Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (4 page)

“She's very fond of her brother.”

“Oh, yes. Midway through the trial she copped a plea and admitted manslaughter. They gave her twelve years and she was out in three.”

“Why did she do it?”

“She said he was a loser.”

“Losers always get shot—six times.”

“They do if they're married to her. I don't know all the answers, Tavie. That's one of the things that fascinates me about the case.”

“I know what the other is.”

“No, not that. It's just that I don't know the reason she did it; in fact, I'm not certain that she does. Why does a college-educated, middle-class housewife, sober, on a Sunday morning, shoot her husband? I think it could be a significant study.”

“What about the affair, Rob?”

“It happened.” He paced the room.

“Well, there's no way to unhappen it. I only hope you won't see her anymore.”

“I work in the same department with her.”

“Can't you have her transferred?”

“Yes. But all the work I've done so far …”

She looked at him and then turned to poke the fire. She felt his presence at her back as he kissed her neck. “There's really not much choice, Tavie. There never was.”

“It's over with?”

“Yes. My own damn fault, I never should have gotten involved that way.”

“Robert … where was your little playmate today?”

“Come on now, you're kidding.”

“No, I'm not. Would she know that I go to Handle Island on Wednesday afternoons?”

“Do you know what the recidivism rate is for family murderers? Practically nil.”

“Did you see her today? Could she know about Wednesday afternoons?”

“I saw her this morning. And yes, she might know about Wednesdays. I've talked a lot about life on the island.”

“You work in the same department. Did you see her around the time I called you?”

“As a matter of fact, I sent her to New York this morning with some copy to hand deliver to our advertising agency.”

“I was just asking.”

“Listen, Hon. I've made a commitment to you, now I'd like to ask you for something. Today was a horrible experience for you. It's a miracle you weren't seriously harmed.”

“Killed.”

“But it was an accident. A kooky accident perpetrated by a complete incompetent, but an accident.”

The morning sun broke through the window and danced over her eyes. From deep inside the house she heard the clatter of kitchen noise, and she stretched sensuously under the warm covers.

The few moments of reprieve were shattered by the rush of yesterday's remembrance. Then she realized her arms and back were aching from the unaccustomed effort of the long swim. Rob's place next to her was vacant and she felt a moment of blind panic until she heard him from the kitchen.

She pushed the covers aside and gingerly stepped to the floor. A hot shower would help. The spray of water massaged some of the ache from her shoulders, and afterwards she donned her summer attire of jeans and shirt.

In the kitchen Rob was simultaneously producing pancakes for the children and a large sticky mess. Karen was greedily stuffing a whole pancake in her mouth while little Rob was pouring enough maple syrup on his to use up a whole year's bounty from New Hampshire.

“Good morning,” Rob said, and smiled at her. “Hungry? There's more coming in a minute.”

“Daddy said we could go on a picnic, can we?”

“Yes, I guess so. We have cold cuts for sandwiches.”

They walked up the dirt road that bisected the island. The small road ran from the dock, through the inhabited area, to the deserted naval station, and ended at the drill field near the most northerly part of the island. Overhead heavy foliage speckled the sunlight as it fell on the children. Rob carried a pillowcase over his shoulder which contained the sandwiches, thermos, blanket and bathing towels.

They came to the chain-link fence of the base and easily pushed open a rusty gate which hung from one hinge. Nearest the fence were the small box houses that were evidently the married quarters, then stood classroom buildings, and surrounding the drill field were the three-story brick barracks. Many of the buildings were boarded-up, others stared obscenely with snaggle-toothed windows. Karen turned and ran into one of the buildings whose door swung listlessly to and fro. Rob called for her to come back.

“You've got to keep the kids out of here, these buildings are rotting away and could be dangerous,” he said.

“I never let them come up here alone.”

