Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel)

by Sandra Scoppettone

  Turning his back to the water, his gaze took in the buildings at the foot of Center Street. Most of those on the south side had been built before the turn of the century, clapboard buildings with Victorian arches. Once they'd been homes but now they housed shops, restaurants, and the police station. On the north side of the street, a fire five years before had destroyed all but one or two buildings, and the new ones of brick and wood always jarred him. It was the same with the beach houses people were building now. They looked out of place with their modern angles and walls of glass, like girls at a formal dance wearing miniskirts.

  It wasn't that he was against progress, not a bit. But lots of people in Seaville were. There was always some kind of squabble going on at Town Hall about developers wanting to put up condos. One side claimed development would tax local services, drain the water supply, and jeopardize the preservation of open space. The other side invariably pushed the notion of more jobs for the locals. And if that was true, it was a good thing; there were never enough jobs. Especially for the young people who graduated high school or college and left the Fork as fast as they could. No, he wasn't against progress. What bothered him about condos was the way they looked. Dull. Like the bank.

  Four years before, the Seaville Bank & Trust, which was housed in the old Gillespie home, was torn down and replaced by a low brick job, characterless and cold. And it was happening more and more all over the North Fork. The new pushing out the old. That was something you expected on the South Fork, where the so-called Beautiful People congregated, but not here.

  Thinking of the South Fork brought his mind around to Gloria Danowski. Now he had this damn murder on his hands and the victim wasn't even somebody from town. Memorial Day weekend was six days away. Murder in Seaville could hurt the local merchants. That meant pressure. Who the hell wants to come to a resort town where there's been a murder? An unsolved murder. And goddamn, he knew Gildersleeve would be on his ass.

  He smiled in spite of himself, thinking about the mayor huffing and puffing over the woman in his pool. If it hadn't been so serious, he might have had a good laugh about it.

  The thing was, Hallock didn't believe that the murderer had chosen Gildersleeve's pool by chance. And that made him believe the perpetrator was a local. As Fran had said before they went to sleep last night, "It looks like this thing is going to be in your lap no matter what, hon."

  He'd taken her hand. They always went to sleep that way.

  "Don't worry," she said, "we'll get through it."

  And they would, too. Like they got through everything. Fran would support him the way she had all those years when he'd been chief over Charles Gildersleeve, Bob Phillips, and Pete Shaw who'd been demoted and stayed status quo because they couldn't pass the damn civil service test. They'd made his life one long misery and there'd been times, plenty of them, when he'd wanted to quit, but Fran had helped him go on.

  He'd say, "You don't know what it's like going to work every day with three men who hate your guts."

  She'd say, "Waldo Hallock, you weren't made chief of police at twenty-eight because you won a popularity contest. You got that job because you were smarter than anybody else, so don't be dumb now. Anyway, I didn't plot and plan to marry a quitter, did I?"

  "Poor guy, never had a chance," Hallock kidded about himself.

  It was a game they played. Fran and Waldo were the same age, had gone all through school together, but when he went into the Navy after high school he never gave her a thought. Not so with Fran. She'd always loved him, refused two proposals while she waited for him to come back. She knew someday she'd marry Waldo. And it was she who got in touch with him by inviting him to a party she was giving for a friend. The only reason for the party was so she could invite him. And that began a three-year courtship. It was only after they were married a few years that Fran admitted how she'd schemed to get him. So that was why he always said he'd never had a chance. But he adored Fran; never slept with, or even looked at, another woman since the party twenty-seven years ago.

  Now they were up against something once more. At least things at the station were okay. It was five years since the last of the old regime at work had gone. His men liked him now, all good guys.

  But even so, last night when he'd held her hand he'd prayed for a break in this case. An unsolved murder wasn't good for anybody: not the town and not him. Fran read his mind, as usual, and told him they'd get through.

  And they would. Maybe.

