Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (11 page)

She slowed the bike to a halt on the small patch of grass at the edge of the cliff. The sea spread before her in varying hues of blue and at the bottom of the cliff was one of the most magnificent stretches of beach she had ever seen.

The pink sand, interspersed with an occasional large coral formation, reminded her of a Buddhist garden she'd once seen, and how different from the rock-strewn coast of Maine. At lunch she'd tell Rob about this and they'd plan a picnic for tomorrow. The hotel would pack box lunches and they'd get a bottle of good wine. She took her small camera from the rear carry-all and snapped several pictures.

Putting down the kickstand she stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked for a pathway down to the beach. Surely, there was a road or path down, she thought, looking to the right and left. Far to the right, near a group of pink cottages, she saw the steep path and steps.

She never recalled hearing the car approach. Her first impression was incredulous shock as the bike slithered across the grass and over the side of the cliff. She watched in fascination as the bike seemed to fall in slow motion, tumbling one way and then another, as it cracked off protrusions in the rock.

Far below the bike lay broken in the sand. A screech of tires brought her attention back to the road. Thirty yards away the Morris Minor made a U-turn and started back toward her.

She stared in shock at the rapidly approaching car. It couldn't be happening. There was nothing in her past experience to allow her to accept what she now saw. Everyone had automobile accidents, and often people were killed, but not deliberately. Pictures from Maine stood between her and the speeding car—a boat in the bay, smoke seeping through the floorboards—she quickly stepped to the edge of the cliff as the car passed. The car's protruding sideview mirror struck her arm and she was half-turned until her footing fell away and she fell into nothingness.

Tavie sat on the balcony of their hotel room and stared morosely out to sea as Rob mixed martinis. A pain snaked across her forehead as she ran her hand gingerly over the tender spots on her cheek and face. The doctor, in the small Bermuda hospital, had said it was a miracle as he placed the short cast on her arm and bandaged her forehead.

Rob handed her a chilled cocktail and sat across from her shaking his head. “You know, Tav, from what they say when they found you, you must have landed in just the right position to spread the shock over your body. Christ, you're a lucky girl.”

“Yes, I'm very lucky.”

That's what the doctor had said in his clipped British accent. “She was a very lucky girl” had been repeated half-a-dozen times in the hospital. They'd only kept her a few hours, and when they discharged her, a small contingent had shook their heads in wonderment and waved good-by.

“You know,” Rob said. “You're the third person this year to take a flyer at that very spot. I understand there's going to be action taken to put up a guard rail.”

“If there had been a guard rail, I'd be dead.”

“It is a beautiful spot, I can see how you were taken in by the scenery.”

“I didn't run off the cliff.” She was tired. She had wanted to scream at him in the hospital before they had sedated her.

He put his arms around her. “It doesn't matter, Hon. The bike was insured, and you could be a lot worse. I'm still shaking over how lucky you are.”

“Don't call me that.”

“What?”

“Hon. Honey, that.”

“If you don't want.” His condescension made her want to throw the drink in his face. “My God, no wonder you're upset.”

It was important that she speak calmly and without hysteria. “It was not an accident. I was standing on the edge of the cliff, off the bike, when she ran me down. Helen is still trying to kill me.”

“That's what you said to the constable at the hospital. What did he tell you? No Helen Fraser has gone through customs this week. Cars are not available to tourists. Tourists can only rent taxis with a driver or motor-bikes. Also, how would Helen know where we are?”

“Any number of ways. She could have called your office.”

“For the last time—it couldn't have been Helen.”

“Oh, fuck you! Fuck you,” she screamed and threw her glass at him. The cocktail glass bounced off his head and small rivulets of liquid ran down his forehead, over his eyebrows, and furrowed across his cheek. He wiped the liquid away with the palm of his hand. “My God, I'm sorry, Rob.”

