Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress?

by Forrest, Richard;

  “… Assistant Vice-president of Connecticut Casualty Company, was indicted today for the first degree murder of Mrs. Helen Fraser. Both defense and state attorneys refused to request bond. It is expected that Mr. Garland’s defense will be temporary insanity …”

  She switched off the set. She would be glad when it was all over so that she wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. It was getting tiresome, and time would have to heal. She’d much rather spend an afternoon with Oliver than with a bulky police officer. She’d call Oliver tomorrow and show him the new poem.

  The dark car pulled smoothly to a stop in front of the house, and Tavie saw Captain Rocco Hubert get out, followed by a smaller man carrying an attaché case. Rocco strode briskly to the front door and rang the bell. She opened the door slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Garland.”

  “Hello, Captain. Do come in.” She led them into the living room. “Please sit down.”

  “Thank you. This is my associate, Sergeant Matarese.”

  “Would you like some coffee, it’s already made?”

  The Captain seemed about to decline and then nodded affirmatively. “Why yes, that would be nice.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried into the kitchen, glancing at herself in the hall mirror as she went past. She looked good, she thought, maybe, even her best. Her short hair was almost girl-like in the way it clung to her face, and she seemed to radiate a healthy glow. In the kitchen she had already prepared a tray with cups, cream, and sugar. She unplugged the electric percolator, placed it on the tray, and returned to the living room. The two men were talking quietly in a tone too low for her to hear when she entered. Captain Hubert immediately jumped to his feet and took the tray. She poured three cups from the coffee table, and then sat across the room in the large easy chair.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Captain. I didn’t know, but I expected that someone from the state police would want to talk to me again.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Garland. It certainly makes my job a lot easier.”

  “What can I tell you, Captain?”

  “Your husband is very agitated. Would you say that he’s been in that state for some time?”

  She’d talked to Eugene Gordon earlier in the morning, and he had anticipated some of the questions. It had occurred to him that Rob’s mental health would be important, and he had tried, without becoming too explicit, to lead Tavie into a position where she could bolster their defense.

  She took a deep breath. “It’s a very difficult thing to answer, Captain Hubert. My husband told me about his affair with Mrs. Fraser, and also that he would break it off. After that, when I thought it was over, he seemed moody and depressed. I can only suspect that she was making things difficult for him.”

  “I see. You know a Mr. Jack Warren.”

  “Yes. He and his wife have been social friends of my husband’s for years. They work together, and we see them constantly.”

  “You told Mr. Warrren that you thought Mrs. Fraser was blackmailing your husband.”

  “Yes, I guess I did.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Do I have to answer that, Captain? Shouldn’t I have my lawyer?”

  “No. You don’t have to answer. I do have a court order for your bank statements. I can get them from you, or photostats from the bank.”

  The Sergeant stood and handed her the writ. She glanced at it. “I don’t know about these things, is it an order?”

  “I give you my word it is.”

  “Just a moment please.” Tavie went back into the kitchen and over to the small desk. She kept the household account records and bank statements in the bottom drawer. She held the last three statements loosely in her hand. The three checks drawn to Margaret Fitzgerald were in there. Checks that Rob had pre-signed blank, checks she had typed on the old upright machine in the library. The endorsement signature was a scrawl, and she doubted that any handwriting trace could be made. Well, it was too late to change now, and she went back to the living room and reluctantly handed the statements to the Captain.

  Rocco Hubert held the envelope in his large hands and slowly opened each one and flipped through the cancelled checks. “Margaret Fitzgerald, who is that?” he said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The rest of the checks seem ordinary.”

  “I thought that possibly Helen Fraser used that name, otherwise there’s no accounting for them.”

  “These three checks amount to 1,000 dollars.”

  “I can’t imagine my husband carrying on with two different women, Captain.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so. Back to Mrs. Fraser. You say you never met her?”

  “No. I never did.”

  “And yet you went to Springfield with Will Haversham.”

  She stood up abruptly and turned from them. “Mr. Haversham?”

  “You know Will Haversham.”

  “I do some work for the newspaper. Oliver Bentley arranged an introduction for me with Mr. Haversham.”

  “You have an interest in crime reporting?”

  “No … I … I had an interest in Helen Fraser. Mr. Haversham covered the trial, I thought he might know where she was.”

  “And he took you to Springfield looking for her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you found her?”

  She turned back to them. “Oh, no. We talked briefly with her mother, but we never saw Mrs. Fraser.”

  “You found her Connecticut address, Mrs. Garland.”

  “I don’t understand the reason for all these questions, Captain. If you’re accusing me of something, why don’t you come right out and say it?”

  “I’m terribly sorry if you think there’s any accusations, Mrs. Garland. We’re just trying to track down all the loose ends.”

  She felt tension and anxiety mounting within her. She must act upset, she must not stand removed from the situation. She thought back to that day in Maine when she’d first heard the tape of Rob and Helen. She remembered walking out onto the porch, how she felt, how the days were shattered, and she began to cry noiselessly. She brushed back a tear and looked at the large man patiently sitting across from her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Will found her Connecticut address. He took me out there one day.”