  The thing was he could never be sure Fran wouldn't get all involved in one of her causes, leaving little room for him and the kids, Since Cynthia, the youngest of their three, had gone to junior high, Fran had thrown herself into one cause, one march, one protest after another. At first he didn't mind, because he knew Fran was bored at home and needed something. But then she seemed to get obsessive about it, and everything else, like housework and cooking dinner, went all to hell.

  When he'd finally said something Fran got furious and called him a chauvinist, telling him to make his own damn dinner. And then the name-calling accelerated, and it turned into one of the worst fights they'd ever had. But that was nothing compared to the time she was arrested protesting the nuclear plant in Shoreham.

  Hell, he didn't think the damn thing should be there either, but a police chief couldn't go around expressing his private views and neither should a police chief's wife. And he'd told her that.

  She'd said, "Then maybe I just won't be a police chief's wife."

  He'd said, "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

  "You don't understand English, Waldo?"

  "What I understand is that you're making my life a misery."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yeah, it is."

  "You can leave any time you want, you know. If you're so miserable, why don't you just move out?"

  He had actually felt frightened. Fran had never said anything like that before. Even so he couldn't stop himself from saying, "Maybe I will."

  "Fine. When?"

  "Now." He'd stood there, unable to move or say anything more.

  Then she said, "So? What are you waiting for?"

  He'd marched upstairs then, pulled a suitcase from the top of the closet, knocking a bunch of boxes on the floor, slammed it on the bed, and depressed the catches. Shaking with rage and maybe a little fear, he was standing over the open empty suitcase when she came up behind him and put her arms around his waist.

  "This is dumb," she said.

  He'd felt so relieved that he'd immediately turned around and grabbed her in his arms. They'd made love then, long and luxuriously, and ended up feeling even closer than they'd felt before the Shoreham deal. Neither of them had mentioned the incident again until the following Thursday.

  Thursday was the day the Seaville Gazette came out. And there she was, smack on the front page, being hauled away by two bulls toward a paddy wagon. The fight started all over again, but this time no one spoke of moving out. It had taken almost three weeks for things to cool down between them, and finally Fran promised she wouldn't do anything again that might embarrass him. And she hadn't.

  Mark Griffing was another story. It seemed to Hallock that whenever he could, Griffing printed anything that would put Hallock in a bad light. The antagonism between them had begun almost from the first month Griffing had owned the paper.

  Hallock had gone to see Griffing to ask him not to print the victims' names in items he culled from the police blotter. The previous owners had agreed with that policy. Griffing had insisted Hallock was trying to impose censorship and he'd have none of it; he wasn't going to be under anybody's thumb. Hallock tried to point out that printing the names of burglary victims might encourage potential thieves. But Griffing wouldn't budge. From then on it had been open warfare between them. He expected Griffing to have a field day with this murder.

  "Hey there, Chief."

  Hallock turned to see his detective. "Hey there, Charlie."

  Charlie Copin was a good man. He was thirty-
five years old and had been with Hallock seven years. Four inches shorter than Hallock's six feet, he weighed about twenty pounds more. Copin wore a lightweight tan suit, white shirt, brown tie and brown oxfords. He was a pleasant-looking guy who smiled a lot and made you feel he was content, easy.

  "Taking the air?" Copin asked.

  "Yeah. And thinking."

  "'Bout the Danowski woman?"

  Hallock nodded.

  Copin said, "I been thinking, too. I been thinking maybe she was screwing somebody over here, ya know, and Danowski found out. Or maybe the somebody over here got tired of her. But whatever, Seaville's connected somehow. I mean, think about it. Who's gonna kill a woman in East Hampton, then take an hour driving to Seaville, 'cause sure as shit he didn't take no ferries over here with a body in the car, then risk everything putting that body in a pool. I mean, what for? 'Less you got a good reason, ya know? 'Less that pool has some significance."

  "I've been thinking along the same lines, Charlie."

  "Ya think it's possible Gildersleeve was banging this woman?"

  "Can't feature him doing it with anyone, but who knows? Still, he wouldn't put her in his own pool, would he?"

