“We’re standing on them.” He kissed her passionately.
“I like that,” she said. “Isn’t there someplace we can go?”
“I know a place.”
The toolshed smelled slightly of fertilizer and insecticides. The place didn’t surprise her as she had always considered Jack’s lovelife as taking place in toolsheds or behind kitchen refrigerators. She wished she had another drink, but didn’t think that possible.
Jack led her to the rear of the small shed where there was a pile of musty blankets. “The caretaker goofs off in here,” he said. “A few of us have known about it for a while, but for obvious reasons we chose to ignore it.” He pulled her close. “I’ve wanted you for a hell of a long time.”
They made love. In thinking about it later, Tavie felt that love was a poor term. A more Anglo-Saxon word would be more appropriate. Jack didn’t caress or possess—he consumed her, and, when spent, lay back on the blankets with an arm across his face.
“Feel bad, Jack?” she asked.
“Oh, no, Baby, it was great. Real great. I’m a little surprised it’s you. I never thought you’d give in.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Not me.”
“A feminine revenge.”
“You know about her.”
“You’ve met her, what’s she like?”
“Helen.” He thought a moment. “She’s a hell of a lot different than you, at least I thought she was. She’s got this strange laugh, I don’t know how to describe it. She’s never flustered, but there’s something about her that scares you.”
“What?”
“I’m not quite sure. Like an animal peering from its cave, appraising the prey or something.”
“Do the men like her?”
“Some of the guys do, the others stay away. She’s gone now, you know.”
“Rob’s still seeing her.”
“You had him followed.”
“No, a guess. A very good guess. He’s supposed to be taking a trip Thursday to Pittsburgh. He’s not really going, is he, Jack?”
“No. Leave him alone, Tavie. He’ll get over it.”
“I think she’s blackmailing him. There’s money missing from our checking account. Money that I can’t explain.” She knew that the checks drawn on their account, presigned by Rob and typed by her, were made payable to Margaret Fitzgerald. She had used the money for her trip to Bermuda and had some hidden away for the rest of the plan.
“Blackmailing him. You’re kidding,” Jack said.
“There’s no other explanation. Either that or he’s keeping her, and we can’t afford that.”
Jack sat up and looked at her with a worried frown. “He wouldn’t do that, Tavie. Maybe a few laughs, but not that.”
“I don’t know what else to think, Jack. But you won’t tell him, I know that after tonight you won’t tell him.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tavie stood in the locked garage, a length of rubber tubing in her hand, and considered the perfect method of suicide. Start the engine, run the tube from the exhaust and through a window … that was hardly her inclination at this point and she quickly rejected the thought.
The small Datsun station wagon was their second car and the one she usually drove. For Rob’s trip tomorrow she’d find some pretext to have him drive the little red car and leave her the Ford. The Ford would do if necessary, but the bright red of the Datsun, and its smaller gasoline tank made it far more preferable. The owner’s manual, which she took from the glove compartment, told her the fuel tank held eleven and a half gallons. She was momentarily puzzled by the odd amount, but then thought that it probably converted to an equal number of liters. The Ford held twenty-two gallons and that would make siphoning the gasoline that much more difficult.
She inserted one end of the rubber tube into the gasoline tank, and put the other end into the can that usually held gas for the power mower.
Nothing happened. That couldn’t be. She knew the kids, all kinds of people, were always siphoning gas from car tanks. Then, recalling her rudimentary physics, she realized that you had to start the flow of the liquid and then gravitational pull finished the job. She sucked on the end of the tube until the acrid taste of gasoline filled her mouth. She quickly spit the gasoline out and put the tube into the can. Now, the gas flowed freely. When the can was full she stuck the hose into the garage drain until the tank was empty.
