Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (13 page)

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.