If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “Can you tell me how in heaven the lady managed to do it?”

  “How’s your case going?” Bill MacPherson asked his law partner, over spurious morning coffee. He tried to sound casual about it.

  “I’ve just begun,” said A. P. Hill, turning a page of the Danville Register & Bee. “I’m still gathering information. Haven’t even decided on an angle for the defense yet really.”

  “I had a question,” said Bill diffidently. “Just a hypothetical thingamabob, you know. Just a thought that occurred to me. Thought I’d run it by you.”

  Powell Hill was reading the editorials now. “Um-hmm,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Well, supposing that Jeb Royden hadn’t divorced Eleanor. I mean, supposing he just up and announced that he’d had-oh, say, a message from God-and that he had been instructed to take a new wife. So instead of tossing Eleanor out to the wolves, suppose he had just brought in a third party. Wife number two.”

  She lowered the paper slowly until her eyes met Bill’s. “What do you mean, brought a new wife home? You mean bigamy?” A. P. Hill’s voice could have frosted beer mugs.

  “Well, not technically. I mean-just say, for example-that he had exchanged vows with the new wife privately, without benefit of the state licensing procedure.”

  “This is a legal question, right, Bill?” Powell Hill gave him a cold smile. “I mean, I know what I’d do.”

  Bill crossed his legs. “Yeah, but you’ll have to pay Edith a quarter if you tell me.”

  A voice from the receptionist’s area called out, “Are you all talking about Manassas Three again?”

  “No!” Bill yelled back. “Just some legal theorizing.”

  “What are we talking about?” asked Powell, giving up on the Bee.

  “Oh, all right. I took a new case while you were in Roanoke, interviewing Eleanor Royden.”

  “A case about bigamy? You found a bigamist in Danville?”

  “Well, sort of.” Bill explained about Chevry Morgan’s directive from God. A. P. Hill listened in silence, but her expression suggested that she would not be converting to that particular brand of religion. In fact, if an angel had appeared to her, she might have sent him back for the fiery sword while she made out her hit list. And lo! Chevry Morgan’s name would lead all the rest.

  Powell sipped her tea, discovered that it was cold, and set it down again. “I can’t believe it,” she said softly. “There is actually a woman alive today who would fall for that crap?”

  “Two of them, to be exact,” Bill pointed out. “And you can’t blame it on an unenlightened generation, either, because both of the Mrs. Morgans seem to have accepted the news of their husband’s divine mission without too many qualms. Remember wife number two is a teenager.” He looked at his partner’s forbidding expression. “Of course, that isn’t to say that most women of any age would be taken in. Er-I don’t suppose you’re his type, Powell.”

  “Probably not,” she agreed. “I am neither adolescent and gullible, nor old and helpless. I’m trying to think what we can do to help these poor women.”

  “I don’t think the second Mrs. Morgan wants any help. When I saw her last night, she looked like the cat in the cream jug.”

  “You saw her?”

  Bill reddened. “Did I forget to mention that? Edith and I went to church.”

  “I hope you didn’t put anything in the collection plate,” snapped A. P. Hill.

  “Edith wanted to contribute something, but it wasn’t monetary. I talked her out of it. I don’t think there’s much we can do about Mrs. Morgan the Younger, unless we can think of something to charge Bluebeard with, and get him sent to jail. She might wise up once he’s gone. Right now they’re like birds hypnotized by a snake. You should have seen him at the service. He was very charismatic. Sort of an ecumenical Elvis, prancing around with his microphone.”

  “I can imagine. And nobody questioned his lunacy? What about the girl’s parents?”

  “Members of the congregation. He convinced them, too.”

  Powell Hill shook her head. “I hope the tabloids don’t get wind of this. You haven’t lived down the Confederate Women yet.” Bill winced at this mention of his first case-a real-estate transaction that had become a nightmare. “Tell me, why did the other Mrs. Morgan come to you?”

