EARLY BIRD BOOKS

FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

Who Killed Mr. Garland’s Mistress?

Richard Forrest

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

CHAPTER ONE

After the second hour of listening, Tavie Garland decided the world would be better off if Helen Fraser didn’t exist. The voice from the small cassette recorder alternated between a drone and coquettish laughter. Tavie felt immersed in a dark quagmire, sinking-into the blackness of a soul she didn’t understand, and she pressed the stop button of the recorder.

Over her typewriter she could see trees along the shore line and beyond the dark waters of Casco Bay. Deep in the bay a constant fight for survival continued: large after small, smaller after smallest, a necessary cycle for each organism’s existence. But the waters hid the struggle, and the shimmering surface, moved only by an occasional ripple on this quiet day, was a lid, a barrier, to what went on underneath.

Helen’s dispassionate voice on the tapes sliced through the surface—a revelation in almost childlike recitation of what could be. It was the lack of feeling, the guiltless recounting drone, that filled Tavie with revulsion. She stood up quickly and went into the kitchen to heat water for instant coffee.

It was ten o’clock. The children wouldn’t be back from swimming lessons for another hour. On other days she had prized these three quiet hours, savored them, turned them over gently, and thoroughly enjoyed the aloneness. The small black recorder on the desk by the window jarred the day and turned the morning hours into apprehensive minutes.

The tapes hadn’t affected Rob this way. Last Friday night when he’d arrived on the nine-o’clock boat, he had hardly been able to play the first few minutes for her. She had been caught up in his jubilation, and those first few minutes of listening hadn’t affected her the way they had these last two mornings. His enthusiasm had been infectious. He’d paced the room, a drink in one hand, the other making chopping motions as he told her of the first few interviews with his subject.

“It’s great getting back to writing again,” he’d told her. “This is a sure-fire thing, and working with nonfiction will give me a chance to slide into the discipline again.”

“What does she look like?”

He stopped in the center of the rustic living room. “Oh, about our age, ordinary enough. In fact, that’s the beauty of it. A perfectly normal, middle-class housewife knocking off her perfectly normal, middle-class husband.”

“What sort of legs does our perfectly normal, middle-class murderess have?”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Not nearly as nice as yours. Could you fix me another drink? I’m tired as hell. It’s been one long week.”

In the small pantry she stirred the martinis slowly. He stood in the doorway behind her. “Well …” she said.

“I’ll get some pictures taken.”

“I’d like to meet her.” She handed him a martini and sipped her own.

“You will, but not just yet. These early interviews are very delicate. I can’t tell you how important it is that she learn to trust me completely. By the time summer is over, we’ll have all the emotionally hazardous material out of the way and the rest will be routine research …”

She laughed and they sat on the divan together. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your emotional material.”

He kissed her again. “I do believe you’re jealous.”

“Oh, no. Just an ordinary, middle-class housewife spending the summer on an island, while her husband is 300 miles away spending every evening with a perfectly pretty woman.”

“All right, she’s not bad-looking. In fact, I’ve already imagined how her picture will look on a dust jacket.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“That’s it. I want to dream again. I’m getting to the point where I want to throw up every time I write a brochure on auto safety or another speech for Big Balls Banner to give at the Chamber of Commerce … I’ve done so many of those, they write themselves.”

“You really think you can do this?”

“I’m sure of it. Working with her these past couple of weeks has proved it to me. This summer I’ll record her side of it. That’ll round it out and reveal any inconsistencies. After that, a review of the trial transcript and some background material. At that point the thing will write itself.”

“You’re really excited about this, aren’t you, Rob?”

“More than anything in years. And to think that I stumbled across it accidentally. If she hadn’t walked in looking for a job …”

“Does the company know about her?”

“God, no. Do you think the powers that be at Connecticut Casualty would get in bed with a convicted felon? A figure of speech, Tav.”

“Let’s not get carried away with our research.”

He leaned over to nuzzle her neck. “I have my subject for that. Let’s go to bed.”

“Bob, you just got home.”

“We summer bachelors get horny.”

She looked into his face and saw a flicker of passion in his eyes. As he held her, she felt her body stiffen. His hands dropped and she sensed his disappointment. She knew she was wrong. No wife in her right mind would leave a virile man alone and unsatisfied all summer. “All right,” she said, and they went slowly up the stairs.

The coffee had grown cold as she stood by the window holding the cup. She wondered if she was involved in something that could get out of control. Thinking how good it might be for Rob, she encouraged him, offered to help with routine research in the fall, and to transcribe the tapes during the summer. The vision of his thirty-fifth birthday last month hung over her.

The birthday had driven him into a deep depression. He had had too much to drink and had grown gently sodden while mumbling half to himself. “I’m almost forty,” he had said. “It’s half over. My life is half over.” And he had sat dazed in the living room of their Hartford home until she had led him upstairs to bed.

So be it. If this book gave him a new lease on life it would be worth it, even if his subject did look like Elizabeth Taylor. On Friday night as they lay after their lovemaking, she had tickled him and told him that since his subject had shot her husband in bed, he had better be careful and sleep with one eye open. He had laughed.

Storm clouds were gathering, and sailboats scuttled across the bay. The rectangular black cassette player stood coffinlike on the desk near the window. She decided to ignore it for a while. The feeling of apprehension still prevailed in the room, in the house, and the intrusion of the recorded voice echoed within her.

She went out onto the broad porch that surrounded the house on three sides. The day seemed shattered into a thousand jagged pieces that she had to try to piece together. Her weekdays on the island had always fallen into what for her was a delicious routine.

The Maine nights were cool, and after the fire died down in the fireplace she’d usually go to bed, just minutes after ten-year-old Robby and eight-year-old Karen. The children were up at first light, and by seven-thirty they were done with breakfast and headed toward the beach. She always went barefoot and wore jeans and an old shirt of Rob’s, tied at the midriff. Housework was finished by nine, and until the children returned from swimming lessons, she had the morning alone. The quiet mornings were broken only occasionally by a distant foghorn or buoy bell. She would sit at the desk overlooking the bay and work on her poems.

They always published her autumn poem in the Hartford paper, and occasionally she felt Rob’s twinge of jealousy over her small attempts at authorship.

The thin volume she’d been working on for four years lay on the desk near the recorder. Her book, Reflections on New England Autumns, seemed strangely out of place in its proximity to the confessions of murder as recounted by Helen Fraser.

She thought she’d take a short walk along the edges of the beach—anything to break the incoming waves of depression that might incapacitate her for the week until Rob’s arrival on the Friday-night boat.

It was 200 yards to the small cliff overlooking the beach, and as usual she almost tripped over the hose. The hose was strung perpendicular from the house as required by the rules of the Ruby Island Association. It was to be used as the only fire protection the island afforded.

Her feet were hardened from a month of walking, and she barely felt the graveled path. Stopping midway she turned and looked at their house, perched on the small knoll, probably the highest point on the island.

During the nineteenth century Ruby Island had been a farm, the foundation ruins of the original farmhouse still visible near the dock. The dock, set in a cove, provided boarding for the ferry and mooring for the pleasure boats of the thirty summer families. It was barely three-quarters of a mile from the dock to the most northerly portion of the island. Ruby Island was 800 yards wide at its widest point. The northern half of the island was still owned by the government and contained the vestiges of a vacant World War II naval base.

Their home, and most of the others, had been built by wealthy Bostonians in the early nineteen hundreds. She and Rob had located ancient photographs in the Maine Historical Society that showed Ruby Island with well-kept lawns and a neat golf course. Scrub pine now covered much of the lawn area, and long ago the golf course had disappeared under patches of rambling strawberry bushes. After World War II the homes had fallen into vacant disrepair until the island was rediscovered and restored. Five years before, they had been one of the last families to buy, but even then the Victorian monstrosity had cost them very little money.

She stood on the cliff overlooking the small beach below and the city of Portland in the hazy distance. To the left was little Pearl Island, connected to Ruby Island during low tide by a sand bar. Below her the children, tended by a trim teen-age instructor, practiced their backstroke. They’d be home soon, their lips blue from the cold Maine water.

This was her oasis. Mornings of solitude and lazy afternoons picking strawberries or gathering shells with the children. Days of quiet during the week, and looked-forward-to weekends when Rob arrived. On Saturday nights they’d purchase cheap lobsters from the year-round inhabitants of Handle Island who ran pots in the bay, then they would cook a fortune of things in her large lobster cooker.

She hoped her walk would wash away the childish resentment she felt toward the alien intrusion. She had given Rob her word that the first hours of the tape would be transcribed by this coming Friday. She started back to the house and the waiting recorder.

She sat at the desk and adjusted the earphones, hesitant to push the “play” button. Her fingers poised over the keyboard of the typewriter. She pondered the irony of what she was going to hear. Not that she believed in capital punishment or that people should spend countless years in jail for faults that might be society’s—but somehow there nagged within her a feeling of injustice that the voice on the recorder had killed another person and now, after three years in prison, was able to laugh and tell Rob about it in intimate detail.

She wished Rob had chosen another subject. For a year she’d tried to interest him in doing historical pieces for the Hartford Sunday Supplement, but he kept refusing, saying that it was too much like what he did at the office. “Well,” she sighed, “here goes,” and she pushed the play button.

The voice began its drone: “… after that little argument he kept bugging me about sex, but I told him, ‘No way.’ Not after what he’d said to me. That’s when he got really nasty, and I locked myself in the bathroom. He kicked at the door for a while. I thought he might kick it in, but he’d done that before and it had only cost him money. So … I guess he had a couple of drinks and went to sleep. Did I tell you how cheap he was? Oh, was that man cheap. If I so much as bought a dress or a pair of panties he raised holy hell.”

“At this point you went into the bedroom.” Tavie noticed that Rob’s interviewing voice was a register or two below his normal speaking tone.

“No. This was still Saturday night. After I thought he was asleep, I went to my mother’s house, across town. I slept in the same bedroom with her—she testified to that.”

“You went back early Sunday morning?”

“Yes. About eight.”

“Why did you go back?”

“I wanted to see if he’d apologize. He was still in the bedroom, and he started yelling at me again. I went into the kitchen, and he kept yelling things down at me.”

“Then he was awake.”

“Well, yes. I mean he’d have to be if he was yelling down to me.”

“Then why did you go back to the bedroom?”

“I was mad. I mean, I was really mad. He kept yelling those terrible things down to me, and I went in there to give him a piece of my mind.”

“Where was the gun at this point?”

“In the drawer of the nightstand.”

“You stood at the foot of the bed and argued with him.”

“Yes. He just lay there growling at me. I lost my temper and began to pummel him.”

“At this point he’s still on the bed.”

“Yes. He kept holding my arms so I couldn’t hit him. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to slap him for the things he was saying.”

“He didn’t hit you?”

“I guess not. I mean, there weren’t any marks on me later, so I guess he didn’t or if he did, it didn’t show, and I bruise easily.”

“Then …”

“The gun went off.”

“How did the gun get out of the drawer?”

“Hey, come on. You sound like the prosecutor.”

“If we’re going to do this, Helen, you’ve got to be perfectly honest with me.”

“Well, he must have taken it from the drawer, and we struggled over it.”

“He took it from the drawer, not you.”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps the drawer was open. Yes, that’s what came out at the trial. The drawer was open and we struggled over it and then it went off.”

“It went off how many times?”

There was a pause and the tape ran noiselessly. “Six times. I don’t recall. I don’t remember hearing it, but there were seven shots fired.”

“Seven? That weapon only holds six shots in the clips.”

“There was one in the what-do-you-call-it.”

“The chamber.”

“Yes, one in the chamber and then the ones that were in the gun.”

“What happened to the first shot?”

“It hit him here.”

“In the cheek.”

“Yes. They said it probably knocked him unconscious in seconds. He just groaned and pulled the sheet over his head. Then the other shots went off.”

“Where did they hit him?”

“That’s all in the trial transcript.”

“Do you recall?”

“Yes. I can’t tell the order you know—which is which. The first went in the cheek like I said, then one in the arm and then the other arm. The one that killed him went into the forehead. That’s what? That’s four. The others went wild, one in the mattress, others in the wall and all over.”

“The ones that hit him all went through the sheet?”

“No. Not the first one. That’s when he pulled up the sheet. I remember smelling smoke, then the next thing I remember is sitting on the front steps.”

“Let’s go back for more detail.”

“Hey, do we have to right now? Let’s take a break.”

“In a minute. You mentioned your brother earlier.”

“That stupid jerk. I went home, to my mother’s across town. If he hadn’t opened his big mouth, they never could have placed me in the house. I never would have gone to jail, that stupid jerk. Hey, let’s take a break.”

“O.K.”

There was a click as the hand microphone was turned off, and Tavie reached for the stop button. She paused. Sound still came from the machine. Odd sounds, a crackling, and then a distant voice. She realized what had happened. Helen had switched off the hand microphone, but the mike inside the cassette itself was still recording and would continue recording until the stop button was pushed. Her finger rested lightly on the stop button when a barely discernible voice became audible.

“Oh … careful, you’ll rip it.”

The voices were distant, but if she strained with the earphones she could make out most of it.

“That’s nice … that’s very nice …” It was Helen’s voice.

“You like that.” Rob’s voice, tinged with excitement.

“Oh, yes. Don’t stop.”

The voices were now faint and incoherent, and there was a rustling sound in the background. Tavie’s finger, still poised over the button, was now inflexible and frozen. Again, the laugh, then Helen’s voice: “Oh, Robert … baby …”

The wheels of the cassette player turned, and the sound finished as the tape ran out. She stared at the small turning wheels …

Voices near her. Next to her.

“Mommy. Why are you crying?”

The children stood mute and uncertain by her side. Tavie turned and put her arms around them. “Nothing’s the matter, kids. Just something very sad Mommy was listening to.”

“Oh.” With the built-in antennae of children they accepted without believing.

As she had expected, their lips were blue from the icy water. “Run upstairs and put on something warm. Hurry now, and we’ll have some lunch.”

They clattered up the stairs, and she could hear the slamming of bureau drawers and the usual argument over who wore the Snoopy sweatshirt. Mechanically she went into the kitchen to prepare their usual swimming-lesson-day lunch of cold cuts and soup. She marveled at her ability to go through these mundane motions. In minutes the children were at the table.

“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 dock, 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 accord, 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.”

“That was accidental. It never should have come out.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“Good God. Of course not.”

“And she is attractive?”

“Yes. Our age, looks a little older—probably due to those years in prison.”

“And she raped you.”

“Come on.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Let’s drop the whole thing.”

“We’ve never had things between us before.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“I had a requisition with personnel for a secretary in the department. They sent her to me. During the interview she told me that under advice of her parole officer she should tell me of her conviction. I took her to lunch and we talked. Her husband was an Air Force major stationed at the Pentagon and came home on weekends. The marriage was going bad.”

“Other men?”

“She claims not, and it never came out during the trial if there were. Early one Sunday morning they had an argument and she shot him.”

“Accidentally, six times?”

“She got carried away.”

“Then why a murder one indictment?”

“It was her gun and there were questions of her covering up or attempting to cover up. Then her brother blew the whistle on her.”

“She’s very fond of her brother.”

“Oh, yes. Midway through the trial she copped a plea and admitted manslaughter. They gave her twelve years and she was out in three.”

“Why did she do it?”

“She said he was a loser.”

“Losers always get shot—six times.”

“They do if they’re married to her. I don’t know all the answers, Tavie. That’s one of the things that fascinates me about the case.”

“I know what the other is.”

“No, not that. It’s just that I don’t know the reason she did it; in fact, I’m not certain that she does. Why does a college-educated, middle-class housewife, sober, on a Sunday morning, shoot her husband? I think it could be a significant study.”

“What about the affair, Rob?”

“It happened.” He paced the room.

“Well, there’s no way to unhappen it. I only hope you won’t see her anymore.”

“I work in the same department with her.”

“Can’t you have her transferred?”

“Yes. But all the work I’ve done so far …”

She looked at him and then turned to poke the fire. She felt his presence at her back as he kissed her neck. “There’s really not much choice, Tavie. There never was.”

“It’s over with?”

“Yes. My own damn fault, I never should have gotten involved that way.”

“Robert … where was your little playmate today?”

“Come on now, you’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Would she know that I go to Handle Island on Wednesday afternoons?”

“Do you know what the recidivism rate is for family murderers? Practically nil.”

“Did you see her today? Could she know about Wednesday afternoons?”

“I saw her this morning. And yes, she might know about Wednesdays. I’ve talked a lot about life on the island.”

“You work in the same department. Did you see her around the time I called you?”

“As a matter of fact, I sent her to New York this morning with some copy to hand deliver to our advertising agency.”

“I was just asking.”

“Listen, Hon. I’ve made a commitment to you, now I’d like to ask you for something. Today was a horrible experience for you. It’s a miracle you weren’t seriously harmed.”

“Killed.”

“But it was an accident. A kooky accident perpetrated by a complete incompetent, but an accident.”

The morning sun broke through the window and danced over her eyes. From deep inside the house she heard the clatter of kitchen noise, and she stretched sensuously under the warm covers.

The few moments of reprieve were shattered by the rush of yesterday’s remembrance. Then she realized her arms and back were aching from the unaccustomed effort of the long swim. Rob’s place next to her was vacant and she felt a moment of blind panic until she heard him from the kitchen.

She pushed the covers aside and gingerly stepped to the floor. A hot shower would help. The spray of water massaged some of the ache from her shoulders, and afterwards she donned her summer attire of jeans and shirt.

In the kitchen Rob was simultaneously producing pancakes for the children and a large sticky mess. Karen was greedily stuffing a whole pancake in her mouth while little Rob was pouring enough maple syrup on his to use up a whole year’s bounty from New Hampshire.

“Good morning,” Rob said, and smiled at her. “Hungry? There’s more coming in a minute.”

“Daddy said we could go on a picnic, can we?”

“Yes, I guess so. We have cold cuts for sandwiches.”

They walked up the dirt road that bisected the island. The small road ran from the dock, through the inhabited area, to the deserted naval station, and ended at the drill field near the most northerly part of the island. Overhead heavy foliage speckled the sunlight as it fell on the children. Rob carried a pillowcase over his shoulder which contained the sandwiches, thermos, blanket and bathing towels.

They came to the chain-link fence of the base and easily pushed open a rusty gate which hung from one hinge. Nearest the fence were the small box houses that were evidently the married quarters, then stood classroom buildings, and surrounding the drill field were the three-story brick barracks. Many of the buildings were boarded-up, others stared obscenely with snaggle-toothed windows. Karen turned and ran into one of the buildings whose door swung listlessly to and fro. Rob called for her to come back.

“You’ve got to keep the kids out of here, these buildings are rotting away and could be dangerous,” he said.

“I never let them come up here alone.”

They stood at the edge of the quiet drill field. A dog barked in the distance. Tavie thought of the hundreds of young men who must have spent their last days here before setting out on the small escort ships for the dangerous North Atlantic run. Many of them now dead; the scene before them having been their last vision of land before sailing. It’s like a large cemetery, she thought, and tucked the idea neatly into her mind for possible future use in a poem.

They called it their secret beach. It was a tiny cove with a narrow sandy beach below a small cliff. The children and Tavie slid down the cliff while Rob jumped. They had never come across anyone here, and they had a feeling of personal possession for this small secluded beach.

Rob spread the blanket for them while the children took off the dungarees covering their bathing suits. She and Rob sat on the edge of the blanket while the children searched the shore for real or imaginary treasures.

“Feel better today?” he asked.

“Yes. Yesterday seems a million miles away.”

“Good.”

She stretched out on the blanket and felt the hot sun on her eyes. The heat burned away tension and she could feel each part of her begin to relax. The sound of small waves and the mutter of children faded into the distance.

“Tavie, what did Emily Dickinson look like?”

“Goodness knows. She was so seclusive she probably never had a portrait or picture. Why?”

“I don’t know. Just a thought that occurred to me. I have a feeling she looked like Amelia Earhart or Octavia Garland.”

“Never. Can you imagine two separate and more distinct personalities? And besides, you may say I look like Amelia, but I sure don’t act like her. Things scare me to death. I am one great big coward. Thruways scare me, airplanes make me uncomfortable, I worry about other women and elevators. You name it and I’m probably frightened by it. You know, that’s one reason I like this island. The sea is tame, the outer islands break the surf, there are no animals more ferocious than a loose house cat or raccoon. Here, I’m safe.”

“Always.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Get rid of her. Get rid of her!” The loud feminine voice echoed and reverberated over Tavie. “Get her out of here. Put her in the cassette player!”

She was lifted by huge hands. Giant fingers pushed the release button and the small glass panel of the recorder narrowly missed her head as it flipped open. They put her in the recorder and tied her feet to one spindle and her hands, over her head, to the other spindle, and slammed the door shut.

Two giants danced and laughed. Robert was one, the other a woman dressed in a G-string and pasties. The woman broke away and began to dance sensuously while Rob stood to the side and clapped. The giant woman danced closer to Rob, her hips undulating seductively. She laughed and danced away as Rob grasped one of her breasts.

Tavie screamed. The giant couple embraced as the woman began to tear at Rob’s clothes.

“Don’t rip it,” Rob laughed. As the nude couple fell to the couch she saw passion cloud Rob’s face. The woman’s face was a blur and Tavie screamed again.

She was able to tear her hands loose from the spindle and beat against the glass window. “Get rid of her now,” the woman giant yelled again. Rob crossed the room, picked up the recorder, and took it onto the front porch.

“Watch me throw this thing 800 yards,” he said.

“Let’s see you do it, then.”

Rob cradled the machine under his chin like a shot putter and then threw. Tavie felt herself pressed against the hard plastic as the small cassette player slowly turned over and over as it glided across the bay. The motion slowed as the machine entered the water and sank in a slow swirling motion.

It came to a halt wedged between the slats of an ancient lobster pot. The pot was drawn upwards through the water and swung onto the small boat. Mr. Watson, the lobsterman, disdainfully picked the recorder out of the pot and held it in his hands. He looked at her with repugnance as she scratched at the acetate window.

Mr. Watson’s angry voice yelled at her, “Why don’t you stay home where you belong?” and she felt herself once again hurtling through the air.

Her forward momentum slowed as the recorder drifted back into the house, over the embraced couple, and into the fireplace. Heat from a nearby burning log began to seep through the plastic. She was in an oven. She was asleep on the beach under the sun. The recorder was on fire, heat was everywhere.

Her heart beat wildly and perspiration beaded on her forehead as she awoke and turned toward Rob. His place was empty. As her heart slowed she began to orient herself. Rob had left for Hartford on the Sunday-night boat.

She coughed and smelled acrid smoke. She was awake, Rob was gone, and the children were asleep. She coughed again and immediately sat up in alarm. A faint curl of smoke seeped upwards through, a crack in the wide floorboards. She slipped into the jeans left on a nearby chair, and tucked her nightgown into the waist. The porcelain doorknob was warm to her touch and she quickly withdrew her hand. When she pressed her palms against the wooden door it was warm to the touch.

Moving quickly to the window she tried to open it. The window wouldn’t budge. Then she remembered that the old windows were locked shut by small pinions that went into the frame. She picked up the wooden chair from near the bed and threw it through the window pane.

The porch roof sloped gently immediately below the window. She gingerly inched sideways through the jagged window onto the roof. Pressing her back against the side of the house she inched toward the children’s bedroom. Tavie’s hand felt the screen over the window and her fingers clawed it until it clattered to the roof and slid across the shingles to fall to the ground.

She was thankful for the large old windows as she stepped into the room, already half-filled with smoke. Little Rob groggily turned away from her imploring hands. She grasped the front of his pajamas and pulled him onto the floor. Turning to the other bed, she grasped Karen’s foot and then pulled her to the floor.

She lay on her arms, breathing the clear air near the floor. She must go on. Robby was standing dazedly near the open window. Karen was awake. Tavie grasped both children’s hands and pulled them through the window.

She lay on her stomach at the edge of the roof. Taking Karen’s hand she pulled the small girl toward the edge. Karen held back and she had to yank her until the child’s footing fell from the roof, and she dangled from Tavie’s hand in the air. Reaching as far down as she could without losing her position on the roof, she lowered the girl and let go. Turning, she took Robby’s hand.

“I can do it, Mother.” His voice was awake and alert. He sat on the edge of the roof and dangled his feet.

“Hurry, Robby, hurry.”

He pushed off the edge of the roof and dropped into the darkness. Tavie sat on the edge, hesitated a moment, and with a prayer that she wouldn’t hit the children, dropped to the ground.

The moon peeked around a cloud and bathed the house in eerie light. From the front lawn, flickering flames could be seen curling throughout the living room and smoke billowed from the crawl space beneath the house.

“Robby, the fire bell. Run, ring the fire bell as fast as you can.” The boy ran down the road toward the large bell which hung on heavy posts a hundred yards down the path. “Karen, where are you?” From behind her the little girl swept her arms around her mother’s legs.

Lights began to go on in the surrounding homes almost as soon as the bell began to toll. She must start the hose, she thought, and ran toward the side of the house. She reached the exterior faucet and turned it on. The door to the crawl space gaped open. Odd, she knew she kept it latched to keep out raccoons. She could see through the opening that the fire raged under the house. The whole interior was ablaze, and the supporting joists were beginning to burn.

The island was awake. Men and women carrying fire extinguishers scurried toward the burning house. Mr. Gorley ineffectually played the hose through a broken living room window. Now, the first floor was completely ablaze and tongues of flame leapt from the stairwell window. The second story was obscured in billowing smoke.

Several men turned reluctantly from the burning house and began to hose down the roofs of nearby homes. Her island home was being destroyed, and there was no way to stop it. Karen and little Rob viewed the fire with fascination and she could see the licking flames reflected in their eyes. The dry wood that had stood for seventy years burned easily and in another half-hour there would be little left of the building.

