Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (26 page)

"Keep going. You're doing fine."

"Two were married, one engaged. Three were born in Seaville, one in Mattituck. They all had siblings. They all had living parents. Two had children. One was a housewife, two had jobs. Two lived in Seaville, one in Bay View, one in East Hampton. Three had a two in their address, three had fives, and three had zeros. Two had moderate incomes, one a combined income of over eighty thousand, and one none." Colin put down the paper. "I think the only significant thing is that they were all born in the North Fork. Natives."

"What's significant about that?"

"I shouldn't have said significant, that's too strong. What I mean is, it's the only common denominator."

"I agree." He held out his piece of paper, tapped the line where he'd discovered the same thing.

"So what's it mean?" Colin asked.

"I'm not sure. I just know there isn't anything else. Like you said, the only common denominator. I think we should check more on the families. Maybe it's something in the backgrounds. Grandparents, even."

"Okay. Higbee and Carroll's immediate families are here, but what about Cooper and Danowski?"

Hallock said, "Cooper's parents live in Florida. Miami Beach, I think. Got to look that up. Danowski's parents are in Bellport. If you can handle them, I can take the ones in Florida. What I mean is, I got more time on my hands than you. But you could probably take an afternoon to go down island to Bellport, couldn't you?"

Colin took a slug of coffee, stalling for time. "Couldn't I do it by phone?"

Hallock looked surprised. "An old newspaperman like you ought to know the personal touch always works best."

"Right." He felt nauseated; too much coffee.

"What's up, Maguire? You don't look so hot."

He knew he'd have to tell him. "Waldo, I don't mean to let you down but, I... I can't go to Bellport. Ever since my family was murdered... I get these panic attacks. I can't go too far from home."

"You mean like acrophobia?"

"Agoraphobia," he corrected gently. "Sort of. But obviously I can leave my house. I just can't go too far away, and not with anybody else in the car."

"No big deal," Hallock said. "You check into Higbee and Carroll, I'll do the other two."

"Thanks."

Hallock waved his hand in dismissal. "Look, we all got problems. Anyway, sooner you can get on to those, the better."

"You really going to Florida?"

"Why the hell not?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow, maybe. I'll go down to Bellport today, see what I can find out about the..." He glanced down at his piece of crumpled paper. "... the Bennetts. Ethel and George. Think you can do some of this today?"

"Sure." He'd hoped to see Annie later, but that was tonight.

"Okay. You going to tell Griffing you're working on this with

me?"

"I don't see why I should."

"Good."

Colin walked with him to the front porch. "But I don't think Mark would care."

Hallock started to say something then changed his mind.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Waldo, that sucks."

"It'd just be better if you didn't say anything to anybody. About us working on this thing."

"Especially Mark?"

"No. Just anybody." He pushed open the screen door.

Colin thought Hallock was lying. "Okay, I'll keep it quiet."

Hallock said, "You get any leads today try me later at the motel. Room one-thirty-one."

Colin watched Hallock drive away. Some kids were coming down the street, wearing bathing suits and carrying a rubber raft. It was a beautiful day, seventy-five degrees, but Colin knew the water in the bay would still be cold. Kids never minded how cold the water was. He remembered how he and Brian would stay in the water for hours, fingertips shriveling, bodies almost blue, and still they wouldn't come out until their father or mother threatened punishment. For a moment Colin longed to be a boy again, free from problems. It was hard to believe there'd ever been such a time in his life. The last years had cast such a pall over everything he sometimes felt life had always been dark and dreary. But now there was Annie, a bright spot in an otherwise dim existence.

Back in the kitchen he lifted the phone and dialed her number, surprised as he realized he'd committed it to memory.

---

Annie's phone rang.

He said, "Don't answer that."

She was shaking from anger and fear. The phone continued to ring and she looked toward the kitchen. "I want to answer my phone."

