There was a crash and cry from the building. She fought to extricate her foot from the rotten wood. As she got to her feet she saw the figure at the other side of the veranda running jerkily down the stairs.
Tavie’s breath came in heaving gasps and she pressed against the side of the building. Her legs were weak and trembling. The adrenalin and lack of fear that had carried her this far now washed away and her fingers grasped the rotten wood behind her.
The night was empty. The moon came from behind clouds, and streaks of light played across the empty drill-field. From a distance she could hear the sound of a powerful inboard boat engine and she slowly edged her way along the shadows until she stood at the tree line near the small cove.
Out in the bay a boat pulled rapidly around the edge of the island and was soon out of sight. Where had the boat come from? Portland, the sea? Thoughts tugged at her, the boat and its familiar lines, the gait of the running figure. What had possessed her to come this far … the fire, the near death of her children … her knees were still weak and she grasped a tree trunk to steady herself.
Slowly she turned and started back toward her home, burning in the night.
CHAPTER THREE
“She burned my poems, Oliver.”
“My dear Octavia, how do you even know it was a she when you didn’t see a face?”
“At first it was a nagging thought, but I still have a feeling. I think I understood yesterday on the ride back to Hartford. It was the way she ran. Women run differently than men.”
“I used to think so. However, the last class I taught had several gentlemen who were, shall we say, neuter.”
Oliver Bentley was over seventy now, but his thin face and craggy frame were still vibrant with zest and energy. He was Professor Emeritus of English at Trinity College, and served as the unpaid poetry editor of the Hartford Register. It was through her poetry submissions that she’d met him, and he was probably the only man Tavie knew that often wore a cape.
She had spent many hours in Oliver’s book-lined study, sitting across from him in a large leather chair and drinking tea. The study was cool, and through the large bay window, ducks could be seen floating placidly on a small pool. The room was tree-shaded and cool, and for the first time in two days Tavie felt relaxed and secure.
In this room she was whole again. The past hours spent in book and poetry discussions, formed a protective mantle that now enveloped them. The trip from Maine faded into a dim recollection of sights and sounds. After the house had collapsed into a pile of smoking debris, she had lain on the Gorley’s couch and wept in quiet whimpers. By the next morning, and Rob’s arrival, there were no tears left.
“I’m sure you know that I’m worried about you,” Oliver said.
“I’m worried about me, too. This whole thing is so preposterous that it doesn’t make much sense.”
“There’s a strong probability that there is a logical explanation for everything that happened.”
“I know. But that wasn’t a wisp of fog I chased after the fire.”
“What does Rob say about your theory?”
“That he’d check into things.”
“Well, Octavia. Let’s examine exactly what happened. Two accidents, the first during a heavy fog, conditions which should have discouraged your going out in that boat. Secondly, a fire in an old building that more than likely had inadequate wiring. A person, someone, perhaps a vandal, stopped to watch the fire. Two harrowing accidents within a week of each other, coming at a time when you were extremely emotionally vulnerable. Remember, you still haven’t assimilated the shock you received over Robert.”
“Neurotic and emotionally ill housewife thinks husband’s mistress is out to get her—I’ve thought of that. And yet when I’ve half convinced myself this is all my own fear, I remember the night of the fire, and running after that woman.”
“Events that occurred after you spent two days listening to a recording of a woman killing her husband. That in itself was a heinous crime, Octavia, but spouses do annihilate each other. Few people calculate, on two occasions, to do in someone they don’t even know.”
His logic hung in the room. If what she thought was true, she faced an incalculable evil. Her life had been removed and distant from things evil. It was difficult for her to have empathy for the victims of far-off Asian wars or massive airline tragedies. The newspaper accounts of violence and murder were a distant passing parade acted out by people far removed from her life.
Her life had contained no tragedy, and no violent death within her memory. When she was a small child an older brother had died in World War II, but his face was an indistinct blur. His death, which had so affected her father, held little import for her. Her father had died of natural causes at a respectable old age, and her mother still lived.
Strange, since the largest portion of her life had been spent with books. How many hundreds of tales had she read about death, destruction, and the labyrinth of the human mind? Oliver often talked of catharsis in art. And yet the Germans had produced magnificent art of all kinds. Hitler had started adult life as a painter, Mao as a poet, Stalin as a priest.
They had been silent for a long while and she saw that Oliver was looking at her steadily. “I’m becoming very obsessive, aren’t I, Oliver?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
She laughed. “Now, you’re supposed to tell me in your most professorial tone that I’m a neurotic housewife.”
“I learned after my first year of teaching that I couldn’t shout to the class that a certain poem was beautiful. I can’t tell you to become obsessively unobsessive. Prove yourself wrong, or are you afraid to?”
“Rob doesn’t believe a word of it.”
“You have taken three coincidental events and constructed a remarkable edifice of calculated murder. It’s more than possible that you’re completely wrong, but you haven’t done a thing to prove that to yourself.”
“Inaction is the story of my life. You think I’m wrong?”
“I think you could be.”
“Then the rational thing to do would be to look into it.”
