She lay prone on the ground with the rifle. One hundred feet was supposed to be easy, but the cans seemed awfully far away. Propping her elbows she looked through the sight and noticed that part of the sight pulled upwards and could be adjusted. That was probably for wind and elevation. Deciding from rudimentary mathematics that elevation shouldn’t be a factor at a hundred feet she pushed the sight down to what she assumed was a neutral position.
The distant can of soup was clearly outlined in the sight as she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.
The recoil of the rifle bruised her shoulder and the sound rolled across the island. She opened her eyes and saw the cans of soup sitting unharmed, unscathed and obviously unhit. She dared fire only one more time or the sound could attract some stray fisherman or Coast Guardsman to the island. She loaded and took sight on the can.
She began to remember some of the things Rob had said when they went twenty-two-plinking. “Don’t close your eyes, hold your breath, let your breath out slowly, align front and rear sights for the right picture. Steady, don’t close your eyes, don’t pull, squeeze …”
The recoil hurt her shoulder even more, but that was hardly noticed as the can of soup seemed to explode in the air spewing red contents over the surrounding bushes.
Gathering up the box of shells she put the rifle over her shoulder and started back down the path to the dock. She was content, and felt very militant, like an Israeli Sabra holding off hostile Arabs.
As she passed the Gorley cottage she heard the shutter banging in the wind. Glancing at her watch she noticed that she still had time until the boat arrived—and it would hardly do to waltz on the ferry carrying the rifle.
She placed the rifle and shells on the porch and once again stepped through the broken window. A throw rug by the front door would do to wrap up the rifle, and a paper bag from the kitchen would be adequate to carry the box of shells. She threw these items out the window and turned to survey the dim cottage.
In case someone did come here in the near future she would have to make the theft of the rifle appear as wanton vandalism. They’d never had a burglary on the island since she and Rob had been coming here, although they had heard of an incident or two on surrounding islands. It would have to be done.
A Gone With the Wind lamp stood on the table next to an easy chair. She placed her hand against its edge, hesitated a moment, and then shoved it forward until it fell and shattered on the hearth. It seemed such a shame, she’d always wanted a lamp like that for their summer place.
Their summer place did not exist anymore, the mute chimney screaming toward the sky attested to that.
She turned over the table and kicked it until her toes pained. She picked up a bookend and threw it against a window and laughed as the glass shattered. A frenzy consumed her as she ran from one part of the house to another, shattering and smashing anything breakable.
She fell onto the couch exhausted and sobbing.
Tavie felt purged as she slowly got to her feet. Stepping through the window she carefully retied the shutters. She wrapped the rifle in the rug, put the shells in the bag, and slowly started down the road to the dock.
CHAPTER TEN
Tavie glanced at her watch as she drove and saw that it was exactly eight P.M. The trip to Helen’s took thirty-five minutes, she’d allow herself up to an hour in the woods, and then the drive home. She would have to arrive back by ten if her mother, or any other interested parties, were to believe her story about going to the library.
This morning Rob had been grouchy, and had nursed the remains of a hangover as he packed his bag for a quick business trip. He’d been drinking more than usual recently, in fact it seemed as if everyone was drinking more than usual—that would resolve itself after tonight’s unpleasantness. She had told her mother she was going to the library, and gotten the children to bed before she left, although she did have to cut short Karen’s bedtime story.
She noticed a car in Helen’s driveway as she drove past. Good, it could be done tonight without delay. Earlier she’d felt a weakening of her resolve, even a moral compunction, but she thought of Margaret Fitzgerald to the exclusion of everything else, and the guilt feelings soon dissipated.
She turned down the logging road and quickly cut the lights. She breathed deeply in the reassuring darkness, letting tension fade and her muscles relax. The dirt road was rutted and curved so she’d have to walk the remaining yards to the spot opposite Helen’s house. The interior light blinked on as she opened the door and she cursed herself for forgetting about it, and quickly got out and slammed the door. Trees and high shrubs surrounded the car and it was doubtful that anyone had seen the quick flash of light.
She took the rifle and a handful of shells from the trunk of the car, and using a small pen-light, she walked toward the spot she had picked out near a pine tree.
The branches of the low, full trees bent heavily toward the ground and formed a cavelike shelter near the trunk. Through the branches was a clear view of the front of the house. In the moonless night the tree shadows and foliage would hide her from the house and passing motorists. As an added precaution she’d worn dark pants and a turtleneck sweater. For a ludicrous moment she’d considered blackening her face like in the movies, but laughed to herself when she considered the explanations to her mother.
She lay on her stomach near the base of the tree and brushed away the pine needles that were pricking her hands and, elbows. The sound of the bolt clicking shut on the shell seemed awfully loud and she blinked anxiously for a moment. The night was quiet, and she extended the rifle forward to take a sighting on the house. The kitchen light was on, and the cafe curtains covered only a small portion of the window—the target would be far larger than the soup cans on the island.
