Everybody Loved Roger Harden

by Cecil Murphey

He laughed. “Most of them wanted fifty publishers to see it.”

  “And no editor ever saw the manuscripts,” Burton said.

  “Correct. This is the beauty of the scheme. We sent them rejection slips—maybe five or ten at a time, and from our office. They looked exactly like stationery from bona fide publishers.” He grinned and slapped his knee. “It was a great system. You see, I had sent manuscripts to each of the publishers, received rejections, and made new stationery from their letterheads.” He paused, I suppose, for us to absorb his brilliant scheme. “I thought that was an excellent touch. Most scams wouldn’t go that far. Perhaps that’s why I was so successful.”

  “How did Roger find out?” I asked.

  “Earlier this evening, I mentioned that one of my clients had been William Rice, a state senator. One day he boasted to Roger that he expected a contract for his memoirs from a New York publisher.”

  “And Roger didn’t believe it?”

  “Believe it?” Lenny slapped his knee again. “That idiot Rice couldn’t write five grammatical sentences. My sister thought it was one of the worst manuscripts we’d ever received.”

  Lenny said that Roger tracked him down and informed him that he had violated federal law because he used the postal service. Of course, Lenny knew he had violated federal laws. “I thought I had everything covered so that no one could detect any wrong—okay, any fraud.”

  Roger threatened to expose him and then offered his silence for a price.

  “So what was your slave contract with him?” Jeffery asked.

  Lenny said that Roger hired a ghostwriter to revise the manuscript and induced a regional publishing house to accept William Rice’s book. “Rice got his book, loved it, and never learned how it came about. It sold well. He pushed all his friends to buy a copy—I think he sold something like twelve thousand copies. And for a lousy book like that, anything more than fifty copies would have been remarkable.”

  “But what price did you pay? What did Roger demand of you?” I asked. “There always seemed to be a price for his generosity.”

  “Total control. That’s all. I gave up the literary business and went to work for him. I also, uh, spied on other employees, and I let him know anything I heard about his competitors in other areas. I did a little industrial espionage for him. You know, I’d find out what products a corporation planned to produce and someone—I don’t know who—either stole or copied the information and allowed one of Roger’s companies to beat the competition. That kind of thing.”

  “And you hated doing that?” I asked.

  “Not at first. For a year or so, it was fun—really—but I realized that Roger was never going to let me go. The more I did for him, the more evidence he stacked against me.”

  “Sounds like a good motive for murder,” Jeffery said.

  “Maybe, except that I didn’t kill him. I hated him, but I liked the work—the real work—the sales. I make good money, even if he forced me to do a few, let’s say, unsavory things.”

  “What about the rest of you?” I asked.

  “Go ahead and tell him, Reggie, old boy,” Lenny said. “I can and I will if you don’t. You see, I know your story—or at least enough to embarrass you if you don’t speak up.”

  In that moment, it became obvious why the two men disliked each other. Not only did Lenny know, but he had made sure Reginald was aware of what information he had.

  “I suppose I should. If I don’t, this loud mouth will tell you and intentionally distort everything.”

  “Then let’s hear your version,” Burton said.

  Reginald reminded us that he owned a prestigious construction firm. He had figured out a way to skim a few dollars off so that the government wouldn’t know. He also bilked a few wealthy clients. He banked the extra profits in the Cayman Islands.

  “How few dollars?” I asked.

  Reginald ran his hand through his prematurely white hair. “Uh, quite a lot as a matter of fact.”

  “About sixteen million dollars?” Lenny said.

  “That’s quite untrue. It was less than half that amount.”

  “Sixteen,” Lenny insisted.

  “All right, let’s say sixteen million, but—”

  “How did Roger find out?” Simon asked.

  “I told him.”

  That statement surprised all of us.

  “I told him because I was desperate. You see, I had three accounts set up, but they were actually bogus.” He went into a lengthy explanation that was almost as dull and circuitous as listening to Dr. Dunn. It was getting late, I had had a long day, and (to be truthful) my mind wandered. But I did get the final pitch.

  Auditors uncovered the fact that two million dollars was missing from one client. Reginald said he had the money in a safe-deposit box. He gave some kind of explanation to the auditors about his reasoning that was supposed to make sense, but they were skeptical—naturally. It was something to the effect that the client was paranoid and might demand the money in cash at any time, and Reginald felt he needed to keep the account liquid. As crazy as that sounded, the auditors said they would come the next day to collect the fund and deposit it properly. He asked them to come after three o’clock and he’d have the money.

  “I called Roger and pleaded with him. I said I had to have two million dollars in cash before three o’clock tomorrow.” Reginald smiled momentarily. “He said that although it would be a little inconvenient to get that amount of money in cash, he could do it and would have it delivered to my office by noon. He was true to his word. Messengers brought the money in five briefcases, mostly in hundred-dollar bills. They went with me to my bank where I deposited the money.”

