Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (13 page)

"Work," he said gloomily.

"Wednesday after work?"

"Five-thirty?" He adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses, wiped away some beads of sweat from his long upper lip.

"That'll be fine."

"The parsonage or your office?"

Colin bet he'd prefer the parsonage.

"Office," Annie said.

Kelly's countenance fell like a failed facelift. "See you Wednesday," he said, and walked away.

"Goodbye, Burton."

He answered with a wave over his shoulder.

Colin said, "I'd say that's a disappointed man."

"He's very sensitive."

Colin thought it was more than that, like having the hots for his preacher.

This time they made it out of the parish hall and crossed to the parsonage. Colin stood on the steps while Annie unlocked the door. Looking out at the street, he saw Kelly sitting in his car across the way. When he realized Colin had seen him he started the car and drove off. Colin decided he didn't much like the guy.

Inside the parsonage Annie showed him to the living room. He found it warm and cheerful, a reflection of her. She handed him a sherry, then sat across from him. They looked at each other for a moment that seemed like hours. Colin heard his heartbeat and wondered if she heard hers.

"Is there any news about the murders?" she asked.

"Nothing. The state police have come in, though."

"How does Waldo feel about that?"

"I haven't talked to him, but I'd guess he's not too happy. On the other hand, he's a decent man and I'd bet his first concern is getting this thing solved."

"Yes, I'm sure that's true. I feel so terrible for the Higbees. I wish there was something I could do. There can't be anything worse than losing a child."

Except maybe losing two and your wife, he thought, then nodded in agreement. "You never had any?"

"No."

Quickly he added, "Sarah told me you'd been married. Your husband died?"

"Yes."

She looked sad. He could have kicked himself for getting into this. Aside from making her unhappy, she was bound to ask him now.

"And you?" she asked, on cue.

He could feel his breathing coming faster, prayed he wouldn't have an attack. "My wife is dead, too. An automobile accident."

"I'm sorry. Bob had a heart attack. He was only thirty."

Colin wondered if in some mystical way he was only capable of feeling for people who'd had a loss. Annie, Gloria Danowski's husband, Russ Cooper, the Higbees? "Nancy was thirty-two," he said, hoping she wouldn't ask about children.

She didn't, just nodded, understanding.

"It's hard, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes. Very hard. How long has it been for you?"

"Five years. And you?"

"Three, almost. Does it get easier?"

"I suppose so. Time dulls those sharp edges."

It was different for him, but he couldn't say that. He wanted to get off this subject.

"Of course, there are times when it's as fresh as if it had happened yesterday," she went on.

He knew all about those times.

They were silent, he examining his shoes, she intent on her glass of sherry.

Then Annie said, "How do you like it on the North Fork?"

"It seems like a nice place." He shook his head as if to dismiss what he'd said. "I guess we're back at the murders. I mean, a nice place besides that."

"It is a nice place. I lived here for awhile when I was a kid. That's one of the reasons I chose this parish. I remembered being happy here."

"What's the other reason?"

"The other parishes were in the Midwest and the West. I wanted to be near my parents. My mother, especially. She suffers from depression. They live in Brooklyn Heights. Are your parents living?"

"My mother."

For the next fifteen minutes they exchanged background information as if they were submitting resumes to each other. Siblings, schools, jobs. He discovered that Annie had a younger sister and brother, that she'd gone to Bennington, worked for CBS as a casting associate for two years, then became casting director on a soap. She was married at twenty-five to Robert Lockridge (Winters was her maiden name), lived in Greenwich Village for two years and, although she was ecstatically happy in her marriage, she felt something about her life was unfulfilled. It was then that she and Bob started going to a U.U. church.

"After about six months something happened. I guess the only way I can put it is to say everything I was doing then seemed frivolous. My job, the kind of life we were leading, our friends. I mean, there was nothing wrong with our friends, they were all nice people, but they were operating on a superficial level, as we were. I knew I needed something more. I needed to be in touch spiritually. I know that sounds corny."

