She answered on the third.
"Hello," he said, "it's Colin Maguire."
"Oh. Hello," she said, sounding surprised.
"I just wanted to apologize. I acted very badly. I'm sorry."
"Thank you, that's nice."
He smiled. Most people would've said, "No need, it's okay, don't bother." She hadn't. He liked that.
She said, "Are you feeling better?"
"Yes, thanks. I hope next time we meet it'll be under better circumstances."
"It's bound to be," she said.
"Well, listen, I just wanted to say that to you. You were awfully kind."
She didn't say anything.
"Have you eaten dinner?" he asked impulsively.
She laughed. "Yes, have you?"
"Not yet."
"Don't let Sarah know that-I think she wants to mother you."
Smiling, he said, "I think you're right. Would you like to meet for a drink or something?" He was astonished, as if a ventriloquist were operating him. Jesus, what if she was married? He tried to remember if there'd been a ring but couldn't.
"I'd like that," she said, "but I don't have my sermon written for tomorrow."
He'd almost forgotten: Reverend Winters.
"Another time?" she asked.
"Sure. Why not?"
A second of silence. "Thanks for calling, Colin."
He said goodbye and they broke the connection.
Slamming his hand down on the phone book he said, "Shit." Why did he have to say "Sure, why not?" like some teenager? Well, it had been a long, long time since he'd tried to date a woman. The few women he'd had contact with in the last three years were almost strangers. Casual sex. Not very satisfactory. But this woman was different.
At least he knew one thing: she wasn't married. She wouldn't have said she'd have a drink with him if she was. On the other hand, maybe she'd have a drink and try to convert him. What a joke if the old altar boy became a Unitarian Universalist-whatever the hell that was.
No, Annie Winters wasn't married. So why not? Hadn't met the right guy? Or maybe she was divorced. Could ministers get divorced? He squashed out his cigarette in his metal ashtray. Enough.
As he turned back to his typewriter he heard the light sound of a woman's footsteps coming down the hall.
"Hello, Maguire." It was Babe Parkinson, feature writer for the paper.
Colin figured Babe called him by his last name because she thought it made her sound more like a real newspaperwoman. Too many Roz Russell movies. He didn't feel like seeing Babe. "What brings you here in the dark of night?"
"Murder," she said, an unnatural flush to her face as if the word excited her.
"You heard?"
"Everybody's heard. Sorry I missed it."
"Yeah, it was great fun." He lit another Marlboro, coughed.
"I didn't mean it like that. Mind if I sit down?"
He gestured with an open palm. Babe sat in the wooden armchair across from him as Colin assessed her. There was no question about it, Babe was a stunning woman: a tall, cool redhead. She wore her hair in a French braid, and Colin found himself wondering what she'd look like with it loose.
He watched as she alternately fussed with a plastic bag and the hem of her dress, pretending to try and pull it over her knees. She reached into the bag, took out a bottle of white wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew.
"Celebrating something?" he asked.
"I thought you might like it after what went on this afternoon."
"How'd you know I was here?"
"I saw your car." She handed him the bottle and corkscrew.
He didn't like that much. Couldn't she open a dinky bottle of wine? She was far from helpless if what he'd observed in the last six weeks was true. His analysis of Babe Parkinson was that she was shrewd, calculating, aggressive, and on the make. For him as well as his job. Or maybe more. Maybe she wanted to be publisher. Nancy would've said he was thinking like a chauvinist pig. Oh, God.
He opened the wine, poured two glasses, and slid one across the desk.
"Should we drink to something?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"How about to Gloria Danowski?"
"Who?"
"Gloria Danowski, may she rest in peace."
Colin was beginning to get the idea that this wasn't just a social visit. "Do you want to tell me about it or are we going to play twenty questions?"
Babe smiled, a glint in her green eyes. "Gloria Danowski, age thirty-one, married to Hank Danowski, mother of Patti, age six, and Danny, age four. Home, One Twenty One Randolph Avenue, East Hampton. Last seen four weeks ago when she left home for a class at Southampton College. Only she wasn't registered for any class. Found today in Mayor Gildersleeve's Olympic-sized pool." She raised her glass, gestured toward Colin as if they might clink glasses, then took a long sip.
Colin stared, not drinking. "East Hampton?"
She took a pack of Kents from her purse and lit one with a silver Dunhill lighter. "East Hampton."
"What's she doing over here?"
"I don't know. Maybe she liked our pools better."
"It's not funny, Babe. It's not a goddamn bit funny. This was a woman, a wife and mother. Have you thought about that?"
"Oh, vicious, vicious," she said.
"You're talking about a human being, not a statistic or a good story."
"You mean it's not a good story?"
"That's not the point. Forget it. So how'd you find this out? Who identified her?"
"I did."
"You did?" He was furious. Trying to calm himself, he took a sip of the wine.
"In my trusty file cabinet," she tapped her head with a ringed finger. "I found a story about a missing woman."
"We didn't print it, did we?"
"Nope. Newsline. I remembered the husband was stunned, no explanation. Friends said Gloria was happy, loved hubby and kiddies, and would never ever have run away. Don't ask me how I made the connection, Maguire, because I don't know. Just dumb luck, I guess."
Colin toyed with saying that nothing was dumb luck with her, then thought better of it. "Go on."
"I called Danowski in East Hampton, asked if wifey had returned, he said no, so I told him about the floater. I met him at the morgue and he identified her. Simple."
"Simple," Colin said, disgusted.
Babe said, "You know, you're going to have to get a thicker skin, my friend. How'd you manage in the Windy City with that attitude?"
"I managed," he said. "Does Hallock know?"
"About Danowski? Yeah, I told him. Now I'm telling you. Too bad this is a weekly, you'd have a scoop."
"Me? It's your baby, you dug it up."
"It's yours, Maguire, I'm just the feature writer. Interviewing octogenarians who've lived here all their lives, writing pieces about local merchants who hand-dip candles and create art from shells, doing in-depth stories on the couple who turn the old church or schoolhouse into a showplace home. Babe Parkinson, girl grind."
"If you hate it so much, why do it?"
"I don't hate it, I love it. It's much better than sitting home baking cakes for some wimp who wants to play King For A Lifetime."
"You really think a lot of men, don't you?"
She smiled, her eyes going to half mast. "I think a lot about them. Especially some in particular." Her implication was clear.
Colin said, "Did the M.E. have anything to say about Danowski?"
"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?"