Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (2 page)

Mark looked surprised. "Now, Mayor, you know I have to report the news."

"I mean, don't go writin' it like I have somethin' to do with it. You fellas have a way of slantin' the truth."

"All the news that's fit to print," Mark said.

Gildersleeve turned back to Hallock. "This here is somebody's idea of a joke."

Hallock looked at Gildersleeve as if he were smelling something bad, then pulled on the bridge of his long nose. "You're serious, aren't you, Carl?"

"Well, what else is it? What's it look like to you, huh? Everybody knows I give this party every year. Everybody looks forward to it, waits all year for it. So some cocksucker I didn't invite goes and does a thing like this to get at me. It's clear as the nose on your face, Waldo."

Hallock blinked, and Colin wondered whether the last remark was an intentional slur on the Chief's big nose or whether it was just one more example of Gildersleeve's foot-in-mouth disease.

"You got a list of all your guests, Carl?" Hallock asked.

"A list?"

"You know who your guests are?"

"That's my whole point. I don't let just anybody in here, Waldo. My guests are the cream of the crop."

"What crop's that?" It had not escaped Hallock all these years that he'd never been invited to the Gildersleeve house, thereby making him less than cream.

"You know what I mean," Gildersleeve said.

"So you got a list?"

He nodded, looking grim.

"Then tell them all to go. I want everybody out of here. Now."

Gildersleeve told Doug Corwin to carry out the chief's order, and Corwin scudded across the patio and into the house. Then Gildersleeve raised his voice to the other men standing around in groups of twos and threes and told them what the chief had said. He also offered his apologies for the ruination of his party.

Mark told Sarah to take the car; he'd find a way home later.

Sarah saw the alarm in Colin's eyes. "You can't go with Colin," she whispered.

"Oh, yeah, right," Mark said.

Colin heard them and felt even lousier than he had. He was looking bad today, as if all of his problems were flashing in neon.

"I'll wait outside," Sarah said.

"It might be awhile."

"That's okay." She kissed him lightly, then kissed Colin. "Want to eat with us tonight?"

He wanted to, but he'd had dinner with them twice already this week. "No, that's okay, Sarah."

"What's that mean?"

Colin glanced at Annie and wondered if she would be at the Griffings' for dinner.

Sarah picked up on his thought. She was good at that. "Come on, why don't you and Annie both have dinner with us? We'll go out."

Annie looked startled. "Well, I don't know, I'm not ready for tomorrow."

Sarah said, "You never are and you always get it done."

"I'm really way behind."

"Well, both of you think about it. Come on, Annie, we're not wanted around here. See you soon."

Colin watched the two women leave, noting Annie's long slim legs. Tomorrow was Sunday. What did she have to get ready for a Sunday?

"So what's them marks?" Wiggins asked.

Colin moved away from the woman's head and stood near her feet. He wanted to be away from those eyes.

"They're cuts." Hallock squatted down and looked over the shoulders, his eyes tracing the jagged lines to her navel.

Colin stared. About two inches below her breasts he noticed a faint horizontal cut crossing the two vertical ones.

Hallock said, "They aren't deep. She couldn't have bled much from them. Superficial wounds."

"Before or after death?" Mark asked.

"M.E.ll have to tell us that, but I'd guess after. Why is what I want to know," Hallock said thoughtfully.

"Never mind any damn cuts," Gildersleeve snarled. "Who put her in my pool and why?" He looked afraid. "You think it's a warning, Waldo?"

Colin watched the chief take this in, conquer a smile, then press his advantage. "Could be. Yeah, just might be that."

Gildersleeve passed his twisted handkerchief across his face like a windshield wiper. "Jesus God Almighty. What am I gonna do?"

The chief looked back at the body, ignoring Gildersleeve. "Wonder if it's supposed to mean something … these cuts. Can't figure it."

Colin looked again. It was suddenly as clear to him as if the last piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. "I think I know," he said.

"Yeah? What?"

"Come around here," Colin suggested. "I think maybe you're looking at it the wrong way."

The chief and the others moved down to the feet. No one said anything for a moment; then Hallock made a sound like cheeez. "I see it. It's an A. It's a goddamn A."

