Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (32 page)

She didn't answer, just sat on the couch, waiting.

Peg said, "What is it? You look terrible. Oh, God, I'm sorry. He's not dead, if that's what you're thinking."

Annie closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the couch. "What then?" she was able to ask.

"He's disappeared. You do know about Babe Parkinson, don't you?"

"No."

Peg sat down next to her, gently put her hand on Annie's arm. "She's been murdered—one of those swastikas was carved in her chest. And Colin's run away. I can't believe no one's called you."

"I had a meeting about the summer carnival at nine which lasted two hours. I didn't take any calls, then I went over to the church. "What do you mean, Colin's run away?"

"I don't know all the details and I got what I have third hand, but it seems Mark Griffing tried to get Colin to turn himself in and Colin attacked him, locked him in the basement of the Gazette building. Then he just disappeared. He didn't have his car so he couldn't have gotten very far. You don't know where he is, do you, Annie?"

"No. When was Babe Parkinson murdered?"

"Some time late last night, from what I've gathered."

Annie said, "Colin didn't kill her."

Peg shook her head. "You don't know that, Annie. You just don't know."

"I do. she said obstinately.

"Look, I know how you feel. If somebody accused Tim of killing some—"

"Peg, listen to me," she snapped.

"Okay, okay."

"Colin couldn't have killed Babe. He was with me."

"All night?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Who should I call?"

"What do you mean?"

"Peg, I have to help Colin. If the police think he killed Babe, they have to be told he couldn't have."

"You can't, Annie."

"Oh, yes I can." She picked up the phone.

Peg depressed the button cutting off the open line. "You just can't. Think." She took the receiver from Annie and replaced it.

"I am thinking."

"Look, just because you spent one night with the man doesn't mean you throw your whole career down the drain. Don't you know what's going to happen when this gets out?"

"I have a pretty fair idea. But it doesn't matter. Colin's life might be at stake."

"And so might yours," Peg pointed out.

"That's absurd."

"Is it?"

"You don't know him!" Annie exclaimed.

"And you do?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. He's gentle and sensitive and—he couldn't kill anyone."

"Don't you think it's a bit of a coincidence that this gentle, sensitive man has been involved in murder before coming to Seaville?" Peg asked.

"Exactly. That's exactly what it is, a coincidence." She made a move toward the phone.

Peg blocked her. "Annie, please. This is just the kind of thing Steve Cornwell is waiting for."

"I can't help that, Peg. Colin's life is more important than my career in Seaville."

"It won't just be Seaville," Peg assured her.

"I'll have to take that chance."

"Can't you at least wait, see what happens?"

Annie searched Peg's eyes. "You mean wait and see if he's killed, don't you?"

"No. I... I didn’t' mean that," Peg said lamely.

She reached for the phone again. "Excuse me."

Peg removed her hand and Annie lifted the receiver. When the call was answered Annie asked for Schufeldt and was told he wasn't in. She left her name and asked that he return her call, saying it was important. Then she tried Mark at the paper. He wasn't in. She left a message that it was urgent he reach her. Next she called Sarah at home, but there was no answer there. The only thing she could do now was wait.

----

The cramp in Colin's right leg was excruciating. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. The other hand he used to squeeze the muscle in his calf, hoping to stop the pain. It didn't work. He tried to distract himself by naming all the teachers he'd had in grammar school. He wondered if you remembered their names all your life. The muscle was still cramping. He needed to put pressure on the leg, stand on it, but the doghouse was too low. There had to be an alternative. There was. He lay down in the dirt, put his foot against one wall and pushed. Because he couldn't straighten out his leg, it took longer, hurt more. But finally the pain subsided, then vanished.

He remained on his back, legs bent, eyes studying the peaked ceiling. The number of spider webs seemed to have increased since the last time he counted. Maybe he was hallucinating.

It was almost eight-five. He'd been in the doghouse for over thirteen hours. He laughed. If anyone had ever been in the doghouse it was him. The sun should set in approximately eight to ten minutes. Then it would be another fifteen before it was totally dark and he could get the hell out of here.