"Not at all."

She smiled.

He felt it.

"I told Bob I wanted to be a minister. He was very encouraging and urged me to apply to divinity school. The only one I wanted to go to was Harvard and I was lucky enough to be accepted. We moved to Boston and seven months later he was dead. We'd been married two-and-a-half years."

They were back to death again, Colin thought. "What did you do then?"

"I took a leave of absence for the rest of the year. Then I sat in my apartment for six months and stared at the walls, cried, and felt sorry for myself. Bob left me a lot of insurance money, so I didn't have to worry about that. It probably would have been better if I'd had to. Anyway, one night I had this dream that Bob found me sitting in our apartment in my dirty robe, hair uncombed, cigarette butts in the ashtray, you get the picture?"

"I do."

"Well, I was this mess in the dream—in life, too. And Bob came to me and said, 'What's wrong with you, Annie? You've got work to do. Get off your butt and do it.' That was it. When I woke up I felt better. I knew I had to show up for life again."

"I can understand your grief but I'm surprised that you couldn't handle it differently. Didn't you think he was in a better place?"

"You mean an afterlife?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe in an afterlife."

"I didn't know you people didn't believe in that."

"I said, I didn't believe. Many U.U.'s do."

"You mean you can believe what you want?"

"Just about."

"But you must stand for something."

She smiled. "We have a saying: 'Unitarian Universalists don't stand for anything. We move.'"

Colin liked that, liked her. "Listen, would you mind if I smoked?"

"Go ahead." She opened a drawer in an end table and took out a brown-and-white ashtray.

When she handed it to him their hands touched. For Colin it was electric. Wondering if she felt it too, he said, "So after the dream you went back to school and then what?"

"I graduated and came here almost two years ago."

"Don't you ever miss the beat of a big city?"

"I thought I might, but I'm so busy here I don't have time to think about it. What about you?"

"I guess I'd have to say the same. But I've only been here a short time. I can imagine missing certain options, though."

"Like what?"

"Oh, theater, concerts—even movies. It's pretty bleak when something like Conan the Barbarian is your only choice."

She laughed and he felt himself respond, smiling at her.

He said, "Did you know that the guy who wrote the book Conan the Barbarian lived with his mother until he died?"

"You know," she said, "this will probably shock you, but I didn't know that."

Now he laughed.

Annie said, "I won't deny that the North Fork is often a cultural desert, but we try to rectify that as much as possible. We have music programs, poetry readings, even some theater."

"I thought the biggest form of entertainment around here was yard sales."

"Sometimes it feels like that. Thank God for the library. Have you tried it?"

Colin shook his head. He'd assumed the Seaville library stacks were loaded with romances and how-to junk.

"Last year we got a new, smart librarian and the whole place has changed. Betty'll get you any book you want." Annie cocked her head to one side. "Assuming you read, of course."

"I've been known to crack a book now and then."

They were smiling at each other again, eyes meeting. Colin felt it in his toes. And then they were exchanging names of authors they liked. He experienced a kind of excitement he hadn't felt for a long time—that magic when you discover someone you like has the same taste as you. They had just started on movies when Annie realized the time.

"I'm sorry, Colin, I have to go. I'm late already."

They both rose.

He knew it was none of his business, but he asked anyway. "Where are you going."

She was clearly surprised by his question. "Sunday dinner with parishioners."

"Have it with me," he said recklessly, "I'm a parishioner."

"Are you?" she asked softly.

"Yes."

"I'm glad."

They looked at each other for several moments before she picked up their empty glasses.

In the kitchen Colin asked, "Do you always have Sunday dinner with a parishioner?"

"Almost always."

They were standing very close and he wanted to kiss her. "How about Saturday night dinners?" he said instead.

"That depends"

"On what?"

"The kindness of strangers."

"I'm a stranger."

"I thought you were a parishioner."

"A strange parishioner."

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, I'm strange or yes, you'll have dinner Saturday night?"

"Both."

