have you been, Ellie? Sheriff Olney’s been looking all over the county for you.”
Steve wasn’t happy when I left him in the lurch for Stan Pulaski and his cruiser. Twenty minutes later, Stan roared into the parking lot of the Montgomery County Administration Building and pulled to a gentle stop before the door to let me out.
“You should steer clear of fellows like that, Ellie,” he said. Stan was a little sweet on me. “There’s no future there.”
“I’m a big girl now, Stan,” I said.
He nodded, then his eyes rather glazed over slowly. “Your hair sure is pretty,” he said.
“Stan, tongue in mouth, please.”
“Sorry,” he said, taking up an official tone again. “Frank’s waiting for you. You’d better hurry.”
“Will you drop me home later? I lost my chauffeur.”
He smiled. “Sure, Ellie. Anytime.”
The outer office was empty except for Deputy Pat Halvey, who, bent at the waist, had thrust his head out the window and was looking at something across Route 40.
My voice surprised him and he jumped, whacking his crew-cut skull against the sash. The window, in turn, fell like a guillotine on his shoulders and pinned him to the sill.
“Darn it, Ellie,” he said, rubbing his neck once I’d freed him. “Make some noise when you come into a room, will you?”
“Stan says Frank’s looking for me.”
“In there,” he grumbled, throwing a thumb over his shoulder toward the sheriff’s office.
Frank Olney sat wedged between the arms of the swivel chair behind his desk, flipping through some papers. The chubby forefinger of his right hand was stuffed into the ringed handle of a mug of coffee, which he held aloft as if he had forgotten to drink once he had raised it. He struggled to his feet, managing to lift himself from his chair without resorting to the use of a derrick, and waved me inside with his left hand.
“Sit down, Eleonora,” he said, motioning to the aluminum chair in front of his desk.
I hate that name. It was a cruel joke of some kind, intended to make me seem interesting, but it sounds like something pulled out of a dusty, old carpetbag instead. My father said I was named for Eleonora Duse, the great Italian stage actress, and Eleonora of Toledo, wife of Cosimo I de’ Medici. I remember standing before a Bronzino painting in the Uffizi when I was ten, my father proudly pointing out my namesake. Eleonora was a beautiful, elegant lady with a fat little boy at her knee: her son Giovanni. Not far away, the same little boy, beaming from another Bronzino canvas, clutched a small, half-strangled bird in his chubby hand. I prefer to go by Ellie.
“Charlie Reese’s been looking for you for two days,” said the sheriff, retaking his seat. “Where do you disappear to?”
“I’ve been off since Thursday night,” I protested. “And I’m always around.”
He frowned. Frank was a prude who didn’t quite approve. “Anyways, Charlie called me yesterday,” he said, setting the coffee on the desk. “He needed to find you right away and thought maybe I could put out a goddamn APB on you.” He pushed his coffee to one side, rearranged a paper, then fixed his eyes on mine. “I’ve got some bad news for you. Your old man called the paper Friday morning from New York to tell you your brother’s grave was vandalized.”
A rotten thing for someone to do, for sure, but hardly deserving a statewide manhunt. “I see.”
“And they painted some swastikas on the stone.”
Worse. No Jew, no matter how assimilated, no matter how secular, can escape the morbid awareness that, born at another time in another place, he could have been one of six million. It’s a feeling of impotence in the face of a hatred you can do nothing to change. And while I had grown a thick skin about being Jewish in a Christian society, swastikas still stung me with waspish fury.
“Do they know who did it?” I asked.
The life drained from Frank’s eyes, betraying the weight of another obligation to fulfill.
“What’s this really about, Frank?”
The sheriff rocked nervously in his chair. “Charlie Reese says you got a wire from New York yesterday. Someone named Bernard Sanger. You know him?”
I shook my head.
Frank winced a bit, as if I were putting him out. “He said your father’s in the hospital.”
My father was an aggressive, dynamic man, impatient of the perceived failings of those around him. His frustration had always raised his hackles and his blood pressure, too. Had he finally blown his stack over some student’s ignorance of the differences between a Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnet? When I professed my indifference to those very distinctions one evening at dinner years before, he dismissed my argument with a wave of his hand.
“I know you relish the role of mock primitive, Ellie,” he bristled. “But you’re not as ignorant as you wish to make people believe.”
My mother scolded us for baiting each other.
“What was it, a stroke?” I asked the sheriff, who shook his head. “Did Charlie give you any details?”
Frank drew a deep breath, swiveled in his chair a bit, then explained in his typically delicate fashion that someone had broken into my father’s apartment and clubbed him on the head.
“The cleaning lady found him unconscious yesterday morning. This Sanger fellow says he’s at Saint Vincent’s Hospital.” He paused. “Critical condition.”
I stared dumbly at the sheriff for several seconds, struggling to reconcile his words with a reality I could accept. Finally Frank spoke.
“Can I get you some water, Ellie?”
My head was a muddle when I left the sheriff’s office a few minutes later. How was I supposed to feel about my father? We weren’t close, we certainly didn’t speak often, and then only to make perfunctory inquiries into the other’s health. We’d exchange lukewarm platitudes about the weather, the Giants, or the Yankees—yes, I follow sports, part of my one-of-the-boys charm—but there was a mountain of distrust and disquiet between us. He never asked me about my work, of which he had never approved, and he could barely disguise the churning resentment he bore me for the disappointment I had caused him on so many occasions. Newspaper scribbling did not conform to his idea of a noble and useful endeavor. The world needed journalists, to be sure, but Abraham Stone’s surviving progeny—local reporter and hack photographer for a small upstate daily—had fallen short of the promise of the Stones who had rolled before.
