Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (12 page)

"I understand."

"No, you don't, pal. I mean, we've known each other for what, eighteen, nineteen years?"

"Twenty."

"Okay, twenty. That's a helluva long time. Longer than I've known my wife. Longer than I've known practically anybody who isn't a member of my family."

"Okay, okay. So what's up? I know you're not just doing a riff here on the beauties of friendship."

Mark's brown eyes deepened in color, as if sadness were changing their hue. "No," he said somberly, "no, I'm not."

"So what is it?"

"Oh, shit." He pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and lit up. "Last year I had an affair. Sarah found out. It was a mess. I stopped seeing Amy because I didn't want to lose Sarah. Amy called me right before you and the chief came up the other day. I hadn't had any contact with her for about six, seven months. I was off the wall because of it. The call, I mean. I took it out on you."

"And Hallock."

"And Hallock," Mark confirmed.

Colin thought of Nancy. He'd never strayed, not even in fantasy. "Why?" he asked.

"Why did I have the affair?"

"Yes."

"Look, Colin, I love Sarah, I think you know that. But, well, when we first took over the paper it was fucking hard, know what I mean? We hardly had a pot to piss in. So there was all this stress and Amy was there and, shit, I don't know, it just happened."

Colin thought, just happened, like the way he'd happened to leave his house that night, gotten drunk—lost his family. Just happened. "How are things between you and Sarah now?"

"Tricky."

"Are you going to see this woman again?"

"Amy? I don't know. If I do and Sarah finds out, that's going to be it. I don't want to lose my family."

"So why risk it?"

Mark hissed out a stream of smoke. "It's sex."

"What about it?"

"Sarah's always been, well, reticent, sort of inhibited."

"And Amy's not?"

"Right."

Colin thought of his sex life with Nancy. They'd both enjoyed it, often trying new things, never letting more than a few days go by without making love.

"Have you talked to Sarah about it?"

"Not really."

"What's not really mean?"

"I don't want to hurt her, Colin."

"Seems like you already have."

"Come on, pal, that's hitting below the belt."

"I'm not saying anything you don't already know. What I'm getting at, Mark, is that you owe it to Sarah to try and work the problems out."

"What if she can't do anything about them?"

"You can at least try."

Mark stood up, signaling an end to the conversation. "I just wanted you to know why I was such a shitheel the other day."

"Thanks, I appreciate that." Colin thought of telling Mark that he could talk to him any time but decided against it. He didn't want to know if he started seeing Amy again. He liked Sarah too much.

Before he left the room Mark said, "The trouble is, I miss her."

Remembering the look on Mark's face, Colin glanced across the parking lot and tried to see the Griffings. Mark had his arm across the back of Sarah's chair, fingers touching her shoulder. To the uninformed eye they looked like any happily married couple. But they did love each other, he reminded himself. He hoped Mark would resist temptation. It wasn't worth it—nothing could be worth losing your family.

The band finished a rendition of "The Blue Danube" and he found himself clapping along with the others and desperately missing Nancy.

"Where's Mary Beth, Katie?"

"I thought she was with you."

"You mean you let her come back here by herself?"

Katie's chin trembled. "She said she'd come right back."

"She's five years old, for God's sake," Chuck snapped.

Sally said, "Let's not get all steamed up, she's got to be here someplace. Where'd you leave her, honey?"

"Over there." Katie pointed to a spot near the drive-in-teller road. "I said, 'Now go right back over to Mommy and Daddy,' and she said she would."

"Didn't you even watch?" Chuck asked.

Katie's face twisted into a grimace and tears filled her eyes. "I started to, then ... then..."

"Oh, never mind. C'mon, Sally, let's look for her."

"Chuck, calm down, she couldn't have gone very far. She'd never leave the lot or cross a street or anything."

"What's wrong with you, Sally? She's a five-year-old kid." Chuck ran off in the direction Katie had pointed.

Katie was sobbing and Sally hugged her. "It's okay, honey, we'll find her. Daddy's just strung out tonight. C'mon, we'll go the other way." As they hurried off, Sally called her daughter's name.