His belly growled. He'd had nothing to eat since the eggs the night before. Perversely, he thought of all the foods he loved: pasta, french fries, artichokes, steak, potato chips, mocha cake, pizza. When he finished he was hungrier than he'd been. The worst part was his thirst. Coffee that morning was the last liquid he'd had. But maybe that was good. At least his bladder wasn't bursting. Still, his lips were dry and flaky, and his throat felt as if it were coated with sand.

Sitting up, he went back to thoughts of Mark. Motive was the biggest stumbling block. And the fact that Mark seemed so normal.

But hadn't Ted Bundy fooled people? There was plenty of documentation supporting the so-called "normal" killer. It was just hard to believe someone you thought you knew so well could fool you so completely. Colin suspected his reluctance to see the truth about Mark was due to pride, his need to be right.

Even so, Babe's murder was the giveaway. It was as though Mark had signed his name to that one. But to everyone else the signature would be Colin's. Mark must have planned it all from the very beginning. It was the reason he'd asked Colin to work on the paper. The only reason. Still, what about motive? And then he faced the truth: Insane people didn't need a logical motive.

He pulled his sticky shirt away from his chest. It was as if he'd gone into a shower completely dressed. Earlier he'd contemplated stripping to his shorts, but was afraid he might need to make a sudden run.

Looking out the doghouse doorway he could see darkness descending. His windbreaker hung on a protruding nail. He reached for it and wrestled his arms through the sleeves. The Kiske house remained dark but lights were on in the house to the right. There were still a few minutes to wait.

Most of the day he'd thought about Annie, recalling the night before until it became too painful. There was no doubt in his mind that he cared for her, maybe loved her. She was very different from Nancy, which was good and bad. He wouldn't have wanted anyone too much like her; that would have made him uneasy. Yet having an affair with a woman so different from his wife instilled in him a feeling of betrayal, the very thing Dr. Safier warned him about.

What worried him most was not his feelings for Annie or hers for him, but the thought that Mark might harm her, hoping to incriminate Colin further. As soon as he could get to a phone he planned to warn her against Mark. He knew she would find it hard to believe, just as he had. Still, he had to convince her to leave her house, stay with a friend until this thing was over.

Night settled. The time to make his move had arrived. He picked up the gun and slowly crawled through the door into the yard. Getting to his haunches, he waited and listened. June bugs thumped against screens, and the smell of someone barbecuing made him salivate. He would have to keep low going through the yards until he came to the spot across from Wood's Motel. His legs were wobbly as he rose up to run. A dog barked somewhere, a baby cried, snippets of conversation drifted toward him, died. There was no use waiting any longer. He had to go. Now.

----

Hallock was booked on a six o'clock flight. The storm of the day before had caused a tremendous backlog of people trying to get out of Miami. He'd spent most of the day in the terminal, reading newspapers, commiserating with strangers, making phone calls. Maguire's phone remained off the hook. But he'd had success with one of his calls. George Bennett confirmed his suspicion. He and Ethel had been in the nightclub fire twenty-five years before. And someone had killed their daughter, Gloria. He hadn't needed to call Chuck Higbee. Hallock remembered that Ed and Rose Higbee had been in the fire. Poor Ed had just gotten a bank loan and was celebrating. Some celebration.

He couldn't remember whether any of the Carrolls had been in the fire. It couldn't have been Joe, who wasn't even born at the time, but maybe Mary and Ted were there that night. Or their parents. Ruth Cooper had actually been in the fire herself. The others were related somehow. Mary Beth was just an innocent grandchild.

Hallock walked to the bank of phones against the far wall of the terminal. He'd gotten the Carroll number through information earlier, but no one had been home all day. He dropped in a dime, punched out the numbers. The operator asked him to deposit more money. He listened to the computerized bells and beeps and then the distant ring. Once, twice, three times, finally answered by Mary.

"It's Waldo Hallock," he said.

"Oh, yes. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mary. You?"

"I'm managing," she said.