They stood at the edge of the quiet drill field. A dog barked in the distance. Tavie thought of the hundreds of young men who must have spent their last days here before setting out on the small escort ships for the dangerous North Atlantic run. Many of them now dead; the scene before them having been their last vision of land before sailing. It's like a large cemetery, she thought, and tucked the idea neatly into her mind for possible future use in a poem.

They called it their secret beach. It was a tiny cove with a narrow sandy beach below a small cliff. The children and Tavie slid down the cliff while Rob jumped. They had never come across anyone here, and they had a feeling of personal possession for this small secluded beach.

Rob spread the blanket for them while the children took off the dungarees covering their bathing suits. She and Rob sat on the edge of the blanket while the children searched the shore for real or imaginary treasures.

“Feel better today?” he asked.

“Yes. Yesterday seems a million miles away.”

“Good.”

She stretched out on the blanket and felt the hot sun on her eyes. The heat burned away tension and she could feel each part of her begin to relax. The sound of small waves and the mutter of children faded into the distance.

“Tavie, what did Emily Dickinson look like?”

“Goodness knows. She was so seclusive she probably never had a portrait or picture. Why?”

“I don't know. Just a thought that occurred to me. I have a feeling she looked like Amelia Earhart or Octavia Garland.”

“Never. Can you imagine two separate and more distinct personalities? And besides, you may say I look like Amelia, but I sure don't act like her. Things scare me to death. I am one great big coward. Thruways scare me, airplanes make me uncomfortable, I worry about other women and elevators. You name it and I'm probably frightened by it. You know, that's one reason I like this island. The sea is tame, the outer islands break the surf, there are no animals more ferocious than a loose house cat or raccoon. Here, I'm safe.”

“Always.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Get rid of her. Get rid of her!” The loud feminine voice echoed and reverberated over Tavie. “Get her out of here. Put her in the cassette player!”

She was lifted by huge hands. Giant fingers pushed the release button and the small glass panel of the recorder narrowly missed her head as it flipped open. They put her in the recorder and tied her feet to one spindle and her hands, over her head, to the other spindle, and slammed the door shut.

Two giants danced and laughed. Robert was one, the other a woman dressed in a G-string and pasties. The woman broke away and began to dance sensuously while Rob stood to the side and clapped. The giant woman danced closer to Rob, her hips undulating seductively. She laughed and danced away as Rob grasped one of her breasts.

Tavie screamed. The giant couple embraced as the woman began to tear at Rob's clothes.

“Don't rip it,” Rob laughed. As the nude couple fell to the couch she saw passion cloud Rob's face. The woman's face was a blur and Tavie screamed again.

She was able to tear her hands loose from the spindle and beat against the glass window. “Get rid of her now,” the woman giant yelled again. Rob crossed the room, picked up the recorder, and took it onto the front porch.

“Watch me throw this thing 800 yards,” he said.

“Let's see you do it, then.”

Rob cradled the machine under his chin like a shot putter and then threw. Tavie felt herself pressed against the hard plastic as the small cassette player slowly turned over and over as it glided across the bay. The motion slowed as the machine entered the water and sank in a slow swirling motion.

It came to a halt wedged between the slats of an ancient lobster pot. The pot was drawn upwards through the water and swung onto the small boat. Mr. Watson, the lobsterman, disdainfully picked the recorder out of the pot and held it in his hands. He looked at her with repugnance as she scratched at the acetate window.

Mr. Watson's angry voice yelled at her, “Why don't you stay home where you belong?” and she felt herself once again hurtling through the air.

Her forward momentum slowed as the recorder drifted back into the house, over the embraced couple, and into the fireplace. Heat from a nearby burning log began to seep through the plastic. She was in an oven. She was asleep on the beach under the sun. The recorder was on fire, heat was everywhere.

Her heart beat wildly and perspiration beaded on her forehead as she awoke and turned toward Rob. His place was empty. As her heart slowed she began to orient herself. Rob had left for Hartford on the Sunday-night boat.

