Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (24 page)

She kissed him back quickly. “No, silly. That thing—the shaker.” They sat in large wicker chairs on the porch and he poured drinks. “Someday I'm going to tell you a deep, dark secret.”

“You're really a bulldyke.”

“Besides that. I hate pink ladies.”

“I don't believe it. You've destroyed my faith. Next you'll want a beer and a shot.”

“Yes, a whatchamacallit, furnace-maker.”

“Boilermaker, stupid.”

Tavie looked across the expanse of lawn toward her old house where two workmen were raising a wall frame. “They're coming along fine, aren't they?”

“It'll be up before the summer's over.”

“I'll be glad. I like this cottage, but you know, I still think of it as the Gorley Cottage.”

“Next season we can rent it out. From the little I know of this island, it'll be known as the Gorley Cottage for the next twenty years.”

“I know. It's too bad about the vandals, the Gorleys had the most lovely
Gone With the Wind
lamp that I adored.” She wondered momentarily if she saw something behind his eyes, but then it was gone, and his face crinkled into a smile.

“Oliver yelled out a few minutes ago that he's almost through with the galleys,” Will said.

“Oh, great.” She yelled into the house. “Oliver, you almost done?”

“Out in a minute, Octavia,” he answered.

Down the beach path the children were dawdling their way home. Already they were beginning to turn brown, and their open faces radiated a healthy glow.

“Do we have time for one more before lunch?” Will asked.

“Yep, maybe one and a half,” she replied.

He poured the remains of the shaker into their glasses, and Tavie noticed that his tee shirt hung looser than it had two weeks before when they'd come to the island. The levis and loose shirt were appropriate for island living, his tousled hair and casual manner seemed more becoming in this milieu, even his cynicism seemed slightly, if not completely, tempered.

“You've lost some weight,” she said.

“Yeah. I've gotten a little exercise for the first time in years. Good for me, even the liver feels better.” He looked up at the children coming up the path. “You know, I like it here, Tavie.”

“I'm glad you do. I thought you would. But don't you miss The Pen and Pencil?”

“Don't knock it. That's a high-class joint. Now, in a low-class gin mill you ask for a ‘mother-fucking beer.' In a high-class joint like The Pen and Pencil, you ask for a ‘fucking beer.' There's a marked difference.”

“I'll remember that.”

Oliver came out to the porch carrying a sheaf of printed book galleys. “I like it, Octavia,” he said. “I've made a few minor corrections, nothing major. I think it's ready to go back to the printers.”

Will handed Oliver a cocktail. “Shall we drink to Tavie's ‘Reflections'? May she become a major-minor poet.”

They raised their glasses and clinked them together. Oliver went on, “I think I'd like to anthologize that last one, Octavia.”

“Thank you, Oliver. That's a true compliment.” She turned to Will. “See, no matter how you kid my work, I'll be in print before ye.”

“Christ,” Will said. “How do you write a whole book about four seasons of the year? Think what you could do if you had a real subject, like sex or lobsters.”

“Sexual lobsters.”

“I thought it was supposed to be oysters and sex,” Oliver said.

“You're both too much,” Will said.

“You're jealous, that's all,” Tavie replied.

“Aw, come on. I've had my own by-line for years, but I think I'll call my book, ‘Reflections of Murder.'”

She realized he was filled with pride for her, that the passing months had dimmed much of his past hurt. She sensed that he loved her, not with the maturity of his age, but with the yearning of a young man. He had avoided commitment for so long that when his decision was made, it was full and all-encompassing. He had given himself to her, and she was near the point of complete reciprocation. Tavie picked up Will's hand and squeezed it.

“You really aren't going to continue with that book, Will,” Oliver said.

“I am as long as Tavie encourages it. I have all my files from Helen's trial, a lot of Rob's notes, and Tavie's been taping her material with me for the past two weeks.”

“Are you two sure you want to continue? Wouldn't it be better to just let it drop?”

