Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel)

by Sandra Scoppettone

  He smiled, showing small uneven teeth. "Then Friday?"

  "No. Sorry." Before he could ask again she added, "I don't think it would be a good idea, Burton."

  "What do you mean?"

  She felt she must be forthright. "I gather you mean to invite me to dinner in a—a romantic way. If I accepted, it would be unfair."

  "Is there someone else?"

  Colin, she thought. Stupid. "No, not really."

  "I never know what 'not really' means," he said acidly.

  "There's no man in my life at present." That should be direct enough, she thought.

  "Then why can't you have dinner with me?

  "Because I don' t want to give you the wrong idea. I like you, but I'm not interested in you as anything but a friend."

  "How do you know?"

  "I don't feel I have to go into all my reasons. I think you should accept my answer like a gentleman."

  His face folded, cheeks sucked in as if she'd slapped him. "I see." He moved past her to the door, stood with his back to her. "Is it something I've said or done?"

  For a moment she wanted to comfort him, but knew it might seem patronizing. "No, it's not you," she lied. She couldn't bear to hurt him further.

  "Thank you," he whispered, and left.

  She felt terrible. In divinity school they'd talked about this sort of thing happening and how to handle it, but it was much different in reality. Burton Kelly was a living, breathing human being and she'd rejected him. She only hoped his fragile ego was left intact with her inference that the failure was on her part, not his.

  Damn you, Bob, she thought. If you'd lived, this sort of thing wouldn't come up. I wouldn't have pathetic Burton Kelly asking me out. Then she thought, I wouldn't be having dinner with Colin Maguire either. For the first time since he'd asked her she knew she really wanted to go. The knowledge surprised her. And pleased her, too.

  LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO

  One of the best and most successful conventions ever held by the W.C. T.U. of Suffolk County met in Seaville last Monday. The churches, the schools, and the members and friends of the local Union extended a most cordial welcome to the delegates. The sincerity of this welcome was proven on every hand by the open churches, the tasteful decorations, the generous hospitality, and the beautiful music.

  NINETEEN

  As planned, the women arrived before Hallock left for the station. There were four. Julia Dorman was the youngest at twenty-nine. Divorced for a year, she was tall, angular, and blond. At fifteen she'd had a botched abortion in the back room of a bar and now couldn't have children. Hallock thought it accounted for the downward turn of Julia's mouth.

  Anne Hulse was the oldest of the five. Born in Poland, she immigrated to America at nineteen, married Bob Hulse at twenty, and lived in New York City most of her married life, while summering in Seaville. Three years before, they'd moved to Seaville full-time. Anne's sweet smile and tender gaze gave her a beatific look. Her only child was married to a black man. Although Anne was far from being racist, she admitted that Mary's life had been made difficult because of the interracial marriage.

  Florence Barker was middle-aged. Her delicate features were framed by copper-colored hair, and when she smiled she was almost pretty. But she seldom smiled; her mother-in-law lived with Florence and her husband, and the situation was barely tolerable.

  Sandy Roach, thirty-seven, married to a science teacher at Seaville High, was like the group mascot. She was small and feisty and always urging the women on to one more cause, one more meeting. Hallock thought of her as a perennial cheerleader, with her short, yellow curly hair, pink cheeks, cherry-red mouth. Her indefatigable nature made her a champion of more causes than any of the others. She would be invaluable in this cause.

  In fact, they all would. Hallock was pleased that Fran had been able to enlist these particular women and had told her so the night before.

  Four new telephone lines had been installed. The phones were all touch-tone, all black.

  Hallock stood near the door of the living room watching the women settling themselves, taking from their purses cigarettes, cough drops, tissues, combs. Then he cleared his throat.

  "First of all, I want to thank you for helping us out. I know you're all busy gals, and sparing me this time is really appreciated." He thought he sounded stupid. He'd never been good with bunches of women, so why'd he expect this to be any different? "I guess Fran's told you a little bit about what we're going to try and do."

  "She gave us a sketchy idea," Sandy said.

  Julia said, "Is it true you don't have a clue to the identity of this killer, Chief?"

