Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel)

by Sandra Scoppettone

  "Hey, is this Maguire?"

  "A murder might be in progress, you moron. Now get there." He hung up. Turning out the lights, he went to the window. The rain was coming down harder than before. And the lightning and thunder hadn't diminished. There was no way he could get to Annie. He prayed she'd be able to get away from Mark. Why was he always incapacitated when the women he cared about were in danger?

  Thinking of that was a waste of time. His priority now was to get out of the room and find someplace to hide. Schufeldt would probably arrive any moment. Stepping into the rain he gave the warm, dry room a longing glance, then shut the door behind him.

  Mark said, "What happened?"

  "He hung up."

  "Damn!"

  Annie couldn't believe she should be afraid of Mark. He looked so harmless, water dripping from his yellow slicker, his bruised face handsome, innocent. But that same innocent face had been capable of deceiving his wife, she reminded herself.

  "What happened to you?" she asked.

  He touched his chin. "Colin did this. Where was he calling from?"

  "I don't know," she lied. "Do you want some coffee?" She took a step and winced.

  "What is it?"

  "I slipped in the parking lot and turned my ankle."

  He put a hand on her arm. "Let's see."

  Now she felt afraid, but tried not to show it. "No, it's okay."

  Mark dropped his hand. "Are you sure you don't know where Colin is? This is important, Annie."

  "He didn't say."

  "What was he telling you? Why did you say, 'That's impossible'?"

  "I don't know. I can't remember."

  He reached over and squeezed her arm. "You said it right before he hung up, try to remember."

  "You're hurting me, Mark."

  He let go. "I'm sorry."

  Did she believe him? She tried to act natural, stalling for time. "Why don't you take off your slicker? I'll hang it in the bathroom."

  He took off the wet coat and gave it to her. "Try to remember what was impossible," he urged softly.

  Taking the slicker she shrugged. "I just can't think now." The ankle hurt terribly, but she made it to the bathroom, where she hung up the coat. When she turned around Mark was standing in the doorway. Startled, she drew in her breath. "I didn't know you were following me," she explained.

  He looked at her coolly. "I think there's something you don't understand, Annie."

  "Like what?"

  "It's about Colin."

  Limping, she maneuvered past him to the kitchen and turned on a burner. "I'm having some cocoa. Want some?"

  "Jesus, Annie, what the hell's going on? I'm trying to tell you something and you're making cocoa like we're in some goddamn commercial or something."

  "I feel like cocoa," she said lamely.

  "Is he coming here, Annie? Did he tell you he was going to come here?"

  "No. You want some, Mark?" She held out a mug.

  He swung his hand knocking the mug to the floor, where it shattered. "Will you shut the fuck up about the cocoa?" he screamed. Then he grabbed her by both shoulders. "Colin has killed eight people, Annie. Five people in Seaville. Three in Chicago. Who knows how many others we never heard about? He's dangerous, a killer. Do you understand?"

  His face was almost touching hers; she felt his breath on her cheek. "Please, Mark," she begged.

  He shook her. "Listen to me. I know what I'm talking about. This morning when I confronted him he attacked me, ran away. He's been in hiding ever since. Did he tell you that? Did he?"

  She didn't want to cry, swore she wouldn't. "No," she answered.

  "I'll bet he didn't." He released her. "I'm telling you the truth, Annie."

  What if Mark was telling the truth? What if Colin was the killer, not Mark? But maybe Mark was just saying that to get her to tell him where Colin was. And when she did he'd...

  Mark said, "I know it's hard to believe. It's hard for me, too. I've known the guy for a long time. We've been friends. I... I loved him. But I can't let that stand in my way, cloud my vision. And neither can you."

  The kettle began to whistle.

  They stared at one another. Then she limped to the stove and turned off the flame.

  "Annie, I'm telling you the truth," he said again.

  She leaned against the stove. "He couldn't have killed Babe Parkinson," she said flatly.

  "Why not?"

  "I was with him all night."

  "From when to when?"

  "About eight until six-thirty this morning." Was it only this morning?

  "The autopsy came down just a little while ago. Babe could have been killed from any time after six p.m. He had two hours before you saw him."

