"Let's see, he came here about three years ago. He wasn't here a month before he made his first confession. A burglary. The paper listed it; then Drew goes into Hallock and confesses. Hallock books him. The next day another guy's caught burglarizing a house and confesses to the first one. Hallock confronts Drew but he sticks to it. So Hallock asks him about a detail only the real burglar could know. Like, 'Will the real burglar please stand up?'" Mark laughed.
Colin didn't.
"Anyway, Drew gets it wrong and Hallock lets him go. He doesn't figure it, until two weeks later Drew comes in to confess about a hit-and-run of a dog that's already been solved. Then Hallock realizes the guy is some kind of wacko. Harmless, but wacko in this area. Vietnam veteran. He runs an antique and junk shop. A loner. Probably he killed some innocent people in Vietnam or something and has this need to confess."
"Spare me the amateur psychology."
Mark shrugged. "You wanted to know, pal."
"Yeah." Colin pushed himself up out of the chair.
"Where're you going?"
"The office. I didn't get to writing the story last night."
"Write it tomorrow. Stay. The Mets and the Phillies are playing this afternoon."
"Maybe I'll come back."
Driving to the office he wondered why the hell he hadn’t just asked Kathy who the sucker was? Slipping? Or was it circumstances? There was no denying that the discovery of the body in Gildersleeve's pool had given him a jolt. And maybe his attraction to Annie Winters had thrown him too. He looked at his watch, wondering when she did her church thing. Then he glanced in his rearview and saw a car close behind. He realized it had been there since he'd left Mark's. The driver was a man but that was all he knew.
Pressing down on the pedal, he watched the car behind him speed up, too. When Colin turned a corner, so did the other car. Obviously he wasn't worried about being spotted. Colin slowed, turned from Fielding into Center, then coasted to the Gazette building, where he stopped. The other car pulled up behind him. Colin waited. The man got out of the car and came up to Colin's window. Colin recognized Phil Nagle, a local insurance broker. He'd met the guy twice and didn't like him much.
Nagle bent, eye level with Colin. "I want to talk to you."
"What about?"
"Gloria Danowski."
LOOKING BACK-25 YEARS AGO
On Saturday May 30, there will be a special dance for teens at the popular American Legion Hall in Seaville. The wonderful Moonflowers will be featured and two other singing and instrumental groups will be on hand: The Divebombers and The Persuaders, featuring vocalist Gary Bell. Dancing will be strictly for teenagers only, from 8 to 11 P.M.
SEVEN
Sundays after church Ruth Cooper always went to her linen store, even though it wasn't open for business. In Seaville they stayed open on Sundays but not in Bay View. Although the towns were adjacent to one another, they couldn't have been more different. As Ruth saw it, Seaville was a working-class town and Bay View was chic, elite. She was proud she lived and worked in Bay View.
The reason she came down to her store on Sundays was because it was quiet and she could review stock, place new orders, and go over the books in peace. During the week it was impossible to get that sort of work done. Too much chattering between the clerks and customers, too much gossiping and fussing. Another reason Ruth liked to come to the store on Sunday was so she could get away from Russ.
Still excited by Annie's suggestion, Ruth put her key in the lock-made in the shape of a heart-let herself in, and locked the door behind her. Blissful quiet. No annoying sounds from a television, and most of all, no annoying hands trying to paw her.
What was wrong with Russ anyway? Married twenty-nine years, and all of a sudden he was chasing her around like she was a dog in heat.
She flipped on a light and pulled down the ruffled pink shade on the door. Looking around she took a deep breath, sighed. Ruth loved the look of the colorful towels stacked on the shelves, the printed sheets, the napkins, tablecloths. And in the center of the room were the decorative doorpulls, soap dishes, toothbrush holders, gold, silver, and porcelain light switches.
She walked down an aisle, let her hand trail across the stacks of Cannon and Fieldcrest towels, thinking maybe Russ was getting senile or something. But that was ridiculous, he was only fifty-six.
They both were. So what was going on, then? He hadn't touched her for eight years and all of a sudden it was sex, sex, sex every minute. Maybe it was all those girls on the television with the big bazooms that were getting him crazy. Whatever, he was getting her crazy. It was so peaceful those eight years, and now he had to start up.
She went down three steps into the back room where she kept curtains and bedspreads, and snapped on another light. Off this room was her office, small but efficient. She opened the door and screamed.
"What are you doing here?" she said, heart knocking against her chest.
The last thing Ruth Cooper saw before he slit her throat was a glint of metal and his smile.
LOOKING BACK -50 YEARS AGO
The body of Dr. Peter Tuthill, the 68-year-old eccentric "corn doctor," was found on Saturday in a lonely wooded road near Mattituck. The beaten, bullet-ridden body was discovered in his antiquated old coupe. The old doctor was known to carry large sums of money on his person due to his distrust of banks. When found the body was stripped of $10,000 in cash, and the five revolvers which he carried were missing.
EIGHT
Phillip Nagle was a slight, dark man in his late thirties. A pointed nose and chin gave him a pinched look, as if he were in pain. His hair was thin and drifted over his forehead in separate strands. The glasses he wore were the aviator type, rose-tinted. Usually he dressed in finely tailored sports jackets and slacks, but on this day he was in worn jeans and a faded Ralph Lauren polo shirt. On his feet were worn Topsiders with no socks. He had a fairly successful insurance agency and had gotten himself elected to the Village Board the year before. Many people in Seaville called him a sleaze ball behind his back.
Colin sat across from the man, thinking he looked like a murderer and wondering why he'd never seen it before. Nagle hadn't said a word yet, but Colin was sure the guy was here to confess. He offered him a cigarette. Nagle took one with a shaking hand.
Colin settled back in his chair. "So what about Gloria Danowski?"
"This is off the record, right?"
"Right."
"I don't know how to start."
"Did you kill her?"
Nagle's eyes widened behind the glasses. He looked like an owl. "No. Hey, no. That's why I'm here. I don't want anybody thinking I did. I mean… see… shit!" He looked at his cigarette as if he didn't know how it had gotten into his hand, and put it in the black ashtray. "Mind if I smoke a joint?"
"Yes."
"Huh?"
"I mind if you smoke a joint."
"How come?"
"I'm an old-fashioned guy. I don't like people smoking joints at my place of business."
"What if I said I wanted a drink? You newspaper guys all drink. You wouldn't care if I wanted a drink, would you?"
"Yes."
"No, you wouldn't, and it's the same thing."
"Did you come here to debate the marijuana-liquor issue or do you want to tell me about Gloria Danowski?"
"Yeah, Gloria," Nagle said, picking up the cigarette.
"Did you know her?"
Nagle nodded. "I was fucking her."
Colin knew Nagle was married and had three kids. "Tell me about it."
Nagle grinned stupidly. "She gave good head."
"Jesus. I didn't mean the sex, Nagle. I don't give a shit about that." Colin pulled at his mustache, worked an end between his fingers. "Tell me what you came in here to tell me, for Christ's sake."