Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel)

by Sandra Scoppettone

  LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO

  During the electrical storm Saturday night or early Sunday morning, the barn of John Fleet of Seaville was struck by lightning and a colt owned by his son, E. D. Fleet, was killed. It was a valuable colt and thought a great deal of by his owner. The telephone in the house was also burned out.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Driving to the Carrolls', Colin wondered about the chief's request to not tell Mark what they were doing. Was Hallock afraid Mark would purposely hinder their investigation? Or was it something Hallock wasn't about to let him in on?

  Along the road Colin noticed a few yard sales. Nobody seemed to be attending them. Was this more evidence that the tourist season was off in Seaville? Perhaps if he was a businessman on the Fork or if he had a wife and children, he would have been screaming for Hallock's hide too.

  Sticking a Marlboro between his lips, he shoved in the car lighter. Did Hallock think Mark knew something about the murders he wasn't telling? Suddenly Colin pulled into a side street, turned around, reentered the main road, and headed back the way he'd come. The Carrolls could wait.

  By the time he crossed the causeway into Point Haven, he was beginning to have doubts, thinking maybe he was nuts. Still he didn't turn around. He realized this had been in the back of his mind since Friday, but now it jumped to the front like a page in a child's pop-up book.

  Point Haven was the most exclusive town on the Fork. Old money dominated. Point Haveners were snobs and thought the rest of the Fork was tacky. The houses here were old, large, lavish. But more and more outsiders were buying land, throwing up modern houses and, according to the natives, spoiling the place.

  Slowing the car, Colin started looking at street signs. Mark had told him that Amy Stauber lived on Love Lane and, winking, said how apt it was. Colin recalled that the street was near the Candy maker on the main road. He spotted it and turned. Amy had designed her own house—a rectangular shape painted pink, purple, and blue.

  Mark said it drove the natives wild. The house was halfway down the block, back about fifty feet from the road. The land around it was bare. He pulled in next to a green Austin. For a moment he thought he should leave. What was he going to learn here, anyway? But his curiosity smothered his doubts.

  Standing next to the car he stared at the house. He'd never seen its equal. It was long and low and painted as Mark had described. Smiling, Colin couldn't help liking Amy for doing something a little different, and he was glad it drove the old money types nuts.

  At the bright pink door he used the lion's head brass knocker. There was no response at first, but by the time he'd knocked again he heard footsteps inside.

  "Who is it?" a woman asked.

  "Amy?"

  "Who is it, please?"

  "My name's Colin Maguire. I work for Mark Griffing."

  For a moment nothing stirred, then Colin heard her unsnap a lock. When the door opened he was stunned. "Are you Amy Stauber?"

  "Yes." She was at least thirty-five, definitely not a kid. But she was beautiful. At least that much was true. She was tall and had long silver hair parted in the middle. Her hazel eyes were large. The broadcloth shirt she wore was blue with a button-down collar, and her jeans were tight, showing off a spectacular figure. On her feet were worn blue espadrilles.

  "May I come in?"

  "Has something happened to Mark?"

  "No. He's fine. I'd just like to talk to you for a moment."

  "Did Mark send you?"

  "No."

  "I don't understand, then. What's this about?"

  "Please, this is important."

  "How do I know you're who you say you are?" A thin line of sweat outlined her upper lip.

  Colin realized she was frightened. Maybe she thought he was the murderer. "Don't you recognize my name from the paper?"

  "I don't read the paper," she said coldly. "Do you have any identification?"

  He showed her his press card.

  "Okay. Come on in."

  The house was pleasantly cool and smelled of cedar. Bamboo furniture from the forties filled the living room. The pillows were covered in a cotton fabric splashed with color on a black background. Plants were everywhere. A wooden fan hung from the ceiling.

  Amy told him to sit. "So what's up?" she asked.

  "I want to talk to you about Mark?"

  "Did Sarah send you?"

  "No one sent me."

  "What do you mean, you want to talk about Mark?"

  He wasn't sure what he meant. Part of him kept thinking if he didn't say it out loud it would go away; the other part knew it was too late for that. Still, all his reportorial skills seemed to vanish. "I know you were close once," he said awkwardly.

