Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (20 page)

She backed down the drive and turned onto the road. Accelerating rapidly, she tried to calculate the time that had elapsed from the shooting of the dog until now. The kaleidoscope of events made an accurate estimate difficult, but in retracing the events step-by-step she imagined that not more than five minutes had elasped since the dog first jumped on her, and only two minutes since Helen picked up the phone. Assuming that no one called the police immediately after the first shot, she still had time. The operator would trace Helen's call and then call the police. She tried, but couldn't remember how far away the nearest state police barracks were.

No matter—she had to hope.

She had a strong impulse to floorboard the accelerator as she pulled onto the interstate highway. She glanced down at the speedometer and slowed the car to an even fifty miles per hour. Far ahead she saw a car pulled off on the emergency lane with its lights blinking. She pulled into the far lane and accelerated as she passed the Datsun. Rob stood with outstretched thumb in the glare of its headlights. At her present speed, and with a dark interior, it would be impossible for Rob to recognize her.

She slowed back to fifty as a state police cruiser, with flashing lights, passed her in the opposite lane—it was headed in the general direction of Helen's house.

She left the highway at Farmington and pulled onto a secondary road that headed for the reservoir. As she passed the broad expanse of lake, she pulled onto another road that sloped down toward the water, and stopped the car in a cove of large trees.

Turning off the engine and lights, she collapsed over the steering wheel. When her breathing returned to normal, she turned on the map light. Her gloves were smeared with blood, and there was blood on the steering wheel. She turned on the car's headlights and went around front to examine herself in their glare. The blood wasn't hers, it must be from the dog or Helen. She quickly stripped off her clothes and used them to wipe the car's interior. The pain in her arm and shoulder began to bother her.

Tavie stood nude in the glare of the headlights. Her mind was a blank. She felt rooted in these woods like some ancient nymph. Overhead, she saw the half-moon through the hanging trees and over the water moonlight made an ionic column across the lake. She wanted to walk through the woods, into the water, and cleanse herself.

She shuddered and pushed those thoughts away. She must survive, and in order to do so she had to continue—there was no turning back.

She went to the car trunk and dragged the dog's body out. She pulled the heavy body into the water and let it sink. She washed herself in the lake water as best she could and returned to the car.

Next—get rid of things. She took the pillowcase and rope from the suitcase. She stuffed the field jacket and pants in the pillowcase along with the empty shells from Will's shotgun, the key, and gloves. Tying the case shut, after putting rocks inside, she threw it as hard as she could into the water.

Putting the shotgun into the suitcase, she donned her short nightgown and tucked it into her jeans, and then she put on her shirt and sneakers.

The ride back to Will's apartment was uneventful. Once again she was unseen as she went back into the small building and let herself into his apartment. She quickly took off her jeans and shirt, and having reassembled the shotgun, put it back in' the closet. The thread was undisturbed on the bedroom door, and before opening it she put the phone back on the hook.

Will, one arm outstretched over the edge of the bed, was still asleep. She put his keys back on the dresser and shook him.

“Hey, wake up. Wake up!”

“What?” His voice was groggy and sleepy.

“What time is it?” she said.

“What?”

“Will, wake up or I'll get in trouble. What time is it?”

He sat up and rubbed his head. “Christ, what in the hell were we drinking?”

“I've really got to go.”

“O.K., O.K.” He slowly got up and looked at his watch on the dresser. “It's one o'clock.”

She went back into the living room and began to dress while carrying on a running commentary. “Really,” she said. “You've got to go back to beer. Do you remember making love the second time?”

“The second time? Good God, no. How was I?”

“Marvelous.” He was leaning against the door frame and she went over and kissed him lightly. “Call me tomorrow.”

“O.K.”

At the doorway she turned. “You sure it's only one.”

“Just a little after.”

Walking to her own car, with the suitcase, she drove rapidly, but within the speed limit, back to her house. Halfway down the block from the house, she turned off the headlights, and as the car turned in the drive, cut the engine and rolled silently up the drive to the garage.

