Exhausted as the adrenaline wore off, she fell asleep with murderous thoughts stealing through her dreams, and those dreams kept looping back to the pool. Nothing could be more normal than a pool boy drowning in a pool (after a blow to the head).
She awoke in a postadrenaline funk and dragged herself to Howard’s study to discover the kind of site on which Ramon was threatening to post the video. She didn’t consider herself naïve, but she was nonetheless dispirited by the avalanche of the banal and perverse. One site allowed viewers to vote their preference of video after video of smut, with the tally of votes listed underneath. Each video, of which there was an unending supply, claimed thousands of viewers. That her daughter might be exposed so publicly for the entertainment of concupiscent males made her sick to her stomach. She wasn’t a prude, but her sexual predilections were decidedly conventional, while so much of what she dredged up online was disgusting and — yuk-ugh! — unhygienic. The internet had become the new Sodom and Gomorrah. The videos all seemed to follow the same formula. The women were interchangeable almost to the point of anonymity, though she couldn’t help thinking they were someone’s daughters. The men were even more anonymous, either viewed from behind, and thus unidentifiable, or photographed from navel to knees, with an emphasis on the phallus as piston. Evelyn was revolted, even as she found herself becoming aroused. She wanted to turn away, yet (disturbingly) felt hypnotically drawn to the action — it was boring in its repetition, but fascinating at the same time, like watching variations of the same accident, over and over. These young women inexplicably seemed to derive intense pleasure from gagging on penises, assuming improbable sexual positions, and being anointed in come. When had sex become so distasteful? Was nothing private anymore? How could she get the video away from Ramon?
Her fantasies turned from the erotic to the homicidal. Others who knew her would have never allowed it possible that her thoughts could turn in that direction. Evelyn had a reputation for being mild mannered and compassionate. Even in her own mind her biggest crime had been the murder of a gopher. What they didn’t understand, and what Evelyn had only recently come to grips with herself, was that her peaceful nature derived from a World View in which the participants were all presumed innocent. She would never kill a fly for being a fly, or a spider for being a spider. Those creatures served a purpose; she just wanted them to take their business outside, instead of setting up shop in her home, and she dealt with them accordingly. Mosquitos, however, carried disease, and were summarily executed, for while they were only being mosquitos, they presented a danger to herself and her family. Admittedly, she’d led a sheltered life. Had she ever been subjected to the backstabbing that went on in the workplace, she would never have been so innocent. However, now, in the space of a few days, she’d discovered two men and a woman who contrived to destroy her peace of mind. They threatened the life that she’d so carefully built by doing the right thing day after day, year after year, decade after decade. So this uncharacteristic turn of mind was only as unusual as the circumstances dictated.
She thought how sweet it would be, to solve all of her problems with a simple coup de grâce. She imagined running a bath for Howard, soaping his shoulders, and dropping an electric appliance (a laptop, perhaps) into the water. A quick and not-too-painful death. Then she saw the circuit breaker trip and Howard, seething with rage, drowning her in the same tub.
She thought of the murder mysteries where the heroine/murderess poisons the victim. Ramon might accept a strychnine-laced iced tea, but what then? The problem with that scenario was that she would have to dispose of the body elsewhere, and she simply wasn’t strong enough to drag 170 pounds of deadweight to her car.
The fact was that the perfect murder had yet to be invented. She knew these musings for what they were: revenge fantasies. The problem with such fantasies was that in the real world people were punished for their crimes. She’d surely be caught and go to prison. And if the police found the phone before she could erase the video, they would have their motive. Then it might be surmised that the murder had been premeditated, a crime that carried the death penalty. She could probably lure him into her bed first, then claim she’d been raped. But how would she convey a sign of struggle? What then? If she were convicted of murder, at the very least she’d rot in prison, while Howard, relieved to be rid of her, would continue living in her house. Connie or some other bimbo might even step into her place, sleep in her bed, eat in her kitchen, drive her car, while she languished in a small, cold cell. Where was the justice in that? What had she ever done to deserve such ruin?
No, if she were to act, instead of standing passively by while others ruined her life, she would have to be smart and cunning. The first thing she determined was that her problem with Howard could wait. The problem with Ramon was more pressing and required her immediate attention.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ramon’s business card gave his name and telephone number, but not his address. Nonetheless, it took only a few keystrokes on the computer to find where he lived. At 8:27 a.m. Evelyn drove slowly down the row of vehicles parked behind the former apartment complex on Richland Drive that had been turned into condominiums. The Pool Boy truck was parked in its designated space. She exited the lot on Broadmoor and pulled to the curb in the shade of a pepper tree to wait. She made a move in her chess game with Robert, noted the time in Paris (5:35 p.m.), and checked Friend Finder to see where Samantha was (the Luxembourg Gardens).