  She laughed, a dimple dotting one cheek. "Oh, that's cute."

  "I'm sorry. I don't blame you for laughing. I'm having a little trouble here. Mark's an old friend. I guess I feel disloyal."

  "So why'd you come?"

  "A good question. Mind if I smoke?"

  "I'll get an ashtray."

  He watched her cross the room and open a low bamboo cabinet. This woman was very different from Sarah. There was something fluid in Amy's movements, so opposite to Sarah's frenetic style, her constant motion. Sarah said chaos where Amy said serenity. He couldn't imagine her threatening suicide.

  She handed him an ashtray. In its center in gold script was Martha and Allen 1972. He looked at Amy, questioning.

  "I collect them. I've got about seventy-five. It's sad, isn't it?"

  "Sad?"

  "Well, take Martha and Allen for instance. Married in 1972, divorced when? I mean, forget it, you wouldn't give that thing away if you were still married, would you?"

  He thought of his brother's wedding, the ashtrays with Brian and Maggie scripted in the center. "I think ashtrays like that are favors at the wedding reception. Everybody gets one."

  "Oh. You mean it's the guests that are giving these things away, not the bride and groom?"

  "Probably. Maybe the bride and groom sometimes. Like you said, when they split up." Amy looked so crestfallen he wanted to amend everything he'd said, start over. "It's still a great thing to collect."

  "Yeah, well. I'm having a beer, you want one?"

  "No, thanks."

  He lit his cigarette, thinking maybe he should get the hell out of here and leave this woman alone.

  When she came back, a Pabst can in her hand, she sat across from him. "So what about Mark?"

  "First I'm going to ask you not to tell Mark that I was here. I know your loyalty is to him, not me, but our talk could be very important."

  "Hey, forget it. I don't talk to Mark anymore."

  Colin felt a thud to his stomach, as if he'd been punched. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Just that. We don't speak. Period. Look, I don't know if you know the whole story, but as far as I'm concerned Mark Griffing is one lousy bastard. I mean, sure, it's not all his fault, it takes two to tango, but forget it, this guy's the pits. I went to work for him as a reporter and—is that what you are?"

  He nodded. "And managing editor." What the hell was this woman talking about? Was she lying because she didn't want him to know the affair had started up again? Or was she telling the truth?

  "So I went to him as a reporter, and he puts me on sports, and that was okay even though I'm not a sports fan. Later I asked him to switch me over to features, the soft stuff. Forget it, he makes a pass at me instead. Look, I was lonely. I didn't know anybody here, ten months out of a bad marriage, you know how it is. Anyway, one thing led to another and we were having an affair. To tell you the truth, Colin—it's Colin, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "To tell you the truth, Colin, I fell in love with the guy. I felt lousy because of Sarah and the kids, but I know these things happen. What can you do? So after we've been sleeping together six, seven months Mark tells me he wants to divorce Sarah and marry me. I'm ecstatic. But does he ask her for the divorce? Forget it. Days and weeks a
nd months go by, and finally I'm up to here." She held her hand under her chin.

  Confused, Colin asked, "What about last Friday morning?"

  "Friday morning?"

  "Yes."

  "What's wrong? You look strange. Are you all right?"

  He felt sick. If Mark lied about where he was last Friday then ... Colin couldn't stand to finish the thought. Still, he had to know. "This is very important, so please don't lie. I'm not going to tell anyone, not Sarah, not anyone. Please tell me the truth. Didn't Mark come to see you last Friday?"

  "Mark? Come here? Forget it. Aren't you listening? I haven't talked to Mark Griffing in six months."

  ----

  Ethel and George Bennett, their shoulders and thighs touching, sat on the Broyhill couch of their living room suite. The Bennetts were tiny people: he was not more than five four, she barely made five feet. They were both in their early sixties, but Hallock thought they looked much older. He wondered if they'd aged since their daughter was murdered.

  George was saying, "Gloria never gave us any trouble, did she, Mother?"

  "Not one minute. In fact, she was the best behaved of our children," Ethel answered.

