Evelyn Marsh

by S. W. Clemens

  “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last week.” He seemed to see the painting for the first time. “You moved the gopher hole.”

  “I thought it should be a hidden element, something you don’t see at first glance. A sort of subliminal message.”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I could do…” He looked quickly toward the pool to see if Samantha was listening and was startled to find her holding onto the coping and looking straight at him. He smiled and winked, receiving a cold glare in return and, turning back to Evelyn, finished, sotto voce, “...to make it up to you. I like working for you and I thought you might be interested in a business proposition.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “I brought a prospectus,” he said, holding out a presentation folder.

  “I don’t really do business.”

  He looked confused. “But you’re starting your own business. You’re opening your own shop.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Not so different. Here, just read this and think it over. We could be partners. I would do all the work. You would make half the money.”

  Do I really look so gullible? Evelyn wondered. She said, “I don’t think Howard would approve.”

  “I wasn’t talking about going into business with your husband.”

  “Any money we invest is money Howard earned, so he has to approve it. I’m not even sure he’ll let me open my store.”

  “Does he monitor everything you do?”

  In fact, Evelyn did have a certain degree of latitude. She paid the bills. She held joint brokerage, checking, and savings accounts with Howard. If she were secretive, she could free up $10,000 or $15,000 to make an investment. Not that she would ever waste that resource on a scheme her pool boy proposed. She might, however, use it to fund opening her own shop. Connie hadn’t said how much she was willing to invest, but she’d implied she wanted to be a partner. And even if she couldn’t count on Howard’s consent, Evelyn was sure her father would help out.

  Ramon was saying something. She looked at the prospectus in her hand. “I’ll take a look at it, but don’t get your hopes up,” she said.

  He smiled, suddenly turning on his radiant charm. “I think we would make good partners. I know I could trust you. You’re honest and levelheaded.”

  “I won’t disagree with you there,” she said, though she was aware he was just trying to butter her up. He didn’t know her well enough to say if she was honest or levelheaded.

  “You’re a very attractive lady.”

  Evelyn was amused at his clumsy attempt at manipulation. “Ramon, I’m old enough to be your mother, and we both know it.”

  “I only speak the truth.”

  “Besides, I know about you and Connie.”

  “Connie?”

  “Connie Katz?”

  He looked genuinely puzzled.

  “Maybe you know her as Connie Whitfield?”

  The light dawned in his eyes. “Oh, Constance. She’s...a nice lady.” He shrugged and looked away. “We have an arrangement. We each have our needs.”

  “I’m not disapproving,” Evelyn said playfully, enjoying his discomfort. “You’re both consenting adults, and she’s not much older than you. Have you shown her your prospectus?”

  “You’re the first I’ve shown it to.”

  “I’ll look at it,” Evelyn said, with no intention of following through. She wanted to bring the conversation to a close. She wanted to get back to work. “You’ll be coming tomorrow, as usual?”

  “Yes, tomorrow.”

  When he was gone, Samantha pulled herself out of the pool and began toweling off. “Who was that guy?”

  “Our pool boy, Ramon. You saw him last week.”

  “Did I? I didn’t like the way he looked at me. He’s a little creepy.”

  “You shouldn’t judge him at first glance. He’s a very nice young man.”

  “He’s a narcissist. You can see that a mile away,” Samantha scoffed. “God’s gift to women.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Sunday street fair encompassed four blocks of small, white marquees where vendors sold jewelry, dresses, sweaters, hats, slippers, toys, handmade furniture, art glass, pottery, soap, perfume, photographs, lithographs, puzzles and wreaths, CDs, musical instruments, steampunk paraphernalia, wooden sculptures, garden spinners, food and wine. People milled about in front of the booths and jostled past knots of gawkers and baby strollers. Bubbles were floating in the air, and a band played covers of old rock-and-roll favorites.

  In the din, Evelyn could hardly hear herself think. She’d been waiting by a booth of hand-loomed blankets for fifteen minutes. Then she saw Brooke and broke into a smile of recognition.

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” Evelyn said, “and I didn’t want to move because I wasn’t sure I could find you in all this mess.”

  “I’m sorry, I got tied up at the shop. I tried calling, but all I got was your voicemail.”

  Evelyn took out her phone and looked at the screen. It showed three missed calls. “It’s so loud, I didn’t hear it ring. I should have you on Friend Finder.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An app that lets you know where your friends are. My daughter showed me. She’s going on a trip, and I’ll be able to track where she is in Paris. Here, look.” She touched the screen and a map appeared that showed their location and that of Samantha. “See, she’s down on the wharf having lunch with her roommate. They’re leaving Thursday.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “It comes with your phone. You just have to activate it. Do you want to friend me?”

  Brooke, who would have balked at letting her parents follow her movements, was delighted at the prospect of forming a closer bond with one of the artists she admired. She was flattered that Evelyn considered her a friend, instead of a mere business acquaintance. “Sure.”

