Everybody Loved Roger Harden

by Cecil Murphey

  “That must have been demeaning,” Burton said.

  “Demeaning? You have no idea. Another time I hired a secretary. An entry-level secretary! But I didn’t tell Roger first. He was angry because I didn’t tell him that I had interviewed four candidates, liked her the best, and offered the position. He made me fire her. Is that micro-micromanagement or what? I don’t know how he kept all that going inside his head, because I know I wasn’t the only one. Even though I realized he was that way with everyone under his powerful hand, I didn’t feel any better.”

  “It must have worn on you,” I said.

  “Worn on me? Ha! That’s understated. It grated on me every day—every day. I kept reminding myself that I was making a lot of money because of Roger. He also taught me how to invest wisely—which I’ve done.”

  “So where does the hate come in?” Burton asked. “He could have been a nuisance, but—”

  “He lost interest in my career. It was as if I had become a finished product. He had taken me, molded me, and made me what he wanted me to be. Then he had no further interest in me. I still had to drive through his control booth, but there was a tone of disdain.”

  “Disdain? I’m not sure what you mean,” Burton said.

  “He began to make me feel insignificant and reminded me constantly that whatever I was, he had made me. Things like that. He said I would have been nothing without his guidance. And he sometimes said those things in board meetings or whenever important people were around.”

  “So what did you do?” I asked. “You don’t seem like the kind of woman who would just take that forever.” I’m sure she knew I hinted that she might have hated him enough to kill him.

  “I suggested to him that I leave and move elsewhere. He went into a tirade over that. He screamed at me and called me ungrateful. That night he phoned me just before midnight and again called me an ingrate and self-centered and said I had only wanted to use him for my own means.”

  “And what did you say?” Burton asked.

  “I said, ‘If I’m so terrible, then perhaps it is better if I leave.’ Then he really screamed and finally said, ‘You will leave Harden Enterprises only when I tell you to leave. If you try to apply for another position, I’ll ruin you!’ ”

  I reached over, took Paulette’s hand, and squeezed it gently. I knew enough about Roger that I could understand her feelings. I hadn’t liked her before. I still didn’t like her, but at least I understood her pain.

  Burton and I didn’t say anything more. Both of us seemed to sense if we just kept quiet, she would open up.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you. You’re both professionals, right?”

  We nodded.

  “That means whatever I say to you is confidential? Burton’s clergy and you’re a therapist. You assure me of confidentiality, and I’ll tell you.”

  We both assured her that we would hold everything in confidence unless she gave us permission to speak.

  The words poured out. She worked most of the years for a subsidiary of Harden Enterprises, but her offices were in Roger’s twelve-story office building. “I was in charge of a chemical company that wanted to develop a natural insecticide that would not harm the environment.” She knew nothing about the formula, but she stood behind All-Well Chemicals as they developed their product. They spent millions of dollars, and after three years, they reached the final stages of development. They would have to test its effectiveness—especially the long-term effects, then they would be able to put it on the market within two years.

  A friend had invited Paulette to a cocktail party. One of the other guests was the CEO of a rival firm. The CEO said he had asked the friend to invite Paulette because he wanted to offer her a job. She would become acting president and succeed him in five years. He was willing to write a contract. When she told them that Roger would try to block it, he promised a contract that would prevent the company from firing her. If they did release her, they would give her a five-million-dollar bonus for every year she worked there.

  “It was too good an offer to pass up,” she said, “but there was just one problem.”

  “And that was?” I asked.

  “I had to steal the formula from All-Well Chemicals and pass it on. Oh, they would make small changes so that it wouldn’t be exactly the same. They were working toward the same goal, and it would have saved them millions in research.”

  “Did you have any qualms?”

  “Not really. That sort of industrial espionage goes on all the time. I also convinced myself that it was my way to get even with Roger for his years of dominance.”

  “So you went through with it?” Burton prompted.

  “I was so filled with disgust for Roger, I said yes without even taking time to think it over.” Within a week she had copied the formula and had done it so that no one could prove she had stolen it.

  “The day before I was to deliver the formula, Roger called me into his office. ‘Where is the formula?’ he demanded. ‘I want your copy of it.’ I didn’t try to argue with him. I have no idea how he found out I had copied it. I had simply downloaded it onto a flash drive. I took the flash drive out of my purse and handed it to him.

  “He didn’t fire me, and he wouldn’t let me resign. He didn’t yell or say anything, but the smirk on his face said, ‘I know everything you do.’ He finally said, ‘I told you that you would stay here as long as I want you here. I choose to keep you here. For now.’ ”

  “That was the end of it?” Burton asked.

  “Almost. He sent me a memo the next morning—a memo, mind you—in a sealed envelope. His secretary brought it to me and said Roger had instructed her to wait for a response.

  “He sent my confession. He stated that I was to sign it because it was industrial theft, after all—and it could send me to jail. He instructed me—I mean that. He spelled it all out and even numbered the paragraphs.” The final item, number 6, told me to sign the confession. Then he stated that I was not to date it. That way, whether it was one year or ten—despite the statute of limitations—he had control.

