Free Stone Cold Dead by James W. Ziskin

old black Smith-Corona with green keys, while all around her, younger women were clicking along on much newer machines. There were even a couple of stylish electric IBMs for the fastest girls. But Norma didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I fancied I could see a small grin on her lips as she typed.
    “Are you Norma Geary?” I asked.
    She continued typing without looking up at me. “Yes, and you’re Miss Stone.”
    How could she read, type, and speak at the same time? And to top it all off, she was chewing gum.
    I told her Charlie Reese had said she might be interested in helping me on the Darleen Hicks story. She stopped typing mid-word and beamed at me.
    “Yes, Miss Stone,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”
    I had an hour and a half to kill before the junior high let out. Not enough time to drive to the reform school and back, so I thought of my old friend, Sheriff Frank Olney. I wanted to talk to him about Darleen Hicks, but there was more to do still.
    “Norma, would you be able to look up a couple of things for me?” I asked, once she’d set up her desk in the City Assignments area where I sat. “I need copies of the Republic from December twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-third.”
    She scribbled the dates silently in shorthand on a pad. Then she looked up at me over her round glasses, which were tethered to her neck by a long, golden chain.
    “Yes, miss,” she said. “What else?”
    “And the Canajoharie paper, too. Same dates. You’ll probably have to drive out there. I can get you a voucher for gasoline.”
    “Yes, miss,” she said again, making a note. “The Courier Standard .”
    “Then I need the addresses and phone numbers of these girls.” I handed her the list of Darleen’s friends. “And finally, can you call the Fulton Reform School and make an appointment for me for tomorrow morning? I’d like to talk to a student named Joseph Figlio.”
    “That’s a rough place,” said Norma, finishing her notes with a flourish that broke her pencil nib. “I’ll take care of it.”
    “So that’s it,” I said. “It’s not too much?”
    “Not at all,” said Norma.

    The Montgomery County Administration Building was a few miles north of New Holland. I swung onto Route 22 and sped toward the Town of Poole. No problems from the Royal Lancer now. I patted the dashboard and encouraged her. Then I switched on the radio and heard the last strains of Johnny Burnette singing “You’re Sixteen.” “Western Movies” came on next, and I’d had enough. I twisted the knob to off and enjoyed the frozen landscape in silence. Why did I even bother with the radio? I was becoming as particular as my father when it came to music. Another thought to push to one side.
    “Eleonora!” boomed Frank Olney when I entered the warm office building. He knew I hated that name. He was standing over Deputy Pat Halvey, reviewing some papers. “What are you doing here?”
    “I just wanted to see my favorite cops,” I said.
    “Like fun you did. Let’s see, what cases have we had recently that might interest a clever reporter like you?” he asked, scratching his bald head. “It wouldn’t be that teenage girl who ran off, would it?” He squinted an accusatory eye at me.
    “You see right through me, Frank,” I smiled.
    “Yeah, well, you’re pretty transparent that way, aren’t you? I’ll bet you think she didn’t run off at all. You think there was foul play.”
    “I don’t know what I think yet. But I’m here to cover the bases.”
    Frank hunched over and started to pour himself a mug of coffee from the percolator when he realized the machine was empty.
    “Damn it, Halvey,” he roared at the deputy. “I told you to make sure there was always coffee. Now what can I offer Ellie?”
    “There’s a doughnut,” said Pat. “And we can make some tea.”
    “Tea? What is this? A garden party? Make some damn coffee!” Then he motioned for me to follow him inside to his office.
    “Sorry, Ellie,