Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (22 page)

“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?”