Once in the house, she quickly replaced the phone on the hook and removed the unbroken threads from the bedroom doors. She flushed them down the toilet.

In her bedroom, she removed her clothes and put them in the hamper. Turning her naked back to the full-length mirror, she could see the long scratches and marks from the dog crisscrossing her back.

The unforseen. There would be methods she could utilize to explain. She went into the shower and let the warm water course over her body. She rubbed the remaining blood from her body, toweled off slowly, and put first aid cream and bandages over the cuts and scratches. She wore a flannel night-top of Rob's to bed and gratefully crawled under the sheets.

Tavie Garland fell asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

They said that Margaret Fitzgerald was dying. The casket was open for viewing at the local A&P Supermarket, but the passing shoppers seemed oblivious of their mourning roles. She wasn't dying yet, and her fingers clawed at the velvet lining of the casket.

“Can't that thing be moved out of the aisle?” a voice said.

Wasn't there any decency, couldn't they wait for a respectable opportunity?

“Isn't she dead yet? Call the manager,” another voice called out.

Yes, it was time for Maggie to die. She called out to them, and the oblivious scurrying housewives continued passing each side of the casket in a constant stream. Miriam stopped and peered inside.

“I thought it was a sale, it's only Maggie,” she said.

“It's time for me to go, Miriam. Do something. Please, do something.”

“Always willing to oblige, but I'll be late for my art lesson.” Miriam placed a large, frozen turkey in the casket.

“More,” she cried.

“Press her to death and get it over with.”

The scurrying carts stopped at the frozen foods counter while clutching hands picked up frozen fowl to lay in the casket. She felt the weight grow as her breath froze in deep cold.

“She's almost done,” a voice cried. “Get it over with, wake her up.”

“No,” she screamed at them. “I don't want to wake. It's not time yet.”

“It's time, it's time,” the voices retorted. “Wake up. Wake up.”

“No, leave me alone,” she cried.

“Wake up. Goddamn it!”

She was being shaken. Someone was grasping her shoulders and shaking her. Tavie opened her eyes and looked at Rob. It was his hands shaking her, his angry face bent over her. It couldn't be. He couldn't be here. She was still asleep. No, she was awake. He was here. She slowly sat up.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“What in hell kind of game are you playing?” His angry hands still shook her, and his fingernails cut into her wounded shoulder and arm.

“You're hurting me. You really are.”

He let go and stepped back. “I've looked in on the children, they're sleeping like lambs. If you wanted to check up on me you didn't have to tell a story like that.”

Her body ached and her limbs were leaden. She wasn't awake yet, her thoughts weren't focusing. She wanted to sleep. “What are you doing home?”

“The goddamn car ran out of gas. I left the damn thing and was lucky enough to get a ride into Hartford where I grabbed a cab. All right, you've found out. What now?”

An element of fear curled within her. It could be a trick. This could be a massive game to bring things out of her. She had to be careful. Oh, she wanted it to be over with, she didn't want to continue. She had to … there was no backing away. “What are you talking about, Rob? What are you doing home from Pittsburgh?”

Uncertainty crossed his face. Anger returned. “Goddamn it, Tavie! It was you on the phone. I know your voice, who else could it be?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” It must be a dream. This was real, the other a dream. The pain in her shoulder belied this, and she got out of bed. “I'd like a cigarette.”

“I don't have any. You know I'm trying to quit.”

She found a stale package in the night table drawer and lit one. She inhaled deeply and slowly, desperately trying to grab for time to orient herself. “What time is it?” she asked.

“I don't know. About two, I guess. Now, what's up?”

“You were at Helen's.” She made the statement and it hung in the air between them.

Rob rubbed his eyes. “God, what a night. Your call, the car … I haven't had that much to drink.”

“You told me it was over with. Why, Rob? Why?”

“You're smothering me, Tavie. Is that what you want to hear? You cloy and smother me. We've been married twelve years, and outside of a couple of times, going to bed with you was like seducing a Vestal Virgin. Are you satisfied, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No. But what I expected.”

