Free Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? by Richard; Forrest Page B

burglar alarm system. A home smoke-sensing device, floods outside, a hell of a big dog.”
    â€œI don’t expect to be attacked by the 82nd Airborne. A car accident in a supermarket parking lot would be more her style.”
    â€œYour 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.”
    â€œLet me pursue it in my own way for a few days.”
    â€œNo vacation?”
    â€œGive 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.
    â€œJesus,” 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.”
    â€œNo doubt you just told me how to make them.”
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œGood. 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.”
    â€œHey, thanks.”
    â€œThey believed it and that’s a compliment. Not every girl can pass for a high-priced whore.”
    â€œI’ll keep that in mind.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œNot bad, huh?” Will said.
    â€œShe’s rather pretty.”
    â€œPhotos don’t do justice to her bod. No wonder your husband was jumping her.”
    â€œIt’s hard to believe she’s a killer.”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œAnd yet you do.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œThis could be my proof,” she said with excitement.
    â€œâ€™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.”
    â€œIt doesn’t prove anything,” she said with