  His words felt like blows.

  "Tell me where he is, Annie."

  Looking at Mark, she realized he'd been her friend for over a year. She knew a lot about him. And there were the bruises on his face. Why had Colin attacked him if he wasn't guilty? What did she really know about Colin? She prided herself on being astute about people. Could she be so wrong about him? Had she trusted once again only to be betrayed? She had to face the facts: She knew Mark a great deal better than Colin.

  "Annie," Mark pleaded, "he might kill someone else if he isn't caught. Tell me."

  "All right," she said.

  ----

  Hallock couldn't see a goddamn thing. His wipers were virtually useless. He'd just passed the traffic circle in Riverhead. On a clear day it would take him about twenty-five minutes, but with this kind of weather it might take an hour. Caution told him he should pull off the road until it was over. But he had to get to Maguire, he couldn't afford the luxury of waiting out the storm. Besides, it didn't look like it was going to stop. He tried the radio for a weather report. There was nothing but static.

  The sign warning drivers of flooding wasn't visible to him, but he knew it was there. He knew this road like he knew his own house. Slowing to five miles an hour he felt the car press through knee-high water. The backwash splashed the windows. When the deep water was behind him he accelerated, pushing the car up to fifteen.

  The first place he'd go was Annie Winters'. He was sure Maguire would be there. But if he wasn't he'd have to go back to the motel, pick up his collection of keys, and try to get into the Gazette that way One or another of them usually worked, and he guessed the lock on the Gazette building wasn't anything fancy.

  Another flooding area came up fast, surprising him. He shouldn't be drifting. Although he slowed he wasn't quick enough. The car skidded out of control, turning sideways, water washing up over the hood. Hallock tried to steer into the skid but the car made a 180-degree turn, bouncing over to the shoulder, then kept going across the cinders before it came to a stop.

  Hallock said, "Shit!"

  ----

  Rain wasn’t the worst of it as far as Colin was concerned. It was the wind. Realizing there was no place for him to go and his best bet was to stick close to the motel in case Hallock came back, he’d climbed a tree. Something he hadn’t done for about twenty-five years. And it wasn’t easy.

  The tree was a large maple. Standing right next to the motel, it afforded Colin a perfect view of Hallock's room. He stood in the crotch of two large branches, leaves giving him plenty of cover. His palms and fingers were scraped raw from dragging his hands over the bark as he'd tried to gain purchase.

  Soaked to the skin, he wrapped both arms around a thick branch, the wind threatening to blow him out of the tree. The gun pressed painfully into his stomach but he couldn't shift it. And then he saw the rotating red light of a police car coming down the hill toward the motel. It stopped at the office for a moment, then continued on down the road. Just below him it came to a stop, and all four doors opened at once.

  Colin could see them illuminated in the headlights of the car: Schufeldt, Wiggins, Copin, and Liz Wood, all in rain gear. Their voices, altered some by the wind, nevertheless drifted up to him.

  "This it?" Schufeldt shoute
d above the storm.

  "Yeah. He's probably sleeping. Looked like a wreck when I saw him. I just knew he was trouble. You can always tell."

  "Is there a back way out?"

  "No, only this here door and this window."

  "Go ahead, Wiggins, knock."

  Al Wiggins, gun in hand, standing to the right of the door, gave it three raps. "Open up, Maguire, this is the police!"

  Schufeldt and Copin, guns drawn, were to the left of the door, Liz Wood behind them.

  Schufeldt yelled, "We'll give you a count of three to come out, Maguire, hands on your head. One. Two. Three. Okay, we're coming in." To Liz he said, "Give me the key."

  She reached in her raincoat pocket and gave it to him. He handed the key to Copin, who inserted it in the lock, then kicked open the door.

  After a moment Schufeldt shouted, "Listen, Maguire, you can't get away. "We've got you covered, so don't go trying anything. Come out with your hands on your head."

  Colin watched, fascinated in a bizarre way, as if he were a witness to his own funeral. The three men below hovered on either side of the door, their guns ready.