Recently Rob had carefully calculated the mileage of the small car and had arrived at the figure of thirty miles to the gallon in open driving. For her purposes she wished the car to go five miles, give or take a mile in either direction. That would be one-sixth of a gallon. Taking into consideration some gasoline in the feed and carburetor she wanted to have about ten ounces of gasoline in the tank. She looked at her kitchen measuring cup. Ten ounces was one and a quarter cups of gasoline.
She poured the gasoline from the can back into the car and replaced the cap. Going upstairs to their bedroom she put the measuring cup and rubber tubing into her suitcase, showered, and began to dress.
The French Sporting Goods Store was the most exclusive in the area. She had bought her skating outfit there last year and had been horrified at the prices they charged. She had considered going to Sears, or one of the discount houses, and at least save a little money, but was afraid that the salesclerks might not be as cooperative as they would be at French’s.
She stood in front of the gun counter and was completely bewildered by the vast array of guns lining the wall behind the counter. They seemed to come in all lengths and sizes, although some of them had the most exquisite scrollwork on their stocks.
The clerk was a gray-haired man with a myopic look behind thick glasses. He seemed to approach her tiredly, as if too wary to wait on a housewife in an inappropriate spot.
“May I help you, Ma’am?”
“Yes. I’d like to buy a gun for my husband’s birthday.”
He blinked and became more weary. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what sort of gun you’d like?”
“Why, yes, I do. He specifically requested a twelve-gauge shotgun with double barrels.”
“Oh, yes.” The clerk seemed vastly relieved. “Of course there are several varieties. Automatic, side-by-side, over-and-under.”
“He didn’t mention that.”
He reached back to the gun rack, pulled out a shotgun, and placed it tenderly on a felt pad on the counter. “Now, here’s a nice model. A Browning. Twelve-gauge, side-by-side.”
“Yes, it looks very pretty. May I hold it?”
Somewhat dubiously he handed the shotgun across to her. It was heavier than she expected and she almost dropped it to the floor. “It’s awfully heavy.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it for most women.”
“I see the two barrels, but there’s only one trigger.”
“It’s what they call gas-operated, a specialty of Browning. You load two shells. Here, let me show you.” She handed the gun back. He pressed a small lever near the stock and the gun broke open. He pointed to the two bores now revealed. “You place your two shots here and then close it.” He snapped the barrel back in place. “Now, the gun is loaded, you fire once and it automatically cocks again and you can fire the second time almost immediately. It’s very handy for hunting in that it lets you get off two quick shots fast.”
“Yes, I’m sure he’d like that. Does it come apart, I mean for carrying and all that?”
“Couldn’t be easier. See this little lever below the barrels?”
“Yes.”
“You pull that, open the breach, and it’s in two pieces.”
“That’s very easy. How much is it?”
“Two hundred and thirty-two dollars. Look at the stock, the finest wood, notice the scrollwork.”
“It is pretty.”
“The best.”
“Do I have to get a permit to take it home today?” she asked.
“No. We have a simple form you sign.”
> “I’ll take it. And please give me a box of BB shells. I think that’s what my husband said.”
“Of course.”
Tavie counted out the purchase price to the salesclerk from the funds of Margaret Fitzgerald.
The shotgun’s noise reverberated through the woods and a flock of birds took hasty flight from a nearby tree. The recoil hurt her shoulder more than she thought it would. For the second shot she pointed the shotgun at a small tree.
The shot tore through the leaves of the tree scattering green leaves everywhere. She put the gun butt on the ground and massaged her aching shoulder. Well, no matter, her shoulder would recover.
She pulled the lever at the bottom of the gun stock and broke the gun in two pieces. She kept the expended shells in the chamber and opened the car trunk. Wrapping the gun in an old blanket, she checked to make sure the container of dry ice was still intact. It was time to go home to prepare dinner.
Jack took his cards seriously and constantly scowled not only at his own hand but at all those at the table. He had a habit of shuffling his hole cards constantly as if that action would change the value of the cards. There was something about the way he played that angered Tavie and made her want to beat him.