His shuttered eyes were opaque and yet a small facial muscle in his cheek twitched for a moment. His tone of voice was the same he used for telling children to take out garbage or clean their rooms. “Would you like the house physician, Tavie? He could give you a shot to make you sleep.”

“No, I'll be all right.”

“I thought if we got away from Hartford for a while these things wouldn't happen. You seemed so well yesterday.”

“Well? You act like I'm sick—mentally ill.”

“Accident prone. Since you found out about Helen you've been having these strange accidents … stories that no one can verify.”

“Perhaps you'd like to stick me somewhere.”

“You continue harming yourself and one day you'll get killed.”

“Then;” she went on in a low voice, “you could screw that cunt anytime you want—you bastard.”

“In all the years we've been married you never talked like that before. Is that normal?”

“Can't I get it through your goddamn thick skull that I don't feel normal. I do have a problem.”

“We know.”

“A problem with her, and no one will believe me.”

“It was embarrassing as hell to have to tell the local police about our recent marital difficulties. How do you think that makes me feel?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me that you told them I was doing crazy things? That I was having emotional problems?”

“They were very understanding when I outlined the situation to them.”

“You prick.”

“About how uptight you've been …”

“You want me out of the way.”

“… Almost to the point of paranoia.”

“Why don't we go home now, you can check me into a mental hospital.”

“If there are no more reoccurrences, we're not at that point. We've already paid for the week; let's finish it out, maybe you'll feel better.”

“Maybe I will. Right now I'm just tired. I'm not hungry, why don't you go on down to dinner.”

“Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“Sure. Rob, I'm sorry I threw the glass at you.”

“Forget it.” He lightly brushed her hair. “Get some rest, I'll see you later.”

As she lay in bed a fear of dreaming filled her with dread. It was impossible to relax after the events of the day, and she contemplated taking a pill from the small container at the bedside. She couldn't sleep, it was useless, why suffer?

The cast on her arm made dressing slow and awkward. She discarded a dress that buttoned down the back and selected a soft jersey blouse that was easy to wiggle into. It was almost time for the dinner-seating and she'd have to hurry to catch Rob.

Before dinner cocktails were served in the anteroom off the main dining room, she stood in the doorway looking for Rob. The room was filled with diners waiting for the seating announcement, but she couldn't see Rob. Large French doors at the rear of the room led to a small terrace overlooking the swimming pool. She noticed several couples sitting outside. She crossed toward the terrace, and saw Rob at one of the small tables. He was talking to a blonde woman whose back was to Tavie.

Helen had blonde hair. The woman stood and without turning walked briskly off the terrace. Tavie hurried to the table and saw the surprised expression on Rob's face as he looked up at her.

“Hey,” he said. “Where'd you come from?”

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Helen.”

“Stop it, Tavie.” His voice had a desperate quality.

“She was sitting here.” Tavie started down the terrace and saw that the door at the far end entered into a main corridor of the hotel. Whoever had left that way was now gone. There were no blonde Helens among the several couples moving toward the dining room. She went back to Rob's table.

“Would you like a drink?” he said.

“Yes. A stiff one.”

Rob signaled the waiter for a tall martini. “I saw you talking to her,” Tavie said.

“That girl just sitting here?”

“It wasn't Wallace Simpson.”

“Oh,” he leaned back and laughed. “That was one of the single girls here. I guess she thought I was unattached—we were talking about snorkeling.”

“That's not true.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“It was her.”

He put his hand on hers. “I'm trying to be as understanding as possible, Tavie, but this is going beyond the realm of rationality. It was not who you think it was.”

The dinner chimes sounded behind them. She finished her drink with shaking hands. “Shall we go in for dinner, or do you want a further scene?” Rob continued.

“I'm not hungry. Go on.”

“Take some of the medication they gave you and get some sleep. I'll have them bring something up for you to eat later.”

“All right,” she said numbly. He led her by the arm to the elevator.

“You make it all right?”

“Yes.”

