Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (7 page)

“Please, Rob …”

“I can't, Tavie. It would be foolish. You know how small this city is. Things get out. The affair I had, your reaction, we'd both be ruined.”

“Then you won't?”

“Can't. There is one thing, though.”

“What?”

“Helen's disappeared.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rob stood on the small platform below the stern of the dry-docked boat, addressing an unseen audience. He held a microphone and spoke in the loud singsong of a carnival barker. They had tied her hands and feet across a blade of the boat's propeller.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rob said. “You see tied securely before you a perfectly normal, middle-class housewife. Can this normal housewife survive the terrible ordeal she is about to undergo?”

A woman, wearing large sunglasses covering most of her face, began to climb the ladder into the cockpit. “I'll do it,” she said.

“I see we have a volunteer from the audience,” Rob continued. “Madam, will you test this housewife?”

“Absolutely,” the muffled voice replied.

“If you are ready,” Rob said. “Start her up.”

The engine coughed, and Tavie felt the slow motion of the propeller as she turned over and over. The blade gathered momentum as the engine caught. Rob turned into an indistinct blur as she whirled into blackness.

The engine stopped and the propeller slowly swung to a halt. Rob grasped the edge of the blade and held her in an upright position. His hands poked her body and slapped her face until she opened her eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our housewife is alive. Isn't that marvelous, she is still alive.”

She began to scream without sound.

The side of her face ached as she awoke. Rob wasn't next to her. It seemed that he never was anymore, and then she remembered that he was sleeping on the couch. Last night's argument came back.

“Helen's disappeared,” he had said.

“What do you mean?”

“She never came into work this morning, and when I noticed that her personal things were gone from her desk, I called her apartment. The phone had been disconnected. I called an acquaintance or two that I knew she had, but they didn't know anything either. Finally, I drove to the apartment and talked to the super. She just moved out—no forwarding address, no information—just gone. Maybe that makes you feel a little better.”

“What do you suppose she's up to?”

“I don't know. She never liked working for the company anyway. She had a little money, she doesn't have to work.”

Tavie felt empty. The research of the past few days had been orderly, progressing from point to point. She had always counted on knowing Helen's whereabouts. She looked at Rob a moment. “You say you phoned and then went to her apartment.”

“She could have been ill, or the phone turned off by the phone company.”

“You went after her.”

“Not after—to find her and tell her what happened.”

“You told me you would arrange her transfer. You obviously didn't or you wouldn't have known her things were gone.”

“It takes time. You know how fine the wheels grind at the company.”

“What are you doing?” She vainly tried to hold down a rising panic. “Rob, what are you up to?”

“Good Lord, nothing.”

“You're probably still sleeping with her.”

“No, I swear to you.”

“Why bother with the super, you still have a key to her place.”

“I threw it away.”

“But you've seen her.”

“Just once. I had to tell her that it was off, that we were giving up the project.”

“Since when is having an affair a project?”

“The book. Now stop it, Tavie. You're reading too much into this.”

“What else did you tell her?”

“That you knew about the affair and had a couple of serious accidents.”

“And suspected her?”

“Yes.”

“And then you went to bed with her again.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You're lying to me. Good God, I've known you too many years. You were a terrible liar to begin with—age hasn't improved you.”

“You're projecting all sorts of personal crap.”

“Projecting? My husband's having an affair, his mistress is trying to kill me, and I'm paranoid.”

“Hell, yes! It's hardly normal to continue accusing people of trying to get you.”

“She's hardly normal.”

“She was caught in a domestic hell, she's hardly Mad Dog Cole.”

“She's normal and I'm crazy.”

“I'm beginning to wonder.”

“You bastard! You rotten bastard! The two of you are up to something, maybe both of you are trying to kill me.”

“Stop it!”

“Is that it? While you're screwing, you plan your next move. While you groan on top of her, you whisper how to do wifey in.”

“You're crazy.”

“So, stick me in the booby hatch …”

“Goddamn it! I don't have to listen to this crap.”

“You'll listen and tell the truth.”

She threw herself at him, her fists pummeling his chest. He shook her by the shoulders. “Tavie, stop it. You're irrational, stop it,” he said.

“Both of you are trying to kill me.”

“Stop it!” His hand lashed out and slapped her across the cheek. He slapped her again as she fell to the floor crying. He knelt next to her. “Tavie, Tavie, darling. What's happening to you?”

“Oh, Rob. I don't know. I'm so terribly frightened.”

“We'll go away. Alone. Give me a few days to wind up things at the office. We'll take the kids to your mother's and go somewhere … the two of us.”

“Yes, let's do that. Let's go far away.”

The window lightened with the oncoming day, and it was five by the bedside clock. She found an unopened package of cigarettes in the bureau, took one, and inhaled deeply. Two years ago when she'd given up cigarettes she'd been proud of the test of will. Will power over a slightly harmful habit seemed rather unimportant now.

The unaccustomed nicotine of the cigarette made her slightly dizzy.

Once again she went over last night's argument. In her anger she had said things she didn't really believe. She didn't think that Rob and Helen were continuing their affair and planning her demise. Theirs was a good marriage, and she had to have faith in her husband. Rob's motives for the affair were probably as he told them—the spice of the situation, a different woman, an unusual woman.

No matter, they would survive. They must survive. Last night's loss of control still bothered her. In past arguments with Rob she usually withdrew and retreated from any true confrontation. In fact, Rob's greatest criticism of her was her inability to show true feelings. An outward display of affection or anger was contrary to her whole personality—all of which showed how deeply Helen's plotting had affected her. It would take something as dire as Helen to break down the veneer—she was sure of that.