  Hallock bit the inside of his cheek. How could he pretend he had an idea, a suspect, when he was asking them to help him in this way? "That's right, Julia. Hate to admit it, but it's the truth. That's why I need you gals so badly."

  "Do you think you could stop calling us gals, Waldo?" Julia said tersely.

  "Huh?"

  "Gals. We don't like being called gals."

  "Why not?" he asked innocently.

  Julia waved a dismissive hand in his direction. "It's too long to go into now." She turned to Fran. "Haven't you taught him any better?"

  "Let's get on with it, okay?" Fran said, keeping her voice as even as she could.

  "Fine by me," Julia responded.

  Hallock continued to gnaw at his cheek. This was worse than addressing the Rotary. "Sorry if I offended."

  Anne said, "Waldo, please go on. We wish to hear what you have to say."

  He smiled at her, feeling a little better. "As you probably know each victim has been found with an A..." Having to say it aloud to these women made him feel really lousy. "Found with an A cut into their—bodies."

  Florence said, "How'd you know it was an A?"

  "It looked like one. We think this A is a very important clue. It could be the killer's initial. But we don't know if it's the first or the last initial."

  "Or if it's an initial at all," Julia put in.

  "That's right," he mumbled.

  "So," she said, "to coin a phrase, we're shooting in the dark."

  "Yes."

  "You know, Julia," Sandy said, "you don't have to do this if you don't want to."

  "I just want to know the facts, that's all. Is it so terrible to get the lay of the land, so to speak?"

  "Julia's right. I want you to know everything. And I intend to tell you everything in due time," he said pointedly. "I have no idea if this will work, but I want to try it." From a side table, he picked up five copies of the Yellow Book, the community directory, and passed one out to each of them. "There are about one hundred ninety- two pages that we have to cover in here. The last names starting with A's will be easy. One of you can just go through with a yellow marker." He got these from the drawer of the table. "Highlight everything that isn't a store or business of some kind.

  "That leaves twenty-five letters, five for each of you. You can divide them up any way you want. Now, it's not just the first initial that's important. A middle initial is just as good."

  "Because some people are called by their middle name even though they list their first name in the book. Right, Waldo?" said Sandy.

  "That's right," he smiled. He took Fran's book, flipped it open, ran a finger down a page. "See, like this: Goodridge, Robert A."

  "Do we run the marker over those?" Anne asked.

  "Yes. There are about twenty-five thousand names you'll have to go through, five thousand each. Don't rush it. The one you miss could be the one we want most."

  "I don't understand," Julia said obstinately. "What good is this going to do?"

  "In a couple of hours I'll be back and tell you the rest," he stalled. He was meeting with Maguire in fifteen minutes to work on the questionnaire. "So, are there any more questions?" He prayed there weren't, avoiding Julia's eyes.

  Florence said, "Are we going to be calling these people, the ones we're underlining?"

  "What do you think all these phone
s are for, Florrie?" Julia said.

  "I guess," she said meekly.

  Hallock felt sorry for Florence. "Later on you'll be calling the people you've underlined, yes."

  "What will we say to them?" Sandy asked.

  "That's what I'm going to tell you later. Okay, ga—ladies, I—"

  "Just as bad, Waldo," Julia interrupted.

  "Oh, Julia," Anne said, "don't."

  Julia said, "He needs his consciousness raised."

  "I'll walk you out," Fran said.

  "Thanks, all," he said, playing it safe. "See you later." On the front stoop Hallock said through his teeth, "What the hell am I supposed to call them?"

  “Women.”

  "Women?"

  She nodded.

  "I'm supposed to say, thank you, women?”

  "Forget it, hon'."

  "Thank you, women," he said again, puzzled.

  "Thanks, all, was just super, Waldo."

  "I think it's stupid," he sulked. “Thank you, women."

  "Look, I don't want to start World War Three, but you'd say, thank you, men, wouldn't you?"

  "It's different."

  "It's not."

  "Is."

  "Isn't."

  "Is."

  "Waldo, what's stupid is this."

