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

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.”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œIf there had been a guard rail, I’d be dead.”
    â€œIt is a beautiful spot, I can see how you were taken in by the scenery.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDon’t call me that.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHon. Honey, that.”
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œThat’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