"Like Hester Prynne?" Mark said.

"Who's she?" Gildersleeve asked.

"In the Scarlet Letter. A for Adulteress."

Hallock said, "Or A for number one."

LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO

Last Friday afternoon the Jolly Dozen was entertained by Miss Florence Syer. At the opportune moment the girls were invited to partake of a red and white luncheon, after which Miss Syer entertained with a treat of classical music. Then the married members realized that time was flying, and husbands would soon be clamoring for something more substantial than a red and white luncheon and classical music. So the meeting was adjourned.

THREE

Colin explained that he wanted to write the story while it was still fresh in his mind.

Mark said, "You have to eat, and it's not like we put the paper to bed tonight. Join us after you write the story."

The four of them were standing in front of Gildersleeve's house, and Colin knew he had to get out of it. This wasn't the night to make new friends. "I'll see, Mark, okay?"

Sarah said, "What'll you do, Colin, grab a slice of pizza or something?"

That was exactly what he'd do. Pizza Heaven was almost as good as their local place in Chicago. Shit. He had Chicago on the brain tonight. "I have stuff at home," he said.

"I think I'd better go," Annie said.

The gate opened. Two men in white carried her out in a green body bag. Colin felt woozy again and reached out to touch the hood of the car for support. When he glanced at Annie he knew she'd seen. It pissed him off. Quickly, they each turned back to the body bag entering the ambulance. The door slapped shut.

Annie touched Colin's arm. "I don't mean to be a pest, but if you're feeling shaky or anything, well, I could drive you home. You could get your car later or—"

"No," he snapped.

She backed away as if he'd hit her.

Jesus, he kept making it worse. "Sorry. I didn't mean to... it's just that..." Just that what? How the hell could he tell her he couldn't ride in a car with anyone?

"It's okay, don't worry." She smiled faintly. "Sarah, Mark, I won't say it's been fun. See you soon. It was nice to meet you," she said to Colin.

He nodded, wanting to say something but unable to. And then she was gone, walking across the street to her blue Ford Escort.

Mark said, "You sure have a way with women, pal."

"Yeah, don't I? Talk about getting off on the wrong foot." He ran his thumb and forefinger down his black Zapata mustache.

"Oh, Annie's not going to think anything of it, Colin. After all, it wasn't exactly an ordinary day."

Colin felt it incumbent upon him to say something about what had happened to him. "Listen, I'm sorry about taking a dive like that."

Mark put a hand on his shoulder. "No sweat, pal.”

“We understand, Colin. As long as you're all right now."

"I'm fine." It was obvious they didn't want to discuss it. He couldn't blame them.

"So how about dinner?"

The Griffings got in their car.

"No. I want to write the story, grab something, get some sleep."

"Leave him alone, Mark."

"Nice big juicy steak you're gonna miss."

"Thanks anyway."

"See you Monday."

Sarah said, "If you get lonely, come on over tomorrow."

He thanked her, started for his station wagon, stopped. "Hey," he called, "who is she, anyway?"

"Annie?" Mark asked. "She's the minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church. So long, pal."

They pulled away, leaving him standing by his car, mouth open in surprise.

Colin liked being in his office at night, one light on in the whole place. Some people might have found it creepy. To him it was cozy, safe. At the
Chicago Tribune
he was never alone, no matter the time. But he'd loved it. God, he'd been young and green when he started! Right out of the University of Michigan. That's when he'd grown the mustache to make himself look older. He hadn't fooled his editor.

Ryan had said, "Kid, you can grow all the garbage you want on your face, but it don't mean kaka to me if you don't produce. Get it?"

He got it. Still, he kept the mustache. It gave him confidence.

Then it became a habit. Without it he'd feel naked; it was as much a part of him as his cleft chin.

For four years they shuffled him around, and he covered obits, the courts, the suburbs, high school sports, the weather. It was mean. But he hung in and it paid off—he got the crime beat. Squalid and seamy as it sometimes was, he loved it. The excitement, the cops, the rhythm. He never understood why it spoke to him. Maybe it was the possibility of danger, an illusion of living on the edge. He didn't know. But he stayed in it for nine years until everything came down on him, until everything was over.