“Exactly. Prove it to yourself. In all likelihood you’ll find that what you suggest is impossible. Think of the details, if you find one that doesn’t fit …”
“Oh, Oliver, I can’t.”
“That’s up to you. If not, go see a marriage counselor, write a poem.”
“It’s all so silly. I should probably take a few tranquilizers instead.” The dread she’d felt these last few days seeped into this book-lined study and filled her with tension. “I’ve spent half my life in libraries, I suppose a few more hours won’t be wasted.” She stood up with new resolve. “All right, Oliver. I’ll do it. I’ll find out how wrong I am.”
Her back hurt from bending into the viewer of the microfilm reader at the public library. She straightened up and looked at her notes. In schoolgirl fashion she’d approached her project in the same manner as she would have prepared a term paper on Beowulf. She thumbed through the pages.
Her first approach had been the possibility of transportation for Helen from Hartford to New York, to Portland, and back to Hartford within the available time span. She picked up the page and read it through again.
TRANSPORTATION
Problem: Is it possible for the subject to leave Hartford, Connecticut at 8:45 AM, travel to New York; to Portland, Maine, and back to Hartford by 6 PM? Adequate time must be available in Portland to accomplish the rental of a boat for a period of not less than two hours.
Answer: If subject left Connecticut Casualty at 8:45 AM and walked to the parking lot, she could be in her car and on her way to the airport by 8:50. Driving time to the airport at that time of day (and she had timed the trip herself on two separate mornings) was twenty-seven minutes. Using the car-check service she could be in the airport, prepared to board a plane at 9:30 AM.
Eastern Airlines flight 226 left for La Guardia Airport at 9:40 and arrived in New York nineteen minute
s later. Taxi time to 345 Madison Avenue was thirty minutes. If the taxi waited as she delivered the copy she could be back in the airport by 11:20.
The 11:30 to Boston and the 1 PM to Portland. That would put her in Portland near the docks at 1:30.
American Airlines flight 957 left Portland for Hartford at four-thirty. It was possible to be back in downtown Hartford by six.
It had taken some persuasion to get the airlines to check their manifests and in the end it had proved nothing. Each of the necessary flights had women passengers, but no reservations in Helen’s name. That was her starting point, and in the end it had provided little concrete evidence. It was possible to make the trip, but then again it might be possible to make a trip to Key West, Florida, and back in the same allotted time.
The next group of notes contained a list of marinas and a map drawn to scale. She had estimated that the speedboat couldn’t have traveled more than twenty miles an hour in fog conditions, and she plotted a circle from a point between Ruby and Handle Islands as far as the time span allowed.
In checking the Maine phone directories for all the towns and cities included in her circle, she had compiled a list of thirty-two marinas. Most of those she called either didn’t rent boats, or hadn’t rented boats that day. Eight had rented various types of motorboats. Morey’s Marina, in South Portland, recognized her description of the speedboat and a check of their records indicated that it had been rented to a Mrs. Garfield that day. Their description of the woman was somewhat vague as she had worn a large floppy hat and sunglasses. They did remember her large security deposit, and the fact that when she pulled into the bay she seemed extremely competent in her seamanship.
That discovery left her momentarily jubilant. The pieces did fit. She wasn’t possessed by some neurotic obsession. Reality quickly returned with the realization of the unimportance of her discoveries.
Tavie bent over the microfilm reader and began to turn the film for the account of the final day in Helen Fraser’s trial. The trial was well covered. The Register had assigned a full-time reporter to the case, and each day’s testimony was reported.
The basic facts of the case were similar to Helen’s tapes and what Rob had told her. During the early days of the trial, and during the opening statement, the defense had tried to establish that Helen was at her mother’s, that the murder could have been the work of an intruder. It was the last day of the prosecution when Helen’s brother appeared. What Helen had said on the tapes was right, if he hadn’t testified there would have been no way to absolutely place her in the house at the time of the murder.
Immediately after the brother’s appearance the defense asked for a conference in Chambers. Early in the afternoon they reversed their plea, and pleaded guilty to manslaughter.
There were now only two Fraser references left in the newspaper files. Because of its date, she assumed that one was Helen’s appearance before the board of pardon, the other mystified her. She thought about what she’d read so far. There was a thread here, a similarity between the dispassionate voice on the tape and the reportorial accounts of Helen on trial.
Yes, dispassion. So many of the articles started out identifying Helen as the “cool and attractive Mrs. Fraser,” or “the calm defendant.” She had obviously made an impression on the reporter covering the trial.
Calm, dispassionate, a good seaman—perhaps someone capable of pushing a speedboat through foggy waters time and time again.
She threaded the last reel of film into the reader. The first reference was only months ago and concerned Helen’s appearance before the board of pardon. They had reduced her sentence and in two weeks she’d be released.
The last reference was a small news article, tucked so far in the rear of the paper, she almost missed it. She read the article with increasing horror.