A shadowed figure stood and watched the fire near the row of trees leading to the strawberry patch. The figure turned briskly and was quickly lost in the shadows of the trees. Pictures of the thirty island families snaked through Tavie. Thirty families, one hundred people that she’d gotten to know well during the summer years. None of them resembled the quick picture she’d gotten of the dark figure. And there weren’t any homes in the direction the figure had gone.

She’d make Rob follow and find out—but Rob wasn’t here. She looked around at the frantically moving people trying to control the fire. There wasn’t anyone to go with her, and if she didn’t do something soon the figure would be gone.

She turned to Mrs. Gorley who lived down the road. “Could you watch the children for a moment?” she said.

“Of course, Tavie. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am. How sorry we all are over this. It’s so hard to rebuild these old houses.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gorley. I … I haven’t even thought that far yet.”

“Well, the important thing is that you and the children are safe.”

“Yes, that’s the main thing. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“That’s perfectly all right. When the excitement dies down I’ll take them back to my place. You come too, we can always find room.”

“Thank you.”

As Tavie reached the line of trees she glanced back at the fire and saw that Mrs. Gorley held the children firmly by the hand, far back from the burning building. The figure she was after had gone through the trees and underbrush into the strawberry patch, and Tavie hurried.

It would only take a moment or two to find out if she was creating some strange specter out of an obscured vision. It was probably a house guest who’d taken a wrong turn through lack of familiarity with the island. She broke into a run.

Ahead of her she saw someone weaving around the small bushes. A head turned, saw her, and the figure broke into a run. A dim light from the half-moon covered the field, but it wasn’t bright enough to make out the features of the figure fifty yards in front of her. The naval base lay directly ahead.

In a few yards they’d be to the chain-link fence, and Tavie knew that if she cut to the right she could run up the small road, and possibly catch the person at the rusty main gate. Her breath came in gasps as she found the road and ran toward the gate. When she was twenty feet from the gate the figure rushed from behind the bushes and went through ahead of her.

Tavie was gaining. Their running weaved as they both tired. At the drill field the figure abruptly cut to the right and ran into an abandoned barracks building. Tavie stopped in front of the empty building and gasped for breath. The stillness of the night was broken only by the faraway cries of the fire fighters.

A veranda ran the length of the building and she slowly went up the few steps and hesitated in front of a doorway. What was she doing? It could be a madman, or someone with a knife or gun. Certainly someone physically stronger than she. She could be strangled or beaten to death. She could never recall a physical fight with anyone in her life. Withdrawn by nature, even in the early days of school, the girls with a rough propensity had tended to ignore her. Striking another person was alien to her, even spanking children was a brief and distant recollection. Perhaps years ago she’d slapped their hands or the fleshy part of their child’s legs for some infraction.

Tavie began to back slowly from the veranda. Her backward-reaching foot went through a floorboard and she fell to her side with a slight groan.

There was a crash and cry from the building. She fought to extricate her foot from the rotten wood. As she got to her feet she saw the figure at the other side of the veranda running jerkily down the stairs.

Tavie’s breath came in heaving gasps and she pressed against the side of the building. Her legs were weak and trembling. The adrenalin and lack of fear that had carried her this far now washed away and her fingers grasped the rotten wood behind her.

The night was empty. The moon came from behind clouds, and streaks of light played across the empty drill-field. From a distance she could hear the sound of a powerful inboard boat engine and she slowly edged her way along the shadows until she stood at the tree line near the small cove.

Out in the bay a boat pulled rapidly around the edge of the island and was soon out of sight. Where had the boat come from? Portland, the sea? Thoughts tugged at her, the boat and its familiar lines, the gait of the running figure. What had possessed her to come this far … the fire, the near death of her children … her knees were still weak and she grasped a tree trunk to steady herself.

Slowly she turned and started back toward her home, burning in the night.

CHAPTER THREE

“She burned my poems, Oliver.”

“My dear Octavia, how do you even know it was a she when you didn’t see a face?”

“At first it was a nagging thought, but I still have a feeling. I think I understood yesterday on the ride back to Hartford. It was the way she ran. Women run differently than men.”

“I used to think so. However, the last class I taught had several gentlemen who were, shall we say, neuter.”

Oliver Bentley was over seventy now, but his thin face and craggy frame were still vibrant with zest and energy. He was Professor Emeritus of English at Trinity College, and served as the unpaid poetry editor of the Hartford Register. It was through her poetry submissions that she’d met him, and he was probably the only man Tavie knew that often wore a cape.

She had spent many hours in Oliver’s book-lined study, sitting across from him in a large leather chair and drinking tea. The study was cool, and through the large bay window, ducks could be seen floating placidly on a small pool. The room was tree-shaded and cool, and for the first time in two days Tavie felt relaxed and secure.

In this room she was whole again. The past hours spent in book and poetry discussions, formed a protective mantle that now enveloped them. The trip from Maine faded into a dim recollection of sights and sounds. After the house had collapsed into a pile of smoking debris, she had lain on the Gorley’s couch and wept in quiet whimpers. By the next morning, and Rob’s arrival, there were no tears left.

“I’m sure you know that I’m worried about you,” Oliver said.

“I’m worried about me, too. This whole thing is so preposterous that it doesn’t make much sense.”

“There’s a strong probability that there is a logical explanation for everything that happened.”

“I know. But that wasn’t a wisp of fog I chased after the fire.”

“What does Rob say about your theory?”

“That he’d check into things.”

“Well, Octavia. Let’s examine exactly what happened. Two accidents, the first during a heavy fog, conditions which should have discouraged your going out in that boat. Secondly, a fire in an old building that more than likely had inadequate wiring. A person, someone, perhaps a vandal, stopped to watch the fire. Two harrowing accidents within a week of each other, coming at a time when you were extremely emotionally vulnerable. Remember, you still haven’t assimilated the shock you received over Robert.”

“Neurotic and emotionally ill housewife thinks husband’s mistress is out to get her—I’ve thought of that. And yet when I’ve half convinced myself this is all my own fear, I remember the night of the fire, and running after that woman.”

“Events that occurred after you spent two days listening to a recording of a woman killing her husband. That in itself was a heinous crime, Octavia, but spouses do annihilate each other. Few people calculate, on two occasions, to do in someone they don’t even know.”

His logic hung in the room. If what she thought was true, she faced an incalculable evil. Her life had been removed and distant from things evil. It was difficult for her to have empathy for the victims of far-off Asian wars or massive airline tragedies. The newspaper accounts of violence and murder were a distant passing parade acted out by people far removed from her life.

Her life had contained no tragedy, and no violent death within her memory. When she was a small child an older brother had died in World War II, but his face was an indistinct blur. His death, which had so affected her father, held little import for her. Her father had died of natural causes at a respectable old age, and her mother still lived.

Strange, since the largest portion of her life had been spent with books. How many hundreds of tales had she read about death, destruction, and the labyrinth of the human mind? Oliver often talked of catharsis in art. And yet the Germans had produced magnificent art of all kinds. Hitler had started adult life as a painter, Mao as a poet, Stalin as a priest.

They had been silent for a long while and she saw that Oliver was looking at her steadily. “I’m becoming very obsessive, aren’t I, Oliver?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

She laughed. “Now, you’re supposed to tell me in your most professorial tone that I’m a neurotic housewife.”

“I learned after my first year of teaching that I couldn’t shout to the class that a certain poem was beautiful. I can’t tell you to become obsessively unobsessive. Prove yourself wrong, or are you afraid to?”

“Rob doesn’t believe a word of it.”

“You have taken three coincidental events and constructed a remarkable edifice of calculated murder. It’s more than possible that you’re completely wrong, but you haven’t done a thing to prove that to yourself.”

“Inaction is the story of my life. You think I’m wrong?”

“I think you could be.”

“Then the rational thing to do would be to look into it.”

“Exactly. Prove it to yourself. In all likelihood you’ll find that what you suggest is impossible. Think of the details, if you find one that doesn’t fit …”

“Oh, Oliver, I can’t.”

“That’s up to you. If not, go see a marriage counselor, write a poem.”

“It’s all so silly. I should probably take a few tranquilizers instead.” The dread she’d felt these last few days seeped into this book-lined study and filled her with tension. “I’ve spent half my life in libraries, I suppose a few more hours won’t be wasted.” She stood up with new resolve. “All right, Oliver. I’ll do it. I’ll find out how wrong I am.”

Her back hurt from bending into the viewer of the microfilm reader at the public library. She straightened up and looked at her notes. In schoolgirl fashion she’d approached her project in the same manner as she would have prepared a term paper on Beowulf. She thumbed through the pages.

Her first approach had been the possibility of transportation for Helen from Hartford to New York, to Portland, and back to Hartford within the available time span. She picked up the page and read it through again.

TRANSPORTATION

Problem: Is it possible for the subject to leave Hartford, Connecticut at 8:45 AM, travel to New York; to Portland, Maine, and back to Hartford by 6 PM? Adequate time must be available in Portland to accomplish the rental of a boat for a period of not less than two hours.

Answer: If subject left Connecticut Casualty at 8:45 AM and walked to the parking lot, she could be in her car and on her way to the airport by 8:50. Driving time to the airport at that time of day (and she had timed the trip herself on two separate mornings) was twenty-seven minutes. Using the car-check service she could be in the airport, prepared to board a plane at 9:30 AM.

Eastern Airlines flight 226 left for La Guardia Airport at 9:40 and arrived in New York nineteen minutes later. Taxi time to 345 Madison Avenue was thirty minutes. If the taxi waited as she delivered the copy she could be back in the airport by 11:20.

The 11:30 to Boston and the 1 PM to Portland. That would put her in Portland near the docks at 1:30.

American Airlines flight 957 left Portland for Hartford at four-thirty. It was possible to be back in downtown Hartford by six.

It had taken some persuasion to get the airlines to check their manifests and in the end it had proved nothing. Each of the necessary flights had women passengers, but no reservations in Helen’s name. That was her starting point, and in the end it had provided little concrete evidence. It was possible to make the trip, but then again it might be possible to make a trip to Key West, Florida, and back in the same allotted time.

The next group of notes contained a list of marinas and a map drawn to scale. She had estimated that the speedboat couldn’t have traveled more than twenty miles an hour in fog conditions, and she plotted a circle from a point between Ruby and Handle Islands as far as the time span allowed.

In checking the Maine phone directories for all the towns and cities included in her circle, she had compiled a list of thirty-two marinas. Most of those she called either didn’t rent boats, or hadn’t rented boats that day. Eight had rented various types of motorboats. Morey’s Marina, in South Portland, recognized her description of the speedboat and a check of their records indicated that it had been rented to a Mrs. Garfield that day. Their description of the woman was somewhat vague as she had worn a large floppy hat and sunglasses. They did remember her large security deposit, and the fact that when she pulled into the bay she seemed extremely competent in her seamanship.

That discovery left her momentarily jubilant. The pieces did fit. She wasn’t possessed by some neurotic obsession. Reality quickly returned with the realization of the unimportance of her discoveries.

Tavie bent over the microfilm reader and began to turn the film for the account of the final day in Helen Fraser’s trial. The trial was well covered. The Register had assigned a full-time reporter to the case, and each day’s testimony was reported.

The basic facts of the case were similar to Helen’s tapes and what Rob had told her. During the early days of the trial, and during the opening statement, the defense had tried to establish that Helen was at her mother’s, that the murder could have been the work of an intruder. It was the last day of the prosecution when Helen’s brother appeared. What Helen had said on the tapes was right, if he hadn’t testified there would have been no way to absolutely place her in the house at the time of the murder.

Immediately after the brother’s appearance the defense asked for a conference in Chambers. Early in the afternoon they reversed their plea, and pleaded guilty to manslaughter.

There were now only two Fraser references left in the newspaper files. Because of its date, she assumed that one was Helen’s appearance before the board of pardon, the other mystified her. She thought about what she’d read so far. There was a thread here, a similarity between the dispassionate voice on the tape and the reportorial accounts of Helen on trial.

Yes, dispassion. So many of the articles started out identifying Helen as the “cool and attractive Mrs. Fraser,” or “the calm defendant.” She had obviously made an impression on the reporter covering the trial.

Calm, dispassionate, a good seaman—perhaps someone capable of pushing a speedboat through foggy waters time and time again.

She threaded the last reel of film into the reader. The first reference was only months ago and concerned Helen’s appearance before the board of pardon. They had reduced her sentence and in two weeks she’d be released.

The last reference was a small news article, tucked so far in the rear of the paper, she almost missed it. She read the article with increasing horror.

YOUTH’S BODY STILL MISSING IN BAY BOATING ACCIDENT

Coast Guard and local authorities have discontinued their search for Jeremiah Murphy, 19, of Baytown, missing since Sunday. Murphy’s small boat was discovered by a local fisherman, John Williams of 22 Sunlit Lane, Baytown, floating upside down in the Bay. An intensive search by authorities has failed to come up with the body.

Local Police Chief, Eian Waterman, states that in all probability the body was washed to sea and will probably never be recovered.

Mr. Murphy of Leslie Road was employed by the Marman Company as a die-maker and was unmarried. He gained brief notoriety four years ago when, as a young witness for the State, he testified against his sister, Helen Fraser. Mrs. Fraser was convicted of murdering her husband and sentenced to the State Correctional Center for Women.

The article was dated two weeks after Helen was released.

Mechanically she jotted down the few facts from the article and rewound the film. She put the film back in its box and gathered her material, neatly aligned her notes, and placed them in a folder. The librarian smiled when she returned the film, and robotlike she thanked her.

There was a pay phone in the library lobby and she fought the impulse to call Rob at the office. No hysteria. A frantic call would upset him and destroy the logic of what she’d discovered.

The car was parked overtime directly in front of the library and a yellow parking ticket clung to the windshield. The hours of peering into the viewing machine had dulled her eyes to the bright sun, and she shaded her forehead with her hand.

She drove slowly, deciding as she usually did, to drive home on the side streets rather than face the onrushing herd of the Interstate. In minutes she was in suburban West Hartford.

The houses she passed were remarkably like their own. Dutch Colonial was a favorite style although they were often interspersed with split-levels. The saving grace of the town was that most of its homes had been built before 1946, many trees had been left, and they’d escaped the near nudity of the newer suburbs. The streets were comfortable, the town had settled into an almost staid routine, and of course the schools were excellent.

It was a good place to raise children, they’d convinced themselves, and now she was in time to pick up the children at day camp. She parked easily near the path leading to the park, among the other awaiting mothers. Children began to run down the path toward the waiting cars. Karen smiled as she approached Tavie.

“Hi, Mom. I didn’t know you were going to pick us up.”

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I would.”

Little Robby, chased by another boy his age, ran past the car and Karen had to yell out the window for him to stop.

The children were beside themselves with the time she spent with them that afternoon. They played a game of dirty monopoly, all cheating allowed, and the formation of cartels was encouraged. She didn’t play nearly as well as Rob, for as soon as she was in a position to drive one child out of the game she reneged and came to his aid. This method of play infuriated little Rob who played a real cutthroat game.

“You guys want to help me make dinner?”

“Yeah.”

They took extra care with the dinner preparations. Together they made a special salad and baked a chocolate cake. Taking the London broil from the refrigerator she laid it neatly on the-cutting board. From the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets she took down the hypodermic syringe a dental student beau had given her years ago. She filled the syringe with good red wine found in the living room bar. As she injected the wine throughout the meat she thought that cooking was the one wifely chore she did well. The house might not be the cleanest on the block, and she wasn’t exactly a little animal in bed, but she cooked the best meat in town.

“This is just like somebody’s birthday,” little Karen said.

“Well, your father’s had to make his own meals while we were in Maine, perhaps he deserves a real fine dinner.”

“Are we ever going back to Maine, Mother?”

“I don’t know, Robby. Your father has to discuss the insurance with his broker, we’d have to make arrangements for a new house to be built … there are a lot of details. We won’t go back this summer.”

“There’s nothing to do in Maine,” said little Karen. “I like going to camp. We have arts and crafts and all sorts of things.”

“Well, good. Maybe it’s just as well then.” She tried to laugh and couldn’t.

The dinner turned out well. Occasionally Rob looked at her as if expecting some sign or gesture, but she maintained her calm. In fact, she found herself calmer than she had a right to expect.

After dinner, as a special treat for the children, they watched a television mystery. She and Rob sat together on the couch, the children on the floor near the television set. When the credits came on she stood up and took Robby and Karen’s hands. “Time for bed. I’ll tuck you in.”

“I had a good time today, Mommy,” Karen said. “Even making dinner was fun.”

As she tucked them in bed, Rob tolerated a quick kiss on the forehead, while Karen put her arms around Tavie and hugged her. She held her daughter tightly, and then stepped into the hall, making sure to leave the door open a crack. The morning spent in the library, the afternoon with the children, a meal and activity together; and now an hour or two of quiet with her husband. The alien presence that had destroyed the weave of her summer days in Maine was felt again here, and now she had to prove it.

As she went into the living room she saw Rob leaning against the fireplace, staring off into space.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing really.”

“I know your pensive moods too well.”

“That we’re lucky. That we have enough faith in each other to survive Helen, and enough kismet with the gods for you and the children not to be hurt.”

“I spent the morning in the library. In fact I spent yesterday and the day before that in the library and on the phone.”

“Oh?” He looked at her quizzically.

Her folder of notes lay neatly on the mantelpiece. “I want to read this to you.”

“What is it?”

“The proof of my thesis … of what I felt happened, and now know happened. Here’s how it goes …”

He listened to her soberly. Once, part way through her recitation he got up and made himself another drink, another time he looked at her oddly. She tried to be as methodical as possible, to present a logical facade that was convincing enough to persuade. She finished, restacked the papers neatly and looked over at him.

“Well,” she said. “What do you think?”

He twirled his glass thoughtfully. “I think you and I should go away for a vacation—alone.”

She was piqued. “What does that mean?”

“It means forget it.”

“It’s all there, Rob. You’ve heard all the evidence. I’m not making these things up. They’ve been checked and verified.”

“There’s no motive for anyone to do those insane things.”

“She’s in love with you—or what she calls love.”

“Nonsense.”

“You had an affair.”

“She’d been in prison a long time and I was … well, I explained that to you.”

“Did she ever say or intimate she was in love with you?”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“Did you tell her you’d marry her.”

“No, of course not.”

“You must have said something, given some indication … something to give her this idea.”

“It’s your idea, not necessarily hers.”

“What did you say, Rob? What did you say that could possibly have been misconstrued on her part?”

“Only that if things were different …”

“Different?”

“That if I’d met her ten or fifteen years ago …”

“You said that …?”

He paused. “Well, no. I said if things were different we might have married. I meant fifteen years ago.”

“My God, do you realize what she thinks you meant by different?”

“She knows I’d never leave you and the children.”

“Yes, she knows that. Rob, I think she killed her brother.”

“She told me about that, he drowned in a boating accident.”

“The same way I might have.”

“She wasn’t even in Connecticut when her brother died. Don’t you think the police would have considered that possibility? She had special permission from her parole officer to go to California for a week. Tavie, she was in California when it happened.”

“A batch of coincidences can fit into a neat puzzle.”

“Our place in Maine is on an island, people spend a good deal of time in boats. If an accident were to happen, more than likely it would occur in a boat. If an accident were to happen in Hartford the odds are it would be an auto wreck.”

“That’s a pleasant thought.”

“You wouldn’t be suspicious if someone ran into your car.”

“I might if they turned around and came back for a second go-round.”

He shook his head several times in dissent. “No way. It’s not her cup of tea, she couldn’t do it.”

“She did once before.”

“We’ve been over that. That was a marital situation with a man and woman exposed to each other daily for years. The cutting edges became so abrasive that something had to happen. She’s a rough cookie in a lot of ways, Tavie. Helen is the kind of person who gets what she wants, who strikes out with a singleness of purpose to grab life. That’s why her first husband drove her bananas. He was a routine, methodical sort of person going nowhere in life, and that’s one thing she couldn’t take.”

“I bet she even changes her own flat tire.”

“Hell, she’d turn the car on its side if she had to.” Faint color moved upwards from his neck and he rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Tavie, I didn’t mean to compare.”

Tavie knew how often she’d called him at work, or awakened him early in the morning to perform some household task. These small intrusions were her unconscious way of asking for affirmation. The method perpetuated itself over the years until her helplessness became a thread in the fabric of their whole relationship.

“Rob, I’ll give you my word, I’ll read scads of books on auto mechanics, after we go to the police.”

“The police? Why?”

“She’s trying to kill me. And she doesn’t seem to care if she kills the children with me. It’s all there, Rob. It couldn’t be any clearer.”

“Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute. People in Hartford, Connecticut, don’t go around killing whole families.”

“You can’t see.”

“Look at it, you don’t have anything. To begin with, it’s true a boat ran you down. Perhaps, and it’s only a perhaps, because you’re certainly not a qualified expert on nautical matters, perhaps a similar craft was rented to a woman. The name was different and the description is vague. According to the August records of Connecticut Casualty Company, that day Helen was in New York City delivering copy. The copy was delivered, and the agency people positively identify Helen. What do you have left? The possibility that if she ran like hell, she could have gone to New York by plane, delivered the copy, caught a plane to Portland in time to rent a boat, and run you down. Next, our house did burn down. The fire marshall thinks it’s defective wiring, but in your wild imagination it’s set by some dark stranger that you chase through the night. God God, Tavie, you’ve never chased a stray cat.”

“You had an affair with her.”

“And if I don’t admit to that?”

“It’s on the tape.”

“The tape is burned.”

“Then you wouldn’t admit to it?”

“I would, Tavie. I would broadcast it to the world, it’s not something that I’m proud of, but I would if it would help. But don’t you see? You don’t have anything to give to the police.”

“I’m as positive of this as anything in my life.”

“If you hadn’t heard the tale end of that tape before the boating accident, would you have thought anything?”

“No. I would have agreed that it was some nut.”

“And you wouldn’t have chased your unknown apparition after the fire.”

“Perhaps not. I also might have been dead that night if I hadn’t been having nightmares. Rob, we’ve got to go to the police.”

“They’ll think we’re nuts. And you know Helen won’t admit to anything. Assume for the sake of argument that the police take the charge seriously enough to investigate. Helen proves she was in New York that day, and her name isn’t on any flight manifest to Portland, Maine.”

“Anyone can give a false name to an airline.”

“That’s negative, Tav. Evidence is hard fact. Now, go along with my thinking a moment. Helen denies everything. She’d have to admit to seeing me, to my doing the book on her experience—and that’s it. The cops chalk the whole thing up to a jealous wife.”

“There’s the boat and fire incident.”

“No one saw what happened in the middle of the bay. You could have capsized the boat yourself.”

“Rob, good God!”

“I’m not saying you did, Tavie. But it could have happened that way. And as for the fire, you know the results of the fire marshall’s study. No one else on the island saw the person you’ claim to have chased. Mrs. Gorley says that you were gone for a few minutes and were extremely upset when you returned. Everyone chalks that up to anyone’s normal reaction to the fire.”

“Please, Rob …”

“I can’t, Tavie. It would be foolish. You know how small this city is. Things get out. The affair I had, your reaction, we’d both be ruined.”

“Then you won’t?”

“Can’t. There is one thing, though.”

“What?”

“Helen’s disappeared.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rob stood on the small platform below the stern of the dry-docked boat, addressing an unseen audience. He held a microphone and spoke in the loud singsong of a carnival barker. They had tied her hands and feet across a blade of the boat’s propeller.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rob said. “You see tied securely before you a perfectly normal, middle-class housewife. Can this normal housewife survive the terrible ordeal she is about to undergo?”

A woman, wearing large sunglasses covering most of her face, began to climb the ladder into the cockpit. “I’ll do it,” she said.

“I see we have a volunteer from the audience,” Rob continued. “Madam, will you test this housewife?”

“Absolutely,” the muffled voice replied.

“If you are ready,” Rob said. “Start her up.”

The engine coughed, and Tavie felt the slow motion of the propeller as she turned over and over. The blade gathered momentum as the engine caught. Rob turned into an indistinct blur as she whirled into blackness.

The engine stopped and the propeller slowly swung to a halt. Rob grasped the edge of the blade and held her in an upright position. His hands poked her body and slapped her face until she opened her eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our housewife is alive. Isn’t that marvelous, she is still alive.”

She began to scream without sound.

The side of her face ached as she awoke. Rob wasn’t next to her. It seemed that he never was anymore, and then she remembered that he was sleeping on the couch. Last night’s argument came back.

“Helen’s disappeared,” he had said.

“What do you mean?”

“She never came into work this morning, and when I noticed that her personal things were gone from her desk, I called her apartment. The phone had been disconnected. I called an acquaintance or two that I knew she had, but they didn’t know anything either. Finally, I drove to the apartment and talked to the super. She just moved out—no forwarding address, no information—just gone. Maybe that makes you feel a little better.”

“What do you suppose she’s up to?”

“I don’t know. She never liked working for the company anyway. She had a little money, she doesn’t have to work.”

Tavie felt empty. The research of the past few days had been orderly, progressing from point to point. She had always counted on knowing Helen’s whereabouts. She looked at Rob a moment. “You say you phoned and then went to her apartment.”

“She could have been ill, or the phone turned off by the phone company.”

“You went after her.”

“Not after—to find her and tell her what happened.”

“You told me you would arrange her transfer. You obviously didn’t or you wouldn’t have known her things were gone.”

“It takes time. You know how fine the wheels grind at the company.”

“What are you doing?” She vainly tried to hold down a rising panic. “Rob, what are you up to?”

“Good Lord, nothing.”

“You’re probably still sleeping with her.”

“No, I swear to you.”

“Why bother with the super, you still have a key to her place.”

“I threw it away.”

“But you’ve seen her.”

“Just once. I had to tell her that it was off, that we were giving up the project.”

“Since when is having an affair a project?”

“The book. Now stop it, Tavie. You’re reading too much into this.”

“What else did you tell her?”

“That you knew about the affair and had a couple of serious accidents.”

“And suspected her?”

“Yes.”