He waited until the elevator doors shut before going back into the dining room. When she got back to the room she mixed a very stiff drink. Will would approve, she thought to herself. She stood on the terrace and looked out over the calm ocean.

The tentacles of liquor seeped through to form a numbness that filled her arms and legs. A dull ache started in her injured arm and she took two pills, lay down on the bed fully clothed, and fell into a fitful sleep.

She saw a white figure bent over the bed—thoughts struggled for a conscious level—a maid turning the bed? She turned toward the wall.

Hands bore her upward off the bed. They carried her in solemn pocession down long corridors and placed her on a cold altar. A demonic face bent over her with upraised knife—then slashed down across her wrists.

They stood in a quiet circle around the cold altar as warmth gushed from her. It was dark, and she groaned. Outstretched fingers touched a cold, hard surface. Outstretched foot felt a metal protrusion. Can't turn, bound tightly.

Her open eyes looked into blackness. Her uninjured arm brushed against her face and she felt warm liquid trickle over her cheek and onto her lips, and she tasted the salty consistency of blood.

She fought through layers of medication and alcohol for consciousness. Something seemed to be pinning her down and she squirmed under the grasp.

She was in the bathtub and blood flowed from her slashed wrist.

Her blood was flowing faster and now covered the bottom of the tub in a thin streaked layer. A lethargy began to inundate Tavie, and she watched as her wrist throbbed more blood into the constantly growing pool. Black concentric rings seemed to rise from the redness and fade into her eyes to be followed by another group of approaching rings. She knew that in seconds she'd be unconscious.

She swung her injured arm with its cast backward as hard as she could. The cast seemed to connect with something and a sharp pain ran down her arm and shoulder. Had she hit something, was something there? She swung again and again, and then clawed her way to a half-crouched position. Dim light fell through the window into the bathroom, a white figure moved toward the door and out onto the patio.

She stumbled toward the phone on the night table between the beds. Her hands reached for the receiver, grasped it, but it slipped from her blood-stained fingers and fell to the floor as she fell unconscious across the bed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tavie awoke. Her ears buzzed and her eyes wouldn't focus. As the ceiling broke into sharp outlines and one crack trailing off to the door became clear, the terror started. Without moving her head she could see her arms aligned along the edge of the bed, clean white sheet up to her neck, pressed blanket tucked neatly around her. To one side were louvered windows, to the other a dresser, chair, lamp, and door. She closed her eyes and the frightened beating within her took possession.

A shaft of sun diagonally crossed the room and warmed her feet. Speckles of dust floated serenely in the light, their familiar twirling calmed her as sorted pictures vainly searched for a coherent pattern. She was tired, and now the edge of nausea crimped her stomach as a sharp pain snaked thinly across her forehead. The revolving pictures slowed and took shape, the house, the children last Christmas … but where had yesterday gone? A thousand years entombed in this place.

A long ago journey with her father, the small car, and rain swishing the tires as she nodded sleepily. His hand brushed her forehead and gently crossed her hair, and the car was the universe and she was safe. A remembered moment, a brief feeling of rain and warmth, but no knowledge of where they were.

The sun crept slowly up the blanket until starched white pants stood in its diffused glow.

Tavie's eyes followed the pants' crease upward to the neat, white blouse with its blue nametag. The hair was rounded and nondescript, but a smile tugged at the woman's face.

“Good morning, Tavie. Feeling better this morning?”

“I have a headache and my ears …”

“That will go away. You're a lucky woman.”

“Yes, I'm very lucky.”

“Doctor Houston wants you to get up this morning. There's clothes in the closet that your husband brought by. Dress and come out into the day room. Luncheon will be served at twelve.”

White pantsuit left the room leaving the door slightly ajar. The floor tilted as toes clutched the carpet and hands grasped the dresser's edge. Strange brown eyes accused from the mirror and did not blink as a tear crossed their edge and crept slowly across a cheek. The reflection took on familiarity with the commonplace gesture of brushing a strand of hair back—recalling a thousand combings.