  "That's right. Now, Cheryl was a different story," George said. "Cheryl was always getting into fixes, isn't that right, Mother?"

  Ethel Bennett nodded her gray permanented head. Her eyes grew smaller behind thick lenses. "It's a fact. Cheryl was boy crazy. Still is, I guess. I pity poor Leonard. That's her husband. Her second one."

  George poked Ethel with his skinny elbow, signaling her not to give out too much detail to strangers. She sat up straighter, knees together.

  Hallock said, "Can you think of anyone who might've been an enemy of Gloria's?"

  The Bennetts turned to one another, found no answer, then looked back at Hallock.

  "Can't think of a soul. Gloria was always popular. You know she was a cheerleader in high school," George said, as if he were telling Hallock his daughter was an ambassador.

  Hallock nodded, smiling. He wasn't getting anywhere. "How about you folks? I don't mean to be rude, but you never know what might be important. Anything about you the police should know?" So what if he was doing a little fudging here and there about who the authorities were.

  "Well," George said, "I can't speak for Ethel, I didn't know her until she was twenty, but as for myself, I'm headed for sainthood." He cackled, then looked at his wife for confirmation.

  Ethel seemed disgusted and inched her body away from him.

  "Mrs. Bennett?" Hallock asked.

  "What kind of thing do you mean?"

  "Anything out of the ordinary. Some event that was different than your everyday life happenings."

  "Like what?" she asked.

  "Maybe an argument you had thirty years ago with somebody

  you haven't seen since. Being stuck in an elevator with strangers. Or winning the lottery." He smiled.

  "We don't buy lottery tickets," she said.

  Hallock thought he was going to go crazy.

  George said, "The thing of it is, Chief, we don't have unusual events happening to us. See, we're just plain people, if you know what I mean."

  Hallock nodded and picked up his chief's hat from the table where he'd laid it. "Well, folks, I want to thank you for your help."

  The Bennetts got up as if they were one person. George held out his hand to Hallock. "Glad to help, Chief, any time."

  "Now, should you think of anything, anything at all that strikes you as something we should know, please call. You might think it's silly, but don't let that stop you. I'm going to give you a special number." He reached into his pocket for Maguire's number and handed it to George.

  "A special number, huh?" He looked pleased, as if finally he'd been singled out for privilege.

  "My assistant, Detective Maguire, will probably take the call. We have a special task force working on this. But it's undercover so you don't want to go telling your friends about it, you understand?" He had to protect himself somehow.

  "We'll be thinking on it, won't we, Mother?"

  She nodded.

  Hallock placed his hat on his head. "You just keep thinking. Thanks for your time."

  He drove around the block before he took off his hat and laid it on the seat. The next step was to drive to the same gas station where he'd switched clothes earlier and change back to his civvies.

  He couldn't help wondering if this was another futile maneuver guaranteed to make him look like a horse's ass. Glancing at his watch he saw it was three-ten. He'd booked himself on a six o'clock plane to Miami Beach. There was no reason he should hang around until tomorrow, cooling his heels. He hoped he had enough time to pick up his bag, call Maguire, and get back to Riverhead, where he'd get the limo to the airport. If he missed Maguire he could always call him from Miami.

  Should he phone Fran? he wondered. He couldn't face it. But suddenly he found himself missing her terribly, wishing she was going with him. A second honeymoon, maybe. And then he recalled her sitting in the back row of the Town Hall, doing nothing while that bitch, Julia Dorman, ripped him up one side and down the other. Ah, hell, he thought, there's just some things a man's got to do alone, and going to Florida to see Ruth Cooper's folks was one of them.

  ----

  Colin lay on his bed smoking. Even though the blue Levolor blinds were drawn, the sun snaked its way in around them. He had plunked two pillows behind his head and put an ashtray on his stomach.

  He and Annie had finally made contact around three. She'd sounded strange. He'd asked to see her later, and she'd told him no because of some group she held on Sunday nights. He found himself wondering if it was true, but she didn't seem to be the lying type. They'd made a date for the next night. She'd offered to cook dinner for him again. He hadn't refused.