  Reginald went on to tell us that the auditors threatened to report him for such a business practice. That would mean a jail sentence and a huge fine. “I called Roger again, and he came through a second time. I don’t know what he said to them or what transpired. I know only that one of the auditors phoned me the next day and said they were satisfied and would not make any complaint.”

  After that Roger called Reginald regularly—sometimes as often as once a week—and asked him to make trips for him. “Can you believe that one time he made me travel all the way to Seattle to bring back a shipment of fresh salmon? He could have had them shipped faster than it took me to go there, collect them, and bring them back.”

  “Control,” Wayne said. “That was his forte all right. Just control.”

  “And you speak from experience?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I knew of several people. That’s all.”

  “Are you sure it’s only other people you know about?”

  “I told you, I was Roger’s friend—maybe his best friend.”

  “Or his best puppet,” said Jason.

  “Do you have anything to tell us?” Burton asked.

  “I do not.”

  Neither did anyone else.

  “Suppose we adjourn for the night?” Burton asked. “Is there anyone who’s afraid?”

  “All the bedroom doors can be locked from the inside,” Amanda said. “Jason has a connecting room next to mine. He and I will get up and have breakfast by 7:30. By then, we hope the phone will work.”

  Within two minutes, everyone had left except Burton and me.

  “I’m not sure what is going on,” I told him, “but I’m grateful to Roger Harden. He has been tremendously helpful to me personally and to my career.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. That’s why I wanted to come. I wanted to thank him.” I told Burton about three specific programs Roger had started before I went into private practice, and how he helped me establish two humanitarian programs afterward. One of them was to give special tutoring to children of poor families that needed help. The other was his privately funded program where women could learn retailing or simple office work and be paid while they learned.

  Burton listened without a word. I liked that. As I talked, I kept thinking, he actively listens just by the use
of his eyes. Something about the intensity of his gaze made me know he heard every word.

  He also had that rare ability to invite intimacy—I don’t mean sexual intimacy—something deeper, more personal. He didn’t blink or look away. It was almost as if his dark eyes bored into mine and invited me to open myself to him. I wish I had that ability. If I had, I suppose it would become a technique or a gimmick. The interesting thing about James Burton was that he didn’t seem to know what a gift he had.

  “Very interesting,” he said. “But what about the other kind of help he gave you?”

  I stared at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “The blackmail. The threat of exposure. He held it over the others. What about you?”

  “What about you? You tell me first. Why did you come to the island?”

  “I have no idea what he wanted,” Burton said. “Roger phoned me a week before I received the invitation. He said he wanted to thank me for being a friend to Jason. The three of us had planned to go snorkeling tomorrow.”

  I focused on his eyes; I didn’t think he was lying.

  “So what about you?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me, but there is something—something he held over you, isn’t there?”

  I felt my eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said and gave me that full-teeth grin that melted me.

  “You’re not going to say that God told you about all my past sins, are you?” I laughed. “That would at least be a good line. No one ever used that one on me.”

  “Call it intuition. Call it experience, I honestly don’t know. I’m a pastor and I do a little counseling. You know, people come to see me all the time. I listen, and over the years I’ve developed what I call my truth antennae. I often seem to know when people lie—not all the time—but usually when they try hard to make me believe something that’s a definite fabrication.”

  “Okay, so what about Dr. Dunn? What he told us, do you think that was true?”

  “Most of it. I believe Roger blackmailed him. I suspect there is more to it than what he told us—something a little less tasteful.”

  “I agree with you there. Do you want to know what I think? I think he stole his dissertation. He stole it from somebody, made a few cosmetic changes, and passed it off as his own.”

  “I agree. I can’t tell you how I knew, but I was sure he didn’t buy it.”

  “You’re very good, Burton.”

  “So are you, especially when you want to evade an answer.”

  “Was I that obvious?”

  “You’re very good at evasion. I’ll bet that’s how you hold people off when they try to pry. You throw a question at them.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Burton laughed. It was a good full laugh, and I enjoyed watching him. There was nothing pretentious about it. He was quick, and he didn’t miss anything.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “It’s a long night.” He leaned back into the sofa and patted it for me to sit at the other end. “I assure you that I won’t fall asleep while you talk.”

  “I’m innocent of murder, and you’re my alibi. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Simon is your alibi, too,” he said. “But you’re saying then, that you’re guilty of something but not of murder. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of what are you guilty?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not now,” I said. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Ah, evasion again. Good! Wait a minute. Are you saying that you had a motive for killing him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Thirteen

  “I said it was a long story.” That was another evasion, but I should have known Burton wouldn’t be put off.

  “I like long stories.” Burton leaned slightly forward. “Please trust me, Julie. Anything you say, I promise to hold in absolute confidence.”

  “Isn’t that what we say to clients when they’re skittish?”

  He didn’t respond to my evasion. I stared at him for several seconds, although it seemed like minutes. I wanted to tell him because I had never told anyone before, and it was a burden I had carried too long. Most of all, I was too ashamed to tell the truth.