“And then you went to bed with her again.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’re lying to me. Good God, I’ve known you too many years. You were a terrible liar to begin with—age hasn’t improved you.”

“You’re projecting all sorts of personal crap.”

“Projecting? My husband’s having an affair, his mistress is trying to kill me, and I’m paranoid.”

“Hell, yes! It’s hardly normal to continue accusing people of trying to get you.”

“She’s hardly normal.”

“She was caught in a domestic hell, she’s hardly Mad Dog Cole.”

“She’s normal and I’m crazy.”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“You bastard! You rotten bastard! The two of you are up to something, maybe both of you are trying to kill me.”

“Stop it!”

“Is that it? While you’re screwing, you plan your next move. While you groan on top of her, you whisper how to do wifey in.”

“You’re crazy.”

“So, stick me in the booby hatch …”

“Goddamn it! I don’t have to listen to this crap.”

“You’ll listen and tell the truth.”

She threw herself at him, her fists pummeling his chest. He shook her by the shoulders. “Tavie, stop it. You’re irrational, stop it,” he said.

“Both of you are trying to kill me.”

“Stop it!” His hand lashed out and slapped her across the cheek. He slapped her again as she fell to the floor crying. He knelt next to her. “Tavie, Tavie, darling. What’s happening to you?”

“Oh, Rob. I don’t know. I’m so terribly frightened.”

“We’ll go away. Alone. Give me a few days to wind up things at the office. We’ll take the kids to your mother’s and go somewhere … the two of us.”

“Yes, let’s do that. Let’s go far away.”

The window lightened with the oncoming day, and it was five by the bedside clock. She found an unopened package of cigarettes in the bureau, took one, and inhaled deeply. Two years ago when she’d given up cigarettes she’d been proud of the test of will. Will power over a slightly harmful habit seemed rather unimportant now.

The unaccustomed nicotine of the cigarette made her slightly dizzy.

Once again she went over last night’s argument. In her anger she had said things she didn’t really believe. She didn’t think that Rob and Helen were continuing their affair and planning her demise. Theirs was a good marriage, and she had to have faith in her husband. Rob’s motives for the affair were probably as he told them—the spice of the situation, a different woman, an unusual woman.

No matter, they would survive. They must survive. Last night’s loss of control still bothered her. In past arguments with Rob she usually withdrew and retreated from any true confrontation. In fact, Rob’s greatest criticism of her was her inability to show true feelings. An outward display of affection or anger was contrary to her whole personality—all of which showed how deeply Helen’s plotting had affected her. It would take something as dire as Helen to break down the veneer—she was sure of that.

It bothered her that Rob still didn’t believe her. After completing her painstaking accumulation of data she had been sure that it was convincing. She knew that a series of coincidences could explain the circumstantial evidence. But then, he hadn’t tread water in the bay as a speedboat circled and came back again and again. She had chased a figure after the fire. Pyromania was not an uncommon syndrome, perhaps it had been a local nut. But Rob hadn’t been there, he hadn’t had to drop his children from a porch roof.

Rob did know Helen. During those long hours he’d spent with her she had become a real person. The realness of Helen made Tavie’s suggestions untenable. She still felt that listening to Helen’s tapes and reading the objective accounts of the trial had given her a better insight into Helen than Rob could have. How could he be objective? For all Tavie knew they might have done the taping in bed.

She showered and dressed slowly in jeans and shirt, but as a gesture to civilization donned a scuffed pair of boat shoes. There was no one else to talk to but Oliver.

Oliver was feeding the ducks as her small car pulled up the driveway. He seemed genuinely glad to see her as he turned and waved.

“I hope you feel better than you look, Octavia?”

Past sadness, she could only laugh. “I feel terrible, and I’m sure I must look it.”

“How’s our obsession this morning?”

“I’ve done my homework.” She handed him the folder.

They went into the study, and Oliver served iced tea. He read slowly, his glasses far down on his nose. Finally, he looked up at her with a frown. “What does Rob say to this?”

She told him of the argument the night before and of Helen’s disappearance.

“Well,” he said. “It’s not unusual for one partner to leave when a love affair is over. In a way that’s good for you, you should be grateful.”

“I don’t believe she’s through with me or Rob.”

“You have nothing here to indicate that.”

“It took her almost four years to get her brother. A few days or weeks won’t bother her. She’s that kind of person, Oliver, and I think she’ll be back.”

He threw the folder into her lap. “If you were a student in my class, and drew conclusions based on what’s in that folder—I’d flunk you twice.”

“You and Rob make me feel ready for the couch.”

“You don’t know what Helen is capable of.”

“The State of Connecticut proved she killed one man, and she probably killed another.”

“The second is conjecture on your part. There are close to one hundred drownings a year in this state alone.”

“Oliver, you’ve always been so intuitive. Am I cracking up?”

He walked over to the bay window and looked out. “Do you think I should get mallards for the pond?”

“The local sportsmen would probably build a duck blind in your front yard.”

“That would be a shame. No, Tavie. I don’t think you’re cracking up. I’ve known you too long and have an innate trust for your instinct. I still think you’ve only done part of your research. You have a great deal of conjecture and little knowledge of Helen.”

“The tapes are gone and she’s disappeared. The subject has become too painful for Rob and me to discuss.”

“Will Haversham.”

“Who?”

“A reporter at the paper. I believe he covered the trial.”

“That’s right. All the articles had his by-line.”

“He covers all that sort of thing for them. Crimes, murders, riots … I’ll arrange an appointment.”

“Thank you, Oliver.”

The plate glass window of The Pen and Pencil Cocktail Lounge reflected the passing traffic. She paused to look at her image and straightened the hemline of her dress. The tight hair and little make-up made her look younger than she was, she thought. Her arms were a little too thin, but the waist nip of the dress did show off her small waist and her legs were long and nice.

She couldn’t go through with it.

It had been hard enough to come this far, but to actually step into the lounge and talk to a strange man about her suspicions filled her with dread. Her dread was alleviated by a workman, wearing a hard-hat and brogans, who held the door open for her with a mock bow.

Although only a block from the Hartford Register, the bar hardly had a literary atmosphere. Most of the men hunched over the bar wore tee shirts and grasped large mugs of beer. One man, in a dirty sport shirt, hunched in a corner, and, as she watched, downed two shots of liquor in quick succession while gulping beer frantically.

The barmaid was a woman of indeterminate age, long black hair, and large red lips. She leaned intimately across the bar as one of the customers whispered in her ear, and then turned away with a raucous laugh.

“Man,” the barmaid laughed, “the day you have twelve inches is the day I take you on.”

Several of the men chuckled. “Hey, Laura, how about my three inches four times?” another customer yelled.

“Fuck off, buster,” Laura retorted.

Will Haversham was playing liar’s poker at the end of the bar. His hair hung over his collar and his rumpled sports coat and slacks might have been expensive when purchased five years ago. His face was deeply lined for a man of thirty-four. She stood silently behind him for a moment as he squinted intently at a dollar bill in the palm of his hand.

“Eight nines,” Will said.

“I call,” the man next to him said.

“Screw it,” retorted Will. He handed the other man the dollar bill and turned to appraise Tavie.

“Mr. Haversham?”

“Yep.”

“I’m Octavia Garland. Oliver Bentley called you about me.”

“He didn’t tell me how attractive you were, baby. That’s just like Oliver to forget the best part … unless it rhymes. Then, he’s probably over the hill. Do you think Oliver can cut the mustard? How about Eulogy for an Emeritus, or subtitled, my teach don’t tingle no more.”

“Oliver said you could provide me with some information.”

“Do you know, you’re the first chick I’ve seen wearing white gloves in the summertime since I had my hernia operation?”

“I suppose they are a little passé. If you’re busy …”

“Nope. I looked at the morgue stuff and reread my own crap. I remember her. We’ll grab a booth, whatcha drinking?”

“I’d like a pink lady, please.”

“Are you kidding? Laura thinks a pink lady is a high-priced madam. Have a beer.”

“A beer would be fine.”

They sat in a far booth which slightly reduced the din of the bar’s babble. Will carried two steins of beer, salted his, and slid hers across the table. She caught the mug before it spilled.

“Thank you,” Tavie said.

“Why thank me? I’m treating you like a cheap broad.”

“I’m afraid I’m a little out of training for this, sort of thing.”

“I seriously doubt you ever were in training for this sort of thing.”

“If I’m imposing, Mr. Haversham … I didn’t mean this to be an ordeal for you.”

“No ordeal. The bimbos here will think I’ve finally lucked out. I’ve got the time. What do you want to know?”

“About Helen Fraser. What sort of person is she? What is she capable of, some insight into her personality? I thought that since you covered the trial and interviewed her you might have some sort of insight into her.”

“Old Helen. Oh, I remember her well. One in a million, and if the truth be known, my favorite murderess. What happened to her?”

“She was working for Connecticut Casualty, but the other day she just disappeared.”

“Well, she probably wouldn’t be hard to find, but I don’t know why anyone would want to. Connecticut Casualty, good Christ! I can’t imagine Helen Fraser working in that cemetery. I’ll bet she had them on their ears. What’s your interest in her?”

“I’m doing some research on female murderers.”

“Oh, Christ. Not that.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“In the first place you’re probably the least qualified individual to perform such a task since Clara Barton. Octavia Garland, West Hartford girl poetess. Good Lord, Reflections on Autumn. I think you write the same fucking poem every year and just change the meter.”

She stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Haversham.”

He grasped her wrist. “Hold it, Miss Octavia. Did you go to Miss Porter’s?”

“No. Winston Academy.”

“That’s just as bad. Sit down. Come on, sit down, I’ve already paid for the beers.”

She sat reluctantly. “I didn’t come here for lessons in insult. If my research is ludicrous to you, we shan’t waste each other’s time.”

His voice softened. “I understand you’re a good friend of Oliver’s, but if you want my information, be honest with me. I hate phonies. Christ, do I hate phonies.”

“I am not a phony.”

“That crap about research. Lady, if that’s the real reason, you’re wasting time. You want to find out about Helen Fraser? Well, Hon, you have to climb into the sewer of a human soul. Murderers kill people, do away with them for real. It’s not like movies or plays. Afterwards the victims do not stand up and take a bow. They’re dead. That’s D-E-A-D.”

“I’m not as naïve as I appear.”

“Go back to your poems. Write something revolutionary like ‘Reflections on Spring.’”

“My poems were burned in a fire set by Helen Fraser, Mr. Haversham.”

Will leaned back in the booth, ordered another beer, and appraised her silently. When he finally spoke his voice had changed. “Well. Mrs. Garland Perhaps we’re a little closer to the truth. Would you mind explaining?”

“You don’t think I’m writing a book?”

“Not at all, Miss Reflections.”

She took her notes from her handbag and handed them across the table. “I think this might explain.”

He glanced through them quickly, and then aligned them neatly at the edge of the table. Donning a pair of reading glasses he went through the material again, this time slowly and carefully. Finished, he put his glasses back in his jacket and leaned back.

“You’re the type of researcher I could occasionally use myself,” he said. “Except you’ve left out something important.”

“Is she capable of doing those things?”

“I still want to know what you left out?”

The humiliation of revealing Rob’s affair and the desire to have this man take her seriously fought within her. “My husband had an affair with her.”

“That explains it.”

“Would Helen Fraser do those things to me?”

“The answer to could she is yes. She’s perfectly capable of carrying out a crazy plan like that. Would she? That I don’t know.”

“What about her brother?”

“A few of us wondered about that at the time. We knew she was bitter as hell, but she had an ironclad alibi. The day her brother disappeared she wasn’t even in the state.”

“The pattern’s the same. Airline hopping, a rented boat. Did anyone check?”

“Without real suspicion there would have been no reason in checking further than proving she actually was on a trip to California. I learned a long time ago that the police have a problem with the gap between what’s possible and what they can issue a warrant for. Hell, all kinds of things are possible.”

“Mr. Haversham … what kind of person is she?”

He made a pattern of concentric rings on the table with the wet bottom of the beer mug. “Alas, poor Helen, I knew her well … and didn’t know her. I don’t think anyone ever knew her. Her mother sat through the trial with a completely bewildered look. Maybe that’s why the case fascinated me. On the outside, she’s a voluptuous and attractive woman, always assured and self-contained. After the brother testified and the defense made a plea on the basis of crime of passion, a lot of us laughed. Hell, she never expected to get caught. The court believed it, or said they did.

“You know, I almost fell in love with her—until she began to frighten me.

“She has a quality that I could never get into my articles. A certain aura around her that’s … perhaps it’s more of a missing ingredient than a quality.”

“Now what do I do?”

“Have another drink with a shot on the side. You need all the solace you can get.”

During the next three hours Will Haversham proceeded to get very drunk. There was a direct connection between his alcoholic intake and the rise of a bitter bile. His initial conversation concerning the facts of Helen’s case, most of which Tavie already knew, disintegrated into a scathing denunciation of judges, city editors, cab drivers and his first wife.

She gathered that he’d been divorced from his wife for several years, and that there was a constant battle over visitation rights with his little girl. “She calls me a sewer rat,” he said. “She’s right. I’ve been down in the sewers with creeps so long that I’m one of them. The whole goddamn world’s a sewer, Miss Reflections. It ain’t like you try and say it is, the whole surface is covered with slime, the only difference is that some are bigger turds than others. You’re a lulu, Octavia, let’s go to bed.”

“Only on leap years.”

“I’ll let Helen Fraser get you.”

“Will, you’re drunk.”

“A state I try and constantly maintain. Besides, it’s now cocktail hour.”

“How can you tell, you’ve been drinking all afternoon.”

“One increases one’s velocity during cocktail hour. Are you any good in the hay?”

“I thought you wanted to help me, not make love to me.”

“I’ll think of something. Meanwhile, I think better satiated.”

When she stood up he grabbed her hand and tried to kiss her, but turning away she only received an alcoholic buss on the cheek. “Goodnight, Mr. Haversham.”

“Call me Will, Hon.”

The next morning the phone rang while she was still getting the children off to day camp. She answered hesitantly. “Yes?”

“Good morning, Hon. Will here.”

“I didn’t expect you to regain consciousness for three days.”

“I’m in training. Are you still interested in Helen Fraser?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me at The Pen and Pencil at noon.”

He hung up before she had a chance to reply. She stood holding the phone as Rob entered the kitchen.

“Was that your buddy?” Rob asked.

“Yes. He seems to think he knows how to find Helen.”

Rob walked over and poured a cup of coffee. “Why don’t you drop it?”

“Good-by, Mom.” The children raced out the door and up the street. She fixed her own coffee and sat across the table from Rob. His face was a mixture of sleep and pout.

“He’s the only one who believes me,” she said.

“He’s also a drunken sot. You were in pretty crummy condition when you came in last night.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I know that, Tavie. God only knows, I trust you. But this whole situation is getting out of hand.”

“I have to find her.”

“And then what?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

He looked across the breakfast table with concern. “I have a better plan even for so early in the morning. Let’s go away for a week. Make arrangements for the children to go to your mother’s. You realize how long it’s been since we’ve been away together?”

“Three years.”

“If you’re still worried when we return, we’ll take protective steps. I don’t believe they’re necessary, but if you feel better.”

“What sort of steps?”

“A burglar alarm system. A home smoke-sensing device, floods outside, a hell of a big dog.”

“I don’t expect to be attacked by the 82nd Airborne. A car accident in a supermarket parking lot would be more her style.”

“Your mother can come here for a visit. Look at the logic of that—if what you think is true, she’ll certainly get discouraged in a month or two.”

“Let me pursue it in my own way for a few days.”

“No vacation?”

“Give me a week to work with Will.”

He stood up impatiently. “I’ve got to go to work. One week. No more.”

She looked at her watch as she pulled into the small parking lot behind The Pen and Pencil—it was exactly noon. She had considered her dress of yesterday gauche and now wore a more appropriate, bright summer pant-suit.

A bevy of tee-shirted construction workers surrounded her as she entered the bar. One held the door for her with a, “Hey, Honey. Buy you a beer?”

She didn’t answer and spotted Will on his stool at the end of the bar. He waved and motioned her toward a booth. As Tavie sat down, Laura the barmaid came over with a pitcher of cocktails.

“Jesus,” Laura said. “When Will ordered pink ladies I thought they was whores.”

Will’s hand trembled as he poured and tasted the cocktail. “Excellent, Laura. No doubt, an old family recipe.”

“No doubt you just told me how to make them.”

“No doubt you’ll make us another batch.”

Laura went back behind the bar as Will poured a second drink and freshened hers. “I’m not used to drinking during the day,” she said.

“Good. Get a better effect. And don’t worry about your reputation, you’re safe in here. I told everyone I was doing a series on high-priced call girls.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“They believed it and that’s a compliment. Not every girl can pass for a high-priced whore.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m not completely reprobate. Got a little information here somewhere.” He searched through his pockets and put several scraps of paper on the table. “In the meanwhile you can consider an appropriate method of repayment. Here they are.” He pulled glossy photographs from his jacket pocket and handed them across the table.

Three Helen Frasers stared unseeingly at Tavie. She had a montage of feelings about the woman in the photographs. A murderer, her husband’s mistress, her adversary—an attractive blonde her own age that she’d expect to see at a Junior League dance.

“Not bad, huh?” Will said.

“She’s rather pretty.”

“Photos don’t do justice to her bod. No wonder your husband was jumping her.”

“It’s hard to believe she’s a killer.”

“The State had a damn good murder-one case against her, but felt the jury might feel the same as you, that’s the only reason they took her lesser plea. It’s probably why your husband doesn’t believe you.”

“And yet you do.”

“I’ve been a sewer dweller too long. A lily in the rubble does not a garden make. There’s more, look at these.” He shoved the cramped notes toward her.

Tavie looked at long lists of numbers with an occasional scrawl next to one. “What’s this?”

“A drinking buddy at the phone company dug them up for me. Those are all the long distance phone calls Helen made from her apartment during the last three months.”

“This could be my proof,” she said with excitement.

“’Fraid not. She may have botched the murder of her husband, but she’s not a stupid person—there are no calls to any marinas in Maine. The airline reservations would be local calls and there’s no way to trace those.”

“It doesn’t prove anything,” she said with disappointment.

“There’s a pattern. Here’s a number that appears every week for a whole three months.” Will handed her a slip with a phone number and a scrawled name.

“Which Murphy?” she said.

“Her mother. That’s a Springfield, Massachusetts exchange. The address is on the other side. I can’t imagine Helen filled with filial respect, so it must be because of the kid.”

“That’s right, they had a child.”

“The mother took the kid when Helen went to prison, and must still have it. Since most of those calls occur on Tuesdays, it’s possible Helen goes up there around the middle of each week to see the kid.”

“We’ll go up there.”

“Right, Hon.”

“When do we go?”

“Soon as we finish this batch of ladies.”

“What about your job?”

He laughed. “I’ve talked the editor into a new series. A follow-up on paroled prisoners, it ought to be sociologically very significant. You don’t think I’d dumb enough to tell anyone about your crazy theory?”

CHAPTER FIVE

What was she doing driving to Springfield with a half-drunk who had his hand on her thigh? Patterns. My God, what had happened to the patterns of her days? Only a week ago on the island she looked forward to half the summer. Now, the speed of her life was quickening in an uncontrollable manner.

Her foot increased its pressure on the accelerator and with a tug of the wheel she passed a car in front of her. Will looked at her sharply as the abrupt movement slanted him sideways on the seat. He quietly sulked against the far door.

“Do you know where this place is?” she asked him.

“Yeah. I used to work in Springfield.”

“Aren’t you the moody one.”

“Not if I get my own way.”

“Do you usually?”

“No, that’s why I’m usually moody.”

Tavie followed Will’s directions into the outskirts of Springfield. He directed her through a labyrinth of depressing back streets. The neighborhoods deteriorated more the further they went until they reached an area of three-family, wood-and-frame homes, almost all of which were in dire need of paint.

“Slow down,” Will said. “I want to check the numbers.” He peered intently out the window. “Cheap bastards are too crummy to number their houses. Hold it. There’s 1001. It should be two blocks on the right.”

“Do you want me to park in front?”

“Why not? This isn’t exactly a heroin bust.”

Her palms were damp with perspiration as she slid the car into an empty parking place in front of 1214, and turned off the ignition. It was a seedy workingman’s neighborhood with identical three-family homes as far as they could see. Up the block a group of children were playing dodge ball while a black man hunched under the hood of an old model car. Across the street was a small grocery store with a dirty front window and a grimy bar and grill.

They got out of the car and Will strode briskly up to the door. “The bastards probably live on the top floor,” he said, and examined the rusty name plates. “They do.” He turned briskly to her. “Well, come on.”

Will stopped to wipe his perspiring brow several times as they went up the three flights of steep steps. At the top landing Will searched unsuccessfully for a doorbell and then banged loudly on the door with his fist. The mute organ music of a television soap opera was the only sound from within the apartment and Will banged again. There were scurrying feet and the door cracked open on a chain latch.

A white-haired woman with hollow cheeks peered furtively through the cracked door. “Yes, who is it?” the woman asked.

“Will Haversham from the Hartford Register.” Will flashed an impressive photo-credential quickly in front of the woman. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Helen Fraser.”

“Helen isn’t here.”

“We want to talk to you, Mrs. Murphy. You are her mother?”

“Yes.”

“Her child lives with you?”

“He’s out playing.”

“Can we come in?”

The woman seemed reluctant to unlatch the door, but then seeing Tavie in the hallway behind Will, closed the door and reopened it with the chain off. It took Tavie a few moments to realize what was wrong with the living room. The furniture was too large and out of place for the small room. The sofa, an expensive piece, had obviously been purchased with a much larger room in mind. The other furnishings were of the same quality she had in her own home, and the drapes along the window were heavily lined.

Mrs. Murphy sat heavily in an easy chair. “Do you have to bother me again? It’s so long ago.” She looked up at Will intently. “I remember you. You talked to me during the trial.”

“I covered the trial for the paper,” he replied. “Do you know where Helen is?”

“No.”

“She comes by to see her child?”

“Yes, once in a while she stops by. I don’t know where she’s living since she left Hartford.”

“Is your husband home?”

“My husband is dead. He had his first heart attack after the trial, and the last one this year.”

“I’m sorry,” Tavie said.

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman said. She looked around the room. “We used to have a nice home, you know. We lost that. The trial was very expensive and we wanted Helen to have the best. After my husband couldn’t work we only had disability.”

“Didn’t Helen get money from her husband’s estate?” Will pressed on. All traces of liquor and questionable humor had disappeared as he assumed his professional stance.

“She sends money occasionally.”

“Where do the letters come from?”

“They used to come from Hartford. The one yesterday was from New York. She hasn’t been here in two weeks, but could come by anytime.”

Anytime. Tavie’s body tensed. “What kind of child was she, Mrs. Murphy?” Tavie asked.

“She was a beautiful child. We always gave her the best. Now, with her brother gone, the child is all I have left.”

“What happened to your son?” said Will’s piercing voice.

Mrs. Murphy stood quickly and went into the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?” she said.

Tavie followed her into the kitchen and grabbed Mrs. Murphy’s arm. “Did she do it, Mrs. Murphy? Did your daughter kill your son? Do you know, do you really know?” Her voice spoke the words as if someone else were speaking.

Mrs. Murphy broke away. “Sisters don’t kill brothers. They don’t, and I’m not telling any newspaper people they do.”

“What happened out in the bay?”

The woman pressed her head against the wall. “She was so beautiful, a truly lovely child, and we wanted to give her everything we could. She never seemed to know that the taking had to end, that there wasn’t anymore—where did I go wrong?…”

She turned her face to the wall and cried quietly. Tavie put her hand on the woman’s shoulder, but it was shrugged off. Tavie moved closer and whispered in the woman’s ear.

“She did it. She killed your son,” Tavie said.

“Leave me alone.”

Hands that didn’t seem hers shook the woman’s shoulders and a distant voice yelled, “I have to know. I must know!”

Will pulled her away and out of the apartment. They went slowly down the long stairs into the fading sunlight. He grasped her arm and led her across the street into the bar. She followed, robotlike, as they sat at a table near the window.

“Well,” Will said. “You’ve learned what you wanted to know.”

“I … I lost control.”

“You’ve got everything outside of a signed affidavit, although I’m not sure what in the hell you can do with it.” He handed her a drink.

“What do we do now, Will?”

“We beard Ol’ Helen. We’ve got a good view of the house from here, she’s bound to show up sooner or later.”

“So we wait.”

“Of course.”

They sipped their drinks and looked out the window as a light rain began to fall. The diffused light softened the harsh street, and washed away the drabness.

“Is it always like this? I mean, when you talk to them, interview them,” she said.

“This was a mild one.”

“Mild? That anguish—that unhappy woman.”

“Sure. Now, my favorite duo was a mother and son pair. She hustled to support his drug habit, and to return the kindness, he got her hooked. She retaliated by having him hustle guys. That lovely family eventually humped each other until they gave each other the clap.”

“That’s revolting.”

“Is it? I’ve been in the gutter too long. Nothing surprises me.”

“Oscar Wilde said we’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

“He was a pederast. What he thought were stars were actually falling buckets of crap.”

“I couldn’t live if I felt like you do.”

“You were born with middle-class blinkers. The cliché writers have it all wrong, silver spoons went out last century. Now, it’s technicolor blinkers for the advantaged—see things the way you want them to be. We’re all slime, Hon. Born as grasping, crying animals with one motivation—the desire to survive. We’ll do anything to survive, trample our brother or kill our mother. Now, society finds this kind of naked aggression a little difficult, so kids are batted around a little bit to give them a semblance of conscience. And that’s all it is, civilization’s veneer is a one-quarter-inch piece of plywood covering everyone’s snake pit. Strip it away and the gutter rushes out.”

“We’re the only animal with empathy.”

“Empathy—crap!… That’s man’s most condescending trait, the epitome of the survival syndrome. All it means is, I’m sorry for you, poor slob, but how glad I am that I’m not in your predicament. I’ve made it and you haven’t—tough cookies.”

