Nonetheless, Samantha came home that evening. “I can’t believe it,” she said, holding back tears. “First that awful lady, now this.”
Evelyn poured them both a glass of Riesling. She clinked her glass against Sam’s. “Just you and me, kid.”
“How could Daddy do that? It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t had sex with that pool boy….”
“No, you can’t think like that. You father knows right from wrong. He knew better. And it might not have been about you anyway. It might have been about Connie Katz. We don’t know.”
The front door slammed shut, and a moment later Robert appeared in the kitchen. “When were you going to tell me? I got an email from Nate Nelson, or I wouldn’t know!”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been so discombobulated. I would’ve called in the morning, but there’s nothing for you to do,” Evelyn said.
“I can be here for you. Do you really think he’s guilty?”
“The evidence would have it appear so.”
“Why? Why did he do it?”
“I’d rather spare you the sordid details,” Evelyn said, glancing sideways at her daughter with a look that invited confidence.
Robert shook his head in disbelief. “It’s unbelievable.”
“Believe it or not, your father is going to prison.”
In the hall of the courthouse before sentencing, Evelyn overheard Detective Olson tell a colleague, “This was an easy one, as most crimes of passion are. There isn’t time to cover your tracks, and Marsh was careless.”
Howard’s protestations of innocence notwithstanding, he was convicted of Voluntary Manslaughter and sentenced to three years in Soledad State Prison. Evelyn thought three years was just about right for him to reflect on the error of his ways.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
And that was how Evelyn managed to get away with her second murder, which was not an accident, and how she killed two birds with one stone or, to be more precise, killed one bird and caged another with one shovel.
A week after Howard’s conviction, Evelyn had the wild trees topped or cut down (something Howard would never have allowed), affording her a panoramic ocean view and giving the knoll an expansive air.
She filed for divorce in April. Her most immediate concern was a lack of income, but then she didn’t have many expenses. Stock dividends covered most of her needs, while her father filled in the gap.
Samantha came home to visit every third weekend, and for the two weeks before summer quarter began. When she went back to school, Evelyn went shopping for a dog to keep her company and found Lettie, another Shih Tzu.
The Evelyn Marsh Gallery and Gift Shop opened the last week of June, and Brooke came to work for her. The storefront was on the south side of State Street, just two blocks east of The Whitfield Gallery. From the day the gallery opened, there was brisk foot traffic. The originals were a hard sell, but it didn’t matter; the peripheral items — mugs, magnets, notepads, placemats and coasters — outsold the paintings, and the giclée prints sold well enough. There were plans for a book and a calendar. Brooke manned the shop from Wednesday through Sunday. Evelyn joined her most afternoons. It was good to mingle with fans of her work. She stood behind the counter and listened to the comments, which were mostly complimentary and gave her a boost of confidence and a sense of accomplishment.
On a Saturday in September, a man strolled into the store who looked vaguely familiar. He wore a Hawaiian shirt in a muted leaf pattern, sunglasses, and a Panama hat. He poked around the tables and displays, picking up first one item, then another, clandestinely glancing from time to time at Evelyn. He stood with crossed arms and looked up at the originals on the wall. She couldn’t place him in his current outfit, and it wasn’t until he spoke that she realized who he was.
“I admire your work,” Detective Olson said.
“Thank you, Detective.”
“You can call me Bill.”
“Bill. That’s my father’s name.”
“I know. How have you been?”
“Keeping busy.”
He gave her an odd, almost guilty look. “I’ve been in before, but you weren’t here.”
“I don’t come in everyday. I have to have time to paint.”
“Yes. You know, I’ve thought of you over the past months. You made an impression during the trial.”
“How so?”
“It was a difficult time for you. You handled it with remarkable grace and composure.”
“I didn’t have any choice.”
“And I love your paintings. They have a haunting quality, like questions unanswered.”
He looked up and she followed his gaze. He was staring at the garden scene, and she realized with a shock that he was looking at the murder weapon right there beside her hat and trowel and gloves, the gloves she’d dropped into the beach basket. Not that he would notice, or put two and two together, but she steered him toward the suitcase painting that she’d entitled Coming or Going?
“Evelyn? Do you mind if I call you Evelyn?”
“That depends. Is this an official inquiry?”
“God forbid, no,” he chuckled. “I hope you won’t think this is inappropriate, considering how we met, but I was hoping you’d have lunch with me sometime, or coffee, or...whatever.”
He seemed so hopeful that she was charmed. “Why not?” she said. It might be nice to have the company of an attentive male from time to time.
He bought a mug and coaster depicting a rowboat piled with fishing gear pulled up on a beach, and footprints in the sand leading off canvas to the right.
That evening she took the garden painting home and painted out the gloves. You can never be too careful, she thought.
On a cool autumn morning, with the scent of honeysuckle in the air, Evelyn knelt in the front garden, trowel in hand, weeding. She looked up at Lettie’s growl and saw dirt pushing out of a hole. The dog trotted forward, barking at the mound, and started to dig with her front paws.
“No, Lettie, bad dog! Get away!” She reached out and pulled the dog back by the collar. “Sit!” she commanded.
The dog sat, growling softly. Evelyn went back to weeding. Sometime later, the mound began to grow as the gopher pushed more dirt from its tunnels. It was like watching a volcano grow. A small gopher peered over the rim. It retreated into its tunnel when Evelyn stood. She gathered a sheaf of weeds and left it at the entrance to the hole. “Eat up,” she told the gopher; “there’s plenty more where that came from.” Then she knelt on the cool earth and scratched behind the dog’s ears. The growl turned to a groan of contentment. “Sometimes,” she said, “it’s best to share our garden.”
The sheaf of weeds shook, and a moment later the green shoots began disappearing down the hole.
Moss Beach, February 1st to September 1st, 2016
Evelyn Marsh Page 17