Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel)

by Sandra Scoppettone

  "Like Hester Prynne?" Mark said.

  "Who's she?" Gildersleeve asked.

  "In the Scarlet Letter. A for Adulteress."

  Hallock said, "Or A for number one."

  LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO

  Last Friday afternoon the Jolly Dozen was entertained by Miss Florence Syer. At the opportune moment the girls were invited to partake of a red and white luncheon, after which Miss Syer entertained with a treat of classical music. Then the married members realized that time was flying, and husbands would soon be clamoring for something more substantial than a red and white luncheon and classical music. So the meeting was adjourned.

  THREE

  Colin explained that he wanted to write the story while it was still fresh in his mind.

  Mark said, "You have to eat, and it's not like we put the paper to bed tonight. Join us after you write the story."

  The four of them were standing in front of Gildersleeve's house, and Colin knew he had to get out of it. This wasn't the night to make new friends. "I'll see, Mark, okay?"

  Sarah said, "What'll you do, Colin, grab a slice of pizza or something?"

  That was exactly what he'd do. Pizza Heaven was almost as good as their local place in Chicago. Shit. He had Chicago on the brain tonight. "I have stuff at home," he said.

  "I think I'd better go," Annie said.

  The gate opened. Two men in white carried her out in a green body bag. Colin felt woozy again and reached out to touch the hood of the car for support. When he glanced at Annie he knew she'd seen. It pissed him off. Quickly, they each turned back to the body bag entering the ambulance. The door slapped shut.

  Annie touched Colin's arm. "I don't mean to be a pest, but if you're feeling shaky or anything, well, I could drive you home. You could get your car later or—"

  "No," he snapped.

  She backed away as if he'd hit her.

  Jesus, he kept making it worse. "Sorry. I didn't mean to... it's just that..." Just that what? How the hell could he tell her he couldn't ride in a car with anyone?

  "It's okay, don't worry." She smiled faintly. "Sarah, Mark, I won't say it's been fun. See you soon. It was nice to meet you," she said to Colin.

  He nodded, wanting to say something but unable to. And then she was gone, walking across the street to her blue Ford Escort.

  Mark said, "You sure have a way with women, pal."

  "Yeah, don't I? Talk about getting off on the wrong foot." He ran his thumb and forefinger down his black Zapata mustache.

  "Oh, Annie's not going to think anything of it, Colin. After all, it wasn't exactly an ordinary day."

  Colin felt it incumbent upon him to say something about what had happened to him. "Listen, I'm sorry about taking a dive like that."

  Mark put a hand on his shoulder. "No sweat, pal.”

  “We understand, Colin. As long as you're all right now."

  "I'm fine." It was obvious they didn't want to discuss it. He couldn't blame them.

  "So how about dinner?"

  The Griffings got in their car.

  "No. I want to write the story, grab something, get some sleep."

  "Leave him alone, Mark."

  "Nice big juicy steak you're gonna miss."

  "Thanks anyway."

  "See you Monday."

  Sarah said, "If you get lonely, come on over tomorrow."

  He thanked her, started for his station wagon, stopped. "Hey," he called, "who is she, anyway?"

  "Annie?" Mark asked. "She's the minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church. So long, pal."

  They pulled away, leaving him standing by his car, mouth open in surprise.

  Colin liked being in his office at night, one light on in the whole place. Some people might have found it creepy. To him it was cozy, safe. At the Chicago Tribune he was never alone, no matter the time. But he'd loved it. God, he'd been young and green when he started! Right out of the University of Michigan. That's when he'd grown the mustache to make himself look older. He hadn't fooled his editor.

  Ryan had said, "Kid, you can grow all the garbage you want on your face, but it don't mean kaka to me if you don't produce. Get it?"

  He got it. Still, he kept the mustache. It gave him confidence.

  Then it became a habit. Without it he'd feel naked; it was as much a part of him as his cleft chin.

  For four years they shuffled him around, and he covered obits, the courts, the suburbs, high school sports, the weather. It was mean. But he hung in and it paid off—he got the crime beat. Squalid and seamy as it sometimes was, he loved it. The excitement, the cops, the rhythm. He never understood why it spoke to him. Maybe it was the possibility of danger, an illusion of living on the edge. He didn't know. But he stayed in it for nine years until everything came down on him, until everything was over.

