Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? Read online

  “Aren’t you going to eat, Mom?”

  “Not just yet. I’m not hungry.”

  She went back into the living room and sat at the desk with the recorder. Hesitatingly she pressed the rewind button and adjusted the earphones. She started the machine forward and listened again.

  It had to be a monstrous joke, the quirk of a mind involved in practical jokes. It had to be. It was a simple sequence to set up, a charade played by two people who’d been working hard and thought a little joke on her would be … It wouldn’t be like Rob to do that, not and leave her alone on an island without a telephone, not leave her to suffer alone. She realized with certainty what she had heard and what it meant. No other possibility made any sense.

  The broken pieces of twelve years surrounded her. Twelve comfortable and pleasant years. As a young girl she’d convinced herself that she’d never marry, that her shyness would force her into a dull and colorless life, and in fact, she had almost become resigned to spending her life as a small-college English teacher. Some vestige of rebellion finally had forced her to New York after graduation from college. She thought she’d try it for a year, then go back for her Master’s degree and settle into a permanent life.

  She had gotten a job as a junior editor for a large publishing house. Rob, a year older, worked for the same publisher in the public relations department and wrote unsuccessful plays at night.

  She’d noticed him during her first days at work but had been too shy to make any overtures. It was common knowledge that he was going with one of the girls in the typing pool, a dark and sensual girl whose attributes in the forward thrust department were the wonder of the office. Although they developed a nodding hallway acquaintance and enjoyed an occasional chat about plays over coffee, it wasn’t until they were assigned to share the same small cubicle office that they really got to know each other.

  Rob was fast and facile with his assignments, while her work was more plodding, and often when he’d finish an assignment, he would put his feet on the desk and lean back in his chair to talk. The forced intimacy of the small office allowed her to respond, and he seemed to take pleasure in drawing her out. In this informal atmosphere they got to know one another. Although her work might remain undone and she would have to stay late, she got to enjoy their discussions.

  She remembered the day he’d first asked her out. They had been talking about O’Neill and a revival at the Circle in the Square Theatre when he had stopped in mid-sentence, his feet fell from the desk, and he turned to stare at her.

  “Good Christ,” he’d said. “You look just like Amelia Earhart.”

  “Who?”

  “Amelia Earhart. You know, the famous aviatrix of the thirties.”

  “I know who she was. I never thought … no one ever said I looked like anybody but me.”

  “You do. An amazing resemblance.”

  Out of such nebulous strands can lives be changed drastically. In looking back, and now knowing Rob, Tavie knew that his sense of the romantic had been captured. Her slight resemblance to a woman flyer of the thirties was of sufficient interest for him to overcome his attachment to the girl in the typing pool.

  He’d asked her out that night to see an off-Broadway play. Afterwards, they’d gone to the White Horse Bar to drink huge whiskey sours and talk about Eugene O’Neill. Their hours together in the small office had given her a familarity with him that allowed her to overcome her natural reticence. Her words spilled out; thoughts she’d had, books read, plays seen but not discussed, tumbled over themselves as they talked and fell in love.

  It took her until three o’clock in the morning of their third date to tell him about her poetry. This other part of her seemed to appeal to him, and she knew it deepened his feelings toward her. That was the night he’d taken her to his walk-up apartment in the East Village.

  Looking back it seemed as if they’d made love the entire weekend. They delighted in the discovery of each other, and made plans for the future. They were married three months later at her parents’ home in New Bedford, Massachusetts.

  Those first months now seemed a kaleidoscope of nights at the White Horse Bar with other couples, both married and unmarried, and talk about theatre and books. Rob’s natural gregariousness exposed her to a life she had never thought she’d have, and she was often content to listen. At least once each evening he’d turn to her and solicit a remark on a subject he knew she knew well, making her appear to others as awfully introspective and bright.

  Those were happy months and even if her poems remained neglected in the bottom of her suitcase, it didn’t matter.

  A subtle change overcame Rob with her pregnancy. His interest in plays diminished, and a slight worried frown began to appear periodically. After little Robby was born, he began to look earnestly for a better-paying job.

  The job with Connecticut Casualty Insurance Company paid far more than he earned at the publishing house. They left New York, their regrets tempered by a dream castle of an old stone farmhouse nestling in the Connecticut River Valley. They projected images for each other: reading Dickens to their children in front of a large hearth, sleigh rides drawn by prancing horses.

  They made the transition easily and happily. The stone farmhouse did turn into a suburban Dutch Colonial, and prancing horses into a Datsun station wagon. When they’d found the house on Ruby Island she’d slipped into her summer routine with a glad heart.

  Tavie could see herself dimly reflected in the large window pane in the living room. Perhaps she did look a little like Amelia Earhart, the tight curly hair, the boyish figure; even now she was trim, child birth had made little change in her body.

  Helen probably looked like the girl from the office typing pool whom Rob had taken out. Helen must have forced him into it. He’d never done this before, or at least she didn’t think he had. The long languid summers she spent in Maine, him present only on weekends and during his three weeks vacation … five years of summers he’d spent mostly alone … She realized she had no idea what he did while he was alone … it had never worried her before, there’d been no reason, she had never felt a lessening of his love or the threat of another woman.