She could see the kitchen table and chairs near the window, a kitchen counter and refrigerator in the background. Heavy drapes across the living-room window obscured any view of that portion of the house. She began to wait.
It was five minutes to nine when Helen entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. The woman wore her hair differently, but there was no doubt that it was the woman in the photographs.
Tavie raised the rifle and propped her elbows in a stable position, as Helen took a tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator, walked over to the kitchen counter, and began to mix drinks. She must remember the necessary items. Line the sights on the target, get the sight picture, take a deep breath, let a little out, begin to …
The hands reaching through the branches tore the rifle from her grasp. “They ought to bring back the death penalty for stupid broads like you,” he said contemptuously. Will Haversham brought the rifle bolt back and the shell ejected over Tavie and bounced against the tree trunk.
“Will, what are you doing here?”
“Look at your victims, stupid,” he whispered and stepped into the shadow of the tree. “Go on, look.”
Helen was talking and laughing as she finished mixing the drinks and held one glass in front of her. Rob was outlined in the frame of light as he took the drink from Helen. With his free hand Rob held Helen’s chin as he kissed her.
Tavie’s hate was so fierce that she thought she would be physically ill. The image of the kissing couple blurred and she had to fight to refocus her eyes. She wanted to run to the house, to tear them both apart … she crawled away from Will to vomit in the weeds.
Her trembling began to subside after the second drink in Will’s kitchen. She’d had to hold the first drink with both hands to keep the glass steady, and even then had spilled some.
Will leaned against the sink and watched her with concern. “Are you ready for a couple of questions?” he said.
“I’m botching everything, aren’t I?”
“Christ, yes. I am a little curious though, which one were you planning to shoot, or were you waiting for the embrace to get them both with one shot?”
“That’s not funny. He’s supposed to be in Philadelphia.”
&
nbsp; “And I could be playing liar’s poker at The Pen and Pencil instead of sitting for hours in the boondocks getting raped by chiggers.”
“How long were you there?”
“Too long.”
“How will you get your car?”
“I’ll have one of the copyboys drive me out there tomorrow.”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“It might be in order. Unless you have a yen to spend the next ten years on the prison farm.”
“I wouldn’t have been caught.”
“For a broad that’s supposed to be smart, you’ve got the most naive goddamn ideas. Society has created a very unique establishment concerning broads shot by high-powered rifles—called the police. Out there it would be the state police, who, by the way, are pretty goddamn efficient.”
“She deserves to die.”
“Leave that to God.”
“I wouldn’t have been caught.”
“No, maybe Rob could have been arrested for it.”
“I told you, I didn’t even know he was there.”
“So, if I buy that … you know that rifles can be traced. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out where you got it. Maine? Right?”
“Yes, I stole it.”
“Bright. Don’t you think it’s possible for the police to find that out?”
“I don’t know.”
“And where were you supposed to be tonight?”
“At the library.”
“They know you at the library.”
“Of course they do. I spend hours and hours there and … Oh, I see what you mean.”
“What were you going to do with the rifle?”
“Wipe my fingerprints off and leave it. They’d never trace it.”
“Jesus H. Christ. Didn’t you consider throwing it in the reservoir like I did?”
“No.”
“You can’t go around killing people, even Helen, and not expect there to be little ripples of interest.”
“I didn’t plan things well, did I?”
“That is the understatement of the year.”
“Will you help me?”
“God, no!” Will put his arms on her shoulders as she stared into her drink. “Listen, Tavie. That son-of-a-bitch husband of yours isn’t worth it.”
“Well, at least I’ve got a few of my questions answered.”
“I can’t understand the bastard, Helen over you. You’re probably better in bed.”
“I’m not with him.”
He tilted her chin so their eyes were near. “Leave the prick. Look at this place.”
“What place?”
“The apartment. Even the oven. Go ahead, open my oven and peer into the sparkling … Christ, I sound like a goddamn commercial. I’m trying to tell you something, you dumb broad.”
She knew what he was going to say and wished he wouldn’t. Her thoughts were confused, she couldn’t deal with him tonight. “Don’t say it, Will.”
“Why not? After sitting in the bushes for two nights and getting plastered, I have the right to say anything.”
“You’re supposed to be the original sewer-fighter.”
“I’ve decided to take a war bride.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, tell me how you feel or I’m taking three sleeping pills and hitting the sack.”
“I don’t know what to say. You can’t love me, I’m a potential murderess.”
“I don’t believe you could ever pull the trigger, but cut the crap out anyway.”
“Oh, let’s go to bed—I do love you there.”
“And out of bed?”
“You’re hardly ever sober.”
He shrugged. “Sacktime is better than nothing. But no more plots.”
“I promise.” And she knew she lied.
Helen lay in the upright coffin with hands folded across her chest. Tavie stood, with bow poised, a dozen feet in front of the coffin. It took all her strength to pull the bowstring back and loose the arrow. The arrow, with its rubber tip, hit and stuck to Helen’s forehead. The other woman smiled, and stuck out her tongue.