Rob always accused her of complete cowardice in bridge and poker. “You can’t play well unless you want to slaughter the other guy,” he had repeatedly said. “When you have the advantage, press it home.”
Rob had come home in a funk that evening and when it hadn’t passed over they called Jack and Miriam to come over. Jack had suggested poker, dealer’s choice. It was now his deal and he’d called five card stud with nothing wild. “Real poker,” he called it. Rob had dropped out of the hand and looked bored, Miriam bet along with each raise in a detached manner.
On the last card, Jack had two queens showing on the board. Tavie had an ace showing and one in the hole. Miriam’s cards followed no pattern and from her detached air, she was probably without anything of value in her hand.
Jack made a raise. “Cost you a dollar, Tavie.”
Rob looked over at her cards with renewed interest and picked up her hole card with a studied nonchalance. Tavie looked over at Jack flipping his hole card as he stared belligerently across the table at her.
“You look so cross, Jack,” she said.
“Play poker, Baby. Call it or fold.”
Her two aces against his two queens showing. That meant he could have another queen in the hole or … that would be it. He must have another queen.
“I’m out,” Tavie said, and turned her cards over.
Rob stood up abruptly. “Good God, Tavie, you had him. You should have sand-bagged him.” Jack turned over his hole card to reveal a three, and Miriam began to reshuffle the cards.
“Tavie, dear,” Jack said almost gleefully. “Don’t ever take the mortgage payments for a gambling flight to Vegas.”
“Whoever said I was the world’s best poker player?”
“No one, that’s for sure,” said Rob. “Anyone for another drink?”
“Yeah, fill me up,” said Jack.
As Rob and Jack left for the kitchen, Miriam continued shuffling and re-shuffling the cards. There was a vagueness in her and she seemed to be purposely avoiding Tavie’s eyes. “Is something wrong, Miriam?” Tavie asked.
“No, nothing.”
“Let me see what’s keeping the men.” Tavie got up quickly and went down the hall into the kitchen. The men were slouching against the kitchen cabinets talking in low and conspiratorial tones. She stood in the doorway a moment, and unable to hear their words, spoke out. “If there aren’t any ice cubes we can go to the machine at the gas station on Boulevard.”
“Hell, let’s play poker,” Jack said. “I feel hot.”
“You’re always hot,” she retorted. As they went back into the living room she noticed, from the corner of her eye, that Rob was looking at her in a bewildered manner.
“Your deal, Tavie.” Miriam handed her the deck of cards.
“All right,” she said. “Same game, double ante and no limit on betting.”
Jack smiled. “Game’s getting rough. I better put on my pants.”
Tavie dealt the cards, gave herself a five hole card and a seven of diamonds showing. Jack had another queen showing and smiled triumphantly. The other cards were totally uninspired. Jack bet heavily and everyone stayed in while she dealt the next card.
Jack continued betting and she raised. By the time Tavie was ready to deal the last card, Rob and Miriam had dropped out. Once again, Jack had a pair of queens showing, a three and a seven. Tavie’s hand contained a five of clubs in the hole, seven, eight and ten of diamonds showing along with a six of spades. Nothing.
“Pair of ladies bets,” she said.
“I’ll check to the possible straight,” Jack said.
Tavie looked at her hole card and smiled. Rob reached over to peek at it and she gently pushed his hand away. “I don’t know what to do.” She pursed her lips.
“Bet or drop,” Rob said crossly.
“O.K., how much can I bet?” she asked.
“Five dollars,” Rob said.
“I bet five dollars,” she said.
Jack looked at his cards and then at her. “You’ve got me.” He folded his hand and reached for her hole card.
“Uh huh,” Tavie said. “No pay—no see.” She folded her hand. Rob reached across the table and flipped over her hole card. He and Jack stared at it incredulously.
“By God,” Jack said. “I’ve been bluffed out by a neophyte.”
“Screw you,” Tavie said.