“And a woman like Helen?”

“No covering over the pit at all, a direct connection between the rat pit and the rest of the world. What Helen wants, Helen gets. Why wait for the middleman.”

“Without conscience?”

“In her case, none. Most of us have some, we don’t want to get caught. The Helens never expect to get caught.”

“That philosophy doesn’t seem to allow much reason for living.”

“Fear, Baby. Scared-shitless fear. When you’re dead, you’re dead. Remember—survival is the key.”

He fell silent and looked morosely into his drink as the evening stretched on. She sorted and categorized what he had said and tried to fit it into her own life.

Her father had been executive vice-president of a medium-sized tool company. Her mother’s family was distantly related to the Peabodys, without family fortune, but with that certain type of New England respectability. The large, comfortable house in New Bedford usually had at least one maid and was located on the right street. School had been easy, her natural intelligence and skills in English were sufficient to earn at least minor honors. New York, her marriage to Rob, and years of an orderly and peaceful life. The modicum of success she enjoyed with her poetry was enough to break the tedium of household chores.

It had been a life of uninterrupted summer. That now depressed her. Outside the rain now fell heavily, bouncing from the pavement in small resolute drops, a tapestry for her oncoming depression.

She felt slightly dizzy when they left the Idle Hour Cafe in front of Mrs. Murphy’s house. They had watched passing cars for three hours as the rain turned to drizzle and then into a muggy summer evening. There had been no sign of Helen, and that, combined with the rest of the day, forced a headache across her forehead. She asked Will to drive, counting on his built-in radar to get them home safely.

Tavie leaned back and closed her eyes as the car sped down the Interstate highway. The swish of tires on wet pavement repeated over and over—cesspool, cesspool—was he right? Perhaps there was a rotten content in everyone that could spill out and contaminate others. She was tired and didn’t want to think, the tension of past days was beginning to take its toll.

She felt disoriented and blinked her eyes open when the car came to a halt. She expected to be in The Pen and Pencil parking lot where they’d left Will’s car, but she couldn’t make out any familiar landmarks. Moonless sky closed around the darkened car and vague tree shapes swayed slowly overhead.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“On a back road a few miles from Hartford. I wanted to stop a minute.”

“All right.” She closed her eyes again.

She felt the bristles on his cheek as he pressed his lips against hers. He held her tightly as his tongue swirled over her lips and then in the hollow of her neck. She tried to squirm from his grasp, but his arms held her securely.

She was able to whisper in his ear, “Will, stop it. You’re drunk.”

“Never too drunk.”

“Stop.”

His fingers curved around her breast as he opened the buttons on her blouse. Since she rarely wore a bra there was nothing to impede him and she felt her nipples tighten as his fingers continued caressing her. “Will, I don’t want to. I don’t want to,” she said.

He had her blouse completely open and his mouth closed over one breast as his hands gently caressed the other. With her free hand she tried to push his persistent head away. His hands pulled at her pants as her fists pummeled his shoulders. He had her clothes off and pressed her back against the seat. He kissed her again, and she felt their tongues circling each other.

She reached down to his groin and grabbed him. “I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt you,” she said.

He released her for a moment and then his gentle hand again felt her breast. “Hon, I get my signals crossed?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

She felt him stiffen within her fingers as she caressed him. He held her tightly and she felt a rush of feeling as she guided him into her. Her fingers raked across his bare back and her nails cut into his flesh as she pulled him closer. “Oh, Will …” she said; and wanted him. Her hips moved against his as she held him as tightly as she could.

She walked slowly from the driveway to the back door of the house and let herself in as quietly as she could. She took her shoes off in the kitchen and tiptoed down the dark hall. Rob, a book spread across his chest, was asleep on the sofa in the living room.

In the upstairs bathroom she stared at the unrecognizable face in the mirror. The image returned an unblinking gaze as she ran a basin of cold water and began to scour her face.

Later, she went downstairs and kneeled next to the sleeping Rob. He turned toward her sleepily as she shook him awake. “Take me away, Rob.” She began to cry with her head buried in his chest. “Let’s go somewhere, let’s go anywhere.”

CHAPTER SIX

There were splotches of dark in the turquoise ocean as the reefs and shallows sloped upwards from the ocean floor to form the island group. With a gull-like sweep the plane circled the islands. They both gave a start as the engine tempo changed dramatically and the fuselage quivered as the landing gear locked in place.

As the plane banked to slide into the gradual descent of the approach pattern she was surprised at the size of the island group. The mainland was completely framed in the small window, a dot in a large ocean. They hardly felt the touchdown as the plane sped along the runway to shudder with the reversal of the engines.

They were really here. They had not been killed on the drive to the airport, the airplane had not plummeted into the ocean, and barring a freakish crash into the terminal building, they had arrived safely. She gave a nervous gasp. It was not so much a fear of dire accidents as nervous anticipation at arriving in a new place. She knew she was not really well traveled. New England to New York, summers in Maine, a honeymoon trip and a trip to Florida were the extent of her prior experience.

They had their birth certificates and drivers’ licenses ready and were quickly checked through the perfunctory Bermuda customs. A minibus, with the name of the surf club where they had reservations, waited patiently at the curb. They held hands during the twenty-minute drive to the hotel while the driver pointed out landmarks, and they laughed when he asked if they were recently married.

The water covered her ears as she floated on her back in complete silence and stared at the sky. She had never seen a more perfect day. Occasionally she gave a languid push with her arms through the warm water, a welcome change from the cold of the Maine bay. Far above a lone white cloud hovered in the sky, and as she watched a wisp slowly unraveled and extended outward.

A jet track moved over the cloud, too high for the engine sound or the plane to be visible. She wondered if the plane was going to Europe, or perhaps, Spain, from this latitude. Her sense of geography was hazy and she didn’t bother to pursue the thought further.

Her feet gently kicked downward until she stood on the soft bottom. The water covered her breasts and lapped at her neck. Emptiness stretched to the horizon, broken only by a distant fishing boat. As she turned toward the pink Bermuda beach she was surprised how far out she was. She supposed that the dim figure dozing under the beach umbrella was Rob.

She hadn’t felt so relaxed in days, and the sun and water were cleansing Will and Helen from her mind. She began to slowly walk through the water toward the beach.

In the waist-deep ocean to her side, a young couple was laughing and spraying water at each other. She supposed they were a honeymoon couple, and stopped to watch. The boy-man of twenty-one was well built and she liked the way his muscles moved under the smooth skin of his back. He was trim and bronzed from a summer of sun. As she watched, feeling began to course through her and she was amazed at the magnitude of her sexual urge.

The couple stopped their horseplay and looked at her expectantly, the young girl with a quizzical frown on her face. Tavie hurried toward the shore and when in knee-deep water, ran toward Rob.

Rob sat up under the umbrella and waved toward her. “Hi, I thought you were going to drift to the Azores.”

“Oh, are the Azores that way?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds good. Let’s have a drink on the terrace.”

Hand in hand they walked up a short flight of stone steps to the terrace and ordered a rum drink. When the drinks arrived they sipped slowly and felt indolent in the warm sun.

“It’s just perfect, Rob,” she said. “The surf club couldn’t be better, and the beach must be the most wonderful in the world.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm. We were lucky though, on such short notice to get a reservation in a place that turned out so well.”

She put her hand over his and felt her love. “I feel great, but there is one problem.”

“Oh?”

“A secret—if you promise.”

“You sound like a young girl.”

“Yeah, and I just found myself staring hungrily at a young man.”

“Lord, Tavie,” he laughed. “I never knew girls from Massachusetts knew what studs were.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Let’s go to bed.”

“Bed? I can’t remember the last time you asked.”

“A new leaf.”

He signed for the drinks and they crossed the terrace for the short walk to the main hotel.

She was nude within the circle of motorcycles. The staccato of their engines rose and fell as the helmeted figures bounced impatiently in their saddles. The wavering headlights played across her body as she tried to see their faces, but only bulk forms obscured by visors were discernible across the glare.

One light blinked out and the engines of the Harley-Davidsons coughed to a stop. The driver slowly pulled one leg over the saddle and kicked the cycle’s stand into place. He walked into the circle where she stood shivering, and he grabbed her hand.

“Get to it,” the voices yelled.

Gloved hands caressed her breasts and ran down her body, across her stomach and between her legs. Grasping a gloved finger between his teeth he pulled off one glove and then the other. Now, his hands playing across her body were warm and she felt moist.

“Give it to us or we tie you down,” the voices yelled.

“Relax and enjoy it, Hon,” the figure before her said. He took off his helmet and threw it into the waiting ring. It was a younger and larger Will, a grimacing and passionate Will.

“Screw her,” the voices yelled.

A blanket was spread on the ground and she lay back to look up at Will removing his clothes. He kneeled between her legs and she reached up to pull him toward her. The others stopped their machines and began to crowd around the embracing pair. Over Will’s head she could see them surrounding her, and she knew that all … all would.

She awoke in a thin veil of perspiration. She extricated herself from the entanglement of Rob’s legs and turned off the air conditioner. Pulling the drapes and opening the patio door, she allowed the breeze to gently brush her body. The patio overlooked the ocean, and cement block walls to each side kept her safe from casual voyeurs.

Good Lord, she thought. A gangbang from a motorcycle gang yet, and wondered why she had enjoyed the dream fantasy so completely. Brushing damp hair back over her forehead she went back and knelt on the floor next to the bed. She ran her hands over Rob’s body and kissed him on the chest.

As he awoke he smiled. “We’ll have to wait a couple of minutes. I’m not quite as up to these repeat performances as I used to be.”

She kissed him again. “That’s all right, tonight will be fine.” She pulled back the covers on the other twin bed and lay down. Her body had tensed. Was it sex? Sex had never been a significant part of her life before, alone in Maine, days would go by without it passing through her mind—and now it seemed to preoccupy her completely. She was either an awakening woman or a wife frightened by her husband’s infidelity.

The day after, Will had sent her one red rose and a short note that read, “Like the Petit Prince realized, that’s all that can be said.” This ultra-romantic gesture from a man who lived on the energy of his cynicism had disquieted her. Later in the afternoon he’d called her, his voice deep and sober.

“Tavie, that you? This is the reluctant dragon,” he’d said.

“I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“I wondered if you wanted a further tour of the sewers?”

“My husband and I are going away.”

“Do you still want to find Helen?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid your price is too high.”

“That’s the sewer, Hon.” His voice was low.

“I didn’t expect that bonus side trip.”

“You wanted to.”

“Goodby Will.”

“Wait …”

She hung up on him. Unsaid were the sharp cutting comments she’d planned. After the call she’d gone to Oliver’s house.

Her confessional was not a vaulted cavernous cathedral, but a book-lined study where orange pekoe tea was served while she sat in a pleasant-smelling leather chair. Outside the day was a colorless drizzle, while the lamp on Oliver’s desk cast a warm glow over them. After Will’s call she had retreated there to tell Oliver of the Springfield trip and the episode in the car.

“You’re not going to tell Rob?” Oliver asked.

“No,” she replied. “He’d consider it a retaliatory act on my part and righteously forgive me. It wasn’t that, at least I don’t think it was.”

“I’m glad you’re going away. Hopefully, by the time you return, Helen will have disappeared to wherever such people go. She won’t persist indefinitely, you know.”

“What’s happening to me, Oliver? My whole life has always been orderly, now everything is turned upside down—I don’t even feel like me anymore.”

“I read an article last week about mental illness in the various professions. Contrary to my past beliefs, English teachers were not at the top of the list. The highest rate of suicide and mental breakdown in our society is among our psychiatrists. Not because sicker people go into that profession, but because in every doctor’s life there’s one particular patient, one group of patients, who transcend the therapeutic situation and become a part of the therapist.”

“Transference.”

“Yes. A necessary ingredient for therapy, and fraught with danger if one is not careful. Look what’s happening to you, for days you’ve immersed yourself in another person’s illness … assuming part of that illness yourself.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“There’s a little of the demonic Helen in all of us—the ancients would say that you’ve released a vase of evil. That’s what Helen is, you know. An amoral person who will, at any cost, satisfy herself.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Will.”

“Not quite so perverted, I hope. He’s seen so many of those people that he’s begun to think the whole world is populated with them.”

“If there is an incarnate evil we would all have the seeds—there’d be that potential in all of us.”

“In that respect I agree with Haversham. Most of us have been able to control and temper it.”

“I can’t believe that, Oliver. I listen when Will says it, but not from you.”

“Look what men do in war.”

“That’s mass insanity.”

“We must enjoy it, we do it so often.”

“Then we’re all insane.”

“That’s a contradiction in terms. Let’s say that all of us bear the potential of psychosis … we have to consciously fight against succumbing.”

She laughed, “Even you and I?”

“Everyone.”

After dinner Rob and Tavie sat at a small table on the hotel’s open porch. A benign ocean breeze intertwined with the soft ballads of the guitarist. The small brandy snifters reflected the gas lamps on the porch railings as inconspicuous waiters walked efficiently between the tables. Contentment fused into the setting and Tavie felt that she had never experienced a more perfect evening.

Something Oliver had said gnawed at her and she put her hand on Rob’s. “Rob, while you were in the service—you never hurt anyone.”

“No. Remember, I was too young for Korea and too old for Vietnam. What kind of question is that?”

“But you would have?”

“I don’t know. At the time I was young. Running around the countryside shooting blanks at fake enemies seemed an extension of children’s games. A kid’s game that got boring. I think a lot of us wondered what we might do if we actually went into combat.”

“Then, you don’t know?”

“No, I really don’t.”

They fell silent, each content to let the gentle breeze carry the soft music across the night. “When was the last time we were on vacation without little people?” Rob asked.

“Well, we had a honeymoon on Cape Cod.”

“God, where does the time go?”

“I think we spent the whole time in bed, at least I don’t remember doing much else.”

“Not a bad idea,” he leaned over and kissed her.

“Oh, Rob. In a few minutes, let’s enjoy the night.”

“Watching all these honeymooners is making me sexy.”

“We’ve been married too long.”

“That’s what I thought until your invitation on the beach this afternoon … and then wanting a second round … there’s more to ye, Octavia, than I dreamt.”

“It’s the clear air here.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

The very British waiter came over to the table. “Can I get you something else?”

“No, thank-you,” Rob said.

“Wait, Rob.” She clutched his arm. “Let’s have that thing we had before dinner.”

“The what-do-you-call-it?”

“Yes.” She turned to the waiter. “I think it’s called a shamply.”

“A shandy,” the waiter replied. “Beer and Sprite.”

“Yes, a marvelous nightcap.”

As they sipped their shandys from tall mugs she felt at ease with her husband, all tension dissipated, and now she was deliciously tired and sleepy.

Helen Fraser would unquestionably climb aboard a Harley-Davidson and ride with the Hell’s Angels, she thought, as she looked down at the spoked wheels of the small Honda bike grinning up at her. She resolved not to be frightened, and to learn to ride the machine. With trepidation she mounted the saddle and tested her balance.

It took half an hour of tutelage by Rob and the motorbike agent for her to regain her bicycle balance and learn to ride the machine. Rob had stood, arms akimbo, at the end of the drive and laughed at her first wavering attempts, but now she had the feel of the machine and breaked the bike to a halt near him.

“I’m all set,” she said. “The rental arranged?”

“We’ve got them for the week.”

“I can’t wait to go to Somerset at the end of the island.”

He laughed. “I’d rather go to Hamilton and arrange for some of that duty-free booze.”

“Oh, Rob, how mundane. You go to Hamilton and I’ll take the high road. I’m the new Me … Miss Self-reliant.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Absolutely. I’ll just ride along the coast road awhile.”

“O.K., I’ll see you at lunch,” he said. He mounted his bike, kicked off, and soon was around the corner and out of sight.

She started her machine, waved to the attendant, and was soon humming along the coast road. Low stone walls, covered with vines of flowers and semitropical trees, bracketed the road. It was early, the traffic light, and the sun warm on her bare arms and shorts-clad legs.

Her sense of balance had fully returned as the bike sped smoothly over the gentle grade. She turned the hand accelerator to increase speed and leaned into a curve to the left. With a start, she realized that her years of driving had, by force of habit, taken her to the right side of the road and she swerved into the correct lane. The walls ended as the bike topped a small rise, and she had a magnificent view of the cliff which dropped steeply down to the beach.

She slowed the bike to a halt on the small patch of grass at the edge of the cliff. The sea spread before her in varying hues of blue and at the bottom of the cliff was one of the most magnificent stretches of beach she had ever seen.

The pink sand, interspersed with an occasional large coral formation, reminded her of a Buddhist garden she’d once seen, and how different from the rock-strewn coast of Maine. At lunch she’d tell Rob about this and they’d plan a picnic for tomorrow. The hotel would pack box lunches and they’d get a bottle of good wine. She took her small camera from the rear carry-all and snapped several pictures.

Putting down the kickstand she stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked for a pathway down to the beach. Surely, there was a road or path down, she thought, looking to the right and left. Far to the right, near a group of pink cottages, she saw the steep path and steps.

She never recalled hearing the car approach. Her first impression was incredulous shock as the bike slithered across the grass and over the side of the cliff. She watched in fascination as the bike seemed to fall in slow motion, tumbling one way and then another, as it cracked off protrusions in the rock.

Far below the bike lay broken in the sand. A screech of tires brought her attention back to the road. Thirty yards away the Morris Minor made a U-turn and started back toward her.

She stared in shock at the rapidly approaching car. It couldn’t be happening. There was nothing in her past experience to allow her to accept what she now saw. Everyone had automobile accidents, and often people were killed, but not deliberately. Pictures from Maine stood between her and the speeding car—a boat in the bay, smoke seeping through the floorboards—she quickly stepped to the edge of the cliff as the car passed. The car’s protruding sideview mirror struck her arm and she was half-turned until her footing fell away and she fell into nothingness.

Tavie sat on the balcony of their hotel room and stared morosely out to sea as Rob mixed martinis. A pain snaked across her forehead as she ran her hand gingerly over the tender spots on her cheek and face. The doctor, in the small Bermuda hospital, had said it was a miracle as he placed the short cast on her arm and bandaged her forehead.

Rob handed her a chilled cocktail and sat across from her shaking his head. “You know, Tav, from what they say when they found you, you must have landed in just the right position to spread the shock over your body. Christ, you’re a lucky girl.”

“Yes, I’m very lucky.”

That’s what the doctor had said in his clipped British accent. “She was a very lucky girl” had been repeated half-a-dozen times in the hospital. They’d only kept her a few hours, and when they discharged her, a small contingent had shook their heads in wonderment and waved good-by.

“You know,” Rob said. “You’re the third person this year to take a flyer at that very spot. I understand there’s going to be action taken to put up a guard rail.”

“If there had been a guard rail, I’d be dead.”

“It is a beautiful spot, I can see how you were taken in by the scenery.”

“I didn’t run off the cliff.” She was tired. She had wanted to scream at him in the hospital before they had sedated her.

He put his arms around her. “It doesn’t matter, Hon. The bike was insured, and you could be a lot worse. I’m still shaking over how lucky you are.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Hon. Honey, that.”

“If you don’t want.” His condescension made her want to throw the drink in his face. “My God, no wonder you’re upset.”

It was important that she speak calmly and without hysteria. “It was not an accident. I was standing on the edge of the cliff, off the bike, when she ran me down. Helen is still trying to kill me.”

“That’s what you said to the constable at the hospital. What did he tell you? No Helen Fraser has gone through customs this week. Cars are not available to tourists. Tourists can only rent taxis with a driver or motor-bikes. Also, how would Helen know where we are?”

“Any number of ways. She could have called your office.”

“For the last time—it couldn’t have been Helen.”

“Oh, fuck you! Fuck you,” she screamed and threw her glass at him. The cocktail glass bounced off his head and small rivulets of liquid ran down his forehead, over his eyebrows, and furrowed across his cheek. He wiped the liquid away with the palm of his hand. “My God, I’m sorry, Rob.”

His shuttered eyes were opaque and yet a small facial muscle in his cheek twitched for a moment. His tone of voice was the same he used for telling children to take out garbage or clean their rooms. “Would you like the house physician, Tavie? He could give you a shot to make you sleep.”

“No, I’ll be all right.”

“I thought if we got away from Hartford for a while these things wouldn’t happen. You seemed so well yesterday.”

“Well? You act like I’m sick—mentally ill.”

“Accident prone. Since you found out about Helen you’ve been having these strange accidents … stories that no one can verify.”

“Perhaps you’d like to stick me somewhere.”

“You continue harming yourself and one day you’ll get killed.”

“Then;” she went on in a low voice, “you could screw that cunt anytime you want—you bastard.”

“In all the years we’ve been married you never talked like that before. Is that normal?”

“Can’t I get it through your goddamn thick skull that I don’t feel normal. I do have a problem.”

“We know.”

“A problem with her, and no one will believe me.”

“It was embarrassing as hell to have to tell the local police about our recent marital difficulties. How do you think that makes me feel?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me that you told them I was doing crazy things? That I was having emotional problems?”

“They were very understanding when I outlined the situation to them.”

“You prick.”

“About how uptight you’ve been …”

“You want me out of the way.”

“… Almost to the point of paranoia.”

“Why don’t we go home now, you can check me into a mental hospital.”

“If there are no more reoccurrences, we’re not at that point. We’ve already paid for the week; let’s finish it out, maybe you’ll feel better.”

“Maybe I will. Right now I’m just tired. I’m not hungry, why don’t you go on down to dinner.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Sure. Rob, I’m sorry I threw the glass at you.”

“Forget it.” He lightly brushed her hair. “Get some rest, I’ll see you later.”

As she lay in bed a fear of dreaming filled her with dread. It was impossible to relax after the events of the day, and she contemplated taking a pill from the small container at the bedside. She couldn’t sleep, it was useless, why suffer?

The cast on her arm made dressing slow and awkward. She discarded a dress that buttoned down the back and selected a soft jersey blouse that was easy to wiggle into. It was almost time for the dinner-seating and she’d have to hurry to catch Rob.

Before dinner cocktails were served in the anteroom off the main dining room, she stood in the doorway looking for Rob. The room was filled with diners waiting for the seating announcement, but she couldn’t see Rob. Large French doors at the rear of the room led to a small terrace overlooking the swimming pool. She noticed several couples sitting outside. She crossed toward the terrace, and saw Rob at one of the small tables. He was talking to a blonde woman whose back was to Tavie.

Helen had blonde hair. The woman stood and without turning walked briskly off the terrace. Tavie hurried to the table and saw the surprised expression on Rob’s face as he looked up at her.

“Hey,” he said. “Where’d you come from?”

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Helen.”

“Stop it, Tavie.” His voice had a desperate quality.

“She was sitting here.” Tavie started down the terrace and saw that the door at the far end entered into a main corridor of the hotel. Whoever had left that way was now gone. There were no blonde Helens among the several couples moving toward the dining room. She went back to Rob’s table.

“Would you like a drink?” he said.

“Yes. A stiff one.”

Rob signaled the waiter for a tall martini. “I saw you talking to her,” Tavie said.

“That girl just sitting here?”

“It wasn’t Wallace Simpson.”

“Oh,” he leaned back and laughed. “That was one of the single girls here. I guess she thought I was unattached—we were talking about snorkeling.”

“That’s not true.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“It was her.”

He put his hand on hers. “I’m trying to be as understanding as possible, Tavie, but this is going beyond the realm of rationality. It was not who you think it was.”

The dinner chimes sounded behind them. She finished her drink with shaking hands. “Shall we go in for dinner, or do you want a further scene?” Rob continued.

“I’m not hungry. Go on.”

“Take some of the medication they gave you and get some sleep. I’ll have them bring something up for you to eat later.”

“All right,” she said numbly. He led her by the arm to the elevator.

“You make it all right?”

“Yes.”

He waited until the elevator doors shut before going back into the dining room. When she got back to the room she mixed a very stiff drink. Will would approve, she thought to herself. She stood on the terrace and looked out over the calm ocean.

The tentacles of liquor seeped through to form a numbness that filled her arms and legs. A dull ache started in her injured arm and she took two pills, lay down on the bed fully clothed, and fell into a fitful sleep.

She saw a white figure bent over the bed—thoughts struggled for a conscious level—a maid turning the bed? She turned toward the wall.

Hands bore her upward off the bed. They carried her in solemn pocession down long corridors and placed her on a cold altar. A demonic face bent over her with upraised knife—then slashed down across her wrists.

They stood in a quiet circle around the cold altar as warmth gushed from her. It was dark, and she groaned. Outstretched fingers touched a cold, hard surface. Outstretched foot felt a metal protrusion. Can’t turn, bound tightly.

Her open eyes looked into blackness. Her uninjured arm brushed against her face and she felt warm liquid trickle over her cheek and onto her lips, and she tasted the salty consistency of blood.

She fought through layers of medication and alcohol for consciousness. Something seemed to be pinning her down and she squirmed under the grasp.

She was in the bathtub and blood flowed from her slashed wrist.

Her blood was flowing faster and now covered the bottom of the tub in a thin streaked layer. A lethargy began to inundate Tavie, and she watched as her wrist throbbed more blood into the constantly growing pool. Black concentric rings seemed to rise from the redness and fade into her eyes to be followed by another group of approaching rings. She knew that in seconds she’d be unconscious.

She swung her injured arm with its cast backward as hard as she could. The cast seemed to connect with something and a sharp pain ran down her arm and shoulder. Had she hit something, was something there? She swung again and again, and then clawed her way to a half-crouched position. Dim light fell through the window into the bathroom, a white figure moved toward the door and out onto the patio.

She stumbled toward the phone on the night table between the beds. Her hands reached for the receiver, grasped it, but it slipped from her blood-stained fingers and fell to the floor as she fell unconscious across the bed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tavie awoke. Her ears buzzed and her eyes wouldn’t focus. As the ceiling broke into sharp outlines and one crack trailing off to the door became clear, the terror started. Without moving her head she could see her arms aligned along the edge of the bed, clean white sheet up to her neck, pressed blanket tucked neatly around her. To one side were louvered windows, to the other a dresser, chair, lamp, and door. She closed her eyes and the frightened beating within her took possession.

