“How long have I known the deceased?” Eleanor Royden toyed with a lock of faded blonde hair and looked thoughtful. “That phrase will take some getting used to. I feel as if I’d just sunk the Bismarck.
Oh, I’ve known Jeb since before your diapers ever polluted a landfill. I met him when I was a freshman in college.”
“So you went to school together?”
“No indeed. I wish I had a cigarette. No, we weren’t at the same school. Jeb was at North Carolina State University, very macho and self-important in prelaw, and I was bouffant hair and a string of cultured pearls at Meredith, which is a Baptist women’s college. I think the State boys saw Meredith as a kind of stocked trout pond.” She shrugged. “And maybe we looked on them as potentially wealthy patrons. I majored in art. Not even art education so that I might have been able to get a teaching job. Just art. And I can’t draw worth a damn. It was just a fashionable way to pass the time while I primped and partied, and looked for a breadwinner.” She bent down and peered at the young lawyer. “Can you relate to any of this, Sunshine?”
“No.” A. P. Hill gave an involuntary shudder. “I’d sooner join the marines.”
“Yes, I believe you would,” said Eleanor, resuming her pacing. “But you are of a different generation, you know. In my day, that is what proper young ladies did. They were supposed to be half of a career. The dinner party and housekeeping part. We were raised to think that those things mattered.”
“I see.”
“Oh, I had a bookkeeping job for a bit, working for a friend of my father, but everybody called that working for dress money. It meant they didn’t have to pay me much. And I suppose I was glad enough to quit and become Mrs. Jeb Royden, do-mes-tic engineer.”
“So you did not work outside the home,” said A. P. Hill, making notes. “You devoted yourself to your husband’s career and well-being.”
Eleanor Royden hit the conference table with her fist. “And I did a good job, too, damn it! I can cater a cocktail party on forty minutes’ notice. I had our Christmas cards done every year by November twenty-ninth. Our house is spotless, and in all these years I never once asked Jeb Royden to pick up a sock, or wash a dish, or take out the trash. I never let him see me in curlers. And I can still fit into my college ball gowns! I did everything right!”
A. P. Hill sighed. “And he divorced you anyhow.”
“Yes! Was that fair?”
“Mrs. Royden, I’m afraid that justice doesn’t have much to do with human relationships.”
“It does now.” Eleanor pantomimed a pistol shot with her thumb and forefinger.
“You have to stop doing this,” said A. P. Hill with a note of desperation in her voice. “The legal system takes a very dim view of people who gloat.”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through these past two years.”
“So tell me. What happened to your marriage?”
“Jeb turned fifty. Don’t men get strange when they hit middle age? I think it’s testosterone poisoning. Do you suppose anyone is working on a cure? We could organize a telethon.” She struck a pose. “‘Poor Baldy is doomed to a life of bimbos and NordicTrack, unless you help….’”
A. P. Hill sighed impatiently. “I realize that this humor is a defense mechanism, Mrs. Royden, and that you are probably experiencing a delayed shock, but I need to hear the facts. Do you feel up to talking about the divorce?”
“Why not? I’ve dined out on it for two years now. What do you want to know?”
“Well … what were the circumstances leading up to your separation?”
“My husband the legal piranha defended the bimbo landscaper against some unhappy clients, and he won the case, and out of gratitude or opportunism—opinions vary—she tapped his maple tree, to use a colorful plant metaphor.”
“Hmmm,” said A. P. Hill. “Can you tell me something a little more concrete about the second Mrs. Royden?”
“Well, she died young.” Eleanor Royden’s cackle of laughter ended in a smoker’s cough. She patted her chest and continued. “Oh, there wasn’t much to her that I could see except youth. A valuable, but perishable commodity. She was young and pretty, with a mind like an Etch-A-Sketch toy. She had a good figure, though. It pleased Jeb’s vanity to see the lust on other men’s faces when he walked into a room with her. Men would nudge him and say, ‘You sly dog!’ That’s puzzling, isn’t it?”
