“Of course.”
“Don’t be so damn cheerful until I have my coffee.” He sat across from his son as she poured him coffee.
“Pittsburgh this time?” she said.
“Yeah, my favorite town. God, is it dead.”
“Be back tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow night about seven.”
“Would you take the little car to the airport?” she asked. “I’ll need the Ford today.”
“Sure. It doesn’t make any difference.”
She went back to the stove. It was a beautiful day. September and October in Connecticut were the most lovely months. It was going to be a perfect night. The morning paper’s almanac predicted a half-moon and fair weather. She couldn’t have asked for more ideal circumstances.
At a leisurely pace, the drive from Hartford to New Haven takes a little less than an hour. She was enjoying the drive and let her mind wander lazily as the car radio played soft music. Last spring she had brought the children down to Yale’s Peabody Museum, and in trying to get back on the highway had gotten lost in downtown New Haven. Stopped for a traffic light, she had an opportunity to examine the store she was now heading for.
It took her a few minutes to find the Freedom Front store in downtown New Haven, and she had to park several blocks away. Before getting out of the car she donned recently-bought sunglasses, tousled her hair, and pulled her blouse loose from her pants.
The Freedom Front store was run by some type of radical group that she wasn’t able to identify. She didn’t know whether they were Panthers, or remnants of some S.D.S. group. Her reason for choosing this store was their hostility to the establishment and local reputation for not particularly cooperating with the police.
The store itself was an odd conglomeration of radical posters, paperback books, water pipes, cigarette papers, and clothing. She went to the rear of the store where several piperacks of assorted uniforms for radicals resided. She picked out a worn, army field jacket and the smallest pair of men’s denims she could find. She also found a wide-brimmed hat that would almost completely obscure her face.
The sullen man at the ancient cash register appraised her quizzically, shrugged, and handed her change and a paper bag for her purchases. Before leaving New Haven she went to the main library and glanced again at the two books that held information imperative to her plan. Not wishing to stay too long and attract any attention, she had only moments to skim through the sections that interested her.
She felt the build-up of tension as she drove back to Hartford. She breathed deeply and forced herself to relax. The day still held too many missions to be accomplished for her to get uptight this early in the game.
At home she complained of abdominal cramps to her mother and excused herself to lie down in her room. It was necessary to establish that she wasn’t feeling well, and later on in the afternoon she’d make casual calls to friends and mention her indisposition.
Locking the bedroom door, she put her open suitcase on the bed and went through a mental check list of items. The gun, shells, and syringe were in the car trunk. A bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry stood on the bureau top. It was her mother’s favorite drink and they’d share it together later. In the suitcase she put a bottle of good bourbon, her shortest and sheerest nightgown, and the clothes she’d bought in New Haven. The key she’d taken from Rob’s key ring the night before, with its new duplicate, in the bottom of her jewelry box. She put both keys in the field jacket pocket along with a dollar’s worth of dimes. What else? Yes, the rubber tubing, gloves, pillowcase, and measuring cup. Everything was complete.
In a few minutes the children would be home from school and the house would be noisy. Out the window she could see her mother reading a newspaper on the patio. She dialed Will’s number at work.
“Haversham here.”
“Call me from a booth,” she said and quickly hung up. She waited impatiently for five minutes, and when the phone rang, picked it up before the vibrations subsided. She glanced quickly out the window and saw her mother still reading. “Hello,” she said into the phone.
“Jesus Christ, Tavie, are you in training for the C.I.A.?”
“Are you in a booth?”
“Yes—yes. Lot’s of guys have stuff on the side you know, I doubt that anyone listens to my phone calls.”
“If anything ever happened, Will. If Rob suspected and hired private detectives or something. I could lose the children.”
His voice lowered with compassion. “I know, Hon. Are we still on for tonight?”
“Yes, about ten. I just wanted to make sure.”
“Right, Luv. See you then.”
“Don’t get too drunk before I get there. I want us to get drunk and do it together.”
“I’m a bigger machine—need some head start.”
“All right, until tonight.”
She hung up slowly and lay back on the bed. Again, for the hundredth time she ran through the preparations. It seemed foolproof, even with the possibility of the unexpected, it should work. The unforseen could always destroy everything. An inadvertent traffic ticket, the unexpected visitor, a meteorite crashing into the house … acts of God that could never be foreseen. She thought of the myriad things that could happen and finally resolved in her own mind that mathematically it was unlikely that on this particular night—they should occur. She closed her eyes and tried to doze off.
“Your father was a marvelous man, Octavia. A wonderful man admired by everyone.” After two glasses of sherry, Tavie’s mother would invariably get on the subject of Tavie’s father. A glance at the bottle on the sideboard showed that it was one-third empty. “Did I ever tell you how I met your father?” her mother said.
“No, Mom, how?” She’d heard the repetitive tale a dozen times, and as her mother started into the story, she thought back over her own activities of the past two hours.