Tavie picked up a rifle and pointed it directly at the other woman’s heart and pulled the trigger again and again. The stream of water played gently over Helen. Tavie threw the gun away in frustration. Taking the long knife, she gingerly approached the coffin, raised her arm to strike and …
“Get it over with,” the gigantic voice boomed.
She plunged the knife into Helen’s breast. Nothing happened, no blood, no response, and she examined the knife. The blade of the knife was on a spring and slid back into the handle when pressure was applied.
“You through now?” Helen said, and stepped from the coffin. “You finally through?” Tavie began to backstep as the giant came toward her.
Slowly. Helen took her arms away from her chest and reached for Tavie.
Tavie awoke with the sheet partially twisted around her neck. She turned over in bed and saw that the bedside clock showed five A.M. These recurring nightmares would have to stop. They were coming with such regularity that she was afraid to go to sleep. They would have to stop—they must stop.
The Rockweld Tennis and Pool Club was in a valley beyond Hartford. It was in a suburban area where farms gradually gave way to housing developments, and golf clubs were rapidly becoming the most important cash crop. She and Rob weren’t members of Rockweld, although they had been asked. The expenditure of the money hardly seemed justified since the bulk of their summers were spent in Maine.
Jack Warren, an officer of Connecticut Casualty, was Rob’s best friend. The bulk of their social evenings were spent with Jack and his wife Miriam. Since the Warren’s were club members they often asked them to the club functions, and allowed the Garlands the use of club privileges when needed.
Japanese lanterns were strung around the pool and patio. The small white-tables each had a flickering candle under glass, and near the diving board a small combo played nostalgic music.
The party was well in progress as they walked up the few steps to the pool patio. They were late, and Rob had been very solicitous as to whether she was too tired and did she feel up to the party, but she had insisted they go.
Jack Warren spied them from the other side of the pool and waved. They ordered Tom Collinses from the bartender, and drinks in hand, made their way through the crowd to where Jack and Miriam were sitting.
Jack, wearing an outrageous red sports coat, stood to greet them. “Hi, people, pull up a log.”
Miriam, with her perpetual smile, turned to Tavie amiably. “Oh, Tavie, Jack was just telling me how you had to go to the island the other day. Can anything be salvaged?”
“From what she tells me, we have enough firewood for the next century,” Rob answered. “We’re considering making it all into a large raft and floating the whole mess to Hartford.”
“That’s the only way to take something like that,” Jack said. “Hey, tell us about Bermuda.”
“The funniest thing was this young honeymoon couple who had a table next to ours. Well, anyway, they …”
Rob had launched into his favorite Bermuda anecdote that Tavie had already heard. He unconsciously lowered his voice and bent toward Jack as he approached the dirty ending of the story. Miriam put her arm on Tavie and smiled. Tavie often thought that Miriam would smile at her own funeral; that the mortician, to make her appear lifelike, would have to pin her lips into that perpetual airline-stewardess grin.
“It just seems that you’ve had so much trouble this summer, dear,” Miriam said.
“I think it’s over now. These things happen.”
“Of course.”
She had always envied Miriam. Her life seemed a continuous round of activities—Junior League, the local art league, days filled with projects, service organizations, and committee work. Tavie bet to herself that Miriam was on at least one committee for the planning and preparation of this dance. Since little Rob was in school with one of Miriam’s
children, Tavie was often exposed to Miriam’s school projects. If the class was making a model of Plymouth, Massachusetts, Miriam’s kids came to school with a model that would put an architect to shame, while little Rob was lucky to have two houses built of sugar cubes.
The band played a slow tune and Jack asked Tavie to dance.
“Hanging in there?” he asked.
“All the way, Jack.”
“When are we going to make it together?”
“Last Saint Valentine’s day.”
He laughed and held her closer.
At one A.M. Tavie was getting drunk. The hanging lanterns had taken on a sharpened hue, and the laughter of people lulled and erupted with someone’s raucous laugh. Rob was dancing with Miriam, and Jack played the bass on the small stage while the musician stood nearby looking apprehensive.
She crossed to the bandstand with two drinks in her hand. Jack looked down and smiled. She beckoned to him and he shook his head. She held up a drink and beckoned again. Reluctantly, he handed the bass back to the musician and weaved through the dance floor to Tavie. She handed him the drink and taking his hand led him away from the dancing couples.
“Hey, girl, I was just getting started.”
“That musician was about to bang you over the head. When are you going to show me the azaleas?”
He looked at her uncertainly. “The flowers?”
“The flowers, silly. Every time we come out here for a dance you offer to show me the azaleas, every time I’ve refused.”
“I’ve been offering for years. You must be high if you’re finally taking me up on it.”
“Absolutely. Wonderfully, deliciously, high,” she said. “Down the hatch.”
Jack looked into her eyes and she stared back. They quickly gulped their drinks, and he took her hand and led her down the short steps to the surrounding gardens. The first step in her plan was taken through an alcoholic haze.
They stopped in the shadows and Jack pulled her to him. “Where are the flowers?” she asked.
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? Page 12