“How so?” asked A. P. Hill.
“It’s like being praised for buying a Mercedes. I mean, if you won one or even stole one, there might be some distinction in it, but any fool with a fat wallet can obtain one, so what constitutes the triumph? So if a fat, ugly, poor middle-aged bore managed to snare a young beauty, then maybe it would be a coup, but, hey, with Jeb’s money, he could have rented sweet young things by the hour, so why the to-do that one of them let herself be taken by him on a long-term lease?”
“You ought to recruit for convents, Mrs. Royden,” said A. P. Hill. “You make marriage seem like a disease.”
Eleanor smiled. “Yes, but it’s generally fatal to women only. In my small way, I hope to have changed that.”
“Will you stop!” A. P. Hill shook her head. “This is not how people facing a murder charge ought to talk. You should be contrite, tearful. You should be terribly sorry that you were overcome by emotion. You should be grieving for your loss.”
“Oh, honey, I did all that when we went through the divorce. All I did this morning was finalize the decree.”
“But why did you shoot them? Lots of women end up being divorced after years of marriage, and they don’t resort to violence. Why didn’t you just say, ‘Screw the bastard,’ and get on with your life? That’s what a jury will want to know.”
Eleanor Royden smiled bitterly. “Why? Because my husband considered divorce trials a blood sport.”
MACPHERSON & HILL
ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW
DANVILLE, VIRGINIA
(I would get my own printed, but I’m not sure what it ought to say. No job; apparently no husband, no life. A real identity crisis. How about: WATCH THIS SPACE? Elizabeth.)
Dear Cameron:
This is probably a letter that I would stick in a drawer even if I did know where to reach you, because the last thing my self-esteem needs is for me to publicize more evidence of my family’s eccentricity. I’d be afraid that someone, somewhere, would be saving it all up for my commitment hearing. (Hmmm. I suppose the same could be said for writing letters to you…. People keep telling me I have to come to terms with your… um… absence, and get-on-with-my-life. I guess I would if I had one.)
I could talk about this new family development with Dr. Freya, but she would pretend not to know why I was upset, which would only make it worse. She loves to be politically correct, and seems to prefer it to common sense every time. And Bill always seems on the verge of crisis, so I can’t add to his burdens. Cousin Geoffrey, who actually can be sympathetic, though he tries not to have it known, would be no help, either. So I might as well pretend that I’m telling you. If you can’t be honest—and politically incorrect—in unmailed letters, when can you tell the truth?
So here goes.
I had lunch with Mother today so that she wouldn’t feel too alone, what with us kids grown and Dad in his second childhood with his Girl Banker. We all thought she was bearing up wonderfully well after the divorce. She seems busy, and cheerful—not at all bitter about Dad’s defection after nearly three decades of marriage. (I did wonder if all this serenity had been prescribed in tablet form by the family doctor, and if so, whether she could get me some of the same, but no, she is not medicated. Mother is just naturally a calm and forgiving person. A recessive trait, apparently.)
We went to the Long River Chinese Restaurant out at the shopping mall, because Daddy never cared for Chinese food. Mother seems to think that Oriental food isn’t fattening. As she says, Asian people are so little and delicate. In the interests of diplomacy, I do not say a word about sumo wrestlers.
Mother wanted to know how Bill was, and how I was, and if there was any word about your boat. It must be hard to get out of maternal gear after all these years of putting everyone else first.
“Let’s talk about you,” I said, because nothing is ever new with Bill, and if I tried to talk about you, I’d have started to cry right there over the kung pao chicken, which would have completely defeated the purpose of the luncheon, which was to Cheer Up the Aging Parent. “How have you been?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she said with a little smile. “I’m starting to meet new people. Now that I’m not tied down in the evenings by a comatose man in front of a television, I can get out more and socialize.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, thinking to myself how brave she was to put up such a good front. “You’re playing a lot of bridge, I guess?”
“Oh, no. I’ve taken up photography. Casey and I are doing a multimedia show about women in transition. Would you like to model for me? I could use a few more portrait shots.”