But there was no answer.

It was intermission and Colin was standing with the Griffings when they heard the screams. It was a man's voice, and Colin thought something about it was familiar. And then he remembered that night in Chicago when he'd found his family. He'd screamed like that. Oh, Christ, he thought. Oh, sweet Jesus.

LOOKING BACK—50 YEARS AGO

New Paradise Coffee Shoppe to open for Memorial Day weekend. This new brick, fireproof building is the most complete business place of its kind on Eastern Long Island. Not only will the new store have all modern appliances that are usually found in an ice-cream parlor, but it will also be equipped with the latest machinery for the manufacture of ice cream, for the cold storage of meats and vegetables for the restaurant, and an efficiently equipped kitchen. A Japanese chef has been engaged.

FIFTEEN

It was no longer believed by anyone that the A carved on the victims' chests meant Adulteress. After all, how could a five-year-old commit adultery? Waldo Hallock was convinced that the A stood for the killer's name, first or last. The anger he'd experienced at the two previous murders now turned into a full-blown rage. Part of the fury was because of the victim's age—Hallock was sure he could never survive the death of one of his children—and part was because the state police had been brought into the case. Special Agent William Schufeldt, twenty-nine years old, was now calling the shots. For the first time in his career Hallock had some sympathy for old Charles Gildersleeve. Funny how things came full circle. But Schufeldt or not, the chief had plans of his own.

On Sunday morning Colin found himself in the Unitarian Universalist Church. It was strange for a number of reasons—he hadn't planned it, he hadn't been inside a church since his wedding, and he was in a new place and not feeling particularly panicky. Still, he'd protected himself by sitting in the last row opposite the door.

The service, he'd read on the notice board outside, began at eleven, the Reverend Ann Winters presiding. It had not escaped Colin's attention that the Reverend Ann Winters might be the reason he was here. Even so, he was sure it wasn't the sole reason. Or was it the soul reason? He smiled at his own joke.

The need to be in a church came from spending the weekend thinking nonstop about Nancy and the kids, plus the murders here in Seaville. It was difficult for Colin to talk to anyone about the latest killing. The murder of Mary Beth Higbee reminded him too much of the murders of his own children. The same question that had haunted him at the time of his own tragedy baffled him now: What kind of monster could kill an innocent child? He had no answer. He never would. And once again he was faced with writing the story; he wasn't sure if he could do it.

Colin looked around at the congregation. It was small, perhaps forty or fifty people. Quite different from Our Lady of Sorrows. Or the Catholic church at the end of Fifth street, where he lived now. Those churches were always packed.

A middle-aged man and woman sat down in the pew in front of him. When they were settled they turned around.

"Good morning," the man said, holding out his hand for Colin to shake.

"Good morning," the woman said.

"Good morning," Colin replied, shaking the large hand, nodding to the woman.

The man said, "Glad to see you here."

"Thank you," Colin answered, slightly nonplussed by the friendliness of these two. After the couple turned back he noticed people all over the church shaking hands, smiling, talking to each other in a normal tone of voice. He thought back to his Sunday mornings as a teenager, lolling around in front of the church with his friends, smoking that last cigarette, exchanging notes about their Saturday night dates. But when they entered the church there was no more talking, no laughter. Church was a solemn affair. And no one ever looked glad to be there. It was different here. He could feel it.

The organist began to play, and Annie Winters appeared from a side door to the left of the altar. She crossed behind the pulpit, sat down in an ornately carved wooden armchair, and looked out at her congregation.

Colin felt something stir inside him when he saw her. She was dressed in a tan suit, red silk blouse, and brown pumps. Her wavy blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight coming through the windows. He wished now he'd been able to sit up front, see her better.

When the Prelude ended Annie walked to the pulpit. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," the congregation replied.

"Although it's a beautiful day," she said, "I'm sure that none of us is particularly joyful in light of recent events. In my sermon this morning, as you've probably noticed in your program, I will try to deal with sudden death and its repercussions.

