Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel)

RAZZAMATAZZ

Sandra Scoppettone

Writing as Jack Early

Thanks to the following people

who helped make this book possible:

Rev. Sara Campbell, Betty Dodson Tim Gould, Troy Gustavson, Maria Heney, Dave Horton, Kathy Richter, Chief Robert Walden, and John Williams.

LOOKING BACK
—25 YEARS AGO

At a regular meeting of the North Fork Clergy Association, a resolution was passed unanimously as follows: "The North Fork Clergy Association records its opposition on moral grounds to the adoption of the proposition legalizing bingo in the town of Seaville."

ONE

Carl Gildersleeve was a jackass. He was also the mayor of Seaville, New York. And on the Saturday before the Memorial Day weekend for the past ten years he'd gathered all his friends and acquaintances at a cocktail party where, at some point in the festivities, he'd drag everyone outside to toast the opening of his Olympic-size, vinyl-lined pool. It was a foolish occasion because the pool could not be used for at least three days. That was how long it took to refill what had been drained the previous September, and for the chemicals to become effective. Still, it was an annual event in Seaville—one that almost all the guests hated.

For Colin Maguire it was a first. Mark Griffing, his old friend and boss at the Seaville Gazette, had told him what to expect and explained that it was not something one could say no to.

"We go," Mark had said, "and we stand around making small talk with a lot of other people who wish they were somewhere else, too. We drink a few weak gin and tonics, eat a couple of chips with a godawful dip that Grace Gildersleeve got out of some ladies' magazine, and then after the asshole opens his pool we make our exit."

Colin had said, "Mind if I give the dip a pass?"

And now he was standing on the Gildersleeves' patterned brick patio sipping a plain tonic and smoking one Marlboro after another, idly tapping a loafered foot. He couldn't help thinking that it was strange being here, at the end of the North Fork of Long Island, an area he'd never even heard of until two years before, when Mark bought the paper. Curious the places life took you to if the circumstances were right—or wrong.

He imagined what Ryan, his old boss on the
Chicago Tribune
, would say if he could see him now.

"Jesus, kid, what are you doin' on a penny-ante paper, goin' to piss-ant parties?"

But Ryan wouldn't say that because he knew why. Anyway, he was lucky to have this job. Fate, coincidence, call it what you want; Mark had saved Colin's ass. So now he was managing editor of the Seaville Gazette, making a third of what he'd made as a crime reporter on the Tribune.

He shook his head as if to jog an image from his mind, then looked around, his gaze settling on an attractive woman talking to Mark and Sarah. He wondered who she was because he'd never seen her before. After six weeks he thought he'd seen or met everybody worth meeting. And according to Mark, the Gildersleeve guest list would reflect only the top echelon of Seaville society. So who was this woman who looked so confident and crisp in a blue striped blouse and white skirt? She was gesturing with long thin hands as she talked, and then she laughed, her eyes almost disappearing as they crinkled at the corners. It made Colin smile. He joined Mark's group, but before he could speak he was stopped by a loud metallic sound.

Grace Gildersleeve was holding a large brass gong, which she struck again, silencing her guests. Carl cleared his throat, ran a hand over his fleshy face, then straightened the knot on his red- and-blue striped tie. It was a cloudy day, but Carl's ever-present sunglasses sat firmly on his wide nose.

"Okay, folks," he said. "This is the moment of truth. We're about to open the summer social season of Seaville. Hey, how's that for onomatopoeia, huh?"

"Jesus," Colin said under his breath and exchanged an incredulous look with Mark.

"Boys," Carl called to the two hulks standing at each side of the pool, "are you ready?"

The men nodded, and one gave Gildersleeve a salute with a beefy hand.

"'Okay, then let's go." He turned to Grace. "Hit that thing, dammit."

Grace energetically slammed the gong again, and the men began to roll back the aqua pool cover. Simultaneously, from two speakers positioned at the far end of the pool, Frankie Laine belted out "I Go Where the Wild Goose Goes."