  "You mean because it would incriminate him?"

  "Right."

  "But, see, that's just it. That's what he'd count on, that we'd think that. See, who wouldn't say, why should a man kill a woman, then put her in his own pool? He'd just be counting on that. See what I'm trying to bring out, Chief?"

  "I do, Charlie. But I don't know. Gildersleeve's a mean son of a bitch but he's not dumb. He'd know we'd think of that sooner or later, and look how soon you thought of it. But how about this? The Danowski woman's sleeping with Gildersleeve and Danowski finds out, kills her, and dumps her in the pool."

  "I thought of that. It's a possibility. Wanna have a coffee?"

  "Sure."

  The two men walked off the dock, crossed the wide parking area, and went down the sidewalk past the police station, Roseanne's Dress Shop, and Alberton's Hardware, to the corner of Center and Main and the Paradise Luncheonette.

  The Paradise had been built fifty years before and hadn't been touched since, except for an occasional paint job. The style was art deco, with wooden booths and silvered mirrors. The same man built the movie theater.

  Copin and Hallock said hello to almost everybody in the place and took a booth near the back so they could keep talking in private. Vivian, the waitress, brought them each a coffee and Danish without waiting for their order. Hallock's coffee was black, Copin's light.

  Hallock said, "Then again, it might be somebody else who was banging the Danowski woman and had a grudge against Gildersleeve," just as though there'd been no break in the conversation.

  "But who?"

  "That's where you got to do some work, Charlie."

  Copin smiled because Hallock was always kidding him about being lazy, even though he didn't really believe it.

  "Well, if I have to, Chief," he said, putting on a face.

  Hallock said, "It's those cuts that worry me, Charlie."

  "I know what ya mean. Think it is an A?"

  Hallock nodded. "Sure looks like it."

  "So what's it mean? A for Adulteress or A for Number One?" Copin bit off a piece of Danish.

  "Or something else we got no way of knowing. Haven't had a whole lot of experience with murderers, but I've done some reading, just in case, you know, in case of the eventuality. There's practically no way to know what's in a killer's mind, the way he thinks. Maybe a psychiatrist could, but not us. So those cuts could mean almost anything."

  "I see what you mean. But let's just say, for the hell of it, let's just say that it is an A and it means Number One. Then we maybe got a serial murderer on our hands, right?" Copin lit a cigarette and blew out the match with a puff of smoke.

  "Could be. And unless we get him now, we got real trouble. But let's not jump to conclusions, okay?"

  "Right."

  "I want you to get over to East Hampton and run this thing down, Charlie. You got to talk to Gloria Danowski's parents and neighbors, find out who her girlfriends were, see what you can get about a boyfriend. Push Danowski a little. Not too hard, 'cause if the guy's innocent he's grieving."

  Copin nodded. Only Hallock would think of that. No other cop would care if the guy was grieving or not. He finished his coffee. "Guess I'll get going."

  They walked to the cash register, where Hallock paid. It was his turn.

  Outside on Main Street the village was beginning to come alive. Next to the Paradise, George de Walter was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his bar and grill, while just past him Elbert Palmer's barber pole was spinning endlessly. Across the street, Harry Townsend was dusting off the wooden Indian in front of his candy and newspaper store and Jake Hicks, the mailman, was walking past Gould's Spirit Shop on his way to buy the Sunday paper. Jake waved a hand at the two men, who waved back.

  Under his breath, Copin said, "Looks like Jake's put on a couple of pounds again."

  "Does it every winter," Hallock replied.

  Hallock and Copin parted company, and Hallock walked back along Center to the police station. Usually Sunday was his one day off but today was different. He'd miss Sunday dinner with Fran and the kids. He hated that. They always had his favorite meal on Sunday—roast beef, mashed potatoes, tomato aspic, green beans, and lemon meringue pie for dessert. Well, it couldn't be helped.