“Oh, sure, whenever,” I murmured. “But I didn’t know you were into photography.”
“I used to be very interested in portrait studies,” she said, toying with her shrimp lo mein. “I took it up again because Casey saw some of my work and said it was a shame to let my talent go to waste.”
“Casey?” I said, keeping my voice light. “This isn’t the fellow you went white-water rafting with, is it?”
Mother looked pleased. Her favorite sport lately has been shocking the children, meaning Bill and me. Big brother and I have tried to remain calm and behave like adults while our fiftyish mother went hurtling about on a killer river with a blond undergraduate named Troy. I have sweaters older than Troy. But with frozen smiles and careful attention to controlled breathing exercises, we managed not to get worked up over Mother’s little pregeriatric rebellion. It helped not to picture having a stepfather with an earring and light-up L.A. Gears. Now, sure enough, it appeared that Troy was history. Or at least he had been supplanted by Casey. Please, I thought to my fairy godmother, who has come to resemble Joan Rivers in my imaginings, don’t let him be the paperboy.
“So,” I said. “This is news. Tell me about Casey.”
Mother looked amused. “You’ll probably be relieved to hear that Casey is nothing like Troy. Much older, for one thing.”
“Really? Be still my heart. A senior, perhaps?”
“No, Elizabeth. Casey is an assistant professor in the English Department. In fact, we are about the same age. In fact, we have a great deal in common: bridge, a fondness for the big-band sound, and Frank Capra movies. It’s very pleasant.”
Pleasant, indeed, I thought. In fact, too good to be true. “I don’t suppose Dr. Casey is married, by any chance?” I said. I thought we might as well deal with the problems at once, because it has been decades since Mother had to deal with men, and I didn’t want her to be gulled by an aging philanderer like—well, like Dad.
“Married?” Mother raised her eyebrows and gave me a shocked expression—as if she had caught me wearing white shoes after Labor Day. “Certainly not, Elizabeth! As if I would consider such a thing. I do think you ought to have more faith in my character than that.”
I blushed, and busied myself with the fried rice. “You’re at a difficult age, Mother,” I muttered.
“I think you’d like Casey very much,” she said, ignoring me. “In fact, I was thinking of inviting you and Bill over to get acquainted.”
“Meeting the family?” I said faintly. “This does sound serious. Is it serious?”
After a moment’s pause, Mother said, offhandedly, “Well, dear, we’ve decided to live together.”
“What?” I dropped a chopstick. “Isn’t this a bit sudden? How long have you known this man?”
Mother giggled. “Casey isn’t a man, dear. She’s Dr. Phyllis Sturgill Casey. Everybody calls her Casey for short.”
I patted my chest, probably to restart my heart. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother!” I said. “You scared the liver and lights out of me. Why didn’t you just tell me you were getting a roommate, instead of putting me through this romantic melodrama? Boy, did you have me going there! And all you wanted to tell me was that you have a nice middle-aged lady for a roommate. Thank heaven!”
“Well, I’m glad you approve,” Mother said briskly, giving me first choice of the fortune cookies. “Of course, your generation is much more broad-minded about these things than we ever were.”
“What things?” I said. The cookie crumbled in my fist.
The fortune said: THOSE CLOSE TO YOU OFTEN THE HARDEST PERSONS TO SEE.
PHILIP TODHUNTER LINGERED in agony all the rest of that day, alternately vomiting and lying in a stupor. After a three-hour vigil in which the patient showed no improvement, Dr. Humphreys insisted on calling in another physician, Royes Bell, to offer another opinion on what should be done. “I don’t mind telling you that the situation is very grave,” he told the anxious Lucy, “If we cannot discover what your husband has taken, I see no hope for his recovery.”
Lucy Todhunter raised her head and said in a firm, clear voice, “He has taken nothing. Only the breakfast pastry that I have given him. We all ate one this morning.”
“Yet no one else is ill,” murmured Humphreys. “Only Mr. Todhunter.”