She coughed and smelled acrid smoke. She was awake, Rob was gone, and the children were asleep. She coughed again and immediately sat up in alarm. A faint curl of smoke seeped upwards through, a crack in the wide floorboards. She slipped into the jeans left on a nearby chair, and tucked her nightgown into the waist. The porcelain doorknob was warm to her touch and she quickly withdrew her hand. When she pressed her palms against the wooden door it was warm to the touch.

Moving quickly to the window she tried to open it. The window wouldn't budge. Then she remembered that the old windows were locked shut by small pinions that went into the frame. She picked up the wooden chair from near the bed and threw it through the window pane.

The porch roof sloped gently immediately below the window. She gingerly inched sideways through the jagged window onto the roof. Pressing her back against the side of the house she inched toward the children's bedroom. Tavie's hand felt the screen over the window and her fingers clawed it until it clattered to the roof and slid across the shingles to fall to the ground.

She was thankful for the large old windows as she stepped into the room, already half-filled with smoke. Little Rob groggily turned away from her imploring hands. She grasped the front of his pajamas and pulled him onto the floor. Turning to the other bed, she grasped Karen's foot and then pulled her to the floor.

She lay on her arms, breathing the clear air near the floor. She must go on. Robby was standing dazedly near the open window. Karen was awake. Tavie grasped both children's hands and pulled them through the window.

She lay on her stomach at the edge of the roof. Taking Karen's hand she pulled the small girl toward the edge. Karen held back and she had to yank her until the child's footing fell from the roof, and she dangled from Tavie's hand in the air. Reaching as far down as she could without losing her position on the roof, she lowered the girl and let go. Turning, she took Robby's hand.

“I can do it, Mother.” His voice was awake and alert. He sat on the edge of the roof and dangled his feet.

“Hurry, Robby, hurry.”

He pushed off the edge of the roof and dropped into the darkness. Tavie sat on the edge, hesitated a moment, and with a prayer that she wouldn't hit the children, dropped to the ground.

The moon peeked around a cloud and bathed the house in eerie light. From the front lawn, flickering flames could be seen curling throughout the living room and smoke billowed from the crawl space beneath the house.

“Robby, the fire bell. Run, ring the fire bell as fast as you can.” The boy ran down the road toward the large bell which hung on heavy posts a hundred yards down the path. “Karen, where are you?” From behind her the little girl swept her arms around her mother's legs.

Lights began to go on in the surrounding homes almost as soon as the bell began to toll. She must start the hose, she thought, and ran toward the side of the house. She reached the exterior faucet and turned it on. The door to the crawl space gaped open. Odd, she knew she kept it latched to keep out raccoons. She could see through the opening that the fire raged under the house. The whole interior was ablaze, and the supporting joists were beginning to burn.

The island was awake. Men and women carrying fire extinguishers scurried toward the burning house. Mr. Gorley ineffectually played the hose through a broken living room window. Now, the first floor was completely ablaze and tongues of flame leapt from the stairwell window. The second story was obscured in billowing smoke.

Several men turned reluctantly from the burning house and began to hose down the roofs of nearby homes. Her island home was being destroyed, and there was no way to stop it. Karen and little Rob viewed the fire with fascination and she could see the licking flames reflected in their eyes. The dry wood that had stood for seventy years burned easily and in another half-hour there would be little left of the building.

A shadowed figure stood and watched the fire near the row of trees leading to the strawberry patch. The figure turned briskly and was quickly lost in the shadows of the trees. Pictures of the thirty island families snaked through Tavie. Thirty families, one hundred people that she'd gotten to know well during the summer years. None of them resembled the quick picture she'd gotten of the dark figure. And there weren't any homes in the direction the figure had gone.

She'd make Rob follow and find out—but Rob wasn't here. She looked around at the frantically moving people trying to control the fire. There wasn't anyone to go with her, and if she didn't do something soon the figure would be gone.

She turned to Mrs. Gorley who lived down the road. “Could you watch the children for a moment?” she said.