  Evelyn touched the button that said Invite Friend, scrolled through her contacts, and tapped Brooke’s name. Brooke’s phone pinged. “Now, click Accept.” Brooke did as instructed. “There, now we’re connected. Then if we’re separated, it’ll be easy to find one another.”

  “That’s handy. Do you want to grab something to eat, or do you want to shop? We still have almost an hour before we meet with Connie. She’s found two available shops. One of them isn’t even listed yet.”

  “I think we found the right spot for a shop,” Evelyn said over lunch Monday at The Grotto. She and Samantha were sitting on the terrace overlooking the marina. “It’s a flower shop now. The owner is retiring. I’m taking your grandfather to see it tomorrow. Would you like to come along?”

  “I can’t; I still have to pack. I thought Daddy was against it.”

  “He’s not on board yet, but I’m working on him. I don’t know what he expects me to do with myself, now that you kids are grown.”

  “I think it’s a good idea.”

  “Besides, I must be one of the only women of my generation who’s never held a job. Your father always made enough, and I had you kids to look after.”

  “Painting is a job.”

  “Not if you don’t make money at it. You wouldn’t believe how much more satisfying it is to be paid for your work. It’s a kind of validation.”

  “Of course it would be.”

  “Your father doesn’t understand that. He thinks I should just be content to paint as a hobby. But why shouldn’t I make money at it?”

  “Don’t look at me; I’m totally supportive. Go for it, Mom. You deserve to do what you want.”

  “It’s so nice to have a daughter who gets it. Maybe you can talk to your father.”

  Samantha held up her hands in protest. “Don’t put me in the middle. I just want you to be happy.”

  “You can be subtle.”

/>   “Dad doesn’t understand subtle,” Samantha said, and immediately changed the subject. “Can I take another suitcase? I don’t think I’ll have room for everything.”

  “You don’t have to take your whole wardrobe with you. Besides, you’re not going on safari. You can buy whatever you need in Paris.”

  On Tuesday, Evelyn and her father paid a visit to the flower shop. When they were done, Bill Hightower made a call to the landlord to set up a meeting.

  Evelyn listened to the one-sided conversation, grateful to have someone handling those legal aspects that were beyond her expertise. He hung up and said, “It’s all set. We’ll meet with him on Friday, just to feel out his position.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  “I think it would be a good idea. It’s your name that’ll be on the lease, if it goes that far.”

  Evelyn’s head was swimming with facts, figures, and possibilities as she drove up the steep drive and parked her white BMW in the middle bay of the garage. She found Samantha in her bedroom, with two large suitcases open on the bed.

  “I can’t fit it all in,” Samantha whined. “I need another bag.”

  “An extra bag will cost an extra fifty dollars. Just pack what you can. I’ll send the rest by FedEx. It’ll be cheaper.”

  “Ah, perfect.” Her mood seemed to lift immediately.

  “Have you confirmed your reservations?”

  They had decided that Samantha would fly to Los Angeles to meet up with Gail at the airport before their nonstop flight to Paris.

  “Yeah. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather drive me to Gail’s instead?”

  “No, flying from here saves me three hours of driving, plus gas. And if we got caught in LA traffic, you could miss your flight.”

  They packed, refolded clothes, and put aside bulkier items to be shipped later.

  Remembering the day of the week and the prospectus she had no intention of reading, Evelyn asked, “Did you notice if Ramon came by today?”

  “He was in the backyard.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He left a note. It’s downstairs on the kitchen table.”

  The note asked if she’d like to meet to discuss the prospectus. It annoyed her. Why did he think she would be interested in going into business with him? She’d barely said two words to him, and now he was pestering her with this business proposition. She was also annoyed with herself for encouraging him. Her mother had been right. It was best to maintain a reserve with the hired help. She wished he’d just go away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wednesday night Howard took them to Bouchon for a bon voyage dinner. Thursday morning Evelyn saw Samantha off at the municipal airport. It was a quiet ride back, and the house seemed emptier when she returned. Samantha called to say she was through security. They chatted until she had to board. That evening Evelyn made beef stroganoff and sat down with a Chardonnay to wait for Howard.

  He came home late, as usual. “Did Sam get off all right?”

  “Their flight from LAX was delayed half an hour, but they got off okay. I’ve been tracking them online.”

  He looked tired. He made himself a martini with Hendrick’s Gin, a dropper of dry vermouth, and a twist of lemon peel, and sat down at the kitchen table. “I have a meeting at Calysta Vineyards Saturday afternoon. It’s in Atascadero. They always expect us to try their product, and the last thing I need is a DUI, so I think I’ll stay overnight in their guesthouse.”

  “You could always spit like a professional taster.”

  “The meeting will probably spill over into dinner, and it’s a two-hour drive home. It’s safer to stay over.”

  She knew it was childish, but the thought of being alone overnight left her feeling abandoned. “Maybe I could come with you.”

  “It’s a business meeting, Evy.”

  “At least we’d have time alone together on the drive.”

  “I’ll be home Sunday afternoon,” he said wearily. He sipped his martini. “By the way, I got a call from your father today. I don’t appreciate being pressured to support your crazy business venture.”