Colin almost choked on a slug of tonic. "You devil, you," he said to Mark, "keeping the best part a secret."

"I didn't want to spoil it for you, pal."

"Can you believe it?" Sarah asked, her hand covering her mouth.

Mark said, "Let me introduce you. Colin Maguire, Annie Winters."

The woman in the blue striped blouse offered her hand, and Colin started to say something when there was a sound like a huge intake of breath. In fact, he realized, it was an intake of breath: a collective gasp. People were staring at the pool.

The cover had been rolled back a quarter of the way, and sticking out from beneath it were two feet, wrinkled and purplish.

"Christ almighty," Mark said.

Gildersleeve's face had drained of color, his cheeks two quivering pouches.

The pool men, T-shirts drenched with sweat, were staring stupidly at the water-logged feet. The bigger of the two called to Gilder- sleeve.

"You want we should go on, Mayor?"

Gildersleeve bit at his lower lip, chewing the flesh as if it were gum. For a moment Colin thought the man might cry. But then he pulled himself together. "I think we should clear the area first, the women and children into the house."

"Not on your life," Sarah said quietly.

Annie Winters said nothing but she didn't move.

The mayor went on, "Grace, take them into the house. And fast."

Grace Gildersleeve's chin trembled as she fought tears and, like a dazed sheepdog, began herding women and children toward the sliding glass doors at the back of the house.

It took only a few minutes before the women, Sarah and Annie excepted, were banished to Grace's kitchen. Then Gildersleeve gave the pool men a signal with a quaking hand.

Everyone moved closer to the edges of the pool. Standing between Mark and Annie, Colin felt weak and silently prayed that he would get through this all right.

The men began to turn back the cover and with each roll exposed a little more of the ugly, swollen body: calves, knees, thighs, and then the groin. The woman's pubic hair looked white against the purplish-blue color of her skin. The exposure continued, revealing a distended belly, and waist, bloated breasts, arms at her sides, fingers curled. With a final wrench of the cover the woman's face appeared, distorted and inflated, the long hair floating behind her like a grotesque halo.

When Colin saw her eyes, open and staring, a look of horror burned into them forever, he dropped the glass from his hand and crumpled to the brick patio. It was Chicago all over again, and he was passing out.

LOOKING BACK
—50 YEARS AGO

A small boy who was unable to visit his mother, who was in the maternity ward at the Long Island Hospital in Seaville, found a novel way to get around the rules. The staff was greatly amused as the 12-year-old climbed a tree near the window of the room in which his mother was in bed, and sitting on a limb just outside the window, held a lengthy conversation with his mother.

TWO

When Colin came to he saw the face of the blond. Her blue eyes were open now, concerned and not smiling.

"Are you all right?" Annie asked.

He felt chagrined, taking a dive like that. How many bodies had he seen in his life? One hundred? Two, three? But it was different now. Still, he couldn't explain that to this woman he didn't know.

"Colin?" she said.

"Hey, pal, speak," Mark ordered.

Colin turned his head away from the woman, and looked into Mark's handsome face, the prematurely gray hair disheveled.

"Should I ask where I am?" he said, trying to joke.

"Why not?"

"Where am I?"

Mark said, "At the scene of a crime, so get your ass up."

"Easy now." It was Sarah.

Colin sat up slowly, his shoulder aching from the fall. He saw that the other men were still standing around, most of them staring at the body in the pool, but a few were looking at him, making him feel worse.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Annie asked.

Colin wondered why she cared, but was glad she did. "Yeah, sure, I'm okay."

Annie smiled. "Too much dip."

"I wasn't drinking," he said defensively. He got to his knees, then to his feet, wavering a second.

Mark grabbed his arm. "Hey, take it easy."

"I was just kidding," Annie said.

He ignored her.

"Don't look at the floater again if you don't want to," Mark said quietly.