In the rearview mirror she saw Ramon’s truck pull out of the alley at 8:39 a.m. She watched him until he turned left at the light on State Street. Number seven was a corner, ground floor apartment with front windows on Richland and side windows on Broadmoor. She went to the door, made a pretense of knocking, and tried the knob. It was locked. Between the sidewalk and the front windows was a lush garden of agapanthus and small palms. She waded through the vegetation and peered in the front window. There was nothing to see but a Star Wars poster hung over an Ikea couch; an overstuffed chair; a coffee table; a half-empty bookcase; and a floor lamp. She went back to the sidewalk and turned the corner. At the side of the building, she stepped gingerly through a bed of ivy and paused at another window. It was hard to be discreet under such circumstances. Anyone driving down Broadmoor would see her snooping, but she was a woman dressed in an expensive, white workout outfit and didn’t fit the profile of a burglar. At worst, they’d think she was looking in the window to see if a friend was home. The space between the partially drawn curtain revealed the corner of a bed, a bathroom beyond, a small writing desk beneath a square, gilt-framed mirror, and a desktop computer. But for a turquoise bedspread and a cheesy post-Impressionist knockoff on the wall, it was a drab and cheerless room. The cheap furnishings gave testament of a hand-to-mouth existence. For all his plans, his business didn’t seem to afford him any luxuries. Then again, perhaps he was being frugal and banking his profits. It was impossible to know which.
She continued to the alleyway at the back of the condo, nonchalantly surveying the mostly empty parking spaces, and noting that the windows on this side of the building were all small, frosted, bathroom windows, providing total privacy. She casually tried the green door at the back of number seven. The knob turned and she felt a momentary surge of excitement, until she pulled. The door didn’t budge. It seemed to be bolted on the inside.
She returned to her car, feeling stymied and frustrated. Why had she even come? What had she hoped to accomplish? It had been a fool’s errand — he undoubtedly had his phone with him. When wouldn’t he? If there had been access, and if he’d been in the shower, she might have snatched the phone and run, but what were the odds of that ever happening?
Back in the car, she plugged her phone into its charger. Then it dawned on her — she often left her phone charging in her car. She would have to follow Ramon and see if he did the same.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
She’d always found painting therapeutic.
It allowed her to clear her mind of all but the patterns and colors, and the ideas that never seemed to desert her. She spent that afternoon working on her garden tableau, even as ideas for the next one floated through her consciousness. It would be an enigmatic study of a suitcase on a bed, though she was unsure if the owner of the suitcase was packing or unpacking, a man or a woman, at home or at large, at leisure or in haste, traveling for business, or for pleasure, or of necessity. Those answers would fall into place in the next few days. At the same time, while she painted, her subconscious worked on the problem of how to get the video from Ramon, or persuade him to erase it.
The next morning she was back on Broadmoor, as The Pool Boy truck began making the morning rounds. She followed at a discreet distance. Over the course of two hours, she followed him to three residences. At each stop, while he worked on the pool in the backyard, she checked his truck’s cab for a charging phone, and each time she came up empty. When he pulled into a Taco Bell for lunch, she drove past without stopping, worried and disconsolate and unsure how to proceed.
He telephoned at noon the following day. “Have you talked to your husband about my proposition?”
“He doesn’t need to know.”
“You don’t have to tell him about the video. Just show him the prospectus.”
“He’s not even in favor of me starting my own business. He won’t support an investment scheme.”
Ramon was silent a long time. She could hear road noises. She assumed he was driving. “Are we going to be business partners?”
“I can give you some money, but only if you let me delete the video from your phone. Then we can discuss business.” It was a cat and mouse game. She hoped she was still the cat.
“Have you read the prospectus?”
“Yes,” she lied. She couldn’t quite believe he could still talk to her about business, as though he wasn’t trying to extort money and threatening to publicly expose her daughter. Did he think this was a friendly game?
“You know you hurt me the other day,” he said.
What was she supposed to say? Should she humor him? Apologize? “You had it coming,” she said.
“It still hurts.”
Good, she thought. “That’s what comes of taking pictures without permission.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Evelyn, and we can discuss this like reasonable human beings.”
Through the peephole, she could see him bouncing on his toes like a nervous teenager on prom night. She’d been keyed up all morning in anticipation of this meeting. She’d had two glasses of wine to calm her nerves. She was on dangerous ground.
She opened the door, ushered him, and led him to the kitchen. She was more comfortable in the kitchen.
“It’s good to see you. Really, Evelyn.”
There’s an old expression to describe his sort, she thought — Snake in the grass. He must have a screw loose to think I’d trust him. “Are you going to give me the phone?”
“What are you going to give me in return?”
“I can give you three thousand dollars,” she said. It wasn’t exactly true. It was as much as she felt she could spare, and still have enough left over to fund her business start-up costs, for though her relationship with Connie was nearing an end, she was determined to go through with the business plan. She’d just have to find some other gallery to represent her original work, or sell it out of her own store. The idea came from Brooke, and it was a good idea.
“Three thousand isn’t nearly enough. I told you what I need.”
“Take three thousand and let me erase that video. Then we can discuss it.”
“Evelyn, Evelyn,” he said, holding his hands out in a supplicatory gesture.