"Now I would like to welcome any new people and invite you to join us after the service in the parish hall for refreshments and conversation. Please sign the guest book, which is on the piano, if you haven't done so before. And if you have any questions, please feel free to ask me or any member of the congregation.

"Today Deborah Bard will light the Chalice."

Annie returned to her chair as a young woman with one long braid rose from the front row and went up on the altar. On the railing was a large metal plate with a candle in the center. Deborah struck a match and lit the candle on the first try.

But Colin wasn't looking at Deborah Bard; his eyes were on Annie. Technically she wasn't a beautiful woman—not the kind who makes you turn around on the street or take a deep breath when you first lay eyes on her—but she was damned attractive and especially so up there behind the pulpit as Reverend Ann Winters.

Annie announced the hymn they were to sing, and with the rest Colin rose, opened the book, and began singing "The Morning Hangs a Signal."

How long had it been since he'd sung anything? He'd always enjoyed singing. He had a good rich baritone and sang with the glee club at Ann Arbor. But that was fifteen years ago. Then he remembered standing around the piano at Christmas with the Myrons, the Stimpsons, and the Lanes, singing carols. That had been his last Christmas with Nancy. By the end of the hymn he was feeling depressed, but when Burton Kelly, the organist, played "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" while the collection was taken up, he was somewhat cheered.

In the course of the silent meditation and prayer he found himself thinking of Mary Beth Higbee, Ruth Cooper, and Gloria Danowski, and wondering who would be next. He had no doubt that it would happen again and no faith that the state trooper was going to crack the case.

The chorus, ten men and women, sang "Movin' On," and then Annie came to the pulpit to give her sermon. Colin was enthralled. It was not only what she was saying but how she was saying it. She had a mellifluous voice and it washed over him, making him feel peaceful. Her ideas were original and fresh. By the end of the sermon there were tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with forefinger and thumb.

After the final hymn the congregation began filing out from the pews and going up toward the altar, where Annie waited to greet them. Colin was torn. He wanted very much to shake her hand, tell her how much the sermon meant to him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to join the others in the hall. He stayed in his place, staring down at his shoes, deliberating. And when he looked up again, the church was empty except for Annie.

"I'm glad you joined us today, Colin," she said. "How about some coffee?"

He rose slowly, like an old man, then found himself walking briskly down the aisle toward her.

"Thank you for a wonderful sermon," he said. She offered her hand and he shook it, holding it a moment longer than he should have.

In the hall Annie was immediately approached by a man and woman, and he was left standing to one side. But Burton Kelly rescued him and took him first to the large table that was laden with food, and then to the coffee maker.

A number of people he knew by sight came over to welcome him and engaged him in conversation. Colin thought these people were interesting—mavericks, independent thinkers. Now he understood why Mark and Sarah came to this church from time to time; he knew he'd be coming back, and not just to see Annie. He liked the atmosphere here, felt right at home.

By the time he'd finished his second cup of coffee, and a heated discussion about nuclear war, most of the people had left. He put down his empty cup and walked toward Annie who was saying good-bye to two young women. When they left she turned to him.

Colin said, "I just wanted to thank you again."

"I'm glad that you enjoyed it," she said. "Would you like to come to the parsonage for a glass of sherry?"

Colin could see that her words surprised her as well as him. "Thanks. That would be nice." He felt a kind of thrill, as if he were a boy getting to see the inside of a teacher's house.

"Great." As Annie started toward the door, Burton Kelly appeared from the kitchen and stepped in front of her. His high forehead was dotted with sweat. He was wearing a blue shirt, the collar out over his light tan jacket, a pen clipped to the breast pocket. "Going home?" he asked timidly.

"Yes."

"I wonder if I could talk with you?"

"Sorry, not today, Burton. Do you two know each other?"

"Yes, we do," Colin said.

"Tomorrow, then?" Burton sniffed.

She thought a moment. "How about Wednesday? Tomorrow's a holiday and Tuesday's my day off."