They looked at her quietly as she gathered the cards and pulled in the winner’s jackpot.
In their bedroom Rob undressed methodically. He hung up his clothing carefully and donned pajamas. She was in bed before him and smoked a cigarette rapidly. Impatiently he turned toward her.
“When did you take up smoking again?” he asked.
“A week or two ago. It helps my nerves.”
“You haven’t been yourself for a couple of days.”
“I’m recovering. Perhaps I’m not entirely the same person.”
He got into bed next to her and turned over on his side. She knew that in a moment he’d either be asleep or feigning sleep, and she ran her hand under his pajama top and over his back. He turned toward her.
“What’s this?” he said.
“I thought maybe you’d like a massage. Isn’t that the latest thing in the sex books?”
“You’ve been reading sex books?”
“You’re the one who told me I was the new Tavie. We’ve got to keep our husbands satisfied.” She worked her hands down his pajamas and felt his rising passion. “Are you ready to be satisfied?”
“Mmm.”
“I forgot to take my pill, we’ll have to use this.” She took the foil wrapped prophylactic from under the pillow.
“I’m not complaining,” he said, and pulled her toward him.
He lay asleep with one outstretched arm as she got up and put on her housecoat. She opened the bedroom door as quietly as she could, and in silent, bare feet walked quickly to the garage. She took the hypodermic syringe from the trunk of the Ford and inserted the needle into the rubber sheath. Pulling back the plunger she held the syringe to the light and saw that it held a good 3CC’s. Excellent, she thought. Carefully she lay the syringe in the small container of dry ice, closed the trunk, and went back to bed.
Tavie had always felt that an omelette was a dish she cooked well. It took so long to prepare that they usually only had it on lazy Sunday mornings. This morning she’d gotten up early to dice the ham and onion as a surprise for the rest of the family.
The children would be down by seven, in a hurry to eat, and in a hurry to get off to school. Rob’s packed valise stood by the kitchen door, and he was reportedly going to catch an eight-thirty flight. She paused over the cutting board; the only thing he was going to fly was that woman who lived in the house in the woods. The kni
fe came down sharply on the cutting board, down again and again. No, that wouldn’t do … a nice breakfast, a calm morning, there was much to do.
She forced herself to hum as the omelette simmered gently on the stove. A murder, she had decided, was an extremely complex thing, almost sonnet-like in its complexity, each part of the act dependent on the increments that went before. Now, all the parts fit together. The first attempt had been emotional and rash, now she had a well-conceived plan. If all went well today, it could be done tonight.
It was perfect. It would be done in such a manner that not only would Tavie not be suspected, but even the shadow of suspicion would be impossible. She turned the details over in her mind. If there was a flaw, she couldn’t see it. Time and time again she’d been through the details, timed some of the necessary elements, done research where necessary. It would work.
Had she covered everything, thought of everything? Early this morning she’d destroyed her research notes concerning Helen, no use in leaving that type of material around for any casual reader. The last session with the psychiatrist had been filled with her most convincing protestations of how her fear of Helen was now dissipated. Will’s attitude was important too, and she tried to call him every day and thank him constantly for saving her from a horrible error. Her passive nature would be of help, anyone who knew her in the past would think any violent act beyond her comprehension.
“Hi, Mom. Omelette, I’m starved.” As usual, little Rob was the first down. She was glad that his eagerness for learning was such that he faced each school day with an ingenuous outlook. She had often thought that it would have been better to have bought a house farther out in the country, but the schools here were good—and that did count for a lot.
She hoped there wouldn’t be too much blood, it was difficult to find out about such things, and it wasn’t the type of question you could ask your pediatrician during his calling hours.
“Sit down, Robby, eat your eggs,” she said. She deftly forked eggs onto a plate, snatched the toast from the toaster, and served her son, who immediately began to devour the food.
“You’re up early,” said Rob sleepily from the doorway.
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? Page 13