A shaft of sun diagonally crossed the room and warmed her feet. Speckles of dust floated serenely in the light, their familiar twirling calmed her as sorted pictures vainly searched for a coherent pattern. She was tired, and now the edge of nausea crimped her stomach as a sharp pain snaked thinly across her forehead. The revolving pictures slowed and took shape, the house, the children last Christmas … but where had yesterday gone? A thousand years entombed in this place.

A long ago journey with her father, the small car, and rain swishing the tires as she nodded sleepily. His hand brushed her forehead and gently crossed her hair, and the car was the universe and she was safe. A remembered moment, a brief feeling of rain and warmth, but no knowledge of where they were.

The sun crept slowly up the blanket until starched white pants stood in its diffused glow.

Tavie’s eyes followed the pants’ crease upward to the neat, white blouse with its blue nametag. The hair was rounded and nondescript, but a smile tugged at the woman’s face.

“Good morning, Tavie. Feeling better this morning?”

“I have a headache and my ears …”

“That will go away. You’re a lucky woman.”

“Yes, I’m very lucky.”

“Doctor Houston wants you to get up this morning. There’s clothes in the closet that your husband brought by. Dress and come out into the day room. Luncheon will be served at twelve.”

White pantsuit left the room leaving the door slightly ajar. The floor tilted as toes clutched the carpet and hands grasped the dresser’s edge. Strange brown eyes accused from the mirror and did not blink as a tear crossed their edge and crept slowly across a cheek. The reflection took on familiarity with the commonplace gesture of brushing a strand of hair back—recalling a thousand combings.

The room straightened as a draft from the door wisped through the open back of the hospital gown. Cold spray from the shower tickled her body as sensations began to return. Stooped in icy posture, droplets hung suspended as she looked at her arms in wonderment. The cast still on one arm, and heavy bandages over the other wrist.

Her hands had clawed toward her visitors, as they forced their way into the room and over to her prostrate figure on the bed. Large hands held her while others wrapped a tourniquet around her arm.

Vague pictures, a kaleidoscope of incoherent pictures began to flood through her. A stretcher carried her up a gangplank, tightly bound on the bunk. An ambulance. An injection in the arm as she struggled to rise and tell them.

During the first hours in the Bermuda hospital she was incoherent. When the medication had worn off, she’d tried to talk, to explain that someone had dragged her into the bathroom and slit her wrist. They’d mentioned the small knife on the bathroom floor, the impossibility of anyone else being in her room … impossibility she’d asked, improbability they’d said.

When they’d started with the medication she became hysterical. The next two days were a jumble of pictures spasmodically flashed across her mind; the ship’s cabin, a solicitous nurse, her raging attempt to make them understand. So many hours, too many days of that level of tension had drained her of all emotion.

The day room held the memories of all the people she’d ever touched. Grandmothers knitting before the television, high school beaus playing pool and girls drinking coffee and chatting. White pantsuit gently grabs her elbow and says, “There’s coffee on the table.”

She sits at a table next to tight dungarees with long, blonde hair. Tight dungarees turns to her vivaciously. “Hi, I’m Judy. I’m an O.D.”

“O.D?”

“Overdose. I took forty Seconals. You’re on the wrist kick, huh?”

“My wrist? Oh, yes. It was cut by someone.”

“By someone? Don’t tell that to the shrink or you’ll never get out.”

“Oh.”

“I tried to blame mine on my boyfriend, but they pointed out the error of my ways.” She laughed. “The pills were my boyfriend’s though. He kept saying over and over again, ‘Christ, forty Seconals, Christ, forty Seconals.’ The jerk.”

“We’re in Hartford.”

“White Psychiatric Clinic. You know, we’re lucky to be here. Friend of mine was taken to the State Hospital, and that’s a real snake pit. Why’d you do it?”

“It’s a strange story. There’s a woman named …” Tavie saw Judy’s eyes go opaque and her body shift slightly away. “I … I really don’t know.”

“Well, they’ll find out for you before you leave here. Hey, you’re going to spill your coffee.”

The cup was clattering a tattoo on the saucer and Tavie methodically placed it on the table. She looked at Judy with new perspective, and saw a not unpretty face framed by long hair “You look too cheerful to take forty Seconals.”

“I’m usually in a pretty good mood, but he made me mad.”

Tavie’s father had given her an ant farm on her eighth birthday, and she had put it on her window sill so that back light would make their industrious activities clear. They worked hard and built their city, and each day she’d hurry home from school to see how much farther they’d progressed. In a few days the sand was honeycombed with passages and chambers. She had picked up the ant farm and shaken it as hard as she could.

Starched pantsuit stood next to the table. “The doctor would like to speak to you, Mrs. Garland.”

The counseling office was barely able to hold a desk and two chairs, but at least her chair was comfortable. The doctor was a year or two younger than she; things changed in life when doctors and policemen were younger than you.

“Good morning, Mrs. Garland. How do you feel?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Well, good. You’re a lucky girl.”

“Yes, I’m very lucky.”

“This morning I’d like to get to know you a little better, perhaps a little more information than is on the admitting form. I see you went to college.”

“Yes. I have a B.A. in English. A useful background for composing suicide notes.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you had written one. It might have been useful if someone gave me a copy.”

“I didn’t write one, Doctor. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? I mean, don’t most suicides write a last letter or make a phone call, or something?”

“Not necessarily. What would you have said in your letter if you had written it?”

“Oh, God. I didn’t kill myself.”

“That’s something we all agree on.”

“A poor figure of speech.”

“What did you mean?”

She hovered on the brink. The walls of the small room gave her an overpowering feeling of claustrophobia. A part of her wanted to stand and scream, to throw things at this pompous young doctor. “How long will I be here, Doctor?”

“That depends. Right now you’re under a thirty-day commitment.”

“Thirty days?”

“That doesn’t mean you’ll necessarily stay here that long. That’s the law in this state for involuntary commitment. With a doctor’s affidavit a patient may be sent to the hospital for up to thirty days; after that time a formal court hearing is required, unless the patient either signs himself in as a voluntary patient or is released.”

“Who committed me?”

“I did. Based on the affidavit of the Bermudian doctor, your condition on arrival, and what your husband has told me.”

“Then you have talked to Rob.”

“At length. He’s very concerned over your well-being. You’ve had several close calls recently.”

“Yes, I suppose I have. Doctor, do you think that I’m psychotic?”

“We don’t use that term anymore. It’s relative for each individual.”

“However, if I persist in my delusion that someone is attempting to kill me, someone that no one else ever sees … there’d be a label for that, wouldn’t there?”

“We try not to label emotional conditions, Mrs. Garland. They can too easily be misunderstood.”

“In the oldy days, Doctor, In the days when people were either nuts or not nuts, you’d call someone who insisted that people were out to get her as a paranoid, wouldn’t you?”

“If you want to label delusions of persecution in any manner, you could call it that. But it’s hardly that simple.”

“Now, Doctor, if a naive housewife found out her husband was having an affair—and she wanted to keep him—and to break the hold of the other woman—wanted to discredit the other woman and gain sympathy for herself, what would you call that?”

“Once again, we try not to characterize emotional states by the old-fashioned terms. Each patient is considered individually. I wouldn’t call the situation you’re describing as anything except an irrational way to meet a very threatening situation.”

“If, as you say, my husband is concerned over my well-being, my plan has succeeded, hasn’t it?”

“Are you sure he was ever not concerned about you?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Garland, do you have an idea as to why you did it?”

“No.”

“Did your husband’s affair … Mrs. Garland, are you listening?”

She realized that she’d have to listen, that she’d have to frame the right answers. “Yes, I am, Doctor.”

“Now. let’s consider it again. It will be difficult to make any progress unless we discover the whys. Exactly what were you thinking when you cut your wrist?”

“Thinking?”

More harshly. “Yes, thinking.”

“I … I don’t know. My husband making love to another woman. Yes, the picture of him in someone else’s arms.”

The doctor was impatient. His fingers curled over a slim mechanical pencil. “Let’s go back during the day. That day.”

“It was like any other.”

“You always live in Bermuda and drive motorbikes off cliffs?”

“No, not usually.”

“Usually?”

“A figure of speech.”

“I’m interested in that remark.”

She fought for control. She had a gigantic impulse to pick up something and smash it into his face. She saw from the decor of the room that there was little available to throw. Probably the room was purposely constructed and furnished that way. She must control herself, she must find the right answers, the answers that they wanted to hear. “Why are you interested in that remark, Doctor?”

“Let us not play word games, Mrs. Garland.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good.” The doctor chewed on the end of the thin mechanical pencil and stared at the wall.

The day slanted forward and after lunch she and Judy played records in the music room. She half-listened to Judy’s boyfriend chatter, and yet the talk provided a soothing way of enduring the day.

“You didn’t tell the shrink that you’re seeing dragons in your tea cup?” Judy asked.

“No. Discretion is the better part.”

A tall, bearded man of Judy’s age stood in the doorway of the music room and sardonically regarded Judy. “Hi, Chicken. Enjoying your rest?”

“How much do you want for your forty Seconals, jerk? I’ll sell my bod on campus.”

“That’d take too long.”

“Scratch off.”

He sat on the divan next to Judy. “Give me forty seconds—one per pill.”

“This is Tavie, Monster.”

“Hi, Tavie Monster.”

“Knock it off, jerk,” Judy said.

“Come on, Chicken.”

As Tavie watched, his arm went around Judy’s shoulders and the girl in the tight dungarees instinctively hunched toward the bearded man. “I had better go,” Tavie said. Since neither seemed inclined to answer she went back to her room.

After dinner, when the sun was gone, she sat in her room and waited for Rob. Eventually there was a knock on the open door. She felt his hesitating presence and turned toward him.

A smile flickered briefly across his face to be replaced by an expression of dumbfoundedness. He held two large paper bags in his arms and she noticed that, unlike this usually neat man, one of his collars poked over his coat.

“Can I come in?”

She stood to meet him. He juggled the bags a moment, placed them on the bed and awkwardly kissed her. “How do you feel, Tavie?”

“Just a little headache and my arms are sore.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“Yes, very lucky.”

“Hey, they tell me you only have to stay a week if you agree to see a psychiatrist as an outpatient.”

“That’s fine. For how long—the rest of my life?”

His mouth opened to reply, but instead he sat on the bed and began to pull things from the bags with a jovial air. Books, candy, a writing tablet, and six brassieres tumbled over the bed.

“If you make a list of what you need, I’ll bring it tomorrow,” he said. “How’s the food? Institutional food is always lousy, but I’ll tell you one thing, this place isn’t bad. I was really surprised by that day room. I wouldn’t mind spending a few days here myself with that nice pool table, and that girl with the long blonde hair.”

“Judy.”

“What’s she in for?”

“O.D.”

“Oh.” His words trailed off and she felt his puzzlement, but didn’t know what to say to him. She turned and went into the bathroom feeling rays of panic emitting from him. He needn’t worry, there weren’t any locks on the doors and the mirror was built into the wall. She stood quietly and could hear the muffled noise of his pacing in the room outside.

“The children are fine,” he yelled at her. “Your mother’s come down to stay awhile.”

“Fine,” she yelled back.

She couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever, in fact if she stayed much longer he’d probably call aides for assistance. It was imperative that she face him, at least to enlist his cooperation in getting out of here. One week, that wouldn’t be too bad. It was obvious now that she’d have to play a role with the doctors. Would they believe her? Probably, since the story had all the elements of truth. After all, she was upset about Helen and Rob, and she certainly was in a distraught state. Yes, it would fit together. She went back into the room.

“I want to leave here, Rob. I’m ready to go home as soon as they allow me.”

“We need you home, Tavie.”

“I know you do. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not. You know, I feel bad enough, God only knows there’s enough guilt for me to carry on my shoulders. Please, let’s stop the merry-go-round and get our lives in order.”

“I want that more than anything,” she said. “I had my first session with the doctor.”

“Do you like him? I mean, do you have a sense of rapport with him?”

“Oh, yes. He’s pretty well up on things, in fact he told me about your long talk.”

“I had to, Tavie. If you’re going to be helped, he has to know everything of importance.”

“Of course, you did the right thing in telling him.”

“You seem much calmer.”

“I am. I really am. For the first time in a long while I know where I stand. For the first time I know where you and the doctor are really at. Helen couldn’t have been in Bermuda. I mean, the evidence speaks for itself. Right?”

“Right.”

“She’d have to get through customs with her birth certificate and other identification, and they proved that no Helen Fraser entered. She’d have to bring a car to the island in her purse or something. Add it all up, mix it around with a withdrawn, frightened woman worried over her husband and you get … you get this.” She waved her slashed wrist at him.

“Back to the old Octavia Garland.”

“Yep. And there’s a great deal of solace in knowing what has to be done.”

She went over to the louvered window and stared out into the darkening street. High trees lined the winding drive of the hospital, and their branches hung over the road creating spattered designs where the streetlights fell. She held up her hands and noticed their tremble was gone. There was no perspiration on her palms and the weak feeling in her stomach was gone. It did help to resolve things, it helped a great deal.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Maggie Fitzgerald talked too loud, laughed too long, wore too much make-up and walked with a swish of her rear—she was, in short, a slut. She had little education, not nearly enough to impede that direct line of desire to instant gratification that Will talked about. Tavie Garland sat at the bar of the Boar’s Head Pub in Hamilton, Bermuda, and concentrated on her new identity as Margaret Fitzgerald. In order to completely assimilate the new personality she had to think out each action and nuance, and that had started with a sway of her hips as she boarded the plane at Boston’s Logan Airport.

The ten days at the White Clinic had given her ample time to think. They were long days, broken only by the daily session with the doctor, and she spent her time in the creation of one story for the doctor, and in trying vainly to piece together what she really thought had happened. Inevitably she kept coming back to the cold logic of the impossibility of Helen being in Bermuda, in Bermuda with an automobile. Since Helen hadn’t entered Bermuda under her own name, she had to have used someone else’s name and identification.

She had called the State Bureau of Vital Statistics from a pay phone in the hospital corridor.

The answering operator spoke in a dreary monotone. “You may come by in person or send a letter with your name, place, and date of birth, and parents’ name. Send one dollar in cash or money order for the small facsimile or two dollars for the large.”

On the day she was released from the hospital, Tavie had gone to the library. The obituary pages of the Hartford Register informed her that Margaret Fitzgerald, age thirty-five, formerly of Bolton, Connecticut, had been killed in an automobile accident in Los Angeles, California. Tavie had gone through the newspapers for the year 1937 until she found Margaret Fitzgerald’s birth announcement. Within a week after forwarding the information to the Bureau of Vital Statistics she had received the birth certificate at her recently rented post office box.

Last week, as soon as her cast was removed, she booked the flight to Bermuda in Margaret’s name. Early this morning Rob had kissed her good-by, and said that he hoped she had a pleasant overnight shopping trip in New York. Once on the highway, she turned north toward Boston.

Her recent actions amazed her, but she attributed most of them to her attempt to assimilate the Maggie Fitzgerald personality. It was an appropriate name, she thought, and as she opened her pocketbook to pay for the drink, she could see the new identification under the acetate covers of her new wallet.

Oddly enough, it had been the Social Security Administration who had given her the most difficulty. Tavie had decided that in all probability Maggie already had a social security card, and that file might be marked deceased. She decided that by using an odd middle name the smiliarity in names would go unnoticed. There were a hundred Margaret Fitzgeralds in Connecticut, and God only knows how many in the national files, but how many Margaret Fanning Fitzgeralds could there be? Even so, the aged clerk at the local office had been difficult, continued questioning Tavie about a prior card, and seemed incapable of understanding that Margaret Fitzgerald had never before had gainful employment.

It had taken Tavie’s best boarding-school accent to convince the clerk that gainful employment for the Fitzgeralds had never been necessary. With a social security card and a birth certificate she felt confident enough to apply for a driver’s license. As an added safety precaution, and to avoid questioning, she had taken a driver’s ed course. Both the teacher and the State Examiner had continually urged Miss Fitzgerald to relax and eventually they congratulated her on successfully obtaining her license.

Also in her purse was a checkbook from a Hartford bank with neatly monogrammed checks in Margaret Fitzgerald’s name. An account opened by mail, with all documents sent to Maggie’s post box. She had typed two letters and addressed them to Maggie at the post box.

Margaret Fitzgerald had a distinct personality created in the letters. Maggie, she had decided, was divorced from an army sergeant after a very unhappy marriage. She worked as a clerk-typist, when she worked. On the recent plane ride Margaret read True Romances, and chewed gum while flirting with the man across the aisle.

Margaret checked into a cheap cottage colony in Hamilton and made appropriate complaints to the landlady. Now, at a few minutes after noon, Margaret drank her cocktail sloppily and ordered a second.

“May I buy you a drink?”

She looked at the tall American, with the midwestern accent, standing next to her stool. He seemed to take her appraisal as tacit approval and slid onto the stool next to her. He signaled the bartender for two drinks.

“You from that boat parked on the street out there?” she said.

“That, dear Lady, is a ship. It is not parked, it is docked, and will be docked for two days and two glorious nights. Yes, I am from that boat.”

“Screw off, buster.”

“What?”

“You heard me, fuck off.”

Surprise clicked across his eyes as he got to his feet. “Well, I’m sorry.” He slapped two bills on the counter, gave her a puzzled look from the doorway, and quickly left the pub.

She could do without Mr. Middle-America on the lookout for a two-night stand. She reminded herself again to think of the barmaid at The Pen and Pencil Bar. Yes, that would be Maggie’s personality. She put her head in her hands and tried to imagine that girl, what was her name—Laura something. How would she have reacted to that man … just like she had, Tavie decided.

“Are you all right?”

The voice to her right was slightly British. She looked up at his round face partially hidden by a huge handlebar moustache.

“Yeah, I’m O.K.,” she said. “That guy was bugging me.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s gone.”

“Do you live here?”

“Yes, why?”

“Nothing. I just like to mix with the natives when I’m in a strange land.”

Tavie-Margaret found Leslie Slatter a more considerate lover than she had a right to expect. He had a small pink cottage overlooking Hamilton and Hamilton Harbor. That didn’t mean too much, she decided, as most homes here overlooked the water. On his bedroom dresser was a photograph of a rather attractive and austere young woman, his fiancée in England, he said.

“She looks well bred,” she’d said.

“Very,” he replied, and they had gone to bed.

Once during the night she had gotten up and stood looking out the window.

“What is it, Maggie?” he asked.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said.

“Oh, come back to bed. You sound just like her.”

In the morning she offered to drive, him to work so she could do some shopping with the car. He looked at her a little dubiously, but relented after all. Where could she go? She drove him to the bank downtown. As he got out of the car he’d kissed her and whispered, “Take care, little animal. I’ll meet you for lunch in the Pub.”

She had laughed and driven to the airport where she caught the ten A.M. to Boston. She left his car keys over the sun visor.

She made the decision on the flight back to Boston. There would be some difficulties in the planning—but with enough thought they could be solved. The personality of Maggie Fitzgerald had to slip from her, but Tavie hoped that she could retain some of the strength and resolve that she’d created in the other woman’s character.

Now that the car and her appearance in Bermuda were solved, the mystery, as far as Helen was concerned, was now complete. How had Helen known of her weekly trips to Handle Island, the secret cove, the Bermuda trip, the exact location of their Maine house? There was only one logical solution to those questions.

She was going to kill Helen Fraser.

She lay back in the seat and shut her eyes to order her priorities.

Tavie had Helen tied to a stake in the center of Town Square. She laughed as she placed the neatly tied bundles of faggots around the screaming woman’s feet. She placed the last bundle between the woman’s legs and stepped back to admire the neat symmetry of the piled wood. It was perfect. She applied a match and watched the dry bundles burst into flame. The fire burned rapidly, and soon the smoke curled around Helen’s face—and the face disappeared in crumpled ashes like the glossy photographs.

Tavie laughed and called for the devil. “Come down, Oh, Great One. Strike horror in this burning woman’s soul. Loose your beasts, trample her into the ground.”

The screaming stopped, the fire died, and nothing remained but a small pile of gray ashes.

She awoke to find herself laughing. She realized with annoyance that it would be impossible to go back to sleep. Dressing quickly she went downstairs and wandered aimlessly around the house. In the kitchen she put tea water on to heat, and sat at her small desk. She chewed on the end of a pencil and began to make notes on a legal pad.

Fall was rapidly approaching, she had already decided that September would be an appropriate time to kill Helen.

Will would undoubtedly be successful in locating Helen, and at that point it would be up to Tavie to carry the act to completion. Since she had no intention of being suspected, accused, or tried for the crime, the problem of strategy took on a great importance. It was a question of working backwards, first the method, then back into the construction of the whole facade.

She began to make her initial list of possibilities.

Automobile

Advantages: Easily accessible with flexibility of mobility. Allows for wide latitude in so-called “accidental” hit-and-run. Disadvantages: Ignorance on her part of the most rudimentary auto mechanics. Requires opportunity which may not be of her choosing, therefore inhibiting potential alibis.

It might be possible to research the subject. Libraries had large sections on car maintenance. Loosening brake drums or fixing steering wheels so that the car would lose control had a certain appeal; but it also helped if one’s victim was planning a trip to Pike’s Peak.

Knives were a distinct possibility, every household had a multitude of varieties. She walked over to the wall rack containing her knives and picked out the largest. It lay loosely in the palm of her hand. Her own recent experience with knives had shown that they were a bloody method of life extinction. She hardly had the strength to attempt what Helen had tried on her, and therefore would have to plunge a knife of this size deep into the other woman. The blood, necessity of close physical contact, and danger, held a repugnance for her. She discarded the possibility of knives or other sharp instruments from spears to hatchets.

In the cupboard near the knife rack was the hypodermic needle. She’d read somewhere that you could inject air into a person’s bloodstream and cause an embolism. How you got someone to stand still for that was beyond her.

Bows and arrows interested her momentarily until she remembered her archery lessons in boarding school. Not only had she had difficulty in drawing back the bowstring, but she had almost accidentally shot the instructor. A September deadline precluded the type of expertise exotic weapons required.

It was useless at this stage of the game to regret she didn’t have a black belt in karate. Since Helen was bigger and stronger, all methods requiring manual strength were automatically ruled out. She’d once read a story of a woman who beat her victim to death with a frozen leg of lamb and then cooked the evidence. The possibility of enticing Helen to a dinner party and then beating her with a frozen roast seemed a trifle remote.

Hiring a professional killer held a great deal of attraction. In that case the employer held a large dinner party the night of the deed, didn’t get involved with the victim, and had a perfectly lovely time. Unfortunately there weren’t any professional killers in their circle of friends, you couldn’t advertise in the classified, and she doubted that their checking account held a balance sufficiently large enough to interest a “hit man” from Chicago—even if she could find one.

A surrogate killer—Oliver hardly filled the bill. As cynical as Will might appear, he still didn’t fit her picture of a cool and steely-eyed killer. Even if she could talk him into it, he’d probably get polluted and botch up the whole thing.

In the movies they always devised elaborate mechanical methods of murder. Her formal science education had ended with Botany 101, and as she recalled, the Venus Carnivorous plant was not quite large enough to devour Helen—breasts and all.

She was hardly qualified to make plastic explosives or letter bombs—but she could do research. Her ignorance of the subject would probably allow the police, with their sophisticated methods, to quickly track her down. She had a picture of herself in court with twelve old lady librarians testifying to the hours she’d spent reading countless books on explosives.

Her lack of mechanical expertise ruled out gases, poisons, and electrocution. She was amazed that her list was narrowing so rapidly. She chewed the end of her pencil and furrowed her brow.

“I’m hungry, Mommy.” Little Karen in feet-pajamas stood in the doorway behind her.

“Karen, darling. I’ve told you a hundred times that those pajamas with the rabbit feet are for the wintertime. They’re much too hot for the summer.”

“They’re all I could find.”

“There’s cereal on the table and milk in the refrigerator,” she said absently.

“I want pancakes.”

“Not this morning, Honey. Mommy’s thinking.” She kissed the little girl on the forehead, and with a slight pat on the rump propelled her toward the refrigerator.

“Why don’t you write things like Peter Rabbit?”

“Yes, Honey. I’ll do that.” She stared down at her list. There was another grouping that she would entitle “physical killing” … not with a rock or by strangulation, but drowning, falling, or hanging. Helen’s expertise in the water ruled out drowning, and how did you entice someone to fall off a cliff or place his neck in a noose? She checked that category off the list.

“Hi, Mom. How about pancakes?” Little Rob said as he peeped at Karen’s cereal bowl in disgust.

“Not this morning. Toast a bun in the toaster and put some jelly on it.”

Guns were the most distinct possibility.

A few years ago Rob had taken her plinking with a twenty-two rifle. The twenty-two seemed more like a toy than a weapon. A heavier rifle would be harder to come by, and then she’d read how they could trace bullets …

Pistols were small and easily carried, but the cowboys in their shoot-outs would stand ten or twenty feet apart. Rob had said that a handgun was completely inaccurate in anyone’s hand but an expert’s. Most pistol murders happened like Helen’s. The victim knows the murderer, and they are practically sitting in each other’s laps when the crime takes place.

She ripped the paper up impatiently.

“Poem no good, Mom?” Little Rob said through a mouthful of English muffin.

“No good at all,” she replied.

The tea water was boiling and she made herself a cup. Surely, there was one good method of murder. After all, people killed each other every day.

Tavie Garland reached orgasm for the first time in her life in Will’s apartment. She didn’t know whether that delighted or saddened her, and she turned to run her hands over Will’s back as he dozed. The smell of musk seemed to fill the room, and that had never happened before either.