  She couldn’t cry anymore.

  Women didn’t force men to go to bed with them. After twelve years of the same woman most men were probably more than ready to put themselves in the marketplace, and knowing Rob’s naive romanticism, the thought of seducing or being seduced by an acknowledged murderess would hold a sort of fascination for him.

  With a twinge of guilt she realized that for the past several years she hadn’t been the best bed partner in the world. A part of her held back, and she knew she was unwilling or unable to give herself completely to him. She knew he was a man of large appetites, and yet, somehow, the more he wanted to possess her, the more she stiffened and held back. She didn’t believe she felt any physical revulsion toward sex … Yet it was obviously one part of her life that needed a great deal more attention.

  The children stood on the porch with their tennis rackets. Little Rob stuck his head through the screen door. “We’re going to play tennis, Mom.”

  “It’s Wednesday. I have to go over to Handle Island for groceries.”

  “Mr. Balanchine said he’d give us kids a lesson today.”

  “All right, but stay with him. I’ll be back in two hours.”

  Without answering they turned and ran off the porch and over the lawn toward the island’s lone tennis court.

  Wednesday afternoon was always her grocery day. If she didn’t go, there would be little for dinner tonight. The routine would help. There was a phone on Handle Island. Yes, she would call Rob from the other island, ask him, beg him, to take a few days off and come to her. If he left as soon as she called he might make the last boat. She had to talk to him.

  She put money, dimes for the telephone, and her telephone credit card into her jeans’ pocket and adjusted the empty knapsack over her shoulders. Usually she enjoyed the seven-minute walk to the doc
k, but today she felt numb.

  A small dirt road wound its way toward the dock at the southernmost tip of the island. The island was heavily wooded, giving each house a certain amount of privacy from the others. She passed the tennis court, almost hidden in the trees, and Karen waved to her and she waved back.

  The last 200 yards to the water and dock were down a slight grade, and she could see the fog billowing in from the sea. Already, the foghorn from the cape lighthouse had started to sound. She stopped.

  Across the narrow neck of the bay Handle Island was already obscured in the fog. As she watched, the last trace of visibility disappeared and the other island was lost from view. She gripped the railing of the dock tightly. This had happened before and she’d turned back, and they had existed for a day or two on peanut butter and jelly.

  She shook her head as if in criticism of the fears that always seemed to possess her. She knew that one of the great attractions the island had held for her was its safety and lack of danger. Rod had told her a thousand times that her fears were groundless, that they were a part of her natural withdrawnness, that she should fight against them.

  The fog might be in for a day or two. If she didn’t call Rob today or tomorrow … she must talk to him. She must phone him.

  She put the knapsack in the skiff and untied the rope. She rowed the dozen yards toward their moored boat. Tavie jockeyed the skiff alongside their fifteen-foot runabout and climbed aboard. She pulled the choke, set the gears to start, and pulled the cord of the outboard. The engine started immediately and she adjusted the feed.

  Grasping the towrope of the skiff she slowly returned to the dock and retied the smaller boat. Turning slowly, she began to head across the bay toward Handle Island. The fog obscured her view, and during the return trip, she realized, she’d have to navigate by sense of direction. She had made the short trip dozens of times, and besides making a special effort to be alert for other boats, she shouldn’t feel any apprehension.

  In mid-channel the fog closed around the small boat. Nearby she heard the short honk of a foghorn and moments later a slowly moving lobster boat loomed out of the fog to her port. As he passed, the grizzled lobsterman, wearing high waders, waved to her and she mechanically waved back.

  Through the fog came the heavy pounding of a large inboard engine. As it came closer she half-stood in an attempt to peer through the fog. The engine was loud, too loud for the fog conditions, as if it were running at three-quarter speed.

  The speedboat loomed out of the fog and passed within six feet of her bow. She judged it to be a powerful twenty-footer. The wake struck the runabout, which had it not faced directly head-on, would have capsized. Her heart beat violently as she realized how close the collision had been.

  Instead of fading into the fog, the drone of the heavy engine seemed to increase in tempo. The speedboat had circled and was heading back toward her. She stood, her voice shrill, “Hey! Hey!”

  The boat appeared out of the fog near her side and headed directly for her. She yelled again and only the sound of the powerful engine could be heard. She dove over the side a moment before the prow of the boat smashed into her runabout.

  When she surfaced, her boat had already disappeared beneath the water, and the speedboat was out of sight in the fog, although she could still hear its engine. She was thankful to be without shoes and lightly dressed. Which way to swim? The fog and her frightful experience had disoriented her. She knew she was a good swimmer, and if headed properly could make the shore of either Ruby or Handle Island though a miscalculation would take her seaward or toward the city of Portland which was miles into the bay. She treaded water and attempted to peer through the water and fog for a landmark.

  The speedboat had faded into the fog but now was returning. Once again it came out of the mist, faster than before and near her. It was fifteen feet from her and to the side when it altered course to come directly toward her. She was about to yell and wave until deep animal instinct prevailed and she realized the boat would be upon her in seconds. She dove, flailing the water desperately for depth, and felt, rather than heard, the boat pass over her.