Later, when Lucy went out of the room to fetch hot water and fresh towels, Dr. Humphreys left the side of his sleeping patient and began to search the room. He had abandoned this task, and was making notes of the symntoms, when Dr. Bell appeared, puffing from the exertion of the stairs. Elderly Royes Bell, who had seen hell on earth as a surgeon in the Army of Northern Virginia amputating limbs without morphia and watching soldiers die of fever for want of pennies’ worth of medicine, was a jovial man who kept his nightmares to himself. He was as round and solid as his name implied and he was revered by the townspeople, who had absolute faith in his expertise.
He shuffled over to the bed and put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “What do we have here, Humphreys?”
Richard Humphreys glanced at Lucy Todhunter lingering in the doorway. “Mrs. Todhunter, I wonder if we might have some coffee brought up for Dr. Bell and myself.” When she had gone, he said in a low voice, “This gastric attack is sudden and severe, but by all accounts the patient has eaten next to nothing. I may as well tell you at the outset that I broached the subject of poison with Mrs. Todhunter straight out. She denied it.”
“Well, she would,” said Bell with a grim smile. “Better get your facts first. Have you collected samples for testing?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest that we do what we can for this poor man—and leave the accusations until we know something. Have you questioned the patient?”
Humphreys nodded. “As best I could in his condition. I told him that he was on the point of death and that I must know what to treat him for. Whereupon, he looked at Mrs. Todhunter, and said, ‘Lucy, why did you do it!’ He has not spoken coherently since.”
Royes Bell pulled up a brocaded satin chair and lowered his bulk into it. He grasped Todhunter’s wrist and felt for a pulse. “So he thinks that his good lady poisoned him, does he?”
Dr. Humphreys hesitated. “He seemed urgent, but not angry. It isn’t the tone of voice that I should have used to a murderous spouse. Perhaps he was delirious, after all.”
Bell completed his examination of the patient. “Well, if the lady did poison him, Humphreys, I hope she wasn’t stingy with the dosage. I think the best we can wish this poor devil is that it be over quickly for him.”
Philip Todhunter lingered three more days, his stupor punctuated with retching and pain-racked delirium. Finally, at dawn on the fifth day of his illness, he slipped into a last, quiet sleep from which he never awakened. Lucy Todhunter was not present at the bedside when her husband passed away. Worn-out from nearly a week of ministering to the dying man, she had retired to her bedroom shortly after midnight for her first real sleep in days.
The doctors had taken turns keeping watch over Todhunter, although there had been little that they could do in the way of treatment. On the second day Humphreys had administered injections of brandy, since Todhunter was too weak to take it orally. This seemed to make the sick man rest easier, but it did not counteract his decline. He took no nourishment. At her cousin’s insistence, Lucy and the housekeeper applied mustard plasters to Philip’s chest—to no avail. For want of any other remedy, Humphreys administered nux vomica, a preparation of white arsenic and carbonate of potash, used in treating dyspepsia. This, too, had no effect. Death finally came when Todhunter’s body was too weakened by pain and vomiting to withstand further rigors. His heart simply gave out.
Dr. Royes Bell was in attendance at the time. His first thought was to summon Lucy Todhunter to her husband’s bedside, but as he reached for the doorknob another idea occurred to him. He turned away from the door and began quietly searching the room, easing out dresser drawers and examining each item. Ten minutes later he had checked every possible hiding place in the bedroom, even under the mattress, but he had found nothing. He decided to awaken Lucy Todhunter and beckon her to pay her last respects to the deceased. While she was gone he would have a look in her room.
Dr. Bell knew what he was looking for. When the sample taken from Todhunter was analyzed, he knew that it would show traces of arsenic in his system. Meanwhile, before he summoned the authorities, Bell hoped to find more evidence.
When Donna Morgan left, having exhausted the contents of the tissue box on Bill’s desk, Bill sat for a while contemplating the complexities of his new case. Then he went into the outer office to talk to Edith, the firm’s cut-rate legal secretary, fresh from the business college.
If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him Page 4