"No," he said, rising from the gray velvet couch and crossing the room in three long strides. Steve Cornwell towered over her, his face of oversize features like a caricature, the black hair neatly trimmed. He wore a green cotton jacket, blue polo shirt, plaid slacks with a white belt, and white loafers. "I don't want you to answer the phone because I'm here to talk. Get it?"

She nodded and backed away from him.

"Good. Sit down." He pointed to the rocking chair. She sat while he remained standing. "Why don't you give up the ghost, Mrs. Winters."

She tried to remain cool, her voice even. "It's not Mrs. Winters. As I've told you many times, it's Reverend Winters or Annie. Winters is my maiden name. What is it you want?"

The phone stopped ringing.

She looked toward the kitchen, futilely trying to will her caller to come to the house.

"Are you divorced?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"You know I'm not. My husband died. I asked you what you wanted. If you don't tell me or get out of here, I'm going to call the police."

He gave a short hoot of laughter. "So why don't you use your dead husband's name? It seems unfaithful to change it just because the poor guy's dead. You should have mentioned that in your sermon." He laughed again, showing large teeth like a mouthful of shells. "Funny you should pick fidelity for your sermon today."

Annie felt a sharp stab of guilt. "Steve," she said, trying to sound reasonable, "what's this all about?"

"I think you know."

"I don't know."

"I think you do," he insisted. "I've got my eye on you, Miss Winters. All the time." Cornwell pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out, and returned the pack.

"I don't like people smoking in my house."

"Don't you? That's too damn bad." He lit the cigarette, blew out the match, and dropped it on the rug.

Furious, Annie started to get up.

"Stay where you are," he commanded, eyes like two bullet holes.

"I want to get you an ashtray."

"Sit down," he ordered.

What if he's the killer? she thought. What if this is it? She knew she wasn't ready. Softly, she asked, "Just what do you want?"

"I want you out. I want you back in the kitchen where you belong."

"You're incredible." Was this really why he was here? she wondered. Was that all?

Cornwell tapped the cigarette with a long finger; ash fell to the rug.

Trying not to react, she looked at her watch. "I'm expected at dinner and I'm already late."

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I've put up with you as minister week after week, listened to your trite sermons, watched the others fawning over you, but now I've had it."

"I don't understand."

He smiled. "I'm going to get rid of you.

Her heart slammed in her chest.

"I might as well tell you I saw you with that reporter last night."

"So?" She could feel a small rivulet of sweat making its way between her breasts.

"So," Cornwell said, dropping more ash on the rug, "one thing leads to another. And when it does, you've had it. Just like that." He snapped his fingers, loud.

Annie flinched.

He smiled with satisfaction.

She felt a curious sense of relief. If he was the murderer, he was not going to kill her. At least not at this moment. "I'm going to dinner now."

"Goodbye."

"You are not going to stay here while I'm gone," she stated.

"No?"

"No." Annie looked into his eyes, met his hatred, and didn't turn away.

Cornwell shrugged, breaking the stare. "I don't want to stay here anyway." He dropped the cigarette on the rug, ground it out.

"You pig," she said.

He laughed. "Don't forget, I'll be watching you."

She waited until she heard the door close, ran to it and snapped the lock, rushed to the back door, locked that, then went to the living room to check the damage to the rug. Picking up the butt, she brushed away the ash. A black smudge marred the carpet. Club soda fixed the spilled sherry.

She dialed Colin. After one ring she hung up. What would she tell him? She didn't want to appear a helpless female unable to run her own life. He was the wrong one to tell. She should call the police. But she couldn't do it. There would be too many questions, and she was sure it would hurt her more than Steve Cornwell.

But what if he was the killer? She rationalized that if he was, he would already have killed her. Why bother with threats? Still, there was a nagging doubt in her mind. And as she left the house for her dinner engagement she silently prayed she wouldn't live to regret her decision.

LOOKING BACK
—75 YEARS AGO

During the electrical storm Saturday night or early Sunday morning, the barn of John Fleet of Seaville was struck by lightning and a colt owned by his son, E. D. Fleet, was killed. It was a valuable colt and thought a great deal of by his owner. The telephone in the house was also burned out.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Driving to the Carrolls', Colin wondered about the chief's request to not tell Mark what they were doing. Was Hallock afraid Mark would purposely hinder their investigation? Or was it something Hallock wasn't about to let him in on?

