Heart of Stone

Heart of Stone by James W. Ziskin Read Free Book Online

Book: Heart of Stone by James W. Ziskin Read Free Book Online
Authors: James W. Ziskin
that his recollection was most certainly correct, but in the end I thought better of it. Max delighted in our pity until he’d inhaled his second glass of port, at which point he excused himself and went to bed.
    â€œWhile you were out looking for Max, that Chief Terwilliger stopped in to ask about the photographs you took,” said Lena once we were alone. “He stood here in the kitchen staring at me open-mouthed until I offered him a cup of coffee. He told me he’d never really met a Jewess before. I told him that was nice, but he wasn’t my first bigot.”
    â€œI trust you threw out the cup he used,” I said.
    â€œSmashed it into a million pieces. By the way, that Isaac fellow came by about a half hour ago, asking what had happened to you. He looked disappointed.”
    I checked my watch. Twenty past ten. I wondered if the Arcadians had turned in for the night. They were on vacation, after all. I was still keyed up from the events of the day: two dead bodies, a wayward Cousin Max, and a terrifying close call with God-knows-what in the woods. And I hadn’t forgotten the news report about the escapee, Donald Yarrow, either. But the rain had stopped, and, though I dreaded the woods in the dark, I figured I might be up for a quick gallop over to Arcadia Lodge. It was no more than four or five hundred yards, after all.
    I yawned and rose to take my leave.
    â€œGood night, Aunt Lena,” I said, the hint of a smile curling my lips.

    August is hot in the Adirondacks, with temperatures regularly reaching the upper eighties. But the nights can be cool, especially when a thunderstorm has just passed. After a quick change into a fresh dress, I reestablished dominion over my bird’s nest of hair with a little water, a brush, and a couple of bobby pins. I dabbed some Touch and Glow onto my cheek to conceal the scratch I’d suffered during my escape earlier that evening. Then I rolled just a hint of pink onto my lips and slipped out the door.
    The night was still. No crickets after the rain. At the end of our short lane, I stepped onto Jordan Street and considered my options. I could turn left and follow the street for a quarter mile and circle around on Lake Road to reach Arcadia Lodge. I could avoid the woods completely with that route, but it would take me twenty minutes unless I ran. And that would put my hair back in the seaweed category. I didn’t want to take my car in case I got cold feet or the Arcadians had turned in. The headlights would be noticed. And, of course, Aunt Lena would surely hear. Cutting straight through the trees on the opposite side of Jordan Street would get me to Arcadia in four or five minutes on foot. I weighed the pros and cons of each route. Then, shaming myself for my timidity, I marched across the road and ducked into the woods.
    A soupy mist rose from the forest floor, testing my resolve from the very outset. The pine needles, sodden and sticky, caked my shoes as I snaked my way through the trees, but at least I heard no snapping twigs and encountered no marauders. My skin tingled nevertheless as I rushed through the last of the trees. Finally, having saved at least fifteen minutes with my shortcut, I emerged onto Lake Road. By all appearances, I was alone. The moon shone above, partially obscured by banks of clouds racing across its face. I smoothed my dress, brushed a rebellious strand of hair out of my eyes, and made my way up the path that led to Arcadia Lodge.
    I could hear music coming from the Great Lodge where the Arcadians shared meals and social events. A violin and piano. Bartók. Romanian folk dances, I was sure of it. I have this uncanny and rather useless talent for remembering music. My father used to show me off at dinner parties to his friends. A parlor trick. Bartók wasn’t exactly what I would have chosen for a sing-along, but the duo—especially the piano—was acquitting itself remarkably well.
    The doors and

Similar Books

No Escape

Josephine Bell

The Guardian

J.L McFadden

Saxon Bane

Griff Hosker

Phoebe Finds Her Voice

Anne-Marie Conway