  "Okay, Maguire," Schufeldt said, "this is it. Let's go, boys." He stepped into the doorway, two hands on his gun, and began shooting. Charlie Copin and A1 Wiggins were behind him, but only Schufeldt's gun flashed. The report of each shot spiraled upwards to where Colin, hugging the tree, observed the action in horror.

  "Jesus," he said out loud. But no one heard.

  "Hold your fire!" Schufeldt yelled. He reached inside the door and snapped on the overhead light. Crouching, he entered the room, the others behind him. Then they were gone from Colin's line of vision.

  A strong wind swept through the tree. Colin's branch swayed, pulling him downward. He clung fiercely to the branch as it flipped back up, but his feet slipped and he slid down, crashing into the crotch, sending a jolting pain up through his body. He cried out, but the rain covered his yelp. Trying to regain his hold he tilted sideways; his gun fell from his belt down through the tree, hitting the ground with a splat.

  Liz Wood heard the sound and turned. Taking a few steps toward the tree, she put a hand to her eyes under the brim of her orange rain hat. Then, seeing nothing, she moved back to the side of the door.

  "The fucker's not here," Schufeldt shouted.

  Liz moved into the open door. "He was here. I'm telling you, that man was here."

  "Who'd you say Maguire phoned?"

  "He called her Annie."

  Wiggins said, "I think Maguire was seeing Annie Winters."

  "Who's that?" Schufeldt asked.

  "She's that lady preacher they got at that church that don't believe in Our Lord Jesus. And somebody named Mark was there," Liz added.

  "Did Maguire say he was going there?"

  "Nope. Just told her to leave the house. Said she should get away from this Mark person."

  "Probably Mark Griffing," Charlie Copin said.

  "The newspaper guy?"

  "Yeah."

  Wiggins said, "Frank got a call said he thought was Maguire. Called in with a possible ten-five in progress. Frank said the address was the Unitarian Church."

  "That's right," Liz said, "that was the second call he made."

  "Well, fuck it, why didn't somebody say so?" Schufeldt shouted. "Let's get the hell outta here." He ran toward the car, Wiggins and Copin following.

  Go, Colin wanted to shout, move it! At least they might save Annie.

  Liz Wood yelled, "Hey, wait up there! You shot his room all to pieces. Who's gonna pay for that? Huh?"

  The doors of the cruiser slammed shut. Wiggins backed it up and, turning around with a squeal of tires, drove up the hill.

  "Hey, you bums, you wrecked this room here!" Liz continued to shout. "Somebody's gotta pay and it ain't gonna be me. Goddamn bums." She switched off the light and slapped shut the door; then, mumbling to herself, made her way up the hill toward the office.

  In his tree, Colin couldn't help smiling. It served her right, he thought. When she was gone he climbed down. He found his gun, then went to Hallock's room and tried the door. It was unlocked.

  Positive Liz wouldn't be back tonight, he nevertheless took a precaution and shut himself into the bathroom to wait for Hallock.

  LOOKING BACK—50 YEARS AGO

  John Williams, a well-known barber shop proprietor in Seaville, is very familiar with the expression "a close shave," as it is a term used by his customers. Last Saturday, while Williams was busy cutting the hair of his last customer, Louis Stauber, an employee, attacked Mr. Williams with a hair clipper which he waved before Williams' face. Then Stauber picked up a pair of scissors and threatened to give Williams "a close shave."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Mark said, "So? Where is he?"

  Annie wasn't sure what it was, perhaps the subtle change in his eyes when she'd agreed to tell him Colin's whereabouts. Or maybe the set of his shoulders. She didn't really know. But there was a change. It could have been as simple as Mark's competitive personality, the fact that he'd won her over. And then again it might have been because as soon as he knew—he'd kill her. She was back to believing Colin. It was absurd to think he was a killer.

  "Did you hear me, Annie?" He started toward her.

  "I heard." Her back was against the stove; she could feel the heat from the kettle.

  "Well, then?"

  "I don't know where he is," she responded.

  "Bullshit!" His face contorted, anger flared in his eyes. Grabbing her by the arm, he shouted, "You'd better tell me, Annie!"

  She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. Panicky, she wondered if these were her last moments on earth. "Is that a threat?"