  Inside, behind the high desk, Frank Tuthill was ending the midnight-to-eight shift. Tuthill was twenty-eight, single, and eager. Hallock thought he had a hungry look, like a bird of prey, but he liked the man, trusted him.

  Tuthill said, "Telephone's going crazy, Chief. Seems like everybody and his brother's heard about the murder and knows who did it."

  Hallock raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Any good leads?"

  "Nada."

  "Got to follow them up anyway, Frank."

  "I know. I gottem all down here for Richie and Al," he said, tapping his pencil against a yellow lined pad.

  Richard Clark and Al Wiggins worked the eight-to-four shift, and Kathy Booth was the radio operator.

  Hallock went on into the back where his office was. It was a good-size room with two gray metal desks and one battered wooden one. The walls had been painted a light green ten years before, and the only other touch of color was some orange plastic chairs. Everything else was gray metal.

  He sat at his desk, took off his hat, and looked at the gold badge on it that said Chief. How long could he stay chief if he didn't solve this damn murder? Gildersleeve would use it, for sure. But why was he thinking so negatively? The hell with that. He was going to solve it and that was all there was to it.

  -------

  At nine o'clock, Colin Maguire sat across the desk from Hallock writing in his notebook. Hallock liked Maguire. There was something about him that spoke to the chief. He even liked the way Maguire looked, dressed. The droopy mustache was the only thing that was kind of off-putting, but Hallock suspected the man wore it to give some maturity to his boyish face. Still, he wondered what he'd look like without it, and planned to say something about the mustache when he got to know Maguire a little better.

  Colin said, "So the M.E. says no rape, huh?"

  "Hard to tell after all this time in the water, but there was no tearing or bruising there."

  "No semen either?"

  "No. But it doesn't mean she didn't have intercourse before. Just too much time has passed. And the water."

  "How long's she been dead?"

  "About a month. Cool weather kept her from really going bad."

  Colin nodded and tried to blank out the image. Quickly he asked, "What about the thing around her neck?"

  "Part of a sheet. The forensic boys will check that out."

  "And the cuts?"

  "Made with a sharp knife, serrated edge. Knife probably held in a fist, pulling downward and across. Done after death."

  "Do you have any more ideas about what the A me
ans?"

  "The thing is, Maguire, to you and me it looked like an A, but maybe it wasn't that at all."

  "True."

  "Could be anything."

  "But you think it's an A, don't you, Chief?"

  "Might be."

  Colin smiled, stuck the end of his pen in his cleft.

  "That how you got that thing?" Hallock asked.

  "Huh?"

  "The hole in your chin."

  He laughed.

  "Reason I say that is, my mother used to tell us boys a story about how she spent months twirling the eraser on the end of a pencil in her chin, trying to get a dimple there like Jean Harlow."

  "Did it work?"

  "Nope."

  "How about that A, Chief?" Colin asked, refusing to be distracted.

  "No kidding, Maguire, we don't know if it's an A or not."

  "So when will we know, when somebody turns up with a B?"

  Hallock frowned. "Not funny. And I mean what I say. Don't go writing that it was an A."

  "I can give an opinion, can't I?"

  "Guess so. But we don't want pandemonium around here. If you think about B, so is every bozo out there going to. It's bad enough what's going on." He cocked his head toward the outside office and the ringing phone.

  "You needn't worry, Chief. I'm not practicing to get a job on the Enquirer. I'll stick to the facts, play down anything else."

  "Thanks."

  "You'll keep me posted?"

  "Sure thing."

  The moment Colin left the phone buzzed on Hallock's desk. He picked it up. "Yes, Kathy?"

  She said, "Jim Drew's out here to see you, Chief."

  "Send him in."

  A moment later Drew came shuffling into the office looking rumpled and bedraggled as always.

  "H'lo, Jim. Sit down."

  "Thanks, Chief."

  Jim was thirty-one, a Vietnam vet, and new to Seaville three years ago. He ran a junk and antique business up on the North Road in an old barn.