  “You want to know something else? He knew about the cocktail party. He knew everything. I have no idea how he got all that information, but he had it, and it was totally accurate.”

  “You think he set you up?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so, because he also had a second paper for me to sign—and that one I dated. That was to turn down the other position ‘for the sake of my own conscience.’ I’m sure Roger loved writing that statement.”

  Burton said nothing, but his eyes told both of us that he understood.

  She nodded slowly, and I think she was pushing back the urge to cry. “He had it all figured out. He had me tied up for as long as he wanted me.”

  “Now you’re searching for the confession, is that?” I asked.

  “Yes, and I have no idea where it is. I can’t find it among his papers, and I know he would never leave it at the business office.”

  “So you figured—” I said.

  “It had to be here. Where else could it be? But it’s not here. I’ve been through everything twice. I’m now convinced it’s not in this office unless he has some secret compartment.” She sank back into the chair. “I hardly saw him this past year. In fact, it was quite a relief. I sent him everything by our interoffice email or by messenger, because that was how he wanted it—no more face-to-face contact. Then I received the invitation—the summons—and I came.” She leaned forward. “I am ambitious—ambitious enough to be a thief—but not ambitious enough to take someone’s life.”

  I wanted to say, “I believe you,” but what if she was fooling me? What if she had killed Roger? What if Mrs. Wright had seen her, and Paulette had decided to get rid of the only witness? Instead of saying anything, I gave her a quick pat on the shoulder. I had no idea how truthful she was, but she certainly had plenty of motive to kill Roger Harden.

  Seventeen

  We asked Paulette to put everything back where it belonged and s
he started to do that as we left. I didn’t think to say anything to her about fingerprints. Or maybe it’s only in movies that detectives check those things.

  Burton and I left, went into the hall, and headed back toward the kitchen. “I need another Oreo,” I said. It was now almost midnight, and I had begun to feel tired. I confess that I liked being with Burton and felt we had already developed a camaraderie. I still thought he was good-looking, and now that I had seen him in operation with people, I liked him even more as a professional.

  I also liked the fact that he didn’t try to convert me to his religion. I once dated a man who did. Every time there was the slightest opportunity, he’d insert some comment about my need for God. When I resisted, he’d tell me that unless I heeded and believed, I’d go to hell. “Listen,” I finally said, “I don’t know anything about hell, but that’s what you’re making life for me right now, so cut it out. You asked for a date, and this isn’t any preaching meeting. If you invited me to dinner to convert me, the price is too high.”

  I smile about that experience. We were sitting in a restaurant and had nearly finished the meal when I spoke up. He got up, threw his napkin on the table, and said, “I hope you enjoy your torment in hell, because it will last a long time.” The jerk didn’t even pick up the check. So I had to buy his dinner as well as endure his lecture most of the evening.

  Burton was different—I still waited for his religion pitch—they all have it. I was sure that’s why they go to seminary. Even when I opened up to him, he didn’t tell me what a horrible sinner I was. But I knew he would.

  They all did.

  Once we were inside the kitchen, without asking, Burton plugged in the coffee machine and measured the water and the grounds. I accommodated him by putting out two cups and saucers.

  “Oh, I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep,” Amanda Harden said as she walked into the kitchen. Even in her robed pajamas, she still looked attractive. I sure hoped that at her age—which must be fifty or more—I’d look that good at 12:02 in the morning.”

  “We couldn’t sleep,” Burton said. “In fact, neither of us has tried.”

  “Can you tell us anything?” I asked her. I pulled another cup and saucer from the cupboard. “You were Roger’s wife. Surely you either know or suspect something.”

  She sat down on a chair. It was a large kitchen and held a table that seated twelve people—which made it larger than my dining room and kitchen combined. That was Roger. He liked everything big.

  “I’ve thought a great deal about him this evening,” she said. “I did love Roger in the beginning—and I think I made that clear—but the more I saw of who he was, the more I pulled away from him. He bought me expensive gifts—jewelry, furs, and cars—you know—things and only expensive things. He offered to set me up with any kind of business I wanted. He knew I had money and didn’t need anything, but he loved to tell me how much richer he was than I was and how he had increased his wealth. He also reminded me that although I had inherited mine, he had earned his money. He used to quote that old TV commercial about getting money the old-fashioned way. ‘I earn it.’ I never could make him understand that I didn’t want more money or homes. We own homes in six different parts of the world. Can you believe that?”

  “Six? That’s a lot,” I said.

  “I wanted a normal relationship with him. I wanted to be his companion, not his slave.”

  “Yes, I think we understood that,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “I’m not sure what to make of this—and that’s why I couldn’t sleep. Roger changed. I’m not sure when. Maybe two months ago. He became moody—and he was never moody before. One time—oh, maybe a week before I left him—he stood and seemed to stare at the cliff—the place where we dock. I was weeding flowers, and he didn’t know I was around. He cried out, ‘What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me?’

  “I ducked down behind the peonies and rhododendrons until he left. He turned and faced the ocean. He screamed other words, but I couldn’t hear them. He was there maybe ten minutes. Then he turned and walked back toward the house. He never glanced my way, and I never told him I had heard him. But that was such a shock. Never had I ever heard Roger entertain the thought that something was wrong with him.”