  Colin rubbed his eyes as though he were trying to wipe them clean. Maybe he was. He lit a Marlboro and blew a ring in front of him. He didn't want to think about that now, start it all up again. Jesus, couldn't he have just one free night? But this night was more unlikely to be absent of ghosts than any he'd had for a long time. Don't pick up the first thought, Dr. Safier had told him. It was good advice. So try it for once, goddammit!

  He turned away from his desk to his typing table, stuck a piece of paper in his old Royal. Mark kept making noises about getting computers, but meanwhile both of them used manual machines. He hit the keys.

  BODY FOUND IN MAYOR'S POOL

  Colin knew there wasn't a single person in Seaville or any of the towns on the North Fork who'd give that headline a pass. He also knew Gildersleeve was going to have a coronary. Too bad.

  He stared at the head, his two hunt-and-peck fingers poised on the keys. Nothing came to him. The trouble was, he kept thinking of Annie Winters. He kept seeing her smile and hearing her say his name. And thinking, too, of what an asshole he'd been.

  Reaching down into his bottom drawer he pulled out the phone book, flipped to the back, and ran his fingers down the W's. He found it right away.

  Winters, A., Rev.

  Could he just call up a reverend and ask for a pardon? Lifting the receiver, he punched out the number, then hung up. He did it again but this time let it ring.

  She answered on the third.

  "Hello," he said, "it's Colin Maguire."

  "Oh. Hello," she said, sounding surprised.

  "I just wanted to apologize. I acted very badly. I'm sorry."

  "Thank you, that's nice."

  He smiled. Most people would've said, "No need, it's okay, don't bother." She hadn't. He liked that.

  She said, "Are you feeling better?"

  "Yes, thanks. I hope next time we meet it'll be under better circumstances."

  "It's bound to be," she said.

  "Well, listen, I just wanted to say that to you. You were awfully kind."

  She didn't say anything.

  "Have you eaten dinner?" he asked impulsively.

  She laughed. "Yes, have you?"

  "Not yet."

  "Don't let Sarah know that—I think she wants to mother you."

  Smiling, he said, "I think you're right. Would you like to meet for a drink or something?" He was astonished, as if a ventriloquist were operating him. Jesus, what if she was married? He tried to remember if there'd been a ring but couldn't.

  "I'd like that," she said, "but I don't have my sermon written for tomorrow."

  He'd almost forgotten: Reverend Winters.

  "Another time?" she asked.

  "Sure. Why not?"

  A second of silence. "Thanks for calling, Colin."

  He said goodbye and they broke the connection.

  Slamming his hand down on the phone book he said, "Shit." Why did he have to say "Sure, why not?" like some teenager? Well, it had been a long, long time since he'd tried to date a woman. The few women he'd had contact with in the last three years were almost strangers. Casual sex. Not very satisfactory. But this woman was different.

  At least he knew o
ne thing: she wasn't married. She wouldn't have said she'd have a drink with him if she was. On the other hand, maybe she'd have a drink and try to convert him. What a joke if the old altar boy became a Unitarian Universalist—whatever the hell that was.

  No, Annie Winters wasn't married. So why not? Hadn't met the right guy? Or maybe she was divorced. Could ministers get divorced? He squashed out his cigarette in his metal ashtray. Enough.

  As he turned back to his typewriter he heard the light sound of a woman's footsteps coming down the hall.

  "Hello, Maguire." It was Babe Parkinson, feature writer for the paper.

  Colin figured Babe called him by his last name because she thought it made her sound more like a real newspaperwoman. Too many Roz Russell movies. He didn't feel like seeing Babe. "What brings you here in the dark of night?"

  "Murder," she said, an unnatural flush to her face as if the word excited her.

  "You heard?"

  "Everybody's heard. Sorry I missed it."

  "Yeah, it was great fun." He lit another Marlboro, coughed.

  "I didn't mean it like that. Mind if I sit down?"