“Hell, Oliver. We're all not as old as you. We're going to use the advance money for the wedding trip.”

“It doesn't bother me, Oliver,” Tavie said. “I want it to be as factual and as insightful as Will can make it. You know, one of these days the children are going to be asking a lot of difficult questions. How do I explain that their father is in the ward for the criminally insane at Norwich Hospital?”

“Ultimately the decision is up to you two.”

“Oh, Oliver, the sailing was magnificent this morning. You've really got to come with me before you leave.”

“Not me. To tell my darkest secret, a sin of terrible omission, a weakness beyond belief—I can't swim.”

“You're kidding. My old teach uses water wings,” Will laughed.

“Not even that.”

The children clattered onto the porch yelling of their dire hunger pangs.

They sat on the grass, Indian-fashion, at the edge of the clay tennis court. The couple playing on the court were finishing their last set. Karen and little Rob's heads turned in unison with the play. Tavie looked at Will and noticed, for the first time, his sweatshirt. “What in the world is that on the front of your sweatshirt?” she asked.

“That? That's my Beethoven sweatshirt.”

“God, with that hair I thought it was a self-portrait.”

“Listen, Gussie Moran, I wouldn't talk.”

“Who's that?”

“A girl who let her lace panties show.”

“Mine aren't lace, they're nylon.”

“Even worse.”

The other couple finished their set, waved, and started off down the path. The children jumped up and ran onto the court.

“Hey, doubles,” little Rob yelled.

“You know what time it is?” Will said.

“Oliver's having his afternoon constitutional,” she replied. “I think he does that for us on purpose.”

“Let's not disappoint him.” Will stood and pulled her to her feet. “You kids go ahead and play without us.”

As they started back to the cottage, hand in hand, they heard faint murmurings of disappointment from the children which quickly faded with the whack of the tennis ball.

“You know, Tavie,” Will said. “I think I'm happy. Now, that's something that should never be articulated. The gods hear and it greatly angers them. The next thing you know, swoop, the Furies descend.”

She put her arm around his waist as they walked. “You big jerk, you've been unhappy so long, you're scared to death of anything good coming along.”

In the dim bedroom they removed their clothes with urgency. Still standing, Will grabbed her, and she felt his passion rising with her own. As they fell to the bed, one of the old wooden bed slats gave way, and the mattress tilted forward toward the floor. They lay entwined together as they slowly slid down the inclined bed, under the headboard, to the wall.

“This isn't in the marriage manuals,” Will said.

She looked up at their feet now inclined at a forty-five-degree angle above their heads. “There ought to be something we can do with it,” she answered.

“You got me. I'm a get-around-the-floorshift-in-a-car man, myself.”

“You're lousy in cars.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I gave a girl Spanish fly, and while buying a pack of Trojans, she screwed herself to death on the gearbox of my Ferrari.”

“You never had a Ferrari.”

“O.K,” he said. “On three. One, two, three.” Laughing, they scrambled over the side of the bed, Will knocked the other slats off, and the whole mattress fell to the floor. She jumped over the side of the bed and bounced up and down on the mattress.

“Catch me if you can,” she said.

He stepped over the side of the bed and reached for her. They lay down on the mattress to consume each other with hurried and urgent love.

She must have dozed, and as consciousness returned she felt him at her side. Out the window, trees swayed gently, and in the distance she could hear the ferry's whistle as it approached the landing. It was all the same—nothing had changed. She turned and put her arms around Will.

He opened his eyes. “Not again.”

“No. I just wanted to talk.”

“So talk.”

“Do you think we'll make a lot of money from the book?”

“I knew if I scratched hard enough I'd find a mercenary broad around here. Money? I don't know, it's an interesting study, it ought to sell moderately well. Hell, who knows, two murders for the price of one.”

“Have you talked to Captain Hubert yet?”

“Big Hugh. Sure. He's always cooperative.”

“Did I ever tell you that the last time he questioned me, he made an innuendo that I'd been in it with Rob?”