She got out of bed and wandered through the small apartment. She noticed that the bed was a box spring and mattress supported by cement blocks, and that a straight chair and bureau were the only other furnishings in the small room. In the living room her bare feet could feel the cigarettes ground out in the nap of the rug. Books overflowed from the bookcases and covered every available surface. Beer cans and empty liquor bottles stood near overflowing ashtrays. In one corner, a stack of newspapers reached halfway to the ceiling; in another, fishing rods and a gun case stood at sloppy attention. She decided that the kitchen would be a worse shambles and vowed to avoid it.

“You’ve got a cute bottom,” Will was sitting up in bed pouring a drink.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a nude bow.

“Have a drink.”

He handed her a water tumbler half-filled with rye. “Do you think this will replace pink ladies?” she asked.

“Quicker—cuts out the middleman.”

“Will?”

“Hmm.”

“If you were going to kill someone, how’d you do it?”

“Like Helen Fraser for instance?”

“For instance.”

“I’d screw her to death with a bottle of booze.”

“Seriously … well, half-seriously.”

He lay back in bed and contemplated the ceiling for a moment. “You know, I’ve covered a lot of murder, manslaughter and aggravated assault cases. Eighty percent of the cases involve one family member trying to do in another, the other twenty percent are robberies. In robbery, it’s usually the handgun; in family fights, I’ve heard of everything from garden shears to dynamite. Still, guns seem to lead the popularity contest. I guess I’d take a gun.”

“Guns are hard to get and can be traced.”

“Handguns are hard to get in this state for everyone but the guy who wants to knock over a liquor store. Anyway, too unreliable. Now, a shotgun is easily obtainable, no ballistics evidence, and at ten feet you could hardly miss. Forget it, Missy. It’s not your cup of tea. You’d have to beat her to death with a volume of Robert Browning.”

“Not heavy enough.”

He laughed. “Hey, what time do you have to be home?”

“Anytime. Rob’s away on a business trip and my mother’s with the children. I’m covered.”

“You’re becoming a real pro.”

“Did you know that I made it?”

“Delightful.” He half-drained his glass.

“Listen to me. I mean really made it. For the first time.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No.”

“Bet you say that to all your lovers, Baby. You aren’t thinking of cleaning up the place, are you?”

“Hell, no.”

“That’s good. When the broads start the mother bit—picking the butts off the floor, I’m in for trouble … that’s when they go.”

“It’s a fine pigpen. I love to wallow here, but I wouldn’t want to live here.”

He reached over and began to fondle her breast. She felt warmth between her thighs as her nipples hardened. “I like your breasts,” he said.

“They’re too small. I’ve always been self-conscious about them.”

“Maybe that’s why you never made it. How many lovers have you had?”

“Well now, let’s see. You, my husband, my father, and the third battalion of the U.S. Marines.”

“Cut the shit. How many? I need research for my book.”

“What book?”

“The one about you. I’ve already got the title, ‘The Lady’s Not for Screwing.’”

“From you that’s practically a compliment.”

“How many?”

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously. I always babble like this.”

“All right. You, my husband, and the first time.”

“Tell me about the first time.”

“It was lousy. I was twenty-two years old and had never been screwed. He was in my class, we were both seniors, and we made it on the back seat of his car. It was crummy.”

“And that’s all?”

“Believe it or not, no one had ever asked me before that.”

“You were hardly the aggressive type.”

“Hardly. And you—do you always rape your conquests?”

“You were hardly raped tonight.”

“Is that right?” she said. Her hands began to move across his body, over his chest and stomach, and down across his thighs. “Tell me.”

“I’m the breaking horse of the newspaper. All new girl reporters, secretaries, anything under fifty and below 300 pounds, is exposed to Will Haversham. After their initiation they’re thrown into the pool of general consumption.”

“How romantic.”

She bent over his thighs and her mouth closed over him. His hands gently caressed the back of her head as she began to move over him. He groaned and she increased the tempo.

“Christ, that’s good,” he said.

She looked up at him. “This is the whore in me; maybe you’d prefer the woman in white gloves.”

“Screw the gloves, don’t stop.”

“Do something for me?”

“Anything, come on, will you?”

She bent over him again for a few moments and then lifted her head. “Find Helen for me, Will. Find Helen as soon as you can.”

Oliver and Tavie were having tea in her living room. She felt that somehow Oliver was out of place here, that he didn’t really exist except in the confines of his own study. Even now, as he sat in Rob’s easy chair, he seemed somewhat uncomfortable, as if the room were more attuned to Rob’s laughter than Oliver’s contemplative moods.

“Thank you so much for coming, Oliver.”

“I’ve been worrying about you, Octavia.”

“I’m fine, really I am. They’ve got my psyche straightened out and everything put back together.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

He examined her and drank his tea slowly. To break the moment she got to her feet and started to the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I have something I want you to read.” In the kitchen she took her latest poem from the desk and returned to the living room.

He put on his reading glasses and read the poem slowly. He seemed to go back and read it again. After finishing the poem a second time, Oliver looked over the rim of his glasses in a disapproving and professorial manner. “I can’t use this, Octavia. ‘Reflections from a Mad-house,’ that’s not your style.”

“My recent experiences have changed me.”

“The bent is disturbing.”

“What do you mean by that, Oliver?”

“It’s … it’s almost irrational. Your work has always been characterized by a clear and precise style. This … this is chaos. Disorderly, unclear, and chaotic.”

“Don’t you sometimes think life is chaotic, Oliver? The best laid plans and all that sort of thing. There are too many variables—it’s hard to plan.”

He took off his glasses and swung them slowly back and forth. “That’s what you and I have always tried to do, Octavia. We’ve tried to put an order into nature.”

“That’s it, Oliver. We’ve tried to do it with words, with feelings, and all the time we’ve sat in our musty studies the world has swirled around outside.”

Before he could answer, the phone rang, and her fingers lashed out to pick up the extension. “Hello,” she said.

“Hanging in there,” Will said.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“I’ve got my payment.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t need any more magazines.”

“Cut the crap, Hon. I know where Helen is.”

“If you insist, I’ll look at your list. Stop by tomorrow.” She hung up quickly and turned back to Oliver. “What I’m saying is that for my whole life I’ve been trodden on. Rob’s affair would never have happened, a lot of things would never have happened, if I hadn’t been such a dodo.”

“You can’t rail out at the world to get what you want.”

“You can stand up and fight for it.”

“In some ways, not like a Helen, not like an animal.”

Tavie looked out the window to see birds fluttering over their feeder. There must be a dozen varieties out there, she thought. In fact, last year they’d gotten a bird book and identified ten species. “You know,” she said to Oliver, “early this summer we took a cat to Maine with us. Every day, I swear, every single day, that cat came to the front door with a bird in its mouth. You’ve been up there, you remember how delightful it is to wake up in the morning with the birds on all the trees. That cat hadn’t been there a week before they were gone, those he didn’t get wouldn’t come near our house. We got rid of that cat, Oliver. And when he was gone the birds returned.”

“Don’t carry that analogy too far, Octavia.”

She laughed. “Of course not, aren’t analogies always figurative?”

He agreed with her, and she wondered if he knew she lied. By tomorrow she would know where Helen was, and now she knew how she was going to do it.

CHAPTER NINE

The highway followed the river gorge with high hills to each side. Tavie drove easily and smoothly. The trees in northwest Connecticut were already beginning to turn to fall foliage. Although they were only a few miles from Hartford, they’d left the plains of the Connecticut River Valley and were now in the rolling foothills of the Berkshires.

She glanced quickly at Will who sat with his arm around her shoulders. “How come I always have to drive?” she said.

“To give me two free hands.”

“Oh, really? Where are we going?”

“We turn onto her road in a few more miles.” He put his hand under her shirt and began to massage her breast. “Christ, Tavie, don’t you ever wear a brassiere?”

“Do you really think I need one? Now cut it out, I’m too old for groping in cars.”

“Bullcrap. No grope, no directions.”

“I swear to God, Will. I never met anyone more decadent.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I said knock it off.” She hit him in the Adam’s apple with her elbow.

“Hey, that hurt.”

“It was meant to.”

“You’re becoming a tough cookie.”

“Survival.”

“Why do you stay with him?” Will said.

“Who?”

“Your husband, stupid. Who else?”

“Why shouldn’t I? We’ve been happily married for twelve years.”

“I bet he’s screwed around the whole time.”

“Just this once.” She began to wonder and to doubt Rob.

“That you know of.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“I’m always interested in the personal lives of my mistresses.”

“I sleep with you only because you’re useful to me.”

“I know, but you also like it.”

“You’re a dirty old man.”

“Dirty yes, old no.”

She turned to look at him as he stared morosely out the window. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, she thought. In fact, he even seemed to be taking better care of his clothes, and this morning she’d found his apartment had been cleaned … His yearly cleaning, he’d quipped, but he looked a little sheepish.

“Did you love your wife, Will?” she said.

“Crap. There’s no such thing … except maybe for children. People like to screw and kids need parents, society created the rest of the fable.”

“You can sleep with lots of people, why me?”

“Because there’s no string with you. Young chicks eventually get the marriage syndrome.”

“How do you know I won’t get hooked on sex and want to run away to Pango Pango?”

“Turn to the right here,” he said. “It’s about two miles down the road. You’d be better off with me than that idiot you’re married to.”

“You’ve never met him, how do you know he’s an idiot?”

“Any guy who takes Helen over you is a jerk.”

“I think you’re a romantic.”

“Bullshit. Slow down, that’s the house on the right.”

She slowed the car to thirty as they passed the house. The area was heavily wooded, and the next neighboring house was a quarter of a mile down the road. Will was thrown against the door as she noticed a logging road to the left and quickly swerved into it.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he said.

“Just wait.” The logging road ran parallel to the main road for a hundred yards before turning into the woods. She drove down the rutted path until opposite Helen’s house and stopped the car. At this point the trail was fifty feet from the road or a hundred feet from Helen’s house. The house could be partially seen through the underbrush.

She examined every detail—it was a long low ranch house of common design. She imagined that the long room over the garage would be the living room; the room to the right with the large window, the kitchen; the breakfast nook overlooking the front lawn, and the bedroom past that down a rear hall.

“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.

Will leaned against the sink and watched her with concern. “Are you ready for a couple of questions?” he said.

“I’m botching everything, aren’t I?”

“Christ, yes. I am a little curious though, which one were you planning to shoot, or were you waiting for the embrace to get them both with one shot?”

“That’s not funny. He’s supposed to be in Philadelphia.”

“And I could be playing liar’s poker at The Pen and Pencil instead of sitting for hours in the boondocks getting raped by chiggers.”

“How long were you there?”

“Too long.”

“How will you get your car?”

“I’ll have one of the copyboys drive me out there tomorrow.”

“Am I supposed to thank you?”

“It might be in order. Unless you have a yen to spend the next ten years on the prison farm.”

“I wouldn’t have been caught.”

“For a broad that’s supposed to be smart, you’ve got the most naive goddamn ideas. Society has created a very unique establishment concerning broads shot by high-powered rifles—called the police. Out there it would be the state police, who, by the way, are pretty goddamn efficient.”

“She deserves to die.”

“Leave that to God.”

“I wouldn’t have been caught.”

“No, maybe Rob could have been arrested for it.”

“I told you, I didn’t even know he was there.”

“So, if I buy that … you know that rifles can be traced. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out where you got it. Maine? Right?”

“Yes, I stole it.”

“Bright. Don’t you think it’s possible for the police to find that out?”

“I don’t know.”

“And where were you supposed to be tonight?”

“At the library.”

“They know you at the library.”

“Of course they do. I spend hours and hours there and … Oh, I see what you mean.”

“What were you going to do with the rifle?”

“Wipe my fingerprints off and leave it. They’d never trace it.”

“Jesus H. Christ. Didn’t you consider throwing it in the reservoir like I did?”

“No.”

“You can’t go around killing people, even Helen, and not expect there to be little ripples of interest.”

“I didn’t plan things well, did I?”

“That is the understatement of the year.”

“Will you help me?”

“God, no!” Will put his arms on her shoulders as she stared into her drink. “Listen, Tavie. That son-of-a-bitch husband of yours isn’t worth it.”

“Well, at least I’ve got a few of my questions answered.”

“I can’t understand the bastard, Helen over you. You’re probably better in bed.”

“I’m not with him.”

He tilted her chin so their eyes were near. “Leave the prick. Look at this place.”

“What place?”

“The apartment. Even the oven. Go ahead, open my oven and peer into the sparkling … Christ, I sound like a goddamn commercial. I’m trying to tell you something, you dumb broad.”

She knew what he was going to say and wished he wouldn’t. Her thoughts were confused, she couldn’t deal with him tonight. “Don’t say it, Will.”

“Why not? After sitting in the bushes for two nights and getting plastered, I have the right to say anything.”

“You’re supposed to be the original sewer-fighter.”

“I’ve decided to take a war bride.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, tell me how you feel or I’m taking three sleeping pills and hitting the sack.”

“I don’t know what to say. You can’t love me, I’m a potential murderess.”

“I don’t believe you could ever pull the trigger, but cut the crap out anyway.”

“Oh, let’s go to bed—I do love you there.”

“And out of bed?”

“You’re hardly ever sober.”

He shrugged. “Sacktime is better than nothing. But no more plots.”

“I promise.” And she knew she lied.

Helen lay in the upright coffin with hands folded across her chest. Tavie stood, with bow poised, a dozen feet in front of the coffin. It took all her strength to pull the bowstring back and loose the arrow. The arrow, with its rubber tip, hit and stuck to Helen’s forehead. The other woman smiled, and stuck out her tongue.

Tavie picked up a rifle and pointed it directly at the other woman’s heart and pulled the trigger again and again. The stream of water played gently over Helen. Tavie threw the gun away in frustration. Taking the long knife, she gingerly approached the coffin, raised her arm to strike and …

“Get it over with,” the gigantic voice boomed.

She plunged the knife into Helen’s breast. Nothing happened, no blood, no response, and she examined the knife. The blade of the knife was on a spring and slid back into the handle when pressure was applied.

“You through now?” Helen said, and stepped from the coffin. “You finally through?” Tavie began to backstep as the giant came toward her.

Slowly. Helen took her arms away from her chest and reached for Tavie.

Tavie awoke with the sheet partially twisted around her neck. She turned over in bed and saw that the bedside clock showed five A.M. These recurring nightmares would have to stop. They were coming with such regularity that she was afraid to go to sleep. They would have to stop—they must stop.

The Rockweld Tennis and Pool Club was in a valley beyond Hartford. It was in a suburban area where farms gradually gave way to housing developments, and golf clubs were rapidly becoming the most important cash crop. She and Rob weren’t members of Rockweld, although they had been asked. The expenditure of the money hardly seemed justified since the bulk of their summers were spent in Maine.

Jack Warren, an officer of Connecticut Casualty, was Rob’s best friend. The bulk of their social evenings were spent with Jack and his wife Miriam. Since the Warren’s were club members they often asked them to the club functions, and allowed the Garlands the use of club privileges when needed.

Japanese lanterns were strung around the pool and patio. The small white-tables each had a flickering candle under glass, and near the diving board a small combo played nostalgic music.

The party was well in progress as they walked up the few steps to the pool patio. They were late, and Rob had been very solicitous as to whether she was too tired and did she feel up to the party, but she had insisted they go.

Jack Warren spied them from the other side of the pool and waved. They ordered Tom Collinses from the bartender, and drinks in hand, made their way through the crowd to where Jack and Miriam were sitting.

Jack, wearing an outrageous red sports coat, stood to greet them. “Hi, people, pull up a log.”

Miriam, with her perpetual smile, turned to Tavie amiably. “Oh, Tavie, Jack was just telling me how you had to go to the island the other day. Can anything be salvaged?”

“From what she tells me, we have enough firewood for the next century,” Rob answered. “We’re considering making it all into a large raft and floating the whole mess to Hartford.”

“That’s the only way to take something like that,” Jack said. “Hey, tell us about Bermuda.”

“The funniest thing was this young honeymoon couple who had a table next to ours. Well, anyway, they …”

Rob had launched into his favorite Bermuda anecdote that Tavie had already heard. He unconsciously lowered his voice and bent toward Jack as he approached the dirty ending of the story. Miriam put her arm on Tavie and smiled. Tavie often thought that Miriam would smile at her own funeral; that the mortician, to make her appear lifelike, would have to pin her lips into that perpetual airline-stewardess grin.

“It just seems that you’ve had so much trouble this summer, dear,” Miriam said.

“I think it’s over now. These things happen.”

“Of course.”

She had always envied Miriam. Her life seemed a continuous round of activities—Junior League, the local art league, days filled with projects, service organizations, and committee work. Tavie bet to herself that Miriam was on at least one committee for the planning and preparation of this dance. Since little Rob was in school with one of Miriam’s children, Tavie was often exposed to Miriam’s school projects. If the class was making a model of Plymouth, Massachusetts, Miriam’s kids came to school with a model that would put an architect to shame, while little Rob was lucky to have two houses built of sugar cubes.

The band played a slow tune and Jack asked Tavie to dance.

“Hanging in there?” he asked.

“All the way, Jack.”

“When are we going to make it together?”

“Last Saint Valentine’s day.”

He laughed and held her closer.

At one A.M. Tavie was getting drunk. The hanging lanterns had taken on a sharpened hue, and the laughter of people lulled and erupted with someone’s raucous laugh. Rob was dancing with Miriam, and Jack played the bass on the small stage while the musician stood nearby looking apprehensive.

She crossed to the bandstand with two drinks in her hand. Jack looked down and smiled. She beckoned to him and he shook his head. She held up a drink and beckoned again. Reluctantly, he handed the bass back to the musician and weaved through the dance floor to Tavie. She handed him the drink and taking his hand led him away from the dancing couples.

“Hey, girl, I was just getting started.”

“That musician was about to bang you over the head. When are you going to show me the azaleas?”

He looked at her uncertainly. “The flowers?”

“The flowers, silly. Every time we come out here for a dance you offer to show me the azaleas, every time I’ve refused.”

“I’ve been offering for years. You must be high if you’re finally taking me up on it.”

“Absolutely. Wonderfully, deliciously, high,” she said. “Down the hatch.”

Jack looked into her eyes and she stared back. They quickly gulped their drinks, and he took her hand and led her down the short steps to the surrounding gardens. The first step in her plan was taken through an alcoholic haze.

They stopped in the shadows and Jack pulled her to him. “Where are the flowers?” she asked.

“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 knife 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.

“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 all 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 with 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.

Tavie made her way back to her car, and without turning on the headlights, backed the car out the logging road onto the main road. She drove the two miles to the main intersection where a small closed gas station had an outdoor phone booth. She pulled the car out of sight in back of the station and went into the phone booth.

Helen answered on the fourth ring. “Yes.”

“Mrs. Fraser, I’d like to speak to my husband,” she said.

There was an almost imperceptible pause on the line, “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong Fraser.”

“This is Octavia Garland, Helen, and I want to speak to Rob. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t an emergency.”

“I’m sorry …”

“Hell’ll never forgive you if you don’t put him on the line. I said this was an emergency.”

There was another pause while Helen debated with herself and then reluctantly handed the phone to Rob.

“Tavie, is that you?” Rob asked.

“I need you home, Rob. I need you home desperately.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“A mutual friend.”

“That son-of-a-bitch Jack.”

“It’s not his fault, Rob. I told you, this is an emergency. I called and begged him. It’s little Rob, there’s been an accident.”

“Oh, my God. Where are you?”

“Home. Come quickly.”

She hung up without waiting for his reply. From the car she had an unobstructed view of the road, and yet she herself was well hidden in the shadows of the station. He’d probably try and call the house, but would get a busy signal, then he’d realize that no matter what the consequences he’d have to come.

Timing was so important and always left room for a possible flaw. The gasoline in his tank would take him past this spot and out onto the interstate highway. The highway was uncrowded at this time of night and his stalled car should be spotted shortly by the state police. If he was picked up too soon … once again she’d have to count on mathematical probability.

The red Datsun passed her, hesitated briefly at a stop sign, turned onto the main road, and was soon out of sight. Tavie started the car and turned toward Helen’s house.

Clutching the heavy shotgun she stood with her back against the side of the house. Remembering with a start that the gun was unloaded, she opened the breach and inserted two shells from the supply in her field jacket pocket. A dim light from a hall lamp came through the front window.

As she went around the front corner of the house, she saw a row of low bushes two feet from the wall. She edged along the small border between the bushes toward the front door. Three low cement steps, with a low-wrought iron railing on each side, led up to the front door. She went around the railing to the door and inserted the duplicate key into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. She tried again and felt the faintly discernible click as the tumblers turned.

The momentum of the weight hitting her across the shoulders knocked Tavie over the wrought-iron rail into the bushes below. The dog’s low growl frightened her and she pulled her arms across her face. She could feel her face pushed into the soft dirt as the dog’s teeth tore at the cloth of her jacket.

Momentarily the tearing teeth were gone and a low deep bark reverberated through the night, and then the tearing again as she felt sharp pain in her arm and shoulders. Turning, she held a protective arm across her face and neck as the large head loomed inches above her. The gun was gone. Only her upraised arm saved her from the dog’s neck lunge as fabric ripped.

It was the unforeseen—there had been no way to anticipate—and then all thought and regrets were gone, only an instinct for survival remained. She rolled over and crawled to her knees only to be knocked forward again by the dog’s thrusting weight. As she fell, her hand felt the stock of the shotgun, and she clawed the weapon to her. Turning, she swung the gun across the dog’s head.

The dog yelped and fell from her as she struggled to her feet. The dog shook his head, as if to clear his senses, and she saw the teeth bare as his front legs dipped and his powerful haunches tightened for a leap. She fired the shotgun from a hip position pointblank into the dog’s chest. She was knocked backwards against the house wall as the dog tumbled away and lay still.

A floodlight switched on and illuminated the front lawn of the house. She stood starkly outlined in its glare. In the penumbra of light she saw the dog twitch and lie still.

Tavie, clutching the shotgun, ran for the road, tripped over the body of the dog, and sprawled across the grass.

A woman in a long housecoat stepped around the corner of the house into the periphery of light. Helen coolly raised her hand and aimed the small gun at Tavie. Turning on her stomach, Tavie fired, without aiming, at the floodlight attached to the eave of the house.

Helen fired simultaneously with the floodlight shattering in the shotgun’s blast. The yard was plunged into darkness. Tavie scrambled to her feet and ran toward the protecting woods. She stood, with heaving chest, against a large tree.

The element of surprise was gone. Helen knew somebody was there and even had a gun. Somebody, a neighbor, might have heard the shots, help would be on the way—it was over. No, it couldn’t be. They’d know, she had called Rob, they’d find out it was her—they’d send her back to the hospital. She had to finish.

She fumbled with the shotgun until it broke open. Putting the expended shells in her jacket pocket she loaded two more. There might still be time. Helen had come out so quickly from the back door she probably hadn’t brought her keys, that meant she would return by the back door, if she wasn’t still out here. No, she’d heard the shotgun. The wise thing for her to do would be to return to the house.

Tavie ran to the front door and fumbled with the key still inserted in the lock. Turning the key slowly she pushed the door open, stepped in, and shut it quickly behind her. As she had imagined, the living room was to the left, and she stepped into the darkened room and hunched behind an easy chair.

The house was silent, except for what she imagined was the crescendo of her gasping breath. She held her breath and heard the faint click and squeak of the rear screen door. She tried to let her breath out in short shallow gasps.

She heard steps in the hallway and raised the shotgun to a firing position. There were probably two entrances to the room she was in, through the hallway, the way she had come, and a rear hall entrance from the family or dining room. If there were an easily accessible switch the room could be bathed in light any moment; Tavie would be outlined and helpless. She would have to gamble on the probability that Helen, entering the house through the rear door, would come into the room from the far doorway.

A light clicked on.

It wasn’t the living room light, but came through the entryway in the rear of the house. Helen would be around the corner of the far end of the room. Was she waiting coolly? Did she know? Tavie heard a slight click and then the further click of a telephone dial.

Moving quietly and swiftly down the length of the room, Tavie inched her body around the corner and saw Helen’s back to her. Helen held a phone in one hand, the pistol in another, and was talking into the phone.

“Operator, get me the state …”

An instinct or faint rustling must have reached Helen—she turned to face Tavie. They faced each other in a split second of frozen tableau, and yet Tavie was able to discern the flicker of fright change to a shuttered coolness as Helen’s hand swept upward with the pistol.

The first shot of the twelve-gauge shotgun blew a hole in Helen’s chest while the second knocked her across the room and sprawled her against the dining-room wall.

The havoc wrecked by the blasts at such close range was far more than she had expected. Tavie dropped the shotgun and felt bile rush to her mouth. She clamped a restraining hand over her face and swallowed repeatedly. As she walked the few feet across the room to the body she saw that the upper portion of the torso was barely recognizable. Specks of blood were spattered across the rear wall of the room.

She wanted to run screaming into the woods.

Time. She could hear the slow methodical click of a metronome within her, and knew that seconds were rushing by, each one a precious entity. She pulled the body away from the wall and threw aside the layers of housecoat. Helen wore a brief pair of red panties, and Tavie ripped them from the body and tossed them across the room.

Reaching frantically into her jacket pocket, with a prayer that it was unharmed, she pulled out the hypodermic syringe. It was intact, only a portion of the plastic cylinder bent slightly inward. She pushed the legs of the body apart and inserted the syringe into the vagina of the corpse. Taking care not to puncture skin or damage tissue she pushed the plunger of the syringe in half-way.

Extracting the syringe she noticed that half its contents were left. She half-stood and ejected the remaining portion of semen over Helen’s face.

Helen was dead now and had no inkling of this final degrading act—the final act of what would be taken for sexual perversion.

Putting the syringe back in her pocket, she picked up the shotgun, and ran out the back door and toward her car.

Slippery hands fumbled with the ignition key of the car. Finally, the engine turned over, and with a screech of tires the car sprang forward. She put the gears in reverse and tried to back calmly out the logging road. What had she forgotten? She turned the car abruptly and drove up Helen’s driveway.