  He gestured with an open palm. Babe sat in the wooden armchair across from him as Colin assessed her. There was no question about it, Babe was a stunning woman: a tall, cool redhead. She wore her hair in a French braid, and Colin found himself wondering what she'd look like with it loose.

  He watched as she alternately fussed with a plastic bag and the hem of her dress, pretending to try and pull it over her knees. She reached into the bag, took out a bottle of white wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew.

  "Celebrating something?" he asked.

  "I thought you might like it after what went on this afternoon."

  "How'd you know I was here?"

  "I saw your car." She handed him the bottle and corkscrew.

  He didn't like that much. Couldn't she open a dinky bottle of wine? She was far from helpless if what he'd observed in the last six weeks was true. His analysis of Babe Parkinson was that she was shrewd, calculating, aggressive, and on the make. For him as well as his job. Or maybe more. Maybe she wanted to be publisher. Nancy would've said he was thinking like a chauvinist pig. Oh, God.

  He opened the wine, poured two glasses, and slid one across the desk.

  "Should we drink to something?" she asked.

  He shrugged.

  "How about to Gloria Danowski?"

  "Who?"

  "Gloria Danowski, may she rest in peace."

  Colin was beginning to get the idea that this wasn't just a social visit. "Do you want to tell me about it or are we going to play twenty questions?"

  Babe smiled, a glint in her green eyes. "Gloria Danowski, age thirty-one, married to Hank Danowski, mother of Patti, age six, and Danny, age four. Home, One Twenty One Randolph Avenue, East Hampton. Last seen four weeks ago when she left home for a class at Southampton College. Only she wasn't registered for any class. Found today in Mayor Gildersleeve's Olympic-sized pool." She raised her glass, gestured toward Colin as if they might clink glasses, then took a long sip.

  Colin stared, not drinking. "East Hampton?"

  She took a pack of Kents from her purse and lit one with a silver Dunhill lighter. "East Hampton."

  "What's she doing over here?"

  "I don't know. Maybe she liked our pools better."

  "It's not funny, Babe. It's not a goddamn bit funny. This was a woman, a wife and mother. Have you thought about that?"

  "Oh, vicious, vicious," she said.

  "You're talking about a human being, not a statistic or a good story."

  "You mean it's not a good story?"

  "That's not the point. Forget it. So how'd you find this out? Who identified her?"

  "I did."

  "You did?" He was furious. Trying to calm himself, he took a sip of the wine.

  "In my trusty file cabinet," she tapped her head with a ringed finger. "I found a story about a missing woman."

  "We didn't print it, did we?"

  "Nope. Newsline. I remembered the husband was stunned, no explanation. Friends said Gloria was happy, loved hubby and kiddies, and would never ever have run away. Don't ask me how I made the connection, Maguire, because I don't know. Just dumb luck, I guess."

  Colin toyed with saying that nothing was dumb luck with her, then thought better of it. "Go on."

  "I called Danowski in East Hampton, asked if wifey had returned, he said no, so I told him about the floater. I met him at the morgue and he identified her. Simple."

  "Simple," Colin said, disgusted.

  Babe said, "You know, you're going to have to get a thicker skin, my friend. How'd you manage in the Windy City with that attitude?"

  "I managed," he said. "Does Hallock know?"

  "About Danowski? Yeah, I told him. Now I'm telling you. Too bad this is a weekly, you'd have a scoop."

  "Me? It's your baby, you dug it up."

  "It's yours, Maguire, I'm just the feature writer. Interviewing octogenarians who've lived here all their lives, writing pieces about local merchants who hand-dip candles and create art from shells, doing in-depth stories on the couple who turn the old church or schoolhouse into a showplace home. Babe Parkinson, girl grind."

  "If you hate it so much, why do it?"

  "I don't hate it, I love it. It's much better than sitting home baking cakes for some wimp who wants to play King For A Lifetime."

  "You really think a lot of men, don't you?"

  She smiled, her eyes going to half mast. "I think a lot about them. Especially some in particular." Her implication was clear.

  Colin said, "Did the M.E. have anything to say about Danowski?"

  "He hadn't worked on her yet." She sipped her wine. "You're not drinking, Maguire."

  "I'm not thirsty." He stood up. "I'm leaving."

  "It's early."