  “Glimmerings of common sense, I think,” said Bill. “Every so often Chevry Morgan’s spell wears thin. Then she realizes how absurd the whole thing is. When hubby comes back, she’s trapped again. For all I know, she may call off the case any day now. If he finds out she’s been seeing a lawyer, he’ll pressure her until she gives in.”

  “Get her out of there, Bill.”

  Bill looked uncomfortable. “Well, it’s tricky. She claims she doesn’t want a divorce.”

  “She doesn’t want a divorce?”

  “Doesn’t believe in them. They belong to a very strict fundamentalist sect. Mrs. Morgan the Younger has a long list of thou shalt nots to follow. No short skirts; no dancing; no lipstick.”

  “Oh, right,” said A. P. Hill, emptying her teacup into Bill’s philodendron. “This teenage honey isn’t allowed to dance or wear makeup, but her folks let her go off and have sex with a married man old enough to be her grandfather. Right.”

  “Maybe you ought to take this case,” said Bill, rooting around on his desk for the pertinent manila folder. “You have exactly the right tone to highlight the folly of it all. I can just picture you cross-examining Chevry Morgan.”

  “Sorry, partner,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I’m doing a murder case, and I don’t handle domestic matters. But if someone murders old Chevry, I’ll defend them for free.”

  “Well, do you have any suggestions on what I might do?”

  “Check the statutory-rape laws. The girl is probably too old for that to work, though. Give Chevry credit for being sly enough to escape the obvious pitfalls. Then see if laws pertaining to alienation of affection or criminal conversation are still on the books.” Powell Hill grimaced. “I never thought I’d hear myself recommending that one.”

  “Criminal conversation?” echoed Bill.

  “Legal euphemism. It means that you can sue someone for committing adultery with your spouse.” She shrugged. “It’s a form of property damage, I guess. The early silverbacks put it into law to keep their wives off-limits. It would be nice if you could use that old legal chestnut the other way, to ensure the fidelity of the male spouse.”

  “You mean, Mrs. Donna Morgan could sue Mrs. Tanya Faith Morgan for husband-napping?”

  “More like sexual trespassing,” said Powell. “Possibly, yes. You’ll have to crack the law books to find out for sure. It’s an old law, seldom if ever used today.”

  “I wonder if Ivana Trump thought of it.”

  A. P. Hill picked up her briefcase. “If that doesn’t work, let me know. We can dredge up something else.” She grinned. “Maybe we can fix up Mr. Morgan with a knife-wielding manicurist from Manassas.”

  From the other room, a voice called out, “You owe me a quarter!”

  “Amy P. Hill, what an unexpected pleasure! What brings you up here to Roanoke?”

  “Hello, Bob. Just visiting a client.” A. P. Hill remembered Bob Creighton from law school. He had been a class ahead of her, and she hadn’t been particularly impressed by his legal skills or his clumsy attempt to add her scalp to his belt in after-hours student socializing. She wondered if he was as obvious in court as he had been as a prospective suitor. He still looked like the fraternity social chairman, she thought: blow-dried hair, navy-blue blazer, and a tie that looked frivolous to the uninitiated. The law-school Ken Doll. She decided to ignore the fact that he had called her Amy. “You’re in the DA’s office, aren’t you, Bob?”

  He checked to see if his shoes were shined. “Got me there, Amy girl. How’d you guess?”

  “Women’s intuition,” said A. P. Hill with what passed for a smile.

  “Can I buy you a Coke?”

  �
�Sure. Why not?” She realized that this was not a casual meeting. Bob Creighton represented the DA. Old school pleasantries aside, her adversaries were about to fire the opening salvo. Still, she wanted to hear what the prosecution thought of the Eleanor Royden case, and this might be a civilized way to find out. She decided to play along.

  Bob Creighton led her to the snack bar, a collection of small tables flanked by a row of vending machines. He chatted amiably about the weather, his golf game, and how much he enjoyed his work. He asked very few questions of A. P. Hill, but, in her experience, that was not unusual. Creighton was the sort of man who used women as sounding boards, preferably mute and adoring. Powell Hill thought she could just manage the former; the latter was past praying for.