  The aroma of coffee had begun to waft through the kitchen. I also became aware that I was hungry. I opened the refrigerator, found a foil-wrapped plate of sandwiches, pulled out the plate, and unwrapped them. I took a cheese-on-rye and offered the plate to Burton and Amanda.

  “Elaine made those. She was so thoughtful and always made them for late-night snacks.” She stopped and wiped tears from her face. “I didn’t like her very much, but I’m sorry she’s dead. I didn’t know about the robbery, but that certainly explains to me why she was often curt.”

  Burton poured coffee. He picked up an egg-salad sandwich and munched on it. “Hmm, this is good,” he said. “Homemade bread. I don’t get that often.”

  For several minutes the conversation went boring. I don’t cook, and I don’t like to talk about food. I try to patronize restaurants to keep the economy booming—and I certainly do my part to keep Americans gainfully employed.

  “There was one other thing,” Amanda said. She laid aside her half-eaten tuna-with-Swiss sandwich. “One time Roger and Simon were having a heated discussion. It may have been an argument, but it didn’t sound angry—loud, strong, but not angry. Something about a book. Simon said, ‘You don’t have to like the book.’ He held up a book—I could see that much. Roger yelled something back—something like, ‘I don’t like it, and I don’t have to like it, and I refuse to like it.’ ”

  “I’ll bet Simon shrugged,” I said.

  “Correct. He put the book into a briefcase and started to walk away. He did stop, turn around, and say, ‘But if you decide you want to read it, I have two copies.’ ”

  “Sounds interesting,” Burton said, “but I’m not sure how relevant that is.”

  “What is relevant is this. First, Simon spoke in full sentences. I had never heard him speak that way before—he had fooled me the way he did everyone else. Second, and this is the main thing, Simon spoke to him frankly, even strongly, and Roger didn’t scream. I’d observed Roger when he screamed at Simon in the past—many times—and always over trivial things. That’s what makes this so odd. Roger smiled after he said he didn’t like the book. He truly smiled. In eighteen years of marriage, I never once saw Roger smile when someone talked strongly to him. And Simon was an employee, which made it worse. Or at least it was strange.”

  “Perhaps we need to talk to Simon,” I said.

  “That wouldn’t hurt,” Burton said and reached for another sandwich.

  Amanda tried the phone. “Still out.” She finished her coffee, threw the uneaten part of her sandwich into the garbage can, and said good night to us.

  Burton quietly munched his second sandwich. I knew he wanted to go to bed. I needed the sleep, but I could always catch up on sleep, and I wanted to prolong our time together. I liked this guy. Just being around him made me feel better about myself.

  I sat quietly and wondered how many people made me feel good about myself just being with them. I had a friend named Nan Snipes. She does that for me, but I couldn’t think of anyone else.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  I know I blushed, so I said, “You.” Before he could respond, I said, “You’re the first preacher I ever met who didn’t start every fifth sentence with some reference to God.”

  “I’d love to talk to you about God—if you want and when you want.”

  I laughed, but I’m sure he knew I was embarrassed. “I’m not very tactful, am I?”

  “No, but I like your directness. It’s real.”

  “So I suppose almost everybody brings up God even if you don’t.”

  “Most of the time. They either tell me some of their best friends are preachers or that they were forced to go to Sunday school and hated it. Som
etimes they’ll say, ‘I haven’t been inside a church in twenty years.’ ”

  “How do you respond to that?”

  “Come on back,” I say. “God’s still waiting to hear from you, and it’s about time to visit again.” He laughed. “No, I don’t say that. I usually ask them why. Most of the time, they’re open enough to tell me. I understand why a lot of people have turned away from the church. I just wish they wouldn’t turn away from God as well.”

  “Interesting perspective,” I said. “I never thought of distinguishing the two.”

  “Think about it. The church means people—and all of us are flawed. God is the perfect One. That’s the direction I like to point people—from imperfect people to a perfect God.”

  “Makes sense. Yes, one way or another, if they’re around you long enough, everyone does get around to the topic of God with you priests.”

  “Pastor. Not a priest. I’m a Protestant.” He grinned. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  I laughed. I was doing a little harmless playing—the dumb-girl act and probably a little flirting. I didn’t think a pastor-type would be interested in me, but then, I loved his curls and nice smile. He was the most attractive man and the nicest I’d met in at least two years. Okay, he was maybe half an inch shorter than I am, but no one is perfect.

  “You don’t act like a preacher—at least not the kind I was exposed to as a kid.”

  “Maybe it’s time to be exposed to a new type.”

  He looked directly into my eyes when he said those words. That’s not fair, I wanted to say. I’m trying to flirt and you’re getting serious. “Uh, well, maybe. Right now I’m trying to get a few things straight in my life—my boring life.”

  “I’m sure it’s not boring,” he said, but he continued to focus his total attention on me. “Have you tried God?” he asked quietly. The words were spoken so softly I wondered if I had imagined them.