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

we might do if we actually went into combat.”
    â€œThen, you don’t know?”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œWell, we had a honeymoon on Cape Cod.”
    â€œGod, where does the time go?”
    â€œI think we spent the whole time in bed, at least I don’t remember doing much else.”
    â€œNot a bad idea,” he leaned over and kissed her.
    â€œOh, Rob. In a few minutes, let’s enjoy the night.”
    â€œWatching all these honeymooners is making me sexy.”
    â€œWe’ve been married too long.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œIt’s the clear air here.”
    â€œThat’s all?”
    â€œThat’s all.”
    The very British waiter came over to the table. “Can I get you something else?”
    â€œNo, thank-you,” Rob said.
    â€œWait, Rob.” She clutched his arm. “Let’s have that thing we had before dinner.”
    â€œThe what-do-you-call-it?”
    â€œYes.” She turned to the waiter. “I think it’s called a shamply.”
    â€œA shandy,” the waiter replied. “Beer and Sprite.”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œI’m all set,” she said. “The rental arranged?”
    â€œWe’ve got them for the week.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œOh, Rob, how mundane. You go to Hamilton and I’ll take the high road. I’m the new Me … Miss Self-reliant.”
    â€œAre you sure you’ll be all right?”
    â€œAbsolutely. I’ll just ride along the coast road awhile.”
    â€œO.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,