Along the road Colin noticed a few yard sales. Nobody seemed to be attending them. Was this more evidence that the tourist season was off in Seaville? Perhaps if he was a businessman on the Fork or if he had a wife and children, he would have been screaming for Hallock's hide too.

Sticking a Marlboro between his lips, he shoved in the car lighter. Did Hallock think Mark knew something about the murders he wasn't telling? Suddenly Colin pulled into a side street, turned around, reentered the main road, and headed back the way he'd come. The Carrolls could wait.

By the time he crossed the causeway into Point Haven, he was beginning to have doubts, thinking maybe he was nuts. Still he didn't turn around. He realized this had been in the back of his mind since Friday, but now it jumped to the front like a page in a child's pop-up book.

Point Haven was the most exclusive town on the Fork. Old money dominated. Point Haveners were snobs and thought the rest of the Fork was tacky. The houses here were old, large, lavish. But more and more outsiders were buying land, throwing up modern houses and, according to the natives, spoiling the place.

Slowing the car, Colin started looking at street signs. Mark had told him that Amy Stauber lived on Love Lane and, winking, said how apt it was. Colin recalled that the street was near the Candy maker on the main road. He spotted it and turned. Amy had designed her own house—a rectangular shape painted pink, purple, and blue.

Mark said it drove the natives wild. The house was halfway down the block, back about fifty feet from the road. The land around it was bare. He pulled in next to a green Austin. For a moment he thought he should leave. What was he going to learn here, anyway? But his curiosity smothered his doubts.

Standing next to the car he stared at the house. He'd never seen its equal. It was long and low and painted as Mark had described. Smiling, Colin couldn't help liking Amy for doing something a little different, and he was glad it drove the old money types nuts.

At the bright pink door he used the lion's head brass knocker. There was no response at first, but by the time he'd knocked again he heard footsteps inside.

"Who is it?" a woman asked.

"Amy?"

"Who is it, please?"

"My name's Colin Maguire. I work for Mark Griffing."

For a moment nothing stirred, then Colin heard her unsnap a lock. When the door opened he was stunned. "Are you Amy Stauber?"

"Yes." She was at least thirty-five, definitely not a kid. But she was beautiful. At least that much was true. She was tall and had long silver hair parted in the middle. Her hazel eyes were large. The broadcloth shirt she wore was blue with a button-down collar, and her jeans were tight, showing off a spectacular figure. On her feet were worn blue espadrilles.

"May I come in?"

"Has something happened to Mark?"

"No. He's fine. I'd just like to talk to you for a moment."

"Did Mark send you?"

"No."

"I don't understand, then. What's this about?"

"Please, this is important."

"How do I know you're who you say you are?" A thin line of sweat outlined her upper lip.

Colin realized she was frightened. Maybe she thought he was the murderer. "Don't you recognize my name from the paper?"

"I don't read the paper," she said coldly. "Do you have any identification?"

He showed her his press card.

"Okay. Come on in."

The house was pleasantly cool and smelled of cedar. Bamboo furniture from the forties filled the living room. The pillows were covered in a cotton fabric splashed with color on a black background. Plants were everywhere. A wooden fan hung from the ceiling.

Amy told him to sit. "So what's up?" she asked.

"I want to talk to you about Mark?"

"Did Sarah send you?"

"No one sent me."

"What do you mean, you want to talk about Mark?"

He wasn't sure what he meant. Part of him kept thinking if he didn't say it out loud it would go away; the other part knew it was too late for that. Still, all his reportorial skills seemed to vanish. "I know you were close once," he said awkwardly.

She laughed, a dimple dotting one cheek. "Oh, that's cute."

"I'm sorry. I don't blame you for laughing. I'm having a little trouble here. Mark's an old friend. I guess I feel disloyal."

"So why'd you come?"