  "You're right. I got to go, check in with Schufeldt, meet Maguire." He kissed her on the cheek.

  "Come here," she said, pulling his head toward her, kissing him on the lips.

  "Nice," he said. "You're some kinda ladygal."

  She laughed. "So long gentlemanguy."

  "Oh, you're a hoot, you are," he said, going down the steps.

  "Waldo?" she called.

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't let Schufeldt get to you."

  "I won't." Famous last words, he thought.

  Colin sat in a back booth at the Paradise nursing a cup of black coffee. Hallock was late. Colin wondered what the chief wanted. He hadn't indicated on the phone, just said he needed his help. It was bound to be about the three murders, but how could he help?

  He shouldn't have told Mark he was going out to meet Hallock, but he couldn't have predicted Mark's reaction.

  "What do you mean he wants your help?"

  "Just that. I don't know what it's about."

  "Are you slipping or what?"

  There it was again, the soft edge of criticism—a feeling that Mark was trying to undermine him. "Slipping?" He tried to sound casual.

  "You didn't ask Hallock?" Mark said acrimoniously.

  "I asked, he didn't answer. He said he didn't want to talk about it over the phone."

  "I think he's getting flaky. He's never had a murder to solve before, now he has three of them."

  "I don't know, he doesn't seem flaky to me. Just cautious."

  "Cautious, hell. Behind the eight ball is what he is."

  "Maybe, but he's got some kind of plan."

  Mark laughed derisively. "Waldo Hallock's never had a plan in his life. You don't really know this guy, Colin."

  "No, not well, but—"

  "Not well? Not at all."

  There was no use in arguing the point.

  "Suppose I say you can't go?" Mark said.

  "Come on, what's this all about?"

  "It's about wasting time, Colin, that's what it's about."

  "If you don't want me to go, I won't go. But I don't know what you're afraid of."

  "Don't be an asshole. What do I have to be afraid of?"

  "You tell me."

  "Go on, big-time crime reporter, get the hell out of here. But when you come back with egg on your face don't blame me."

  Annoyed, Colin left. Walking toward the Paradise, Mark caught up to him.

  "Hey, pal, listen," he said, a hand on Colin's shoulder, turning him around. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me... yeah, I do."

  Colin waited.

  "I spoke to Amy this morning. It screwed me up. You know how it is."

  In fact, Colin didn't know how it was.

  "Forget everything I said, okay, pal?"

  "Consider it forgotten," he answered grudgingly.

  Sitting in the Paradise, Colin hadn't forgotten any of it. He didn't believe Mark but he didn't know why. Maybe he had talked to Amy, maybe it had even upset him, but Colin didn't think for a moment that Mark's attack had anything to do with Amy. There was only one reason Mark behaved the way he had: He was in a jealous rage. He couldn't stand Colin's good relationship with Hallock. Although it was nothing new, and Mark had previously said he was glad Colin got on with Hallock, something about this was out of sync and it nagged at him.

  Hallock, mouth set in a grim line, approached the booth. "Son of a goddamn bitch!"

  "What's up, Chief?"

  "Son of a frigging bitch!" He sat down and slammed the table hard. "That ass-backwards moron! Christ Almighty!" His mouth was tight, shoulders in a dispirited droop.

  Colin waited, lit a Marlboro.

  "Schufeldt," he hissed, sounding like a steam engine.

  One look at the macho wonder boy and he'd known there'd be friction between him and Hallock, so he wasn't surprised at the chief's outburst. "What happened?"

  "The fucker's decided the mark's not an A."

  "Yeah? What is it?"

  "You ready? It's a cult marking."

  "A what?"

  "A cult marking. You know, the mark of some loony-tunes group like Hare Krishnas or Moonies or some damn thing."

  Colin thought maybe Schufeldt might be onto something.

  "What's that look in your eye, Maguire?"

  "No look."

  "Bull."

  "Tell me why he thinks that?"

  "Who the fuck knows? You think he lets me in on his thought processes? Doesn't even let himself in on them. Coupla days ago he's dragging in all the sex offenders, even though I point out to him that's not our guy's M.O. So now he wants to bring in any weirdos. Eighty percent of the Fork are weirdos, I tell him." Hallock laughed.