It bothered her that Rob still didn't believe her. After completing her painstaking accumulation of data she had been sure that it was convincing. She knew that a series of coincidences could explain the circumstantial evidence. But then, he hadn't tread water in the bay as a speedboat circled and came back again and again. She had chased a figure after the fire. Pyromania was not an uncommon syndrome, perhaps it had been a local nut. But Rob hadn't been there, he hadn't had to drop his children from a porch roof.

Rob did know Helen. During those long hours he'd spent with her she had become a real person. The realness of Helen made Tavie's suggestions untenable. She still felt that listening to Helen's tapes and reading the objective accounts of the trial had given her a better insight into Helen than Rob could have. How could he be objective? For all Tavie knew they might have done the taping in bed.

She showered and dressed slowly in jeans and shirt, but as a gesture to civilization donned a scuffed pair of boat shoes. There was no one else to talk to but Oliver.

Oliver was feeding the ducks as her small car pulled up the driveway. He seemed genuinely glad to see her as he turned and waved.

“I hope you feel better than you look, Octavia?”

Past sadness, she could only laugh. “I feel terrible, and I'm sure I must look it.”

“How's our obsession this morning?”

“I've done my homework.” She handed him the folder.

They went into the study, and Oliver served iced tea. He read slowly, his glasses far down on his nose. Finally, he looked up at her with a frown. “What does Rob say to this?”

She told him of the argument the night before and of Helen's disappearance.

“Well,” he said. “It's not unusual for one partner to leave when a love affair is over. In a way that's good for you, you should be grateful.”

“I don't believe she's through with me or Rob.”

“You have nothing here to indicate that.”

“It took her almost four years to get her brother. A few days or weeks won't bother her. She's that kind of person, Oliver, and I think she'll be back.”

He threw the folder into her lap. “If you were a student in my class, and drew conclusions based on what's in that folder—I'd flunk you twice.”

“You and Rob make me feel ready for the couch.”

“You don't know what Helen is capable of.”

“The State of Connecticut proved she killed one man, and she probably killed another.”

“The second is conjecture on your part. There are close to one hundred drownings a year in this state alone.”

“Oliver, you've always been so intuitive. Am I cracking up?”

He walked over to the bay window and looked out. “Do you think I should get mallards for the pond?”

“The local sportsmen would probably build a duck blind in your front yard.”

“That would be a shame. No, Tavie. I don't think you're cracking up. I've known you too long and have an innate trust for your instinct. I still think you've only done part of your research. You have a great deal of conjecture and little knowledge of Helen.”

“The tapes are gone and she's disappeared. The subject has become too painful for Rob and me to discuss.”

“Will Haversham.”

“Who?”

“A reporter at the paper. I believe he covered the trial.”

“That's right. All the articles had his by-line.”

“He covers all that sort of thing for them. Crimes, murders, riots … I'll arrange an appointment.”

“Thank you, Oliver.”

The plate glass window of The Pen and Pencil Cocktail Lounge reflected the passing traffic. She paused to look at her image and straightened the hemline of her dress. The tight hair and little make-up made her look younger than she was, she thought. Her arms were a little too thin, but the waist nip of the dress did show off her small waist and her legs were long and nice.

She couldn't go through with it.

It had been hard enough to come this far, but to actually step into the lounge and talk to a strange man about her suspicions filled her with dread. Her dread was alleviated by a workman, wearing a hard-hat and brogans, who held the door open for her with a mock bow.

Although only a block from the Hartford
Register,
the bar hardly had a literary atmosphere. Most of the men hunched over the bar wore tee shirts and grasped large mugs of beer. One man, in a dirty sport shirt, hunched in a corner, and, as she watched, downed two shots of liquor in quick succession while gulping beer frantically.

The barmaid was a woman of indeterminate age, long black hair, and large red lips. She leaned intimately across the bar as one of the customers whispered in her ear, and then turned away with a raucous laugh.

“Man,” the barmaid laughed, “the day you have twelve inches is the day I take you on.”

Several of the men chuckled. “Hey, Laura, how about my three inches four times?” another customer yelled.

“Fuck off, buster,” Laura retorted.

Will Haversham was playing liar's poker at the end of the bar. His hair hung over his collar and his rumpled sports coat and slacks might have been expensive when purchased five years ago. His face was deeply lined for a man of thirty-four. She stood silently behind him for a moment as he squinted intently at a dollar bill in the palm of his hand.

“Eight nines,” Will said.

“I call,” the man next to him said.

“Screw it,” retorted Will. He handed the other man the dollar bill and turned to appraise Tavie.

“Mr. Haversham?”

“Yep.”

“I'm Octavia Garland. Oliver Bentley called you about me.”

“He didn't tell me how attractive you were, baby. That's just like Oliver to forget the best part … unless it rhymes. Then, he's probably over the hill. Do you think Oliver can cut the mustard? How about Eulogy for an Emeritus, or subtitled, my teach don't tingle no more.”

“Oliver said you could provide me with some information.”

“Do you know, you're the first chick I've seen wearing white gloves in the summertime since I had my hernia operation?”

“I suppose they are a little passé. If you're busy …”

“Nope. I looked at the morgue stuff and reread my own crap. I remember her. We'll grab a booth, whatcha drinking?”

“I'd like a pink lady, please.”

“Are you kidding? Laura thinks a pink lady is a high-priced madam. Have a beer.”

“A beer would be fine.”

They sat in a far booth which slightly reduced the din of the bar's babble. Will carried two steins of beer, salted his, and slid hers across the table. She caught the mug before it spilled.

“Thank you,” Tavie said.

“Why thank me? I'm treating you like a cheap broad.”

“I'm afraid I'm a little out of training for this, sort of thing.”