Colin rubbed his eyes as though he were trying to wipe them clean. Maybe he was. He lit a Marlboro and blew a ring in front of him. He didn't want to think about that now, start it all up again. Jesus, couldn't he have just one free night? But this night was more unlikely to be absent of ghosts than any he'd had for a long time. Don't pick up the first thought, Dr. Safier had told him. It was good advice. So try it for once, goddammit!

He turned away from his desk to his typing table, stuck a piece of paper in his old Royal. Mark kept making noises about getting computers, but meanwhile both of them used manual machines. He hit the keys.

BODY FOUND IN MAYOR'S POOL

Colin knew there wasn't a single person in Seaville or any of the towns on the North Fork who'd give that headline a pass. He also knew Gildersleeve was going to have a coronary. Too bad.

He stared at the head, his two hunt-and-peck fingers poised on the keys. Nothing came to him. The trouble was, he kept thinking of Annie Winters. He kept seeing her smile and hearing her say his name. And thinking, too, of what an asshole he'd been.

Reaching down into his bottom drawer he pulled out the phone book, flipped to the back, and ran his fingers down the W's. He found it right away.

Winters, A., Rev.

Could he just call up a reverend and ask for a pardon? Lifting the receiver, he punched out the number, then hung up. He did it again but this time let it ring.

She answered on the third.

"Hello," he said, "it's Colin Maguire."

"Oh. Hello," she said, sounding surprised.

"I just wanted to apologize. I acted very badly. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, that's nice."

He smiled. Most people would've said, "No need, it's okay, don't bother." She hadn't. He liked that.

She said, "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, thanks. I hope next time we meet it'll be under better circumstances."

"It's bound to be," she said.

"Well, listen, I just wanted to say that to you. You were awfully kind."

She didn't say anything.

"Have you eaten dinner?" he asked impulsively.

She laughed. "Yes, have you?"

"Not yet."

"Don't let Sarah know that—I think she wants to mother you."

Smiling, he said, "I think you're right. Would you like to meet for a drink or something?" He was astonished, as if a ventriloquist were operating him. Jesus, what if she was married? He tried to remember if there'd been a ring but couldn't.

"I'd like that," she said, "but I don't have my sermon written for tomorrow."

He'd almost forgotten: Reverend Winters.

"Another time?" she asked.

"Sure. Why not?"

A second of silence. "Thanks for calling, Colin."

He said goodbye and they broke the connection.

Slamming his hand down on the phone book he said, "Shit." Why did he have to say "Sure, why not?" like some teenager? Well, it had been a long, long time since he'd tried to date a woman. The few women he'd had contact with in the last three years were almost strangers. Casual sex. Not very satisfactory. But this woman was different.

At least he knew one thing: she wasn't married. She wouldn't have said she'd have a drink with him if she was. On the other hand, maybe she'd have a drink and try to convert him. What a joke if the old altar boy became a Unitarian Universalist—whatever the hell that was.

No, Annie Winters wasn't married. So why not? Hadn't met the right guy? Or maybe she was divorced. Could ministers get divorced? He squashed out his cigarette in his metal ashtray. Enough.

As he turned back to his typewriter he heard the light sound of a woman's footsteps coming down the hall.

"Hello, Maguire." It was Babe Parkinson, feature writer for the paper.

Colin figured Babe called him by his last name because she thought it made her sound more like a real newspaperwoman. Too many Roz Russell movies. He didn't feel like seeing Babe. "What brings you here in the dark of night?"

"Murder," she said, an unnatural flush to her face as if the word excited her.

"You heard?"

"Everybody's heard. Sorry I missed it."

"Yeah, it was great fun." He lit another Marlboro, coughed.

"I didn't mean it like that. Mind if I sit down?"

He gestured with an open palm. Babe sat in the wooden armchair across from him as Colin assessed her. There was no question about it, Babe was a stunning woman: a tall, cool redhead. She wore her hair in a French braid, and Colin found himself wondering what she'd look like with it loose.

He watched as she alternately fussed with a plastic bag and the hem of her dress, pretending to try and pull it over her knees. She reached into the bag, took out a bottle of white wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew.