“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 reso
lved 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.”
&n
bsp; “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.
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? Page 8