Last night she’d let the children stay up later than usual, explaining to Rob that it was necessary for school, that they just had to watch the T.V. special on Africa. They’d both been a little cross after school today, and once little Karen had curled up on the couch to sleep, but Tavie had awakened her immediately—she wanted them good and sleepy for tonight. Now they were both fed and upstairs watching television. In a few minutes she could turn off their light with the assurance that they’d be able to sleep through the night. Before dinner tonight she had taken the hypodermic syringe from the ice and put it in the suitcase.
The specter of the unforseen still bothered her. The chance was remote, but to be safe, she had called Jessica and Miriam and chatted for a few minutes. They were the only two of her friends who might, under some odd pretext, drop in unannounced. During the course of her conversation she had told them of her stomach cramps and how she was going to bed immediately after dinner.
“You look pale this evening, Octavia,” her mother said.
“I’ll be all right in the morning, Mother. Just a little ‘that-time’ trouble. I think I’ll have another glass of sherry and see if that helps.”
She refilled her mother’s glass with only a few drops in her own. Drinking could be a problem, getting high or tipsy would be unfortunate to say the least, and as an added precaution she’d eaten crackers smeared with large globs of peanut butter. Anything that sticky was bound to have some beneficial effect on alcohol.
At nine the sherry was two-thirds gone and her mother excused herself for bed. They went upstairs together, Tavie kissed her mother good night, and went into the children’s room. They had fallen asleep in bed watching television, and she quietly covered them, turned off the light and the television, and closed the door. At her mother’s door she could hear the muted sounds of the older woman’s bedtime preparations.
In the bedroom she muffled the phone receiver under a pillow of the turned-down bed. She pulled the suitcase from under the bed and checked its contents for the last time. The package of chewing gum on the dresser was a brand she detested, but she peeled al
l but two of the sticks, flushed the wrappers down the toilet, and began to chew furiously. Even when she gave up smoking she had never been able to use chewing gum as a substitute, it was probably some early boarding school prohibition that inchoately persisted—but Maggie Fitzgerald loved chewing gum. The remaining gum and thread were in her pocket, and she was ready. No … there should be a light on, and she turned on the small bedside lamp.
Listening outside the door of her mother’s room, she could hear the slow, heavy breathing of the sleeping woman. She placed a small patch of gum near the base of the door and another on the nearby baseboard. She stretched thread between the gum and repeated the operation on the door of the children’s room.
Tavie sat in the darkened car, in the driveway, with the suitcase beside her. The garage doors had been closed this afternoon, she’d left the latch off the kitchen door—it was time. Putting the car in neutral and releasing the hand brake she half-turned to look down the driveway—nothing happened.
Once, last year, she had left the car in neutral and it had rolled down the driveway into the gutter. The incident had so frightened her that she’d been afraid to tell Rob. Now, it wasn’t moving. It must be the lack of initial momentum. She opened the car door, thankful that she’d remembered to remove the overhead light. Grasping the steering wheel with one hand and the door frame with the other, she began to push. Slowly the car moved backward.
A side street bisected their street at the point where their driveway met the road, and she was able to roll backward, across the street, and halfway down the side street before applying the brake and stopping the car. There were still no cars in sight and she started the engine. She waited until she was out of sight of the house before switching on the headlights.
She parked the car in a dark and deserted parking lot behind a factory building three blocks from Will’s apartment. At the front of the building was an outdoor phone booth and she dialed Helen’s number.
“Hello … Hello, who is it?” Helen answered.
Tavie hung up quickly. It had bothered her all day that her elaborate preparations might, for some reason, have to be rescheduled for days or even weeks ahead. It wouldn’t be necessary. Helen was home.
Will opened the door at her first knock and she stepped quickly inside the apartment. “Hi, Hon,” he said and kissed her. “Hey, your hands are death warmed over.”
“All this subterfuge makes me nervous. Can I have a drink?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He started into the kitchen.
“Hey, wait,” she called after him. “I brought some.” She took the bottle of bourbon and shortie nightgown from the suitcase. Carrying the bourbon, and holding the nightgown in front of her, in a pose of mock coquetry, she pranced into the kitchen. “I have come prepared.”
“Great,” he said as he took the bourbon and appraised the nightgown. “You know, I’d truly love to see you in that thing. Every other time you’ve always been bareassed.”
“God, you’re romantic,” she laughed. “You make the drinks and I’ll change.” She went into the bedroom and began to undress. “Make them strong.”
She stood back from the bureau so she could see her whole body in the mirror. The sheer nightgown seemed to enhance her breasts, and the skimpy bikini panties were more seductive than nudity. She twirled in front of the mirror and pushed the panties slightly down.
“Christ, that’s sexy,” Will said from the doorway. “Shall we climb in the sack now or have a drink first?”
She did a pirouette. “Like the way I look?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Good.” She put her arms around his neck and brushed her breasts across his chest. “In a few minutes, then.” She kissed him deeply.
They sat at the kitchen table drinking bourbon. “Where’s Rob Boy tonight?” Will asked.
“Pittsburgh.”
“You’re sure?”
“Who’s sure of anything anymore.”
“Leave the bastard.”
“Let’s not talk about that now, Will. Tonight’s just for fun. I suppose you’ve told everyone at the newspaper about us, and bragged to your cronies at The Pen and Pencil.”