  “I didn’t ask him to call.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, if your father wants to bail you out, all the more power to him. I wash my hands of it. I’ve given you my advice. If you don’t want to take it, fuck it.”

  Evelyn felt like she’d been slapped. Sticks and stones...But words did hurt. He swore at times, but usually he swore at inanimate objects. She assumed he was under pressure at work, and it came out in harsh words aimed at her. It was always worse if he’d been drinking. She said, “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I haven’t even started.”

  She stood up without a word and left the room. She wasn’t going to engage in verbal sparring. She put on a Chris Botti CD to soothe her nerves, and sat down with a book in the living room. She looked at the words, but she was too keyed up to read.

  Twenty minutes later, Howard came in. His martini glass was full again, but rather than the belligerent air she was expecting, he was contrite. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said; “it’s been a long day.” The words helped mollify her mood momentarily, until he added, “But don’t expect my help with this business thing. You do what you want, but I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  She was sorry he was so resolute, but in some ways that made it easier. She might not count on his support, but neither did she have to consider his reservations. Taking on a project and making a success of it was hard enough without having to listen to naysayers. Now she would rely on Connie and her father for advice and leave Howard out of it. If she succeeded, she’d have the satisfaction of knowing she did it without him. If she failed, she’d quietly let it go and fold up shop, without listening to Howard telling her how he would have done it differently.

  Friday Evelyn called Connie to see if she’d like to go out for dinner Saturday evening, but Connie was going to be visiting her sister in Los Angeles. She called Brooke, to see if Brooke would like to come to the house for dinner (she’d never been to the house), but Brooke had a date. She called her father, but he and her mother had tickets for a jazz concert. “Why don’t I take you to lunch on Sunday?” her father said. “I’ve been meaning to try that new brewpub. You can pick up your paintings to have them scanned.”

  She saw Howard off just after noon that Saturday. Faced with an afternoon and evening alone, Evelyn threw herself into her work and made good progress on the new canvas. At twilight the landline rang. She let it go to voicemail. Whoever it was hung up before leaving a message. A minute passed before the phone rang again. Still no message. The third time Evelyn picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  There was silence on the other end, or not quite silence — she could tell it wasn’t a dead line. Then a female voice in a fake German accent said, “Ven ze cat iss avay, ze mice vill play.”

  A crank caller. “Who is this?” Evelyn demanded. It was a rhetorical question; she expected no answer.

  But an answer came. “A friend.”

  There was something familiar about the voice, but she couldn’t place it. Then the line went dead. She hadn’t received a crank call in years. Alone in the house at night, she was suddenly frightened. Was someone watching the house? Ven ze cat iss avay — Howard was away. The caller knew Howard was away. What kind of sicko called with enigmatic messages in the middle of the night?

  The isolation that brought her serenity by day, now left her feeling vulnerable by night. The houses on this hillside were barely visible from the street, hidden away behind trees and hedges, walls or gates. The result was total privacy, a blessing when you wanted peace, a curse when you craved the safety of close neighbors. This was the kind of place Charles Manson had chosen to invade. It didn’t take much imagination to realize that a murderous gang or satanic cult could take over any one of these
homes and torture or kill its occupants, and not one of the neighbors would be the wiser. Ze mice vill play.

  She went around the house locking doors and closing windows and shades. She called Howard, but it went immediately to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message, then called back and left a short message. A minute later, she texted him to call her. She considered calling her father, but she knew he’d insist on her coming to the beach house overnight, and the thought of walking from the front door to the dark garage at night, when a possible stalker was lurking in the shadows, made her uneasy. Besides, she didn’t want to appear hysterical in her father’s eyes.

  Howard kept a pistol in his desk in the study, but the key to the desk was in Howard’s pocket. She took the fireplace poker up to her bedroom and crawled under the covers with a book.

  She dreamt she was in a room with a tall ceiling, surrounded by dark windows that reflected her own image. From the corner of her eye, she was aware of another face in a window that she dare not look at directly. It would go away if only she willed it. Then she was running, pursued down the corridors of a grand hotel, frantically searching for a closet to hide in, or a door to a crowded lobby. She felt hot breath on her neck (...Ze mice vill play!) and swung around to confront her pursuer.

  She came wide-awake at the sound of a loud crash, her arm still vibrating. Pushing herself up on her elbows, eyes wide, she took stock of her surroundings. In the faint glow from the bathroom nightlight, she could make out the vague shapes of the bedroom furniture. Only then did she become aware of the poker still clutched tightly in her hand. She dropped it, scooted over to Howard’s side of the bed, and turned on his lamp. Her heart was pounding. The illuminated clock read 3:24.

  On her side lay the remains of a shattered lamp. Fully awake now, she got out of bed to clean up the mess and examine the damage in more detail. The poker had gouged the top of the nightstand. She felt lucky she’d been unable to get Howard’s gun from his desk. What might she have shot in her sleep? When the lamp was in the trash, she climbed back into bed, leaned against the headboard on Howard’s side, and read until fatigue overtook her shortly after five.