  They settled in metal chairs, sipping diet soft drinks and smiling warily at each other. “So,” said Bob, who had run out of small talk, “I hear you’re up here talking to that Royden woman.”

  “I’m thinking of taking the case,” said Powell Hill, trying to sound casual. “I’d have thought it would be considered quite a plum. Major publicity. Possible movie interest. I can’t think why nobody in Roanoke wanted it.” She gave him an innocent smile. “Or am I just being modest? I assumed I wasn’t the first attorney Mrs. Royden contacted.”

  Bob Creighton winced. “The first Mrs. Royden,” he said. “Those of us who knew Jeb like to think of poor Giselle as the real Mrs. Royden. I’m sure Jeb would shudder if he could hear Eleanor referred to by that honorific.”

  “To which she is still legally entitled, of course,” purred Powell Hill.

  “But morally,” said Creighton, frowning, “morally, it pains me to hear it. Consider the circumstances. Calling Eleanor that is an affront to Mrs. Royden’s memory. Jeb’s wife, I mean. His true soul mate, till death-a.k.a. Eleanor-did them part. You didn’t know Giselle, of course, but she was such a ray of sunshine in Jeb’s life.”

  A. P. Hill preserved her reputation for humorlessness by not remarking, “I expect she was a hot little number, all right.”

  “Jeb and Giselle.” Creighton sighed. “They were such an ideal couple. It was the most touching thing to see them together. So in love.”

  A. P. Hill looked puzzled as the name finally registered. “Giselle? That’s not the name on the documents-”

  “Oh, no.” Bob gave her a sad smile. “Her real name was Staci, but she once studied ballet, and Jeb thought she was so graceful, with her big brown eyes. Like Bambi. So the pet name went from Gazelle to Giselle. Giselle is a famous ballet,” he added, in case A. P. Hill were culturally challenged.

  She returned his smile with a cold stare. “A ballet? Really? Is it about adultery?”

  “I see that woman has poisoned your mind,” said Bob. “That’s because you didn’t know Jeb and Giselle. Eleanor couldn’t run that game on any of us around here, which is why she had to import a lawyer.”

  “Maybe she just wanted an unbiased trial,” A. P. Hill replied. “Clients are funny about that.”

  “Oh, we’ll be fair, all right,” said Creighton. “But we take it very personally when an hysterical middle-aged woman guns down her ex-husband out of jealousy and spite.”

  A. P. Hill made a mental note to look again into a change of venue for the trial. “I hear he wasn’t exactly benevolent in the divorce,” she said.

  Bob Creighton hesitated for a moment. Deciding which argument to pick, thought A.P. Finally he smiled at her and said, “He was a lot like you, Amy. I know you wouldn’t expect some old flame to support you for the rest of your life. And I know you wouldn’t care to have one sponging off you, either.”

  “I might choose a spouse more carefully to begin with.”

  Creighton shrugged. “Hindsight doesn’t win football games.”

  “So tell me about this divorce,” Powell prompted. “I have my client’s side of it, of course, and I can get the documents, but I’m sure the legal community here saw a good bit that I won’t find in either account.”

  “Oh, for sure. Everybody knew Jeb. He was a pillar of the community. Symphony fund-raiser, great golfer. Famous for his dinner parties.”

  “Oh, he cooked?”

  “Well, no. For the last couple of years he’s hosted his dinners at La Maison, because Giselle didn’t cook that sort of fare.”

  “But before that?”

  “I suppose that woman handled the cooking,” Bob Creighton said grudgingly. “Eleanor. Probably it was all she was good for.”

  “You were going to tell me about the divorce.”

  “It was just one of those things, Amy. Jeb and Eleanor Royden got married very young, and over the years they grew apart. It happens-and it certainly isn’t uncommon these days.”

  “Not among people who can afford a trade-in, no,” said Powell Hill sweetly.