"Good."

They left the house together, and he walked her to her car.

Bending down, he spoke to her through the open window. "It's going to be a long week."

She smiled. The engine turned over and she put the car in gear.

Colin watched as the Escort pulled out onto the main street and turned left toward Bay View. He stood watching until it was out of sight.

In his own car he sat for awhile and smoked a cigarette. He felt odd, as if he'd done something terrible. Was this what Dr. Safier tried to warn him about? The feeling of betraying Nancy? He had no doubt that what he was experiencing was guilt. Why should he feel guilt just from making a date with a woman? But that was rational. Feelings weren't rational. So what was he feeling? Guilt and anxiety. And lust. Don't forget good old lust.

He flipped his cigarette out the window, started the car, and sat waiting to pull out while two cars went by. The second was Burton Kelly's. Kelly looked straight ahead as he drove past. Colin couldn't help wondering what the man was doing around there again; then decided he was making something out of nothing. After all, it was the only road into town. Still, something about it bothered him. Maybe the intense way Kelly had been driving, hands gripping the top of the wheel, eyes glued to the road. He waited until four more cars went by. Each driver looked his way, checking for a car that might pull out. It was a reflex, natural and predictable. Only Burton Kelly had kept his eyes straight ahead. Colin surmised that Kelly didn't wish to be seen driving by the church again, driving by Annie's.

As he turned into the road he thought that unless Burton Kelly was guilty about something, like spying on his minister, he would most certainly have looked at Colin's car, even waved. A prickle of fear danced across the back of Colin's neck. And then he told himself to forget it and get on with his day. He turned on the radio to WNEW. Peggy Lee was singing "Day by Day" and he found himself joining her and thinking of Annie.

LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO

Miss Olive Sheraton, of Seaville, had a strange mishap one night last week. She dreamed she was bathing and dived through a window screen to the ground 12 feet below, striking on her face. After an examination it was found that she had broken her nose and badly bruised her face.

SIXTEEN

On Tuesday morning Special Agent William Schufeldt sat behind the only wooden desk in the squad room, facing Chief Hallock. Schufeldt was a beefy man, at first giving the appearance of someone who still had to lose his baby fat. But there was no fat on him. Schufeldt was like a well-trimmed roast. His eyes were small and blue, and when he leveled his gaze they were hard, like shooting marbles.

Hallock looked into those eyes and felt a wintry chill even though the thermometer was registering a comfortable seventy. He didn't like Schufeldt, and not just because he'd come in on the case, acting like he ran the place, treating Hallock like an inferior, generally hot-dogging all over; he didn't like him because the guy wasn't likable. There was something missing, Hallock thought. An important ingredient, maybe soul. Whatever it was, Hallock couldn't warm up to him and didn't want to.

"Let's take it from the top," Schufeldt said. "Danowski, Gloria."

Hallock tried not to show his irritation. This was the fifth time Schufeldt wanted to review the cases. Nothing new had developed since the first time they went over them, inch by inch, word by word. The chief opened the folder on his desk, picked out the autopsy report. "Why don't you just read it?" he asked evenly.

Schufeldt cocked his head to one side, an arrogant smile threatening to bloom. "I wouldn't have to be here if that's all I was going to do, Waldo."

It angered Hallock that this guy called him by his first name. He knew it was an interrogating technique designed to make the suspect feel inferior. Besides, he could be Schufeldt's father. In turn, Hallock never called him anything. "It seems pointless for me to read it aloud to you."

"Nothing I do is pointless, Waldo. There are things I hear when someone reads to me that I don't pick up when I read to myself. You understand, Waldo?"

There was no way he was going to answer. Hallock's eyes locked with Schufeldt's; the younger man's gaze, steady and chilly, was set for eternity. Hallock looked away. Angry with himself, he began to read aloud.

Schufeldt scratched at yellow lined paper from time to time. When Hallock finished the autopsy report, Schufeldt lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair, springs creaking. "Husband's statement," he ordered.