"I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Mary. Joe was a fine boy."

"Thank you."

He wondered how the wife of an undertaker dealt with death. "Is Ted there by any chance?" Better to speak to the husband, he thought, then heard Fran telling him he was being an MCP Even so he knew it would be easier to talk to Ted, providing he wasn't drunk.

"He's not, Waldo. Do you want me to have him call you back?"

"No, thanks. Can't do that. I'm kind of unreachable at the moment." He would have to try her. "Look, Mary, I want to ask you something important."

"What's that?"

"Well, it's kind of a funny question, but I need to know. Were you and Ted or anyone else in your family involved in that nightclub fire twenty-five years ago? You know the one I mean?"

"There's only ever been one nightclub in Seaville."

"That's right. Well, were you?"

"Matter of fact, we were."

Hallock felt his heart give a thump.

Mary said, "Ted had second-degree burns on his left hand. Did you ever notice that scar he has across his palm? That's what it's from. That fire."

"Is that a fact?"

"What's this about, anyway?"

"Just something I'm trying to figure out, Mary. No need to worry about it."

"Has it got anything to do with Joe?" she asked wearily.

"To tell you the truth I don't know. It might."

"I thought you were off the case, Waldo."

"I am," he readily admitted. "Officially."

"Can't keep a good man down, I guess."

"Thanks, Mary. Listen, could you just keep this between us? I mean, my asking about the fire and all. Don't even tell Ted, okay?"

She laughed derisively. "Are you kidding? If I tell Ted, it'll be all over Seaville by the time the bars close. Don't you worry, Waldo. Mum's the word."

He thanked her and hung up. There was no question in his mind that he could trust Mary Carroll. She was definitely a woman of her word.

Hallock walked over to a coffee machine, slipped in three quarters, pushed the coffee button and then the one for milk. He watched while the cup dropped and the liquid poured in. A packet of sugar slid down a chute. He swore at this measly amount, then took his coffee over to a turquoise plastic seat.

So that was it. All four victims had a connection to that old fire. Suddenly the A's and the swastika all made sense. But the reasons for the killings were still a mystery. Or were they? Sipping his coffee, too bitter for his taste, he hazarded a guess.

Someone was systematically killing the survivors of that fire because it had somehow changed his life. And not for the better. Someone had harbored a hatred for twenty-five years; had waited and planned for just the right time. Someone whose mind was tortured and twisted. And now he was killing survivors of that terrible fire—and their relatives. The fire that totally destroyed the only nightclub Seaville had ever had: Razzamatazz.

LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO

The Gazette hears considerable agitation about sprinkling the village streets with oil. If this is not done, there is a likelihood of a water famine should there be a dry summer. That there is a need for the economy of water no one in authority disputes. From the present conditions it seems that it would be good judgment to consider the oiling of the streets. The village fathers have given the question some thought.

THIRTY-THREE

Colin waited behind a billboard advertising Alfredo's Bistro in Bay View. Rumor had it that Alfred couldn't stay away from his own food and had had to have his mouth wired shut to lose weight. The ad displayed him, looking trim and handsome, holding out a steaming plate of spaghetti. Natives knew Alfredo hadn't looked that good in twenty years.

At this moment Colin didn't care if Alfredo weighed four hundred pounds or forty, the billboard offered him a shield and that was his only concern. He'd been behind it for only a few minutes, and now the main road looked clear. Was the road always so empty on a June night, he wondered, or did the lack of traffic reflect what was happening here?

Stepping carefully around the billboard, he hunkered down, dashed to the edge of the road, looked both ways, then raced across and into the woods. As he made his way toward the motel he stayed just off the path inside the trees. He could see the lights inside the office. The rooms were behind, sixty feet or so down a path, strung one right after another, nothing but a plaster wall separating each. Hallock's room was 131, but there seemed to be no point in trying to get in unseen; he had to use the phone to warn Annie, and knew the call would register in the office. Still, he thought he'd better check to see if Hallock had returned. As he approached a man and woman came out of the end unit.

"Evening," the man said.