YOUTH’S BODY STILL MISSING IN BAY BOATING ACCIDENT
Coast Guard and local authorities have discontinued their search for Jeremiah Murphy, 19, of Baytown, missing since Sunday. Murphy’s small boat was discovered by a local fisherman, John Williams of 22 Sunlit Lane, Baytown, floating upside down in the Bay. An intensive search by authorities has failed to come up with the body.
Local Police Chief, Eian Waterman, states that in all probability the body was washed to sea and will probably never be recovered.
Mr. Murphy of Leslie Road was employed by the Marman Company as a die-maker and was unmarried. He gained brief notoriety four years ago when, as a young witness for the State, he testified against his sister, Helen Fraser. Mrs. Fraser was convicted of murdering her husband and sentenced to the State Correctional Center for Women.
The article was dated two weeks after Helen was released.
Mechanically she jotted down the few facts from the article and rewound the film. She put the film back in its box and gathered her material, neatly aligned her notes, and placed them in a folder. The librarian smiled when she returned the film, and robotlike she thanked her.
There was a pay phone in the library lobby and she fought the impulse to call Rob at the office. No hysteria. A frantic call would upset him and destroy the logic of what she’d discovered.
The car was parked overtime directly in front of the library and a yellow parking ticket clung to the windshield. The hours of peering into the viewing machine had dulled her eyes to the bright sun, and she shaded her forehead with her hand.
She drove slowly, deciding as she usually did, to drive home on the side streets rather than face the onrushing herd of the Interstate. In minutes she was in suburban West Hartford.
The houses she passed were remarkably like their own. Dutch Colonial was a favorite style although they were often interspersed with split-levels. The saving grace of the town was that most of its homes had been built before 1946, many trees had been left, and they’d escaped the near nudity of the newer suburbs. The streets were comfortable, the town had settled into an almost staid routine, and of course the schools were excellent.
It was a good place to raise children, they’d convinced themselves, and now she was in time to pick up the children at day camp. She parked easily near the path leading to the park, among the other awaiting mothers. Children began to run down the path toward the waiting cars. Karen smiled as she approached Tavie.
“Hi, Mom. I didn’t know you were going to pick us up.”
“I was in the neighborhood, thought I would.”
Little Robby, chased by another boy his age, ran past the car and Karen had to yell out the window for him to stop.
The children were beside themselves with the time she spent with them that afternoon. They played a game of dirty monopoly, all cheating allowed, and the formation of cartels was encouraged. She didn’t play nearly as well as Rob, for as soon as she was in a position to drive one child out of the game she reneged and came to his aid. This method of play infuriated little Rob who played a real cutthroat game.
“You guys want to help me make dinner?”
“Yeah.”
They took extra care with the dinner preparations. Together they made a special salad and baked a chocolate cake. Taking the London broil from the refrigerator she laid it neatly on the-cutting board. From the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets she took down the hypodermic syringe a dental student beau had given her years ago. She filled the syringe with good red wine found in the living room bar. As she injected the wine throughout the meat she thought that cooking was the one wifely chore she did well. The house might not be the cleanest on the block, and she wasn’t exactly a little animal in bed, but she cooked the best meat in town.
“This is just like somebody’s birthday,” little Karen said.
“Well, your father’s had to make his own meals while we were in Maine, perhaps he deserves a real fine dinner.”
“Are we ever going back to Maine, Mother?”
“I don’t know, Robby. Your father has to discuss the insurance with his broker, we’d have to make arrangements for a new house to be built … there are a
lot of details. We won’t go back this summer.”
“There’s nothing to do in Maine,” said little Karen. “I like going to camp. We have arts and crafts and all sorts of things.”
“Well, good. Maybe it’s just as well then.” She tried to laugh and couldn’t.
The dinner turned out well. Occasionally Rob looked at her as if expecting some sign or gesture, but she maintained her calm. In fact, she found herself calmer than she had a right to expect.
After dinner, as a special treat for the children, they watched a television mystery. She and Rob sat together on the couch, the children on the floor near the television set. When the credits came on she stood up and took Robby and Karen’s hands. “Time for bed. I’ll tuck you in.”
“I had a good time today, Mommy,” Karen said. “Even making dinner was fun.”
As she tucked them in bed, Rob tolerated a quick kiss on the forehead, while Karen put her arms around Tavie and hugged her. She held her daughter tightly, and then stepped into the hall, making sure to leave the door open a crack. The morning spent in the library, the afternoon with the children, a meal and activity together; and now an hour or two of quiet with her husband. The alien presence that had destroyed the weave of her summer days in Maine was felt again here, and now she had to prove it.
As she went into the living room she saw Rob leaning against the fireplace, staring off into space.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing really.”
“I know your pensive moods too well.”
“That we’re lucky. That we have enough faith in each other to survive Helen, and enough kismet with the gods for you and the children not to be hurt.”
“I spent the morning in the library. In fact I spent yesterday and the day before that in the library and on the phone.”
“Oh?” He looked at her quizzically.
Her folder of notes lay neatly on the mantelpiece. “I want to read this to you.”
“What is it?”
“The proof of my thesis … of what I felt happened, and now know happened. Here’s how it goes …”
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? Page 4