Leaping from the car she ran to the front door, locked the door from the outside, and pocketed the key. She opened the trunk of the car and took out an old blanket.

She had to roll the heavy dog’s body onto the blanket and drag it across the grass toward the car. It took all her strength to push the dog over the lip of the trunk. She knew the dog had bitten and scratched her, possibly bits of fabric and skin could be found around his claws. He would have to be disposed of.

She backed down the drive and turned onto the road. Accelerating rapidly, she tried to calculate the time that had elapsed from the shooting of the dog until now. The kaleidoscope of events made an accurate estimate difficult, but in retracing the events step-by-step she imagined that not more than five minutes had elasped since the dog first jumped on her, and only two minutes since Helen picked up the phone. Assuming that no one called the police immediately after the first shot, she still had time. The operator would trace Helen’s call and then call the police. She tried, but couldn’t remember how far away the nearest state police barracks were.

No matter—she had to hope.

She had a strong impulse to floorboard the accelerator as she pulled onto the interstate highway. She glanced down at the speedometer and slowed the car to an even fifty miles per hour. Far ahead she saw a car pulled off on the emergency lane with its lights blinking. She pulled into the far lane and accelerated as she passed the Datsun. Rob stood with outstretched thumb in the glare of its headlights. At her present speed, and with a dark interior, it would be impossible for Rob to recognize her.

She slowed back to fifty as a state police cruiser, with flashing lights, passed her in the opposite lane—it was headed in the general direction of Helen’s house.

She left the highway at Farmington and pulled onto a secondary road that headed for the reservoir. As she passed the broad expanse of lake, she pulled onto another road that sloped down toward the water, and stopped the car in a cove of large trees.

Turning off the engine and lights, she collapsed over the steering wheel. When her breathing returned to normal, she turned on the map light. Her gloves were smeared with blood, and there was blood on the steering wheel. She turned on the car’s headlights and went around front to examine herself in their glare. The blood wasn’t hers, it must be from the dog or Helen. She quickly stripped off her clothes and used them to wipe the car’s interior. The pain in her arm and shoulder began to bother her.

Tavie stood nude in the glare of the headlights. Her mind was a blank. She felt rooted in these woods like some ancient nymph. Overhead, she saw the half-moon through the hanging trees and over the water moonlight made an ionic column across the lake. She wanted to walk through the woods, into the water, and cleanse herself.

She shuddered and pushed those thoughts away. She must survive, and in order to do so she had to continue—there was no turning back.

She went to the car trunk and dragged the dog’s body out. She pulled the heavy body into the water and let it sink. She washed herself in the lake water as best she could and returned to the car.

Next—get rid of things. She took the pillowcase and rope from the suitcase. She stuffed the field jacket and pants in the pillowcase along with the empty shells from Will’s shotgun, the key, and gloves. Tying the case shut, after putting rocks inside, she threw it as hard as she could into the water.

Putting the shotgun into the suitcase, she donned her short nightgown and tucked it into her jeans, and then she put on her shirt and sneakers.

The ride back to Will’s apartment was uneventful. Once again she was unseen as she went back into the small building and let herself into his apartment. She quickly took off her jeans and shirt, and having reassembled the shotgun, put it back in’ the closet. The thread was undisturbed on the bedroom door, and before opening it she put the phone back on the hook.

Will, one arm outstretched over the edge of the bed, was still asleep. She put his keys back on the dresser and shook him.

“Hey, wake up. Wake up!”

“What?” His voice was groggy and sleepy.

“What time is it?” she said.

“What?”

“Will, wake up or I’ll get in trouble. What time is it?”

He sat up and rubbed his head. “Christ, what in the hell were we drinking?”

“I’ve really got to go.”

“O.K., O.K.” He slowly got up and looked at his watch on the dresser. “It’s one o’clock.”

She went back into the living room and began to dress while carrying on a running commentary. “Really,” she said. “You’ve got to go back to beer. Do you remember making love the second time?”

“The second time? Good God, no. How was I?”

“Marvelous.” He was leaning against the door frame and she went over and kissed him lightly. “Call me tomorrow.”

“O.K.”

At the doorway she turned. “You sure it’s only one.”

“Just a little after.”

Walking to her own car, with the suitcase, she drove rapidly, but within the speed limit, back to her house. Halfway down the block from the house, she turned off the headlights, and as the car turned in the drive, cut the engine and rolled silently up the drive to the garage.

Once in the house, she quickly replaced the phone on the hook and removed the unbroken threads from the bedroom doors. She flushed them down the toilet.

In her bedroom, she removed her clothes and put them in the hamper. Turning her naked back to the full-length mirror, she could see the long scratches and marks from the dog crisscrossing her back.

The unforseen. There would be methods she could utilize to explain. She went into the shower and let the warm water course over her body. She rubbed the remaining blood from her body, toweled off slowly, and put first aid cream and bandages over the cuts and scratches. She wore a flannel night-top of Rob’s to bed and gratefully crawled under the sheets.

Tavie Garland fell asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

They said that Margaret Fitzgerald was dying. The casket was open for viewing at the local A&P Supermarket, but the passing shoppers seemed oblivious of their mourning roles. She wasn’t dying yet, and her fingers clawed at the velvet lining of the casket.

“Can’t that thing be moved out of the aisle?” a voice said.

Wasn’t there any decency, couldn’t they wait for a respectable opportunity?

“Isn’t she dead yet? Call the manager,” another voice called out.

Yes, it was time for Maggie to die. She called out to them, and the oblivious scurrying housewives continued passing each side of the casket in a constant stream. Miriam stopped and peered inside.

“I thought it was a sale, it’s only Maggie,” she said.

“It’s time for me to go, Miriam. Do something. Please, do something.”

“Always willing to oblige, but I’ll be late for my art lesson.” Miriam placed a large, frozen turkey in the casket.

“More,” she cried.

“Press her to death and get it over with.”

The scurrying carts stopped at the frozen foods counter while clutching hands picked up frozen fowl to lay in the casket. She felt the weight grow as her breath froze in deep cold.

“She’s almost done,” a voice cried. “Get it over with, wake her up.”

“No,” she screamed at them. “I don’t want to wake. It’s not time yet.”

“It’s time, it’s time,” the voices retorted. “Wake up. Wake up.”

“No, leave me alone,” she cried.

“Wake up. Goddamn it!”

She was being shaken. Someone was grasping her shoulders and shaking her. Tavie opened her eyes and looked at Rob. It was his hands shaking her, his angry face bent over her. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be here. She was still asleep. No, she was awake. He was here. She slowly sat up.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“What in hell kind of game are you playing?” His angry hands still shook her, and his fingernails cut into her wounded shoulder and arm.

“You’re hurting me. You really are.”

He let go and stepped back. “I’ve looked in on the children, they’re sleeping like lambs. If you wanted to check up on me you didn’t have to tell a story like that.”

Her body ached and her limbs were leaden. She wasn’t awake yet, her thoughts weren’t focusing. She wanted to sleep. “What are you doing home?”

“The goddamn car ran out of gas. I left the damn thing and was lucky enough to get a ride into Hartford where I grabbed a cab. All right, you’ve found out. What now?”

An element of fear curled within her. It could be a trick. This could be a massive game to bring things out of her. She had to be careful. Oh, she wanted it to be over with, she didn’t want to continue. She had to … there was no backing away. “What are you talking about, Rob? What are you doing home from Pittsburgh?”

Uncertainty crossed his face. Anger returned. “Goddamn it, Tavie! It was you on the phone. I know your voice, who else could it be?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It must be a dream. This was real, the other a dream. The pain in her shoulder belied this, and she got out of bed. “I’d like a cigarette.”

“I don’t have any. You know I’m trying to quit.”

She found a stale package in the night table drawer and lit one. She inhaled deeply and slowly, desperately trying to grab for time to orient herself. “What time is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. About two, I guess. Now, what’s up?”

“You were at Helen’s.” She made the statement and it hung in the air between them.

Rob rubbed his eyes. “God, what a night. Your call, the car … I haven’t had that much to drink.”

“You told me it was over with. Why, Rob? Why?”

“You’re smothering me, Tavie. Is that what you want to hear? You cloy and smother me. We’ve been married twelve years, and outside of a couple of times, going to bed with you was like seducing a Vestal Virgin. Are you satisfied, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No. But what I expected.”

She was fully awake now. Maggie Fitzgerald was not dead. She knew with certainty what had to be done. “You rotten bastard, I hope you rot in hell.” She kept her voice low. If there was to be a scene, she didn’t want to wake her mother or the children.

Rob paced the room. “All right, Tavie. It’s out in the open now. We can face this like rational people, or we can make a mess. Which way do you want it?”

“You weakling. You should have told me before, you never should have allowed her to come after me.”

“That was a mistake, I didn’t realize …”

“You didn’t realize … that’s the story of your life.”

“Let’s not go on about it, Tavie. I’ve talked to Helen. I’m willing now to go through with a …”

“You bastard!”

She threw herself at him with such ferocity that her weight knocked him back against the dresser. Her fingernails dug into his cheek and raked across his face. He grabbed her hands and pulled them away from his face. She put her arms under his shirt and raked her nails across his back until he thrust her away so violently she sprawled across the bed.

He stood over her, his chest heaving from exertion. “What’s the matter with you, you’ve gone crazy.”

He started for the door. “I’ll sleep on the couch. We’ll talk about this tomorrow when you’re rational.” He unconsciously put his fingers against his cheek and looked with astonishment at the blood on their tips. “You’ve gone wild.”

“Get out of here.”

“I’m asking you for a divorce, Tavie. Think about that because I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

“A divorce.” She began to laugh. The laughter and tears welled up until her whole body was wracked with paroxysms of laughter. Rob looked at her, and then went out slamming the door. “A divorce,” she said, and continued laughing.

The dogs leaped toward the morning sun. The larger ones, from a standing position, were able to almost clear the six-foot-high run fence. Their deep barks were filled with a mock ferocity that changed to obsequious affection when Jay went into the run. The short heavy-set breeder pulled the dog’s ears and pummeled their sides as he kept up a running commentary with Tavie who stood near the run’s gate.

“A Dane is by far the best breed for your purpose.” His enthusiasm and obvious affection for the large dog he was patting was infectious. The dog bared his teeth and stood tightly against Jay as his head was rubbed. “Dobermans are mean and shepherds are unpredictable.”

“I wanted something along the lines of a guard dog,” Tavie said.

“A true guard dog is for commercial or military purposes. They’re strictly one-man dogs, and are dangerous in a home situation. I don’t think you’d want the gas-meter reader torn to shreds.”

“I’m not worried about meter readers. My husband travels a great deal, I’ve gotten uneasy being at home alone.”

“Then a Dane is the breed for you. Here, look at this fellow.” He led a half-grown Dane from the run and over to Tavie. “Get acquainted with him. He’s nine months old, half-grown, his name is Neal.”

Tavie fondled the dog and thought of Rob’s leaving the house this morning. As she prepared breakfast for the children he’d stuck his head in the door and said he’d call later in the day. Without waiting for an answer, or a cup of coffee, he’d stormed out. She heard the Ford’s tires squeal as he quickly forced it out of the driveway.

The local morning news had no mention of Helen. Surely they’d traced the call, certainly the operator heard the gun fire. Tavie had left the phone off the hook purposely, hoping for a quick discovery of the body.

The pattern of her usual mornings had continued. The children had gone to school, she’d had coffee with her mother, and by nine was in a cab headed toward Sunvale Kennels.

“This dog is only half-grown?” Tavie said to Jay.

“Yes. A Dane doesn’t reach full growth until the end of the second year. Look at his paws. I’d say he’s about two-thirds full stature.”

“Even now, he’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I think he’ll be perfect for your needs. His size and bark will scare off any intruder, and yet he’ll be a big puppy with your children. As soon as he’s used to you, you’ll have instant loyalty.”

Sunvale Kennels specialized in Danes and attack dogs. She had selected the name from the phone book early this morning, and on the phone Jay had waxed so enthusiastic about his breed that she’d made an immediate appointment. Under the circumstances, it hardly paid for her to wait. Now, for the past fifteen minutes she’d been getting a lecture on the care and feeding of Great Danes.

“I’ll take him,” she said.

“Fine. You won’t be sorry. He’s had all his shots of course, let me clip his toes for you.”

“Oh, no. I’ll have to be doing it, let me do it at home.”

“Well, if you’re sure?”

“If I have any trouble I’ll bring him back tomorrow.”

“O.K., let me get a collar and some other items for you.”

The cab driver seemed on the point of mutiny as she walked toward the waiting car with Neal on a leash. “You’re kidding, Lady,” he said. “That’s not a dog, that’s a horse.”

As they drove toward her house she began to relax. A burden had been lifted, an evil thing expurgated, and now she was cleansed. The fall was beginning to reach its height of color, which reminded her that she’d have to work very hard on her poetry if she were to have anything published this fall. Perhaps her autumn poem would use a cleansing theme … how the year was stripped of all its trappings as nature prepared for a rebirth of all living things. The words began to form, vague phrases and meter were almost within her grasp.

In her kitchen she began to prepare a meal for the dog. First, a box to put his dish on. A Dane shouldn’t bend all the way to the floor, Jay had told her, misshapes the neck. She mixed dog chow with lukewarm water as her mother entered.

“You’ve had two calls, Octavia. A Mr. Haversham and Jack Warren. They both seemed very eager to speak with you. What is that beast?”

“The newest member of the family. His name is Neal. Do you like him?”

“I don’t know. Will he bite?”

“The breed is supposed to be very friendly. I had better return those calls.”

She went upstairs to the bedroom phone and sat on the edge of the bed. Surely something had happened by this time. Best to get it over with. She dialed the newspaper and asked for Will.

“Haversham here.”

“Tavie, Will. Is anything the matter?”

“Christ, Hon. You know it. Helen’s been murdered.”

“What?”

“They found the body late last night. She’d been shot to death in her dining room, that’s all I know now.”

“Oh, my God.”

“All right, listen. Don’t get upset. I’m assigned to the story. I’ll call you back later. The radio people are already out there, try that for details.”

“Will, it frightens me, it really scares me.”

“Don’t get upset. It’ll be all right, sit tight and I’ll call you later.”

He hung up and she sat staring at the silent phone. The phone rang, and she picked it up, knowing who it would be.

“Hello,” she said.

“Is that you, Tavie? Jack.”

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Warren. I want you to forget what happened the other night at the club. And I don’t want you calling me again.”

“Wait … listen …”

“I had too much to drink and was very vulnerable. It meant nothing, do you …”

“For God’s sake, Tavie, listen to me. It’s about Rob.”

“You told him.”

“No. Rob’s been arrested. Helen Fraser was killed last night, and they’ve just arrested Rob.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, but he asked that I call you and then his lawyer …”

“It can’t be …” She hung up the phone abruptly. Jack’s next call would be to Miriam, and she’d be over here before the hour was up. Tavie turned on the bedside clock radio and searched the dial for a newscast.

“The brutally murdered body of convicted killer, Helen Fraser, was discovered early this morning by state police after they had been notified by an alert telephone operator. State Police Captain, Rocco Hubert, theorized to station WDAR that the shotgun killing was sexually motivated. At this time a large group of police specialists are gathering physical evidence from the crime scene.

“Four years ago Mrs. Fraser was convicted of killing her husband, Air Force Major Donald Fraser, in their luxurious Braxton home. She was subsequently sentenced to the State Correctional Center for Women on a manslaughter charge and released less than a year ago.

“Captain Hubert declined to reveal the names of any suspects, but did say that an abandoned car had been discovered with what is believed to be the murder weapon. An arrest is expected shortly. Keep tuned to WDAR for later developments.”

She switched off the radio.

Eugene Gordon drove as he spoke, with meticulous care and a studied concentration. Tavie, sitting at the far edge of the seat knew they were very near Helen’s house. They passed the gas station where she had made the phone call. “How much further is it?” she asked.

“Approximately four and a half miles. Octavia, I think you should know that if we don’t clear up this misunderstanding shortly, Robert could be indicted. We will probably need to hire trial counsel.”

“Won’t you represent him, Eugene?”

“I’m afraid I’m much more at home with a real estate closing than a felony trial. I can hardly remember the last time I went to court on a criminal matter. The firm has never gotten into that type of practice. We’ll act as co-counsel, of course, and I can recommend a good trial man for the court work.”

“Thank you, Eugene. What happens to Rob now?”

“Today we’ll go before the circuit court and they will bind Rob over to superior court and the grand jury. They’ll set bail and …”

“Bail? On a murder charge.”

“Oh, yes. Rob is a responsible member of the community with strong family ties, and since the death penalty has been set aside, even murder is a bailable offense. I don’t want to get your hopes up, Octavia. Bail will probably be set at 100,000 dollars.”

“A hundred thousand …” The panic that had begun to rise subsided. In quickly analyzing their assets, she doubted that they amounted to that much.

Eugene Gordon was becoming very indignant. “We’ll sue of course. I have always wanted to take a good case through the courts against the state. False arrest … Yes, it will be an excellent case. Why, I’ve known you and Rob since you moved to Connecticut and we closed your house.”

He bent forward and unconsciously speeded up as he contemplated the civil suit.

The red brick jail faced the town green. She’d passed through this small town a dozen times, and this very building an equal number of times. She had never dreamed that the building was still in use, and in fact, had thought it was maintained as local color for the pretty green with its very New Englandlike atmosphere.

They were able to park in back of the building, and entered through the rear entrance, up a short flight of wooden steps. The ancient corridor cut straight through to the front door; off the corridor were a line of offices with small wooden signs hanging overhead to identify each appropriate town office. Toward the front of the building was the police department. Eugene asked her to wait, and she took a seat on a low wooden bench.

She imagined that the cells were upstairs, as from the outside the upstairs windows appeared barred. In five minutes Eugene reappeared followed by one of the largest men Tavie had ever seen.

“Octavia, this is Captain Rocco Hubert of the state police. He’s asked if you would mind answering a few questions for him. Of course, I’ll be present.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Garland.” Rocco Hubert offered his hand which Tavie shook mechanically. She felt extremely diminutive before this man who she judged must be at least six-foot-six and weigh close to 300 pounds. His civilian clothes seemed to fit well, he must have them tailored. She noticed that he didn’t seem fat, just big, his neck growing trunklike from massive shoulders.

“Is there a vacant office where we can have some privacy, Captain?” Eugene asked.

“I always use the voter registration office, except during election time.” He led them down the hallway and into one of the smaller offices. Captain Hubert moved with the grace of a large, precision-honed machine … each part perfectly attuned with every other. The office held a group of file cabinets, a desk, and two old wooden chairs. Eugene immediately occupied the desk and took a legal pad from his attaché case. The Captain and Tavie each sat in the chairs. She had to smile to herself over Eugene’s appropriating the desk. He’d obviously been at many corporate meetings where dominant position was established early.

Eugene pointed his pen at the captain. “Now, I remember. You played tackle for Yale. Runner-up for All-American. Rocco Hubert, of course.”

The captain laughed. “Ancient history. And one season with the Atlantic Coast League. Then, I discovered my weakness. I hate to hurt people. I wanted to be an accountant, but they laughed when I walked in to apply for a job. Size does have its disadvantages. I ended up with a choice, beer salesman or the police. I naïvely thought the state police gave out speeding tickets all day long.” He shrugged. “The vagaries of life.”

Tavie and Eugene both laughed. They couldn’t help but like this large man who seemed filled with benign kindness toward the world. “What can I tell you, Captain?” Tavie said.

“Just routine matters. I do want to record it, if that’s all right with you, Counselor?”

“It’s not admissible,” Eugene said.

“I know. But I’ve got a lousy memory, it makes for better accuracy. That’s the accountant in me. As usual, I forgot the machine. If you’ll pardon me, it’s just outside in the car.”

Moving lightly, he left the room. Tavie looked at Eugene. “What do I tell him?”

“The truth, Octavia. Try and hedge and you’ll only harm Robert.”

The captain returned carrying a small cassette player that Tavie knew was exactly the model she used to transcribe Helen’s tapes. He quickly set up the machine and lay the microphone on the tabletop pointed in her direction.

“Now, Mrs. Garland. If you’ll identify yourself, and tell me what you were doing on the night of the murder. We’ll try and make this as painless as possible.”

“I’m Octavia Garland, thirty-five. I live at ninety-four Penly Drive, West Hartford. I am married to Robert Garland. I went to bed early that night.” She stopped and looked at the police captain. “What else?”

“That’s fine. You’re very cooperative. Now, let’s see. You were home that night. You went to bed early. Who else was in the house besides your husband?”

She looked over at Eugene who was busily making notes. He looked up at her and nodded affirmatively. She continued. “My mother is staying with us, she was there, and of course my two children. My husband wasn’t home.”

“Where was your husband?”

“He … he was on a business trip.”

“A business trip?”

She looked over imploringly at Eugene. “I’ll answer that, Captain,” Eugene said. “We will establish Mr. Garland’s whereabouts at a later time. We accede for the moment that Mrs. Garland thought he was on a business trip.”

“I see.” Rocco Hubert stared at the ceiling a moment and pulled a package of cigarettes from his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No, of course not,” Tavie said.

“After you went to bed, Mrs. Garland, when did you next see your husband?”

“Late at night, or early in the morning. He came in and awakened me.”

“What was his mental or emotional attitude at that time?”

“She doesn’t have to answer that, Captain.”

“You’re right, Counselor. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll try and make this as brief as possible. I know you’re upset, Mrs. Garland. Now, let’s see … Oh, the shotgun. We found that you bought it … the day before the murder.”

“Yes, that’s right. I …”

Eugene interjected hurriedly. “Pardon me, Captain. Mrs. Garland admits to buying a shotgun.”

“Yes,” Tavie said. “At one of the sporting goods places in town. At …”

“French’s,” Rocco Hubert said.

“Yes.”

“Why?” His voice was more abrupt.

“I … my husband asked me to.”

“Half the homes in this state have shotguns, Captain,” Eugene said.

“Not quite. We estimate about 80,000, that’s rough since it doesn’t include those weapons purchased out of state and brought in.”

“Are you inferring anything, Captain?” Tavie said.

“No, of course not. However, we find it unusual for a wife to buy her husband a shotgun. A gun is a rather male possession, something a man buys for himself, like golf clubs. Most men are very particular about their guns.”

“He said he just wanted it for protection. We had a fire in our summer place that could have been set by vandals.”

“The fire. Yes, I heard about that. A shame. Why did your husband drive the Datsun that day, Mrs. Garland?”

“I asked him to. I had errands to run and needed a larger car.”

“I see. I don’t suppose it would have made any difference either way.”

“How bad is it for my husband, Captain?” Tavie asked.

“We’ll have him bound over today.” He stood up and turned off the recorder.

“Exactly how bad?”

“Well, it reminds me of the F.B.I. Academy. I don’t know why they sent me down there, maybe because I had a degree. Well anyway, we used to have mock crimes, good practice for discovering physical evidence. This crime, the death of Mrs. Fraser, has enough physical evidence for ten mock crimes.”

“It’s categorically impossible for my husband to commit such a crime, Captain.”

“You may be right. It doesn’t make much sense.”

“Then why are you holding him?”

“Shall we say there’s a rather unfortunate train of evidence. To start with—the car. We found a key to Mrs. Fraser’s house in the car, along with the shotgun that had recently been fired. His fingerprints are all over the house, we also discovered certain bodily fluids that match your husband’s. And … I’m sorry to hurt you, Mrs. Garland, but we do have witnesses that state your husband was having an affair with Mrs. Fraser. When the car ran out of gas on the Interstate your husband hitchhiked to Hartford. The man who picked him up is able to pinpoint the time since he had just gotten off work; unfortunately that time seems to coincide with the murder sequence. It’s our conjecture that your husband was trying to break off the affair with Mrs. Fraser, and that she was becoming difficult. He killed her and tried to make it look like a sexually motivated crime. He might have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the car breaking down.”

“That is bleak,” Tavie said.

“You know about the affair?”

“Yes. I thought it was over last summer. Captain, surely they taught you at the F.B.I. school that guns can be traced. I mean, isn’t there ballistic evidence?”

“Shotguns shoot small pellets through a smooth bore, there’s no way to tell one from another of the same gauge. Your husband’s weapon had recently been fired and the shell casings were still in the chamber. The shot was the same type that was used to kill Mrs. Fraser.”

“Captain, he’s an officer of an insurance company, he’s never been in trouble, never even a speeding ticket.”

“We’ll see that he has a complete psychiatric examination,” Eugene said.

Rocco Hubert stared at the ceiling again. “The damn thing that bothers me … the whole thing was well thought out, but then to do a stupid thing like run out of gas, and to have your own wife buy the gun the day before … it doesn’t make sense.”

“He asked me to buy it in Maine.”

“Octavia!” Eugene’s voice was harsh. “Robert’s intelligence is not on trial here, there’s no need to volunteer information.”

“Maine, Mrs. Garland?”

She hesitated. “He … he said he didn’t want to be bothered with police reports. I never got around to it, and then it didn’t seem to make any difference, it was so easy to buy.”

“Yes, nice and easy.”

Eugene stood up and gathered his yellow legal pad and attaché case. “I believe that’s all you need for now from Mrs. Garland, Captain.”

“Yes, Counselor. And thank you both very much for your cooperation.”

They brought Rob into the small room with bars on the window. Eugene stood up and shook hands. “Listen,” Eugene said. “I’ll get a cup of coffee while you two talk for awhile.”

“Fine, Eugene. Thanks.” Rob sat across the small table from Tavie and rubbed the bristles on his chin. “I had better shave before court,” he said absently.

“How are you, Rob?”

“Terrible. I feel like something out of Kafka. I’ve been arrested, they’re going to try me, everything’s impossible. Nothing seems to make any sense.”

“It’s all a mistake.”