  He walked to the door. "If you're staying, turn out the light when you go."

  "I'm not staying." Babe left the glasses and grabbed the bottle by the neck. She snapped off the light and followed Colin down the hall.

  On the sidewalk she stood very near him while he locked the door. "Any chance the husband did it?" he asked.

  "He seemed broken up. But maybe he's a good actor. I guess they'll question him."

  "Whose jurisdiction will this be, East Hampton or ours?"

  "Ours. But there'll be cooperation." She moved closer to him, looked up into his eyes. "Speaking of cooperation."

  "Goodnight, Babe," he said and started walking toward his car.

  "You're a shit," she called after him.

  In his car he wondered if he was a shit. From the beginning he'd made it clear he wasn't interested. No, what he'd done was nothing. No encouragement but no discouragement either. Maybe he was a shit.

  Starting the car, he thought of Gloria Danowski. And then of her husband. What was he feeling tonight? Remembering, Colin thought he knew. But at least Danowski had his kids.

  LOOKING BACK—25 YEARS AGO

  An extended period of amnesty through June 30th has been granted to authorized gun holders, to permit them to turn them over to the police department, it was announced this week by Police Chief Charles Gildersleeve. Chief Gildersleeve urges that persons wishing to avail themselves of the amnesty period get in touch with the police department.

  FOUR

  They'd found her. Just the way he'd planned. It served that asshole Gildersleeve right. Putting her in his pool had been a perfect touch. It was like killing two birds with one stone. There was only one sour note. He wished Gloria's parents had been forced to identify her instead of the husband. After all, Danowski had nothing to do with it. It was the parents he wanted to suffer. And they would. They'd see her—in the coffin. He could picture the mother whining and crying, sniveling and wringing her hands, calling for her baby Gloria. The father would keep it all in, tough it out. But inside, his guts would be aching, like his own had ached all those years. Still ached.

  Should he go to the funeral?
he wondered. Better not. But he could imagine it. He smiled. When they lowered the coffin into the ground and Gloria's parents watched, that was the part he would be sorry to miss. Sorry to miss the dirt falling on top of the casket, shovelful by shovelful.

  He could still hear it even though it was all those years ago— that plopping sound, just as real now as it was then. So maybe Gloria Danowski's parents would dream about it long as they lived, like he did. Plop, plop, plop.

  And the kids, too. Why should they have it easy? Now they won't. They'll miss their Mommy. Good. He missed his Mommy, even now. And Daddy, too. He missed his Daddy. He missed his Mommy. I ain't had any satisfaction.

  Tears coursed over his cheeks and dripped from his face onto the desk. He put his head down. Thinking of Mommy and Daddy. Crying. Lonely. Little boy. All alone. Crying. Calling for Mommy. Calling for Daddy.

  Nobody came.

  LOOKING BACK—50 YEARS AGO

  At a late hour Saturday night, the quiet village of Seaville was awakened by the commotion caused by Fred Karenewski, who put up a stiff battle and resisted arrest after his erratic driving had caused him to collide with several other motor cars, driving motorists off the road and finally ending up by crashing through the grape arbor of his own residence.

  FIVE

  Standing on Richter's dock, looking out over the boats in the bay at six-thirty Sunday morning, Waldo Hallock felt as if he were at a turning point in his life. There'd been other turning points in his forty-eight years, but he hadn't had one in a long time.

  In the twenty years that he'd been chief, there had only been two murders in Seaville and both had been solved immediately. One was a transient who'd killed an old lady for a tin can that held twenty- six dollars and forty-two cents, and the other was a guy who'd murdered his wife in a jealous rage.

  A cool breeze came in off the bay and a dozen gulls squawked overhead. Hallock sniffed the air. Nothing else was quite like saltwater air. He'd smelled it all his life. Seaville was home; he wanted it to stay that way. And he wanted to remain chief of police.

  Hallock watched the ferry from Shelter Island as it made its way toward the Seaville dock. He could see there were only two cars aboard, and only one car waited to take the ferry back. It was a far cry from what it would be like when the season started. By mid- July cars would be backed up for blocks waiting to make the trip to the island, where they'd cross to a second ferry taking them to Sag Harbor and the Hamptons.