She crossed her arms, and before she could step back, he enfolded her in his arms, burying his face in her hair. She tensed, feeling like a mouse in the embrace of a cat. His hands slid down to the small of her back, and his fingers began kneading her tense muscles. “Come on, don’t you think we would make good partners?”
“I thought Constance was your partner.”
“She’s Fridays. But if you and I were partners…”
“I’m married.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Apparently nothing, she thought, at least in Howard’s estimation. Vows were made to be broken. “I’m old enough...” she began to say.
“...to know better?” he interrupted, diplomatically finishing the sentence for her. “Old enough to appreciate how rare it is to find someone you feel a connection with?”
“Will you take the three thousand?”
“I like it when you’re not swinging at me.”
“You deserved it.” She hated him for thinking he could manipulate her, and for the way her body responded to his touch. Jesus, what was it about this boy? How could she command the moral high ground when her body betrayed her intentions? Was she as low as Howard?
“I’ll take your three thousand, and I’ll take you to bed. Then you can have the phone, and we can get down to business.”
She told herself she would just have to bear it and give him nothing in return. She would be a passive vessel. She was doing it for Sam’s sake. She might have succeeded in believing it if Ramon had, like Howard, been a “slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am” sort of lover. But in the time it usually took to bring Howard to orgasm, Ramon was just getting started, and he was really very good. She hated him then. She hated him intensely. She hated him hard. And it was good.
When he was spent and satiated, he said, “You can never really trust anyone until you go to bed with them.”
“I hope you don’t do much business with men then.”
He laughed. “You know, I don’t. I don’t trust men much.”
“That makes two of us. Give me your phone.”
He rolled over, reached to the floor, and retrieved his pants. He fished in his pockets, found the phone, and passed it to her. She tapped on the photos icon, tapped the offending video, and deleted it. Then she rolled onto her back with a sense of relief, and thinking that she was in bed with a lithe young man and could spend all day getting even with Howard, she reached over and ran her hand over his hard, flat stomach. He chuckled with self-satisfaction and locked his fingers behind his head.
“You’re so young,” she said.
“You’re so lovely.”
“You’re terribly cocky.”
He rolled toward her and kissed her softly on the cheek. “I’m no saint, but I think we’ll make a good partnership.”
“Don’t you feel guilty?”
“For what?”
“For taking advantage of my daughter. For blackmailing me.”
“You have to use what leverage you can to get ahead in life. It’s just business.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“It’s not like I’m not giving you something in return. I think I’m being generous.”
“You’re forcing me to take risks I don’t want to take.”
“I’d say we both have an agenda.”
She lay there thinking about it for a minute. “I don’t have an agenda.”
“Of course you do. You want me. You know you do.”
She felt a sudden flare of rage. Sam had been right; he was a narcissist. “You’re out of your mind. And I’m not going into business with you. You were wrong to take those pictures. You were wrong to seduce my daughter.”
“Seduce your...? No, no, no. I think it was the other way around. She’s a man-eater. Like mother, like daughter.”
“Fuck you,” she said angrily.
“You have, thank you.”
“Fuck you, again.”
“Don’t be tedious.”
“I’d never go into business with you.”
Ramon slid out of bed and began dressing. “You’ll go
into business with me,” he said a little sullenly.
“Why should I?”
“You didn’t think I’d give you the only copy, did you?”
“What?”
“You’ll cosign the loan and pay until I say.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be dense. You and I are partners now. I’ll call the Realtors tomorrow. We can start moving on this right away. We’ll need to put in an offer. This is a sweet deal. It’s not everyday you find oceanfront property. This could be a gold mine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
She eased her conscience by telling herself that it was Howard’s fault. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, or the other way around. She wouldn’t have gone to bed with Ramon if Howard had been faithful. There was even some degree of truth in that. But she also knew she had wanted to. It was complex: part revenge, part desire, part thrill at breaking the rules, part last fling before age took its toll. Partly she had done it because she knew it had been to her advantage. She’d let him believe he was in charge. She was small. She was easily led. She was vulnerable. And if he didn’t know she was also dangerous, all the better. It would be easier if he underestimated her.
As she painted, dark thoughts of Ramon and Howard kept rising like koi to feed on her fears. Men. If not for her father, a stalwart, honorable man in all respects, she would have no respect for the sex. Admittedly the sampling was small. She didn’t have many friends of either sex. It was an occupational hazard all artists suffered, she felt. Art was a solitary pursuit. Though she wasn’t one of those artists who sacrificed her life for art. Quite to the contrary, she had sacrificed her art for a life. Her priority had always been her family. Art took a secondary role, and that, no doubt, was why the little success she had achieved was coming late in life. Which made it all the more unfair that just as she was beginning to attract the least bit of recognition, men were running roughshod over her dreams, interested only in satisfying their own needs. Her life was infested with imperfect men, like worms in a ripe apple. Why should she suffer for their duplicity?
Evelyn Marsh Page 11