  The cold water accelerated her heartbeat and she wanted to gulp air. Instead she swam underwater for what seemed an eternity. Unable to stay under any longer she pushed to the surface and gulped air. The fog had closed in to obliterate all sight and sound. She treaded water while reason fought with panic.

  The cape foghorn blew.

  Sound over water can be deceiving in fog, but she turned in the direction from which she thought the horn had sounded. She treaded water and waited. In a heavy fog, she knew, the horn went off every minute. It went off again, and she was sure it was to her front. The cape was beyond Handle Island. If her sense of direction of the foghorn was correct and she followed the azimuth she might reach Handle Island. She began to swim.

  Rob was in conference, but she told his secretary that it was an emergency. Her body felt drained as she waited and clenched the phone receiver.

  “Tavie,” he said. “You can’t have me called out of meetings for every little domestic crisis.”

  “Rob, I was almost killed.” Her voice cracked as the last of her control left her. “Killed, Rob. Some idiot tried to run me down with a speedboat.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I guess. Weak and wet.”

  “Did you report it to the Coast Guard?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t get the boat’s identification numbers.”

  “The children!”

  “They weren’t with me. Oh, my God, Rob. Please come up here. Please come up here as soon as you can.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mrs. Watson, a lobsterman’s wife, had loaned her dry clothes, and John Canmen, who owned the marina on Handle Island, had given her a ride back to Ruby Island. In a state of complete numbness she had even done her grocery shopping. Now she sat shivering in front of the fireplace, staring at the flickering logs with a blanket over her shoulders.

  She heard his running feet on the porch steps. He rushed into the room and put his arms around her. She buried her head in his shoulder. “Rob,” she cried. “This has been one hell of a day—and that’s an understatement.”

  “Hey, it’s all right now. Amelia Earhart wouldn’t act this way.”

  “Funny. She didn’t have to swim the last quarter of a mile across the Atlantic.”

  “What happened?”

  “I told you on the phone. Whoever it was, tried to kill me.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Yes. It had to be. I wouldn’t have thought so the first time, but he kept coming back again and again.”

  “I know it’s a terrible experience, but what probably happened was that some inexperienced person at the helm decided to come back to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “And in their inexperience …”

  “I don’t know, you may be right. I shouldn’t have been out there in the fog anyway.”

  Rob was a large man, over six feet and 200 pounds. He took pride in his waistline and periodically, if he detected the precursor of a paunch, went through a sustained bout of physical exercise and dieting. His reddish hair was turning brown with twinks of gray on his sideburns. The boyish quality that had first attracted her still lurked near the surface, often to be seen through a quick smile or grin.

  They sat in front of the open fire, and after two martinis she felt better. The shivering stopped and she didn’t need the blanket. Rob put his arm around her again.

  “I’ve taken the rest of the week off. Tomorrow I’ll go into Portland and discuss this with the Coast Guard. A seaman like that should be hung from the yardarm.”

  “O.K.”

  “And no one’s trying to get you, except maybe me trying to get you into bed.”

  She couldn’t put it off any longer. She knew that some women were capable of finding out about their husband’s affairs and remaining silent. They hoped the matter would clear up of its own accor
d, and perhaps feared that their interjection might make matters worse. Tavie couldn’t do that. She went over to the desk and got the recorder.

  “Have you done the tapes?” Rob asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t they blow your mind?”

  “Yes, particularly the epilogue.”

  “The what?”

  The recorder would play without the earphones, but she hardly wished to hear the episode again, so she jacked them in and placed them over Rob’s head.

  He sat silently, listening intently. She knew the interview had concluded when he reached for the stop button. She put her hand over his and the tape continued. She sat on the hearth and stared into the fire.

  A faint clatter told her that Rob had put down the earphones and the tape was over. Neither of them spoke. Rob put his head in his hands for a few moments and then looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Tavie,” he said. “I’m destroying this.” He ran the tape back and then forward to erase.

  “Why, Rob?”

  He went to the door and looked out over the darkened waters. “I’ve thought about it, thought about it a great deal, and I’m still not sure. First, you’ve got to believe that I don’t want anything to happen to us and to our marriage.”

  “Why her?”

  He shrugged. “Too much time away from you, too much time with her, a sort of macabre fascination. She’s got a sort of animal appeal, you two are so different—a bit of that too.”

  “There’ve been others?”

  “No. Honestly, never.”

  “I’ve been too dependent, made so many useless demands on you. I guess I have to admit that I haven’t been too good in bed the last few years.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. This is my fault, not yours. You haven’t heard me complaining.”

  “I’d call this whole thing a loud complaint.”

  “It’s not that. Don’t torture both of us.”

  “Then, what is it?” Her control began to seep from her.

  “I’m sorry, Tavie. That’s about all I can say.”

  “That’s not enough. That’s not nearly enough. Oh, Rob. Having the affair is one thing, but to record the damn thing for posterity.”