  “I told you. He met Giselle and then he couldn’t see spending the rest of his life being middle-aged and bored. Then none of them would have been happy. He tried it for a while, though. He and Staci-Giselle-used to be seen around town together. She’d go with him on trips sometimes, but he still went home to Eleanor like a good boy. I think he tried to keep his marriage intact.”

  “How very noble of him.”

  “Yeah.” Creighton sighed. “Eleanor Royden found out about it, though. She was out with Jeb at a charity event one evening, and they ran into an attorney who was new in town. The attorney asked Eleanor if she was Mrs. Royden’s mother.”

  “No doubt it was awkward,” said A. P. Hill. “I’m sure he felt just like Aldrich Ames.”

  “Who?”

  “The CIA fellow who got caught spying for the USSR. It’s always unpleasant to be caught.”

  Creighton raised his eyebrows. “I know it’s good form to identify with one’s prospective client- publicly, at least. But such hausfrau sentiments are a little out of character coming from you, Amy.”

  A. P. Hill’s civility had worn thin. “Nobody calls me Amy, Creighton.”

  “You’re talking like an Amy, Counselor. All bourgeois horrified at the wicked ways of the world. Surely you aren’t so naïve, whatever your client’s failings.”

  A. P. Hill gave him a mildly attentive stare, the look she used to give fetal pigs in high-school biology lab. “So, Bob, you are saying that if something is a common occurrence, one should not be upset when one encounters it. Child abuse is fairly common. Drunk driving is routine. Torture goes on in most parts of the world. Should we take all that in stride merely because it happens a lot? I thought morality depended on what was right, not on what was popular.”

  Creighton looked over his shoulder. Then he turned around and peered at the empty chairs of the snack bar. “Is there a jury in here?” he asked. “I don’t see one. Or were you just grandstanding from force of habit?”

  “Just presenting the rebuttal for that smug little editorial of yours. Now get back to the Roydens’ divorce. What happened after Eleanor found out about Staci?”

  “Oh, she became completely irrational. Probably something to do with menopause.”

  “An interesting defense,” said A. P. Hill. “What did she do?”

  “She stormed out into the parking lot to Jeb’s new car. He had just bought a white Nissan 3002X.”

  “Probably something to do with male menopause,” she said solemnly.

  “Why shouldn’t he? It was his money. Anyhow, Eleanor got into the trunk, took a tire iron, and did a pretty thorough job of smashing that car into an unrecognizable wreck.”

  A. P. Hill thought that she might have been tempted to do much the same, but she only nodded. “I see. So the battle lines were drawn.”

  “Actually, Jeb was pretty sympathetic. He didn’t move out. Didn’t even seem too upset. He probably told Eleanor that she was imagining things, or that he’d break it off. And then he tried to be more discreet.”

  “I do like an honorable man,” said A. P. Hill with a sour smile. “But tell me about the divorce.”

  “Well, as I said, Jeb tried to be discreet. Elea
nor, however, had a nasty suspicious mind, and she behaved like an absolute bloodhound. No matter how he covered his tracks, she simply wouldn’t believe that he was being faithful. Her endless badgering grew tiresome, so, of course, he moved out.”

  “Well, poor old Jeb. And in the divorce proceedings, I suppose he cast her as the Polish cavalry?”

  World War II metaphors were wasted on Creighton, whose intellect was even more limited than his imagination. He ignored the remark and launched into a detailed account of Jeb Royden’s legal maneuvers in his efforts to humiliate his ex-wife and to deprive her of every vestige of financial security. He described the campaign as dispassionately as he might have discussed the strategies of the Trojan War. To Creighton, any human suffering incurred in the legal battle was a minor side effect of the technical process. A. P. Hill detected a note of admiration in her colleague’s description of the suits and countersuits in Royden v. Royden.

  “Jeb was remarkably patient with her,” he said. “He was always a lawyer first and a litigant second. Eleanor really lost it a few times. She stormed into his office and started relating her version of the divorce to his clients, so Jeb quietly had her arrested and charged with trespassing.”