  “What did you intend to do?”

  “To see her, to see what she looked like … beyond that I hadn’t really thought it out.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Can’t you understand, I was hurt, deeply hurt. My husband was with another woman. I thought we’d been happily married. Maybe I had some vague idea of accosting her, of even threatening her, but I never did. I never did because by that time it wasn’t important anymore.”

  “Because she was dead?”

  “No. Because I didn’t care anymore.”

  “Will Haversham?”

  She didn’t answer and he looked at her levelly before continuing. “We can come back to that.” He took a paper from the attaché case. “I do have an affidavit from the Bermuda Constabulary. Last summer, after a motorbike accident, you made certain accusations. You accused Helen Fraser of trying to kill you.”

  “I was very upset. I don’t think I meant that literally, only figuratively. I felt she was destroying my life, my marriage.”

  “I see. Now, on the night of the murder you were home.”

  “Yes.”

  “Everyone in the household went to sleep early that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you could have left the house unnoticed.”

  “I could have.”

  “And, in fact, you did.”

  “I think I had better call Mr. Gordon, Captain.”

  “If you like. You did go out that night, didn’t you, Mrs. Garland? You waited until everyone was asleep, and then you quietly took the car and drove away. You met your husband at the Fraser house and handed him the s
hotgun. One of you killed, her, and he tried to make it look like a sexually motivated crime. You drove back in one car and he in the other. Unfortunately, your husband didn’t make it back until later, until he’d been seen.”

  “No. That’s not true.”

  “You hated her, you were afraid of Helen Fraser. Your husband couldn’t get rid of her … you both planned and carried out the murder.”

  “No.”

  “You left the house that night.”

  “I was here. I was here.”

  “You’re covering up, Mrs. Garland. It’s obvious to both of us. It’s as transparent as the most amateurish crime.”

  “I don’t care anymore. I wouldn’t have done that.”

  “You weren’t home, you left the house.”

  “Yes.”

  “And drove to the Fraser house?”

  “No. I didn’t go there.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went … it doesn’t matter to anyone but me.”

  “I think it does. Where were you?”

  “I … I was with Will.”

  “Mr. Haversham?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re having an affair.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. That’s why it doesn’t matter anymore. Does that satisfy you, Captain?”

  “Once again, I’m sorry.”

  “Are you? Why couldn’t Will and I have driven out there? That could be it. We waited until my husband left, and then he and I did it. Is that your preposterous idea?”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t match the evidence. We’ve already talked to Mr. Haversham. He voluntarily agreed to a physical examination and typing—no, it’s not him.”

  “Then why put me through this?”

  “We’re still missing a few items. There’s the matter of the dog.”

  “What dog?”

  “Helen Fraser had an attack dog that she put out when she was alone. The dog is missing. Bloodstains on the scene indicate he was probably killed. Of course, there’s enough woods in the area to hide the body so that we’d never find it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When he was arrested, your husband had body scratches, they may or may not have come from an animal. It’s possible that if someone else was out there … they would have animal scratches. Would you agree to a voluntary physical examination, Mrs. Garland?”

  She walked into the hallway and yelled for Neal.

  In moments the large Dane was downstairs. The dog stood in the doorway of the living room, his head bent over his front paws as he growled at the strange men.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The small sailboat sat quietly in the water until a short breeze began to push it slowly across the bay. As the sail flapped and filled overhead, Tavie sat up and gently grasped the tiller. She steered in easy tack that would give her a gentle sweep around Ruby Island.

  The breeze increased as it rolled in from the sea, and in the distance could be seen the balloonlike sails of the racing boats as they scuttled out from the neck of the bay. The sun was warm, and the only sound to break the stillness within the cockpit was the almost inaudible swish of the wake. It was a postcard day, she thought, with only a few dotted clouds to give depth to the sky.

  From 200 yards offshore she could see the man, his levis rolled to his knees, throwing the large beachball to her children. She waved. They turned and waved back, the little girl jumping up and down and waving with both hands. The boat rounded a promontory and the small beach was lost to sight.

  She’d have to be careful not to get too much sun so early in the season. She felt her shorts-clad legs and they were warm, she’d have to go in soon. Perhaps she’d never go to dock, but would sail the small craft forever, straight ahead where it was always summer, and the sky was not cloudy all day—she laughed out loud at the old refrain.

  Such experiences should last forever, but of course that was impossible. The sail would have to end, and she pointed the prow toward the dock.

  As she approached the Gorley Cottage, she could see him on the porch mixing cocktails. His levis were still rolled to the knees, and from a distance he seemed to be humming as he shook the shaker. She stopped at the edge of the lawn and looked at him until he turned toward her. He waved, and with a smile held up the shaker.

  As Will met her on the steps and put his arms around her, the cold shaker touched the skin above her halter. “That’s cold,” she said.

  “The kiss?”

  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 oyster
s 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.