Sandra Scoppettone: Razzamatazz

"He hadn't worked on her yet." She sipped her wine. "You're not drinking, Maguire."

"I'm not thirsty." He stood up. "I'm leaving."

"It's early."

He walked to the door. "If you're staying, turn out the light when you go."

"I'm not staying." Babe left the glasses and grabbed the bottle by the neck. She snapped off the light and followed Colin down the hall.

On the sidewalk she stood very near him while he locked the door. "Any chance the husband did it?" he asked.

"He seemed broken up. But maybe he's a good actor. I guess they'll question him."

"Whose jurisdiction will this be, East Hampton or ours?"

"Ours. But there'll be cooperation." She moved closer to him, looked up into his eyes. "Speaking of cooperation."

"Goodnight, Babe," he said and started walking toward his car.

"You're a shit," she called after him.

In his car he wondered if he was a shit. From the beginning he'd made it clear he wasn't interested. No, what he'd done was nothing. No encouragement but no discouragement either. Maybe he was a shit.

Starting the car, he thought of Gloria Danowski. And then of her husband. What was he feeling tonight? Remembering, Colin thought he knew. But at least Danowski had his kids.

An extended period of amnesty through June 30th has been granted to authorized gun holders, to permit them to turn them over to the police department, it was announced this week by Police Chief Charles Gildersleeve. Chief Gildersleeve urges that persons wishing to avail themselves of the amnesty period get in touch with the police department.

They'd found her. Just the way he'd planned. It served that asshole Gildersleeve right. Putting her in his pool had been a perfect touch. It was like killing two birds with one stone. There was only one sour note. He wished Gloria's parents had been forced to identify her instead of the husband. After all, Danowski had nothing to do with it. It was the parents he wanted to suffer. And they would. They'd see her-in the coffin. He could picture the mother whining and crying, sniveling and wringing her hands, calling for her baby Gloria. The father would keep it all in, tough it out. But inside, his guts would be aching, like his own had ached all those years. Still ached.

Should he go to the funeral? he wondered. Better not. But he could imagine it. He smiled. When they lowered the coffin into the ground and Gloria's parents watched, that was the part he would be sorry to miss. Sorry to miss the dirt falling on top of the casket, shovelful by shovelful.

He could still hear it even though it was all those years ago- that plopping sound, just as real now as it was then. So maybe Gloria Danowski's parents would dream about it long as they lived, like he did. Plop, plop, plop.

And the kids, too. Why should they have it easy? Now they won't. They'll miss their Mommy. Good. He missed his Mommy, even now. And Daddy, too. He missed his Daddy. He missed his Mommy. I ain't had any satisfaction.

Tears coursed over his cheeks and dripped from his face onto the desk. He put his head down. Thinking of Mommy and Daddy. Crying. Lonely. Little boy. All alone. Crying. Calling for Mommy. Calling for Daddy.

Nobody came.

At a late hour Saturday night, the quiet village of Seaville was awakened by the commotion caused by Fred Karenewski, who put up a stiff battle and resisted arrest after his erratic driving had caused him to collide with several other motor cars, driving motorists off the road and finally ending up by crashing through the grape arbor of his own residence.

Standing on Richter's dock, looking out over the boats in the bay at six-thirty Sunday morning, Waldo Hallock felt as if he were at a turning point in his life. There'd been other turning points in his forty-eight years, but he hadn't had one in a long time.

In the twenty years that he'd been chief, there had only been two murders in Seaville and both had been solved immediately. One was a transient who'd killed an old lady for a tin can that held twenty- six dollars and forty-two cents, and the other was a guy who'd murdered his wife in a jealous rage.

A cool breeze came in off the bay and a dozen gulls squawked overhead. Hallock sniffed the air. Nothing else was quite like saltwater air. He'd smelled it all his life. Seaville was home; he wanted it to stay that way. And he wanted to remain chief of police.

Hallock watched the ferry from Shelter Island as it made its way toward the Seaville dock. He could see there were only two cars aboard, and only one car waited to take the ferry back. It was a far cry from what it would be like when the season started. By mid- July cars would be backed up for blocks waiting to make the trip to the island, where they'd cross to a second ferry taking them to Sag Harbor and the Hamptons.

Turning his back to the water, his gaze took in the buildings at the foot of Center Street. Most of those on the south side had been built before the turn of the century, clapboard buildings with Victorian arches. Once they'd been homes but now they housed shops, restaurants, and the police station. On the north side of the street, a fire five years before had destroyed all but one or two buildings, and the new ones of brick and wood always jarred him. It was the same with the beach houses people were building now. They looked out of place with their modern angles and walls of glass, like girls at a formal dance wearing miniskirts.

It wasn't that he was against progress, not a bit. But lots of people in Seaville were. There was always some kind of squabble going on at Town Hall about developers wanting to put up condos. One side claimed development would tax local services, drain the water supply, and jeopardize the preservation of open space. The other side invariably pushed the notion of more jobs for the locals. And if that was true, it was a good thing; there were never enough jobs. Especially for the young people who graduated high school or college and left the Fork as fast as they could. No, he wasn't against progress. What bothered him about condos was the way they looked. Dull. Like the bank.

Four years before, the Seaville Bank & Trust, which was housed in the old Gillespie home, was torn down and replaced by a low brick job, characterless and cold. And it was happening more and more all over the North Fork. The new pushing out the old. That was something you expected on the South Fork, where the so-called Beautiful People congregated, but not here.

Thinking of the South Fork brought his mind around to Gloria Danowski. Now he had this damn murder on his hands and the victim wasn't even somebody from town. Memorial Day weekend was six days away. Murder in Seaville could hurt the local merchants. That meant pressure. Who the hell wants to come to a resort town where there's been a murder? An unsolved murder. And goddamn, he knew Gildersleeve would be on his ass.

He smiled in spite of himself, thinking about the mayor huffing and puffing over the woman in his pool. If it hadn't been so serious, he might have had a good laugh about it.

The thing was, Hallock didn't believe that the murderer had chosen Gildersleeve's pool by chance. And that made him believe the perpetrator was a local. As Fran had said before they went to sleep last night, "It looks like this thing is going to be in your lap no matter what, hon."

He'd taken her hand. They always went to sleep that way.

"Don't worry," she said, "we'll get through it."

And they would, too. Like they got through everything. Fran would support him the way she had all those years when he'd been chief over Charles Gildersleeve, Bob Phillips, and Pete Shaw who'd been demoted and stayed status quo because they couldn't pass the damn civil service test. They'd made his life one long misery and there'd been times, plenty of them, when he'd wanted to quit, but Fran had helped him go on.