  "What'd he say?"

  "Nothing. Just gives me this look supposed to be hardass or some such. The bastard thinks he's Clint Eastwood."

  Colin smiled. "I wish you knew why he thinks it's a cult marking."

  "What the hell difference does it make?"

  "Maybe he's got something."

  "You kidding me? Forget about it."

  Colin shrugged. "You never know, Chief."

  "I know." He jabbed a thick thumb at his chest.

  Colin could see this was not a line of inquiry to pursue. Still, you never knew. Maybe he should investigate this on his own. "So why're you so bugged about it?"

  Hallock leaned forward, lowered his voice. "Because the stupid bastard is rounding up whoever he thinks is weird, going to bring 'em in, grill 'em. I mean, shit, Maguire, we don't do stuff like that around here. Thing is, he wanted me to go out, round the loons up. No way, Jose, I tell him."

  "What'd he say?"

  "Said if I didn't he was going to report me."

  "Who to?"

  "I don't know. Gildersleeve, I guess. Town board."

  "Did you say again you wouldn't do it?"

  "I said nada. Just walked out. Came here." He took off his cap, dropped it on the seat beside him and ran a crumpled handkerchief over his sweaty brow.

  "Hey, Chief," Vivian said, "I didn't see ya come in."

  "S'okay, Viv."

  "Want a coffee an' Danish?"

  "Just coffee."

  "Refill for you?"

  "Yes, thanks."

  "Comin' up."

  Colin said, "So what are you going to do?"

  "Nothing. I mean, I'm not cruising around looking for what he calls weirdos."

  "What does he call weirdos?"

  Vivian placed a cup of coffee in front of Hallock and filled Colin's cup.

  When she was gone Hallock said, "He says, 'You got any homos around here?' Well, Jesus, Maguire, this is a resort town a hundred miles from New York City, it's like asking you got any Jews in Israel."


  Colin laughed. "A quarter of the businesses are run by gays, from what I've seen."

  "You'd better believe it. You think I'm going to pull them in for questioning? I mean, for instance, can you feature me dragging in Harriet and Ginny from the card shop, giving them the third?"

  Colin shook his head.

  "Let the bastard make a federal case against me, I'm not wasting my time with his bullshit. Not going to embarrass a lot of nice folks 'cause this little prick's a Falwell follower or whatever. You start pulling in what he calls weirdos, next thing you have him arresting all the Democrats, or all the blonds with blue eyes, if you see what I mean." Hallock took a large swallow of coffee. "Ah, hell, Maguire, it's a dog's life."

  He stifled his laughter. "C'mon, Chief, it's not that bad."

  "No? I'll tell you, it's pretty bad, bringing in this hotshot from the troopers, telling me how to run an investigation when he doesn't know his dick from his elbow. Not my fault this killer's some smart Joe. Jesus, Maguire, not a goddamn clue in three murders. No prints, no hair samples, no blood samples, not a goddamn thing." His body slumped in the booth as if the puppeteer had dropped his strings.

  Colin thought Hallock looked old. "It's tough, Chief, I know. But what about your plan?"

  "Oh, yeah, the plan," he said unenthusiastically.

  "You sounded excited about it on the phone."

  "I don't know, it seems like a million-to-one shot now."

  "Tell me anyway."

  Hallock outlined the plan for Colin, filling him in on his early morning meeting with the women, ending with his idea of the questionnaire.

  "What kind of questionnaire?"

  "That's where you come in. I want something that sounds like a survey, not too long, but meaningful, give us an idea of the person. See who we can rule out. Narrow it down."

  "You realize the killer may not have a phone?"

  "Yeah, I know. Might not have a phone; might not be an A; if it is an A, might not be the initial of a name. Yeah, I know. But I got to do something, Maguire. I got to try."

  "Okay, let's think about the questionnaire."

  They sat in the Paradise for more than an hour, trying hundreds of ideas, rejecting most. In the end they came up with ten questions. Colin read them out to Hallock.