“I can’t stand it in here. I’m climbing the walls. I can’t concentrate, read, anything. I have to get out of here. Listen, Tavie. They’ll ask maybe 100,000 bail, but Eugene thinks there’s a chance they’ll reduce it to 50,000.”

“We don’t have that much, Rob.”

“The house has gone up in value and the mortgage down. I think they’ll accept 30,000 security on the house. Then there’s money in the company savings plan, maybe 10,000, another five in the savings and checking accounts. If you can dig up another five—your mother has it.”

“I’ll ask her.”

“God, yes. That would help.”

“The grand jury will realize it’s all a mistake. Eugene says we’re going to sue for false arrest.”

“It’s just a nightmare. Everytime I turn around they seem to have more on me.” He began to pace the small room and she could visualize him back in their living room. “Granted, I’m suspect because I was seeing Helen, but the gun, the key, that stuff on the body …” He stopped by the corner of the room and looked toward her. Their eyes met, and for a moment Tavie thought his face looked like glycerine as a complex of feelings washed over him.

She stood up quickly and her chair careened over backwards. His eyes didn’t leave her face.

“It’s not possible,” he said.

“Don’t say it, Rob.”

“I didn’t have the key that night. I had to ring the bell and she came to the door. It wasn’t on my key ring. The other keys were all there, but not the key to her house. It couldn’t have fallen off. It was taken off.”

“Don’t, Rob …”

“You bought the shotgun.”

“You asked me to.”

“No, I didn’t, Tavie. You know I didn’t. And the call that night …” He started slowly across the room toward her. His voice dropped, it was almost kind. “I should have realized when they arrested me. I’ve been avoiding the answer. I didn’t think it was remotely possible, that you were capable. There’s no other answer, Tavie.”

“No, Rob.”

“You cracked up in Bermuda. You haven’t been the same since. That last card game with Jack Warren … that wasn’t you.”

“No. It was Maggie.”

“Maggie? No, Tavie. you. You’ve flipped out, but it’ll be all right now. You’ll tell them, and then you’ll go back to the hospital. You remember the hospital, it was a hell of a nice place. They won’t do anything to you, just a few months in the hospital.”

She had backed up until her back was against the wall. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “No hospital, Rob,” she said.

“You’ll have to tell them, Tavie. If you don’t, they’ll send me to jail. You have to.”

“It wasn’t me, Rob.”

“Yes, it was, Honey. Now, we’ll call the police and Eugene in here and you’ll tell them.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The both of you would like to see me shut up in the hospital—so you could continue.”

“She’s dead now, Tavie. There’s no one but you and me. You will tell them.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“You’ve got to!” His fingers tightened harshly on her shoulders.

“You’re hurting me.”

“You have to!” He began to shake her. “Tell them!” His voice had risen to a near scream.

“Rob! No! Please …”

The door burst open and Rocco Hubert came in quickly followed by an alarmed Eugene Gordon. Rob let her go and turned to them.

“She did it! She stole my key and did it. She’s cracked up.”

Hubert’s voice was low and persistent as he crossed to Rob. Tavie began to cry. “Easy, Boy. Easy.” One of Hubert’s huge hands grasped Rob firmly on the arm.

Tavie fell crying into Eugene’s arms as Rocco Hubert started to lead Rob from the room. At the door the large man turned. “I’m going to have to ask the state attorney to resist bail in this case, Counselor.”

“I understand,” Eugene replied. He held Tavie and soothed her. “I understand, Captain.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was finished. Paper was strewn over the small kitchen desk, but the final draft was complete—the best she’d ever done. Holding the finished draft she read the title aloud, “Reflections of a ’73 Autumn.” A poem that Oliver would surely like.

The house was quiet. The children were in school, her mother visiting friends in another part of town. The solitude erased the unpleasant scene with Rob yesterday. She picked up crumpled papers from the floor and put them in the wastebasket. The kitchen wall-phone rang and she looked up in annoyance.

“Hello,” she said.

“Octavia. Eugene Gordon.”

She didn’t want to speak to Eugene. It only brought the thrust of events back into her solitude. “Yes, Eugene.”

“I’ve just come from a long consultation with trial counsel. I’m afraid that he feels it’s a bleak prospect unless we can get something useful from the psychiatrists. Under the circumstances, he feels, and I concur, that we should recommend to Robert that he plead guilty to a lesser charge.”

“Guilty?”

“It’s his only chance. A guilty plea to second degree would probably get him ten years. He would be eligible for parole in three.”

“I’ve heard of that happening. I don’t know what I can do, Eugene. You see how upset Rob is, and to say the least, our relationship has deteriorated. Somehow, he seems to blame all of this on me.”

“I know. He’s extremely emotionally upset, and it’s a difficult situation for you. Of course, I’m going to see him today, and we’ll discuss the circumstances in depth, but if he should ask you, I do think that you should share your feelings with him.”

“I will. And thank you for all that you’re doing, Eugene.”

“There’s just one more thing, Octavia. Of course my firm would never dream of any pressure, but trial counsel, well, he usually deals with a different milieu.”

“What are you driving at?”

“He’ll want an advance retainer.”

“Of course, I’ll send a check this morning.”

There was a pause before Eugene continued. “It’s a little more difficult than that. If Rob persists, if he continues with a not-guilty plea, and it’s necessary to go to trial … a jury trial is a long and tedious process, several weeks of court work. In other words, the advance retainer in that case would be 20,000.”

“Twenty thousand dollars? You’re joking?”

“No, we estimate trial costs at thirty to forty thousand, not including appeal costs.”

“We don’t have that kind of money.”

“If you want to speak to another attorney …”

“I don’t know what to say, Eugene.”

“Well, think it over. In the meanwhile I’ll explain everything to Rob.”

“Thank you.” She hung up. Lawyers must be mind readers. The figures discussed were just about all the money and assets they had in the world. They’d get a public defender. No, that required an oath of poverty.

She walked slowly through the house. It wasn’t pretentious, comfortable would be a better description. The fireplace in the living room drew well, and they’d sat before a blazing fire on a hundred winter evenings. On either side of the fireplace were the bookcases stretching to the ceiling, the sofa and easy chairs were sturdy and comfortable, the large wooden dry sink made an attractive bar—the whole room exuded an aura she enjoyed. She walked up the stairs, the wall-to-wall carpeting hadn’t been expensive, but had held up well. She looked into the children’s room. The shelves were filled with toys, the walls covered with various posters—what would happen to them?

What would happen to her? A college degree didn’t seem to mean anything these days, possibly one of the insurance companies would take her on as a typist. A typist. My God, she’d go mad typing insurance policies seven hours a day. There must be a solution, there was always an answer to a problem somewhere—somehow.

In the bedroom she opened the bottom drawer of the bureau and took the neatly bound package of papers from underneath her tennis outfit. Maggie Fitzgerald would have to go. In the bathroom she ripped each letter, each item of identification, into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. As the last particle of paper swirled around the bowl and disappeared, she went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed close to the telephone.

Tavie dialed Will’s number.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Will asked.

“I don’t know … just out, it doesn’t matter anymore,” Tavie said.

“Don’t look so glum, Hon. They haven’t guillotined anyone in this state for 800 years.”

“That’s not funny.” Tavie leaned back in bed and stared at the ceiling. A cool breeze came through the window and fluttered across her naked body, she pulled up the cover. “I shouldn’t be here. I musn’t have a soul. I’m down in that sewer you’re always talking about. Right down there, Will. Swimming with the tide like everyone else.”

“Nonsense.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You were through with that bastard anyway. As far as I know, there’s no mourning rites for the position you’re in.”

“You know what’s so funny. It could have been me. If you hadn’t stopped me that night … I could be in jail.”

“You were pretty screwed-up, and I can’t blame you. You never would have pulled the trigger, Tavie. And if, by some accident, you had, you would have missed.”

“I’ll always wonder.”

“Let’s cut the morbid crap. Have some coffee.”

“What, no drink?”

“I’ve got a story to cover, and anyway, I’m cutting down.”

Pulling on pajamas, Will went into the kitchen. Tavie picked up his robe from a nearby chair and pulled it over her. She went into the living room and watched him boiling water for instant coffee and setting cups at the table. He always looked rumpled. Now, his hair was tousled, even his pajamas looked rumpled. She’d have to fix that.

He was pouring water as she tiptoed behind him and put her arms around his waist. “I … I don’t know what I’d do without you, Will. I love you, I guess you know that.”

He slowly put the pot back on the burner, turned, and smiled. “For Christ’s sake, you dumb broad. You’re like all the rest. The king is dead—long live the king.” She put her finger over his lips.

“Don’t knock it, you big jerk. I offer you my whole self, a voluptuous body …” She threw open the robe to reveal herself and smiled. “My great literary talent …”

He laughed. “Talent. Christ. Reflections on autumn again. Your literary horizons are as broad as the space between an earthworm’s eyes.”

“All my earthly possessions,” she continued. “A beautiful lot on an isle in Maine.”

“With enough charcoal to make a thousand barbecues.”

“I’ve run out of attributes.”

They sat at the table, Will looked across at her and stirred his coffee continually. The sardonic smile faded, and finally he said, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I know that Rob will be released, but even so, I can’t bear to live with him any longer. I … I don’t know, Will, but I think he’s had a nervous breakdown. When I was up there yesterday he made a terrible scene and physically attacked me.”

“I heard about that.”

“He seems to blame all of this on me. In a sense he’s right, if I’d been a better wife, if things had been good between us, he never would have gotten involved with her in the first place.”

“Bullcrap. You’ve nothing to feel guilty about. Start thinking that nonsense and you’ll climb the walls.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

She picked up the cups and began to wash them busily at the sink. “What did he have to say?”

“He readily agreed to the interview, but as we talked he got very agitated. He accused you of it, I guess you know that.”

“Yes. He did the other day.”

“Then, he said it wasn’t you, that you drove him to it. Frankly, Tavie, after a few minutes everything became gibberish. I don’t think he’ll ever stand trial.”

“What sort of gibberish?”

“He’s confused—a man who doesn’t seem to know what’s happened. He’d start a coherent thought, continue logically to a point where I almost believed him—then he’d just stop, put his head in his hands, and say, that couldn’t be. The longer it went on, the worse it became.”

“I feel sorry for him, but I don’t know what I can do.”

“You cope, survive—go on. That’s all.”

Tavie kissed him. “I’ll try, Will. I’ll really try.”

As she left Will’s apartment she noticed the car parked up the street, and the unmistakeable bulk of the large man behind the wheel.

The next morning Rocco Hubert politely called for an appointment. As she hung up the phone, after the low-keyed conversation with the Captain, Tavie realized she still had half an hour until their arrival. Going to her clothes closet she picked out a simple, demure, blue dress tucked in at the waist. Carefully removing her jeans and shirt, she examined her body in the full-length mirror. The scratches were almost healed, and with the exception of a thin, white scar would be completely gone in a week.

She showered carefully, thankful that she’d done her hair earlier. She’d been under the hairdryer when Rob’s picture caught her eye on the T.V. screen. Tearing off the drier’s bonnet she’d caught the local announcer in mid-sentence.

“… 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 shotgun. 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 oysters 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.

“That? That’s my Beethoven sweatshirt.”

“God, with that hair I thought it was a self-portrait.”

“Listen, Gussie Moran, I wouldn’t talk.”

“Who’s that?”

“A girl who let her lace panties show.”

“Mine aren’t lace, they’re nylon.”

“Even worse.”

The other couple finished their set, waved, and started off down the path. The children jumped up and ran onto the court.

“Hey, doubles,” little Rob yelled.

“You know what time it is?” Will said.

“Oliver’s having his afternoon constitutional,” she replied. “I think he does that for us on purpose.”

“Let’s not disappoint him.” Will stood and pulled her to her feet. “You kids go ahead and play without us.”

As they started back to the cottage, hand in hand, they heard faint murmurings of disappointment from the children which quickly faded with the whack of the tennis ball.

“You know, Tavie,” Will said. “I think I’m happy. Now, that’s something that should never be articulated. The gods hear and it greatly angers them. The next thing you know, swoop, the Furies descend.”

She put her arm around his waist as they walked. “You big jerk, you’ve been unhappy so long, you’re scared to death of anything good coming along.”

In the dim bedroom they removed their clothes with urgency. Still standing, Will grabbed her, and she felt his passion rising with her own. As they fell to the bed, one of the old wooden bed slats gave way, and the mattress tilted forward toward the floor. They lay entwined together as they slowly slid down the inclined bed, under the headboard, to the wall.

“This isn’t in the marriage manuals,” Will said.

She looked up at their feet now inclined at a forty-five-degree angle above their heads. “There ought to be something we can do with it,” she answered.

“You got me. I’m a get-around-the-floorshift-in-a-car man, myself.”

“You’re lousy in cars.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I gave a girl Spanish fly, and while buying a pack of Trojans, she screwed herself to death on the gearbox of my Ferrari.”

“You never had a Ferrari.”

“O.K,” he said. “On three. One, two, three.” Laughing, they scrambled over the side of the bed, Will knocked the other slats off, and the whole mattress fell to the floor. She jumped over the side of the bed and bounced up and down on the mattress.

“Catch me if you can,” she said.

He stepped over the side of the bed and reached for her. They lay down on the mattress to consume each other with hurried and urgent love.

She must have dozed, and as consciousness returned she felt him at her side. Out the window, trees swayed gently, and in the distance she could hear the ferry’s whistle as it approached the landing. It was all the same—nothing had changed. She turned and put her arms around Will.

He opened his eyes. “Not again.”

“No. I just wanted to talk.”

“So talk.”

“Do you think we’ll make a lot of money from the book?”

“I knew if I scratched hard enough I’d find a mercenary broad around here. Money? I don’t know, it’s an interesting study, it ought to sell moderately well. Hell, who knows, two murders for the price of one.”

“Have you talked to Captain Hubert yet?”

“Big Hugh. Sure. He’s always cooperative.”

“Did I ever tell you that the last time he questioned me, he made an innuendo that I’d been in it with Rob?”

“I know. He told me about that.”

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe I did it myself. Bet you never thought of that?”

Will laughed. “Remember the first time we met? You asked me a question about Helen. Was she capable of it, you asked. I said she was. And she was. Are you capable of it—no. There’s not a doubt in my mind. And, if there was, well, the last time I looked, which was about ten seconds ago, you were still a woman—the evidence makes it highly unlikely that you were capable of …”

She leaned over and kissed him. “All right, you’re sure.”

“Sure. And after talking to your nutty husband—he is capable.”

“What’ll happen to Rob?”

“When the doctors think he’s rational, he’ll be released to the court. They may or may not try him. If he’s in there several years they’ll probably drop it.”

Tavie thought about several years. How long was several? Three, five, or more? Well, there’d be time enough to face that when it arose.

“Listen, Tavie,” Will said. “You are sure about this book?”

“It’s too much a part of our life, let’s get it over with.”

“O.K.”

Tavie climbed over the bed railing and began to dress. “You nap. I want to get things lined up for dinner. I’m going to serve you and Sir Oliver one fine meal.”

“Satiated, I await your call.” Will smiled and turned over.

The day before, in town, she had purchased a large, succulent-looking piece of London broil, and had decided to cook it with red wine. They had converted the small cottage dining room into a combination study for Will and temporary storage area. What she wanted would probably be in one of the cartons stacked against the wall.

The first two cartons she opened contained Will’s books. Piled next to the books was his fishing equipment and gun case. Her hand tentatively brushed across the leather of the gun case and quickly withdrew. The desk facing the window overlooked the bay. Not too unlike her old desk, she thought. His old, upright typewriter and tape recorder stood neatly aligned near the window.

She sat at the desk. The wind had died in the bay. The racing sailboats sat ducklike, with slack sails in the calm water. It would soon be a year since she had sat in the house a few yards from here, fingers poised over the typewriter, listening to Helen’s voice on the cassette.

Helen’s tapes were burned and Helen was gone. It was her voice on these tapes. She had triumphed, won, and prevailed. She smiled.

In the distance she saw Oliver on the cliff; he walked, stopped and looked across the water. Upstairs, a man who loved her dozed. She was back in the place she loved. The circle was complete.

Will was reducing his notes to file cards, and she picked up the neatly stacked pile and rifled through them. She noted that they were arranged in chronological order, with brief notes that related to other portions of his research. The last card of the stack had her name in caps and she read it with curiosity.

TAVIE—Day after Helen’s Murder—9/19/72

1. Rob lv for wk—See Con Cas file

2. Bys dog (a pencil note)? Wrong sequence chk with Tav

3. Call from me

4. Call from J Warren—See JW file.

Wrong sequence—check with Tavie. What did that mean? She thought back to that morning. The card was right, that was the correct sequence. Rob went to work, the children to school, and she’d called about buying the dog. When she came back with the dog she called Will and he’d told her about Helen.

He had been a fine dog, she thought. He was all that the breeder had said he would be. Loyal, good with children, and quite a watchdog. His only problem had been his mammoth size in a suburban home. Gas men and telephone men had been frightened to death of him, and he was too large for the children to walk. The children had been awfully upset when she’d given him away, but they finally accepted the fact that he’d be happier out in the country where he could roam.

She knew why the sequence was wrong.

There was no way for her to know of Helen’s death until she talked to Will, and yet she’d told several people that she’d bought the dog for protection—because of Helen’s death.

She put a blank file card in the typewriter and retyped the notes exactly as he had them, but changing the order to put the buying of the dog last. The file card, with Will’s note, she ripped in several pieces and stuffed in her jean’s pocket. She realized that the file cards were only a distillation of his other research. Tavie—day after. Where would that come from? The tape. Was it this week or last that they’d recorded that particular sequence?

The cassettes were all neatly labeled in a desk drawer. She picked out the one entitled, “Tavie—day after”, and inserted it into the small recorder.

Her own voice rang out across the room, she shivered, and turned the machine off. She found earphones in the desk, inserted them into the machine, and pressed the play button.

Octavia Garland’s voice issued from the cassette in a drone with an occasional nervous laugh. Tavie felt herself immersed in something she didn’t understand, and pressed the stop button of the recorder. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the small machine, and the black plastic took on a life and personality of its own. The circle. She put her hands against her head and wanted to scream.

No. There was enough Maggie left to do what had to be done. She pressed the fast forward button and ran the tape toward the end. She turned the play button and listened to herself again. It seemed an interminable time until she heard Will’s voice ask, “Now, tell me what you did the next morning.”

She stopped the machine and tried to remember the mechanics of erasure. All you had to do was record right over the old material, that erased the old, and insert the new in its place. It couldn’t be easier. She’d listen to that portion already on tape, time it, try to remember her exact words and repeat the same material, merely changing the dog sequence. It was perfect.

She listened, rewound to Will’s opening, and inserted the microphone into the recorder. She thought a moment, and then began to speak into the microphone.

One of Will’s hands closed over hers and the other shut off the machine. “What are you doing?”

“You startled me. I didn’t hear you come downstairs.”

“My bare piggly-wigglies. What’re you doing, Tavie?”

“Oh, I came in here to get a cooking utensil and stopped to look through your note cards. You had a note that said check with Tavie. So I checked with myself and corrected it.”

“I thought I heard the typewriter.”

“It was a minor thing, but I know you’re a fiend for accuracy.”

“You changed the card and were going to change the tape.”

“I guess I needn’t have bothered about the tape.”

“No, the card’s the important one.”

She began to rummage through a carton until she found what she wanted, and went into the kitchen. Will sat at the desk and looked across the bay.

They were going to have one of Will’s favorite meals. London broil cooked on the barbecue, salad with heavy Roquefort dressing, and mushrooms with sour cream. Tavie was outside pouring starter fluid on the charcoal briquettes with Oliver sitting near her on a lawn chair. From the kitchen she could hear Will and the children. The salad was his specialty, and he had two pairs of helping hands. She expected that the children, who were presently shaving the cucumbers, would eat more than ended up in the salad.

She put a match to the briquettes and stepped back as the fire blazed up. Picking up a cocktail from the picnic table, she took a sip and turned to Oliver.

“You know, we’ve really got to do something about Will.”

“How’s that?” Oliver said.

“These pink ladies are coming out of my ears.”

“I know, a Tom Collins would be a nice change of pace.”

“Somewhere during our relationship he got the idea I loved pink ladies. Now, I swear, I think he’d serve them to me for breakfast if I’d let him.”

“Don’t belittle it, Octavia. Relish each and every one.”

She laughed. “I guess I will. Oliver, when Will was a student of yours, was he a good one?”

“One of the best. I had great hopes for him. I always felt he had a natural talent. After the breakup of his marriage, he could never seem to concentrate on any sustained work.”

“But he worked at the newspaper all those years.”

“And did the job half-drunk during those years. He’s healthier now than I’ve seen him since his student days. You’re good for him, Octavia.”

“He’s good for me.”

“Need anything out there?” Will called.

“Yes, bring me the red wine from the cupboard,” she answered.

Will and the children came out of the house carrying piled-high salad bowls. Little Rob gave her the wine.

“I’m hungry,” Karen said.

“It won’t be long now.” Tavie put the meat on the grill and filled the hypodermic syringe with red wine while Will poured himself a cocktail and sat in a chair next to Oliver.

“What’s with the syringe?” Will asked.

“My special secret,” she replied. “You fill it with wine, thusly, press it into the meat, thusly, and voila, permeated meat.”

“Another quaint custom gleaned from island natives,” Will said.

“I learned it years ago, does wonders for meat flavoring.”

Will tilted his chair back on two legs. “I was looking at that stuff you were fooling around with this afternoon. Why did you buy that dog?”

She turned the meat over slowly with a large grill fork. “For protection, silly.” She turned back to him. “You know, in September when we return to Hartford, we should get another dog. The kids just loved Neal. This time a small variety. Real small.”

“When are you two going to get married?” Oliver asked.

“Eugene Gordon tells me the divorce will be final in September. You’ll have to stay here as chaperone, Oliver; Otherwise we’ll scandalize the island,” Tavie smiled.

“For protection from Helen?” Will asked.

“My home is in a secluded area, many of my neighbors bought watch dogs after the killing,” Oliver said.

“Then protection because of Helen’s death,” Will said.

“Yes. If you remember, at first they said it was a sex crime. Rob was traveling a lot at the time, and I didn’t like being left alone.”

“But Jack Warren told you Rob was arrested. If you bought the dog after that …”

Tavie laughed. “You’re being silly.” She poured a few drops of her drink on the top of his head, but he didn’t smile. “I don’t remember exactly—that was a trying time for me, in a lot of ways.”

“I know. Tavie, afterwards when you came to my apartment, you had scratches.”

“From that beast Neal.”

She refilled the syringe with wine and went over to the grill. “Are you reneging on me, you lummox? You told me just this afternoon that I wasn’t capable.” She jabbed the needle deeply into the meat. “That Helen was capable, oh yes, Helen was.” She jabbed the meat again. “That Rob was capable.” Gripping the needle tightly in the palm of her hand, she stabbed the meat again. “They were capable … but I wasn’t. You said I wasn’t!”

Tavie turned to the two men. Will was standing, the lawn chair on its back behind him. They looked at each other, and then his eyes moved downward to the hypodermic syringe still clutched in her hand. It dribbled droplets of red onto the grass.

The hypodermic dropped to the grass between them, and his eyes never left it. Tavie started to run. She ran past the partially framed house, and through the bushes onto a strawberry hill. Her chest heaved and a faint cry seemed to come from someone else.

In the deserted naval base, voices called from gaping windows. A thousand gray men surrounded her and she pushed through them. Drums rolled on the parade ground and then changed to distant thunder.

She held onto a small branch and scrambled down the short cliff to the small cove. The branch broke in her hand and she fell, to roll over and lie face down in the sand. The heaving began to subside and her cry was muffled. Slowly, she got to her feet and walked along the beach.

Light from a low, red sun splayed across the smooth water. Tavie sat near the water’s edge and pulled her knees up to her chin. Tiny waves reached the edge of her toes. She heard the sound of small pebbles being scattered behind her as someone climbed down the cliff, and then the crunch of footsteps, and finally his heavy breathing as he stood near her.

“I thought you’d be here,” Will said.

“There was no place else to go. I suppose that’s a problem with islands.”

He sat next to her and their knees touched. They were silent as the sun disappeared and shadows lengthened over the water. In the distance a fishing boat moved toward the sea, too far away for engine sounds to reach them.

“It was you,” Will said.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Her voice was low, almost inaudible.

“No, I guess not. You zonked me that night.”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was one hell of a hangover. My gun too.”

“Yes. Do you like it here at the cove? I thought that perhaps tomorrow we could bring a picnic.”

“That would be nice.”

“We’ll give up writing about it. We’ll forget about them, both of them. They didn’t deserve to live.”

“I guess not.” He stood up and kissed her on top of the head.

She heard him slowly walk back to the cliff, climb up, and then he was gone. The water before her shimmered as a cool breeze came in from the sea, and she hugged her knees tightly.

The boom of the shotgun rolled over the island and faded across the water.

With Will gone, Tavie began to think about Oliver—and how Oliver couldn’t swim—for there was always an answer if you thought about it long enough.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard Forrest (1932–2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut, Who Killed Mr. Garland’s Mistress (1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in A Child’s Garden of Death (1975).

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1974 by Richard Forrest

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3795-2

This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

www.mysteriouspress.com

EARLY BIRD BOOKS

FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

The Web’s Creepiest Newsletter

Delivered to Your Inbox

Get chilling stories of

true crime, mystery, horror,

and the paranormal,

twice a week.

RICHARD FORREST

FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.

Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.

MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.

FIND OUT MORE AT

WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

FOLLOW US:

@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom

MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.

The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.

58 Warren Street

info@mysteriousbookshop.com

(212) 587-1011

Monday through Saturday

11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

FIND OUT MORE AT:

www.mysteriousbookshop.com

FOLLOW US:

@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop

SUBSCRIBE:

The Mysterious Newsletter

Find a full list of our authors and

titles at www.openroadmedia.com

FOLLOW US

@OpenRoadMedia

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About the Author

Copyright Page