She was fully awake now. Maggie Fitzgerald was not dead. She knew with certainty what had to be done. “You rotten bastard, I hope you rot in hell.” She kept her voice low. If there was to be a scene, she didn't want to wake her mother or the children.

Rob paced the room. “All right, Tavie. It's out in the open now. We can face this like rational people, or we can make a mess. Which way do you want it?”

“You weakling. You should have told me before, you never should have allowed her to come after me.”

“That was a mistake, I didn't realize …”

“You didn't realize … that's the story of your life.”

“Let's not go on about it, Tavie. I've talked to Helen. I'm willing now to go through with a …”

“You bastard!”

She threw herself at him with such ferocity that her weight knocked him back against the dresser. Her fingernails dug into his cheek and raked across his face. He grabbed her hands and pulled them away from his face. She put her arms under his shirt and raked her nails across his back until he thrust her away so violently she sprawled across the bed.

He stood over her, his chest heaving from exertion. “What's the matter with you, you've gone crazy.”

He started for the door. “I'll sleep on the couch. We'll talk about this tomorrow when you're rational.” He unconsciously put his fingers against his cheek and looked with astonishment at the blood on their tips. “You've gone wild.”

“Get out of here.”

“I'm asking you for a divorce, Tavie. Think about that because I'll ask again tomorrow.”

“A divorce.” She began to laugh. The laughter and tears welled up until her whole body was wracked with paroxysms of laughter. Rob looked at her, and then went out slamming the door. “A divorce,” she said, and continued laughing.

The dogs leaped toward the morning sun. The larger ones, from a standing position, were able to almost clear the six-foot-high run fence. Their deep barks were filled with a mock ferocity that changed to obsequious affection when Jay went into the run. The short heavy-set breeder pulled the dog's ears and pummeled their sides as he kept up a running commentary with Tavie who stood near the run's gate.

“A Dane is by far the best breed for your purpose.” His enthusiasm and obvious affection for the large dog he was patting was infectious. The dog bared his teeth and stood tightly against Jay as his head was rubbed. “Dobermans are mean and shepherds are unpredictable.”

“I wanted something along the lines of a guard dog,” Tavie said.

“A true guard dog is for commercial or military purposes. They're strictly one-man dogs, and are dangerous in a home situation. I don't think you'd want the gas-meter reader torn to shreds.”

“I'm not worried about meter readers. My husband travels a great deal, I've gotten uneasy being at home alone.”

“Then a Dane is the breed for you. Here, look at this fellow.” He led a half-grown Dane from the run and over to Tavie. “Get acquainted with him. He's nine months old, half-grown, his name is Neal.”

Tavie fondled the dog and thought of Rob's leaving the house this morning. As she prepared breakfast for the children he'd stuck his head in the door and said he'd call later in the day. Without waiting for an answer, or a cup of coffee, he'd stormed out. She heard the Ford's tires squeal as he quickly forced it out of the driveway.

The local morning news had no mention of Helen. Surely they'd traced the call, certainly the operator heard the gun fire. Tavie had left the phone off the hook purposely, hoping for a quick discovery of the body.

The pattern of her usual mornings had continued. The children had gone to school, she'd had coffee with her mother, and by nine was in a cab headed toward Sunvale Kennels.

“This dog is only half-grown?” Tavie said to Jay.

“Yes. A Dane doesn't reach full growth until the end of the second year. Look at his paws. I'd say he's about two-thirds full stature.”

“Even now, he's the biggest thing I've ever seen.”

“I think he'll be perfect for your needs. His size and bark will scare off any intruder, and yet he'll be a big puppy with your children. As soon as he's used to you, you'll have instant loyalty.”

Sunvale Kennels specialized in Danes and attack dogs. She had selected the name from the phone book early this morning, and on the phone Jay had waxed so enthusiastic about his breed that she'd made an immediate appointment. Under the circumstances, it hardly paid for her to wait. Now, for the past fifteen minutes she'd been getting a lecture on the care and feeding of Great Danes.