  He ignored her question. "You said you knew where he was. I want you to tell me. Someone's life might be at stake.

  Yes, mine, she thought. Not looking, she reached behind her, picked up the kettle, and swung around, crashing it into the side of Mark's head. He screamed, let go of her arm, and fell to the floor. She dropped the kettle and some of the hot water splashed on him. He screamed again.

  Annie, her ankle throbbing, hurriedly limped to the kitchen door and grabbed her purse from the table. Outside the rain was hammering the ground, killing flowers. Wind roared through the trees and buffeted her as she hobbled toward the car. She began to whimper when blades of pain shot up her leg. As she opened the car door, she saw Mark stagger from the house. Throwing herself inside, she slammed the door, locked it, and reached in her bag for her keys. Unable to find them, she screamed in frustration. Then she saw them in the ignition and laughed.

  The car sprang to life on the first try. There was no way to know where Mark was or how close he might be. Switching on the headlights, she saw him in front of her, his arms raised above his head, signaling for her to stop. She pressed the horn and drove directly toward him, frightened she would hit him but unwilling to stop, her only desire to get away. At the last moment he jumped to one side, and without stopping she sped into the main road, praying that no one was coming. She was lucky.

  The rain crashed against her windshield, the wipers moaning like wounded cows. Her foot, aching and swollen, barely touched the accelerator. Creeping along, she thought about driving to the motel, to Colin, but was afraid Mark might follow. It was better to go to the Moffats'; Mark wouldn't dare come there. But it was almost impossible to see. How would she ever find their street?

  A sense of coming apart, losing touch, overwhelmed her. If only Bob were here, she thought. She began to cry. Then, "No, dammit!" she yelled, banging the steering wheel with the side of her fist. "I don't need him, I have myself. Oh, God, please, please, help me," she cried.

  And then she realized if she stayed on the main road she would eventually come to Center Street and the Seaville Police Station. It wouldn't matter if Mark followed her there. She was elated by her decision but then she felt it—something cold against the side of her neck. She sucked in air, gasping. Thoughts flew through her mind, colliding
, then falling away like boulders down a mountain. Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw his face, the knife against her throat. "It's you," she cried.

  "Yes. Me."

  She felt a sense of guilt at what she'd done to Mark, but it was immediately diminished as she realized the irony of her situation: She'd been safe and run straight into danger. Shocked at her own calm she asked, "What do you want?"

  "You," he responded.

  "Why?"

  "I thought you'd know."

  "I don't. Tell me."

  "Razzamatazz," he whispered, and then he laughed.

  ----

  Hallock had gotten out and walked around the front end. Fortunately, the car had stopped just inches from the mud that would have trapped him for the night. Back in the car he'd turned the key; the motor fluttered, then died. He'd tried again and that time it caught, coughing and choking like an old man with flu. He'd eased the car off the shoulder, onto the road.

  And now he was approaching the U. U. Church. When he slowed to turn he saw the police car in the lot, the red light whirling. Continuing past the church, he caught a glimpse of Mark Griffing, standing in the rain, frantically gesturing to Schufeldt. He guessed that Maguire wasn't there, maybe hadn't ever been there. He'd have to get his keys from the motel, try the Gazette building himself.

  The floor was cool. Colin sat on it, resting his back against the toilet. His gun was in his right hand. All he could think about was how he would have been killed had he remained in the room, hiding. Schufeldt was a maniac.

  Even so, he hoped the guy had gotten to Annie before Mark could do anything. By now she was either safe or... He couldn't let himself think about it, forcing his mind instead onto food, then cigarettes. The few he had left were lined up on the floor, drying. He touched one. Still wet. Maybe he should quit.

  The sound of a key in the door brought Colin to his feet. He leaned against the doorframe, peering through the narrow opening, there was a real possibility that Mark had forced Annie to tell him where he was. His gun was ready if he needed it. He had never killed anyone, but now he had no reservations about killing Mark.

  The door opened and Hallock stepped into the room. Colin waited to make sure he was alone. When the chief closed the door Colin felt his shoulders relax, as if he were deflating. So he wouldn't frighten him, he eased open the door. "Waldo," he said. "It's me, Colin."