"No, it's okay, I just... I just..."

"Skip it."

Their eyes locked in understanding. In Seaville only Mark and Sarah knew about it. He wanted things to stay that way.

"Maybe you should go home," Sarah suggested.

"No. I'm fine now."

Colin and Mark walked to the edge of the pool. She was still floating there like something from one of those lagoons in horror films. But it didn't get to him now. He made himself detach, like the good newspaperman he was.

A siren wailed in the distance. Colin wondered if it would be a patrolman or the chief himself. He liked Chief Hallock. They'd taken instantly to each other, and that was valuable to Colin. Mark had no rapport with the man, couldn't reach him. Colin knew it burned Mark that he'd won Waldo Hallock the first week on the job, but Mark was fair and smart, knew it was good for the paper, so he kept his ruffled feelings tamped down.

The siren died in front of the house. Patrolman Albert Wiggins was first through the gate, hatless, his short-sleeved blue shirt showing big wet patches under the arms. The chief followed, white shirt immaculate, his hat set at a jaunty angle, back farther than regulation.

Waldo Hallock was forty-eight and he'd been chief for twenty years. During his third year on the force all policemen were required to take a civil service test. Hallock was the only one of five men who passed, and he was immediately promoted to chief, replacing the current one, Charles Gildersleeve. And now his son, Carl, detested Waldo.

Gildersleeve hurried over to him, clutching a handkerchief, which he used to wipe his sweating neck and face.

"Don't know how this happened, Slats," he said to the chief, calling him by his high-school nickname. "I never saw this woman before. I don't know what's going on here. This is a mess."

Hallock tilted his head to one side, took off his hat, exposing his full head of black hair, not a gray one in the bunch, reached out a long arm and gently but firmly pushed Gildersleeve to one side. "'Scuse me, Stinky," he said, using Carl's high-school nickname, and walked to the edge of the pool.

The chief returned his hat to his head and Colin wondered if he'd taken it off just to show that thick thatch of black to white-haired, balding Gildersleeve.

"Got to get her out," Hallock said to Wiggins. "Call the M.E."

"Right." Wiggins walked away.

"You guys want to help?" Hallock asked.

Colin felt his stomach flip-flop. He couldn't touch the body. Never again. But what could he say?

"You don't have to, you know." It was Annie, behind him.

Mark called to Doug Corwin and Ray Chute to give a hand. He stepped in front of Colin, making it impossible for him to get near the pool. The chief didn't seem to notice, and in a minute Wiggins was back, so there were five, pulling and lifting.

Colin looked down at his feet. He wanted to get the hell out of there. But it was humiliating enough without running like some chickenshit. And he had to stop being rude to this Annie Winters who was only trying to be nice and helpful. He turned to speak to her but she wasn't there.

Then he heard the flumping sound of the body dropping onto the patio, and he forgot about Annie. The men drew back, creating a space, and Colin was suddenly part of the group staring down at the dead woman.

Light-colored hair hung in long hanks around the swollen face and over shoulders that looked like they might explode. Colin avoided looking at her eyes. A piece of material was knotted around her throat like a ragged jabot. His gaze drifted to her chest, where cuts ran from the bottom of her neck over her breasts and down to her navel.

"Anybody recognize her?" Albert Wiggins asked.

There was nervous laughter.

"You must be joshin', Al," Ray Chute said.

"Just thought I'd ask."

"Carl," the chief called. "C'mere."

Gildersleeve, handkerchief still working overtime, scurried across the patio. He'd removed his sunglasses and they hung against his chest, one bow hooked over the edge of the pocket of his pink linen jacket. The two men stared at one another, their mutual lack of admiration evident.

"You know this woman, Carl?" Hallock asked.

Gildersleeve's face flushed in anger. "I told you I didn't. Don't try an' pin this thing on me." He turned toward Mark. "And don't you go writin' this up in the paper, Griffing."