Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (15 page)

“All right, Hon. You're here and there it is. Why don't you knock on the door, maybe she'll invite you in for tea?”

“Are you sure it's the house?”

“Followed her here myself.”

“The garage door is open and the car is gone. She's not home.”

“Too bad.” Will gently put his hand on her arm, his voice soft. “Cut it out, Tavie. Leave it be—forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Whatever you're thinking, it's not worth it.”

“I just like to know where my adversary's den is.”

“Please, Tavie.”

“Why should you care?”

“I do.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her softly. “Please.”

“I didn't know you knew the meaning of the word, Will.”

“Shh.” He put his finger over her lips.

“All right.” She started the car and backed down the logging road, and out onto the highway. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were …”

He put his finger over her lips again. She began to drive faster, and as they passed Helen's house she looked down at her watch to time the drive back. “It was interesting,” she said. “Now forgotten.”

The day was warm until a chilling breeze racked the deck of the ferry as it pulled into the slip at Handle Island. As the gangplank was secured to the dock, a half-dozen passengers quickly disembarked, leaving only Tavie and a mailman aboard. The deck hand pulled the gangplank back on the deck, the ferry reversed its engine, and pulled into the bay channel.

She moved forward to the bow, her hands clenched the cold steel of the sides. Wind rippled her hair as she saw the island trees already beginning to turn autumn colors. She heard a voice behind her.

“Ruby Island, Lady?”

She turned and nodded assent upwards to the pilothouse. The boat moved slowly over the short expanse of water to the small dock on Ruby Island. They passed over what must have been the spot where her runabout had capsized, and Tavie was amazed at how harmless the spot looked on this clear September day.

Rob had heartily approved her day trip to the island to view the destruction of their house. She'd made quite an effort of convincing him how they could spend long winter evenings planning the rebuilding of their summer home. He seemed greatly relieved that she not only had this new interest, a healthy one, he thought, but also that she lacked her usual fear of making a trip alone.

They both realized that due to costs and available material, they could not duplicate the Victorian house, but would have to rebuild it in a more modern vein. The ferry engine slowed and reversed as the boat slid gently broadside against the dock. Tavie went amidships as the gangway was pushed onto the dock. She had no sooner run down the gangway and turned to wave good-by than the ferry was heading back into the channel.

There was a desolation about Ruby Island. All the houses were boarded or shuttered, and the small cove was empty of pleasure boats. A few of the smaller crafts were pulled high above the water line and tied securely to iron posts. She began the slow walk to their house.

As she approached the site of their burned home she could see, from a distance, the chimney standing erect and alone. The lawn was covered with ash and small pieces of charred lumber, and the fireplace and chimney were the only remaining parts of the structure. At the house itself, scorched lumber lay in haphazard piles like a gigantic game of pick-up sticks. The total loss of the ruins did not even warrant a search for possessions, and she felt hate within her.

It was unlikely that on a weekday during this time of the year that anyone would be on the island, but she had to make sure. The walk around the island took half an hour, and the well-shuttered homes attested to the lack of visitors.

Her watch showed that it was a little after noon. She had three hours until the ferry returned. She walked to the Gorley cottage and up the porch steps. The window shutters were tightly closed and latched with pieces of wire, and both doors were locked. She unbent the wire from a front window and pushed the creaking shutters aside. The window was locked from the inside.

She picked up a rock from the front yard and stood holding it in front of the window. A lifelong compunction against harming anyone's personal property still held a strong instinctual sway within her. She took a deep breath and threw the rock.

The noise of the breaking glass seemed to reverberate over the whole island. She had to remind herself that there was no one within miles to hear. She reached through the shattered window, undid the latch, pushed the window up, and stepped into the room.

The dim interior was only slightly illuminated by thin lines of sunlight coming through the shuttered windows. She crossed the room, past the couch where she'd slept her last night there, and to the mantelpiece. What she wanted was over the mantel.

She had to stand on a small stool to reach the rifle, and even then had some difficulty in getting it off the twin posts that held it on the chimney wall. Holding the rifle she stepped down and was surprised at the gun's weight. She hadn't realized they were so heavy.

It took her twenty minutes to find the box of shells in the kitchen closet. Sitting on a chair next to the shattered window she held the rifle across her knees and placed the shells on the floor beside her feet. She had it—now what to do with it.

She concentrated in order to recall all she'd ever seen or read about guns. Mr. Gorley had said that this was an older gun, but she knew he kept it in working condition. She could feel a thin layer of oil covering the metal parts and imagined it was there to keep it rust-free. The lever to the side must be the bolt. She pulled the bolt upward and back and saw that the mechanism slid back to reveal the chamber and bore.

Gingerly she extracted a shell from the box and slid it into the chamber of the rifle. She pushed the bolt forward and down. The trigger was tense, the gun was loaded.

She found two cans of Campbell's tomato soup in the kitchen, and took them, the rifle, and shells with her as she climbed back out the window. Walking past the ruins again she entered the strawberry patch. She stepped off a hundred paces, set the two cans of soup on the path and retreated to the spot she had selected as a firing position.

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.