“Nope. Nary a soul.”
“Oh, come on. I’ve never known a man that didn’t like to brag about his conquests.”
“When did you get so experienced all of a sudden? Seriously, if anything ever comes of us, I wouldn’t want your kids jeopardized.”
“I appreciate that. In fact, I’ll drink to that.”
She had planned to have him in bed by twelve, but by eleven they were intertwined in each other’s arms. Will was passionate, and the tension of her day translated into a sexual urge stronger than any she could recall.
In the small bathroom Tavie made sure the door was locked. Last week, when they’d made love in the bathtub, he’d pointed out the sleeping pills when she went through the medicine chest. She took three from the small container and went back into the bedroom. “I’ll make us a drink,” she said.
“Fine,” he replied from bed.
She made two strong drinks in the kitchen, stirring the contents of the sleeping capsules into his. Going back into the bedroom she saw that he was on his side dozing. “Wake up, you lazy clunk,” she said as she shook him. “You’re not getting off that easy. Here, drink some rejuvenation fluid.” His lazily extended hand grasped the drink. “Down the hatch.”
“Down the hatch,” he said.
After his breathing became deep and regular she lay next to him for what she hoped was at least ten minutes. Getting out of bed, she took the remaining gum from the pocket of her jeans which were piled in a heap on the floor, and his key ring from the bureau top. Chewing the gum furiously she dressed in the clothes she’d bought in New Haven. He’d moved the gun case from the living room corner into the closet during his cleaning spree. She unzipped the case, picked out the shotgun, grateful that she had remembered the model correctly, and broke the gun in two pieces. She put the gun in the suitcase.
She had almost completed attaching the thread to the bedroom door when she remembered her sneakers and clothes. Going back into the bedroom she found his breathing regular, donned her sneaks, and finished attaching the thread.
Tavie stood by the door of Will’s apartment mentally going over her check list. The items not in the field jacket pocket were in the suitcase, everything was in order. His telephone—God, yes. It would be just her luck to have some drunken crony from The Pen and Pencil decide to make a crazy midnight call. She took the phone off the hook.
Pulling on a pair of sheer gloves, she let herself silently out of the apartment.
She drove carefully away from the apartment in Will’s car. She breathed deeply and tried to give her full attention to the road. Care was imperative, running a stop sign, speeding, or any casual police stop would be disasterous. She had made it from the apartment to the car without incident, and that was a part of her plan that she considered crucial. The field jacket and large hat were a partial disguise, but it was just as well that she hadn’t run into anyone in the hall or parking lot.
She thought about the similar shotguns. They were both twelve-gauge, double-barreled, side-by-side Brownings. Her research informed her that with one BB-load she could put a pattern of pellets equal to seventy percent of the load into a thirty-inch circle at forty yards. Since she planned to fire at ten yards, or less, she imagined that close to one hundred percent of the pellets should fall into the circle.
Will’s suggestion had tipped her off about shotguns, and a little research informed her that rifles had rifling. The repeated firing of a rifle during its life slightly changed the impression marks rifling left on the bullet. The marks became as distinctive as fingerprints. So much so that ballistics experts could match spent bullets to a particular rifle. Shotguns were smooth-bored, and since they fired pellets of various sizes, no marks were left that could be traced from one shotgun to another.
She drove the car automatically and w
ith detachment toward Helen’s house. Once she took off a glove and held her hand under the map light; the fingers were steady, the palm cool. That was the way it should be.
As she passed Helen’s house she slowed, looking for the entrance to the logging road. Finding the almost obscured entrance to the dirt road, she quickly pulled off, stopped the car, and turned off the engine and lights.
Step one required the rubber tubing, measuring cup, Rob’s key, and the shotgun purchased yesterday. Helen’s house was dark as she got out of the car and started through the underbrush.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Their red Datsun, parked flagrantly in Helen’s driveway, made her want to scrawl an obscene message for the two of them. She forced herself to think of the few minutes left until it would be over. There would be no messages, no maniacal ravings, all would go according to her blueprint.
The dark house sat on a small incline, and the partial moon made deep shadows around trees and the house itself. The road was little traveled, but she carefully looked for oncoming headlights before rushing across the road into the shadows alongside the small car. If a car should pass now, she could lie prone and unnoticed alongside the car.
Tavie unscrewed the gas cap of the Datsun and inserted the rubber hose into the tank. She siphoned the gasoline and allowed the first flow to go into the measuring cup. She had placed a small adhesive strip at the ten-ounce mark on the interior of the cup. When she felt the gasoline rise to that point she took the hose from the cup and allowed the rest of the gasoline to trickle down through the grass. It stopped in a few moments. He hadn’t filled the tank. For some perverse reason, perhaps in his excitement, he hadn’t noticed that there was only a few gallons in the tank. She poured her measuring cup of gasoline back in the tank and replaced the cap.
She slowly opened the back door of the car. She knew the interior light didn’t go on with the back door, and she placed the new shotgun in the far rear of the small station wagon and partially covered it with the floor mat. Reaching into her field jacket pocket, she threw Rob’s key on the floor of the rear seat.
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? Page 14