  Then Sarah had called, inviting him up for dinner. But he couldn't face Mark. Not yet. Maybe never.

  What the hell was he going to do? When Hallock called he'd told him about his fruitless interviews with the Higbees and the Carrolls, saying nothing about Mark or Amy. But just how long could he keep it from Hallock? And what the hell did it prove anyway?

  He wished he'd never gone to Amy's. But he'd had to go. His doubts had left him no choice. Still, he'd wanted Amy to confirm what Mark had told him, not the other way around. He mashed out his cigarette, took a long swig from his Tab, then lay back on the pillows.

  It was impossible to think that Mark was the killer. But he'd had the opportunity in at least three cases. Colin had gone to the office after leaving Amy's and checked Mark's calendar again. The night Gloria Danowski disappeared Mark had written on his calendar "shopping in East Hampton for Sarah's birthday present." So he'd been in the area of the murder, yet said nothing. Perhaps he'd forgotten he'd written that on his calendar. Or maybe he'd put it there on purpose in case anyone saw him. Christ, this was awful.

  As for Mary Beth's murder, Colin knew Mark had been at the band concert when the child was killed. He couldn't remember if he'd seen him leave his family at any point. And then there was the lie Friday morning, saying he was with Amy when Joe Carroll was killed. Why would Mark tell him that unless he had something to hide, something desperate?

  The fourth one, Ruth Cooper, happened on a Sunday morning when he'd been with Mark. Well, not exactly. The time of her death was figured at between noon and two, and Colin had left Mark at quarter to twelve. He would have had time to go to Bay View and kill Ruth Cooper and still get back to his house to wait for the police call. If he left the house at all.

  Colin had to find out what Mark had done that day after he'd left, and it wasn't going to be easy. Certainly he couldn't ask Mark. Maybe he could find out from Sarah, although that wouldn't be a cinch either. It was two weeks ago, and unless he came up with something pretty clever, Sarah would get suspicious.

  He lit another cigarette. Jesus, this was lousy. Mark was one of his oldest friends. Wouldn't he know if there was something off about him? And what po
ssible motive would Mark have? But maybe you never really knew anyone.

  Then he remembered his friends in Chicago. So many of them turning their backs on him, thinking he'd killed his family. He'd wondered at the time how friends could be like that. Now he was doing the same thing. Maybe he should drop it. He had no hard evidence. Still, Mark's lie about Amy bothered him. And then there was Hallock's warning not to tell Mark what they were doing. When Hallock got back he'd confront him about Mark, exchange information, and if it looked bad he'd go after Mark just the way he would if he were a complete stranger.

  He had no choice.

  LOOKING BACK—25 YEARS AGO

  Royal Toner, 65, one of Seaville's best known businessmen and a man who, during his busy life, did much to publicize the oyster industry, passed away May 15. Mr. Toner, one of the world's largest producers of oysters, was known in the industry as "The Voice of the Oyster." His 6,000 acre oyster beds in Peconic Bay have for years been a mecca for gourmets and food writers.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The story appeared in Newsline Monday morning, with Babe Parkinson's byline. The first Colin knew of it was a phone call at eight-thirty waking him from a deep sleep. When he reached for the receiver he dropped it. Leaning over the side of the bed, he picked it up by the cord. It swung freely, banging against the nightstand and the metal spring of his brass bed. He finally got it to his ear and said hello.

  "Okay, buster," a deep male voice said, "we got your number now. You better get outta Seaville or else."

  "Who is this?"

  "Never mind who. Just know this. If the police don't put you away where you belong, the rest of us will."

  Colin started to speak, then heard the click breaking the connection. He'd had a terrible night, dreaming of people chasing him, Mark laughing, then Mark swinging from a noose. Then he thought about the phone call and suddenly understood. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his robe. Newsline was delivered to him; he hoped it would be on time.

  The second call came as he was going down the stairs. He ignored it. The paper, in its yellow wrapper, was on the lawn at the far edge of the property. Colin was convinced that the delivery guy tried his damnedest to throw the paper as far from the house as possible.