  As if reading my mind, he said softly, “Sometimes we let fear or shame hold us back. And as long as we hold it inside, we’re never free.” He got up from the sofa and said, “I’m going to get iced tea or whatever there is to drink in the kitchen. May I bring you something?”

  I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice. I wanted to tell him. But what if he doesn’t like me afterward? I thought. What if he thinks I’m a terrible person? As I heard those words inside my head, I thought of my own counseling situations. If clients said those words—and they sometimes did—I would have answered much like Burton, and I would have urged them to expel their demon by talking.

  I picked up two pillows, pulled them in front of me, and huddled against the sofa. Can I tell him? Can I trust him? Will he understand? I wanted to explain everything to Burton, but I wasn’t sure I had the courage.

  He brought in two glasses of iced tea, pulled up a small table, and set mine down. He sipped his tea but said nothing.

  I still wrestled with my inner voice. I opened my mouth, and once the words started, it became remarkably easy to talk to him.

  “I was married once,” I said. “I married when I was barely eighteen, and my husband was twelve years older than I was. I loved him—or perhaps I should say I loved the man I thought he was. He seemed sweet, charming, and thoughtful. I never detected who he really was until we had been married two months.”

  I paused and stared at Burton.

  “As I’ve already said, I like long stories,” he said.

  Julie had met Dana Macie during her first year of college. It had been one of those whirlwind romances and marriages. Dana came from a moneyed family. He told her he was a freelance businessman, but he never explained exactly what he did. She knew only that he always had money and didn’t seem to have regular business hours. He was sometimes gone for two or three days at a time, and when she asked, all he said was, “It’s just business.”

  She was young, impressionable, and very romantic. He was six five, blond, with a broad chest and narrow waist and hips—almost like a man with a sculptured body. Her girlfriends all but swooned whenever Dana came around. When she looked back, she realized that the reaction of other women had been a strong motivation for accepting his attention and saying yes when he asked her for dates. Other women envied her, and she liked that.

  Julie had grown up in Villa Hills, Kentucky, a small town near Cincinnati, and gone to college in Georgia to get away from an unhappy home situation—a dominating stepmother and a docile father.

  She and Dana met in late November, dated most of December, and married in January. No one in her family attended the wedding. Her stepmother wrote, “This is a most inconvenient time for a wedding, so we shall not attend.” Just that note and nothing else. Not a phone call or email. They didn’t send a gift.

  Dana tried to comfort Julie and promised he would be all the family she ever needed. She believed him because she wanted to believe he could wrap his arms around her and take away her rejection and hurt.

  One thing about Dana bothered Julie—he drank—not much, but regularly. It was as if he had to have at least one (and usually it was two or three) drinks every night.

  After they married, his drinking increased. He drank an expensive brand of scotch and grumbled if she didn’t restock before he needed more. At first, she ignored the liquor. Then she tried to be subtle and asked him to cut down. He laughed and said, “I’ll think about it.” After that, his drinking increased.

  The crisis came at an afternoon cocktail party in early April. His friends had decided to throw a belated party to celebrate their wedding. To please her husband, Julie drank half a glass of chardonnay, but she didn’t enjoy it. He insisted on a second, so she le
t him pour her one. After she took a sip, he kissed her on the forehead and walked away. An hour later, Dana realized the glass was still full. “You haven’t touched your wine.” He stood in front of her and said, “Cheers and bottoms up.”

  She took a tiny sip.

  He smiled and leaned toward her. “Bottoms up.”

  “I’ve had my limit.”

  “Drink it. Now.” The smile was gone and a hard look filled his face. Dana had never spoken to her in such a tone before.

  She gulped down the second drink, even though she had to force it. She set the empty wine glass on the table. “It’s—I guess I just don’t like this. You know, I’m not used to drinking.”

  Dana left and returned almost immediately with a bottle. “This is mavrodaphne, a sweet Greek wine and difficult to find in most parts of the country.” He opened the chilled bottle and filled her glass. “I have a special source, and I share this vino with few people.”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Just drink it.” He touched her hand, and his voice became gentle again. “You’ll like it.”

  She brought the glass to her lips and held it there as she tried to think of an excuse not to drink it.

  “Just drink it.”

  “But, darling—”

  Dana said nothing. He stood in front of her until she drained the glass.

  “It’s sweet, but I don’t really like—”

  “You can learn to like it.” His voice had a slight edge to it. As soon as she finished it, he poured her another.

  “No, that’s really enough,” she said. She forced a laugh. “You don’t want to carry me out of here.”

  “It’s not enough. You’re still too uptight.”

  Julie had never been drunk. She had learned a number of tricks over the few months of their marriage to avoid taking more than a few sips. One was to pour the wine into a nearby receptacle or stroll outside and pour it over the balcony. A few times she dumped the drink into the toilet, flushed it down, and sprayed the room with air freshener.

  This time Dana stayed only a few feet away and watched her. He insisted she finish each glass. It was as if he made it a personal crusade to get her drunk. While he watched, he drank at least ten glasses of scotch.