“I know. He told me about that.”

“Maybe he's right. Maybe I did it myself. Bet you never thought of that?”

Will laughed. “Remember the first time we met? You asked me a question about Helen. Was she capable of it, you asked. I said she was. And she was. Are you capable of it—no. There's not a doubt in my mind. And, if there was, well, the last time I looked, which was about ten seconds ago, you were still a woman—the evidence makes it highly unlikely that you were capable of …”

She leaned over and kissed him. “All right, you're sure.”

“Sure. And after talking to your nutty husband—he is capable.”

“What'll happen to Rob?”

“When the doctors think he's rational, he'll be released to the court. They may or may not try him. If he's in there several years they'll probably drop it.”

Tavie thought about several years. How long was several? Three, five, or more? Well, there'd be time enough to face that when it arose.

“Listen, Tavie,” Will said. “You are sure about this book?”

“It's too much a part of our life, let's get it over with.”

“O.K.”

Tavie climbed over the bed railing and began to dress. “You nap. I want to get things lined up for dinner. I'm going to serve you and Sir Oliver one fine meal.”

“Satiated, I await your call.” Will smiled and turned over.

The day before, in town, she had purchased a large, succulent-looking piece of London broil, and had decided to cook it with red wine. They had converted the small cottage dining room into a combination study for Will and temporary storage area. What she wanted would probably be in one of the cartons stacked against the wall.

The first two cartons she opened contained Will's books. Piled next to the books was his fishing equipment and gun case. Her hand tentatively brushed across the leather of the gun case and quickly withdrew. The desk facing the window overlooked the bay. Not too unlike her old desk, she thought. His old, upright typewriter and tape recorder stood neatly aligned near the window.

She sat at the desk. The wind had died in the bay. The racing sailboats sat ducklike, with slack sails in the calm water. It would soon be a year since she had sat in the house a few yards from here, fingers poised over the typewriter, listening to Helen's voice on the cassette.

Helen's tapes were burned and Helen was gone. It was her voice on these tapes. She had triumphed, won, and prevailed. She smiled.

In the distance she saw Oliver on the cliff; he walked, stopped and looked across the water. Upstairs, a man who loved her dozed. She was back in the place she loved. The circle was complete.

Will was reducing his notes to file cards, and she picked up the neatly stacked pile and rifled through them. She noted that they were arranged in chronological order, with brief notes that related to other portions of his research. The last card of the stack had her name in caps and she read it with curiosity.

TAVIE—Day after Helen's Murder—9/19/72

1. Rob lv for wk—See Con Cas file

2. Bys dog (a pencil note)? Wrong sequence chk with Tav

3. Call from me

4. Call from J Warren—See JW file.

Wrong sequence—check with Tavie. What did that mean? She thought back to that morning. The card was right, that was the correct sequence. Rob went to work, the children to school, and she'd called about buying the dog. When she came back with the dog she called Will and he'd told her about Helen.

He had been a fine dog, she thought. He was all that the breeder had said he would be. Loyal, good with children, and quite a watchdog. His only problem had been his mammoth size in a suburban home. Gas men and telephone men had been frightened to death of him, and he was too large for the children to walk. The children had been awfully upset when she'd given him away, but they finally accepted the fact that he'd be happier out in the country where he could roam.

She knew why the sequence was wrong.

There was no way for her to know of Helen's death until she talked to Will, and yet she'd told several people that she'd bought the dog for protection—because of Helen's death.

She put a blank file card in the typewriter and retyped the notes exactly as he had them, but changing the order to put the buying of the dog last. The file card, with Will's note, she ripped in several pieces and stuffed in her jean's pocket. She realized that the file cards were only a distillation of his other research. Tavie—day after. Where would that come from? The tape. Was it this week or last that they'd recorded that particular sequence?

The cassettes were all neatly labeled in a desk drawer. She picked out the one entitled, “Tavie—day after”, and inserted it into the small recorder.