Evelyn Marsh

by S. W. Clemens

“Yes, although he didn’t come this Tuesday, which is why I called him yesterday.”

  “At what time?”

  “Well, it had to be before my friend came over. She arrived around six thirty. You know I gave a statement last night.”

  “Let’s go over it again. Maybe you’ll remember something you forgot.”

  “As I said…”

  He was good-looking, in a rugged sort of way, in his midforties, with a sprinkling of salt-and-pepper in his hair and a furrowed brow. He had green eyes and a soothing, world-weary voice, and she couldn’t help but notice that he wore no wedding band. She supposed it was the job. It would be hard for a homicide detective to leave his cares at work, or to have a positive outlook on life.

  Howard came home early in a foul mood, livid that the authorities had impounded his phone, his laptop and his office computer. “I’ll sue the assholes,” he ranted. “This is costing me money. How am I supposed to work without a computer?”

  “I asked them the very same thing this afternoon when they took the computer from the study.”

  “What?! When? You didn’t tell me they were here.”

  “How could I? They took our phones.”

  “What the hell? What do they think they’ll find, for Christ’s sake?”

  Evelyn knew what they wouldn’t find. They wouldn’t find any browser history pointing to forensic investigation, because she’d confined her searches to the public library. “Could you ask them for our phones?” she asked. “We can’t get along without phones. Sam won’t be able to get in touch with us.”

  “I’ll look into it tomorrow. What else did they take?”

  “The shovel, a trowel. I don’t know; there’s a list.”

  “What did they say? What reason did they give?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “And you just let them?”

  “Of course, they’re the police.”

  “Did they have a search warrant?”

  “Yes, of course; I’m not stupid.”

  Howard looked up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh. “Why couldn’t the son of a bitch die in somebody else’s backyard?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  On the weekend, they went shopping together for the first time in years. They bought new phones and two laptops, one for the study and one for Howard’s office. Evelyn downloaded the Friend Finder app and texted Samantha: “I don’t want to alarm you, but you should know that the pool boy drowned in our pool. The police have been a nuisance. They took our phones and computer, so please send me all your contact info again. Hope you’re having a grand time in Paris. Love, Mom.”

  Though she knew it unlikely, for a week or two Evelyn worried that the crushed laptop might have been found in the trash and turned over to the police. It was the only thing that had been in her control that might link her to the crime. Of course, she had no control over what the detectives might find in Ramon’s apartment or in his truck. If he’d kept an appointment book noting their Thursday meeting, she was sunk. So she was on tenterhooks when Detective Olson came back unannounced.

  She was in the living room by the open French doors, dressed in her painter’s smock and working on a study of the painting she was calling Coming or Going? In her own mind, the answer was still ambiguous. The study was on the small side (nine by twelve), in oil pastels. The final would be larger (eighteen by twenty-four) in oil paint, but she was undecided whether to make it dark or light, and whether to include an open window, or not. The knock on the front door made her stomach do a flip-flop, and she wondered with trepidation if she were about to be arrested. Howard would post bail, she thought, so chances were she would have time to finish the painting before trial.

  She answered the door and invited the detective in.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist,” Olson said, observing her smock and the pastel she held in her hand.

  She was tempted to answer, as she had most of her life, that it was just a hobby. But that had changed. So she simply said, “Aspiring. You can find a few of my things at The Whitfield Gallery.”

  Olson nodded his head as a dawning comprehension lit his eyes. “I know it. I was there just a few days ago.”

  The admission didn’t really surprise her. Someone surely would have interviewed Brooke to confirm her alibi.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve come to look at the scene again, to get a few things straight for my report.”

  “Feel free,” Evelyn said. She escorted him toward the back of the house. “Are you going to take the tape down soon? I’d like to use my pool again before summer is over.”

  “I think that can be arranged. I’ll be just a minute.”

  Evelyn made a pretense of working, while watching as he paused by the chaise lounge. He stood erect, then bent his head, looking from his phone’s tiny screen to the neighbor’s hedge. He took photos, then walked over to the palm and reached out to touch the trunk. With a frisson of fear, she knew he’d seen the hole. Would he know it for what it was? Did it matter? A minute later he returned. She added a line of color to her study and smudged it with her thumb.

  “Thank you,” he said, “that was helpful.” He swiveled around, taking in the whole room. “This is a wonderful old house. Is that yours?” he asked, indicating the painting over the fireplace.

  “Yes.” It was a painting of a bucket, a fish head, and a fishing pole leaning against the railing at the end of Stearns Wharf. Between the railing and the horizon, a sailboat plied a whitecapped sea.

  He stepped over to the fireplace to get a closer look at the painting. “It’s terrific. You’re very good.”

  Evelyn brushed off her hands. “Thank you. Is there anything else?”

  His gaze had wandered to the framed photos on the mantelpiece below the painting. “This looks familiar. Is it the Big Island?”

  “Maui.”

  “Lahaina, right? Do your children still live at home?”

  “My son works in LA. My daughter goes to UCLA, but she’s traveling.”

  “That’s right, I remember — you said she was in Paris?”

  “For the summer.”

  “When did she leave?”

  Evelyn felt an icy hand grip her insides. What did he suspect? What did he know? “She’s been gone about a month.”

  “When will she be coming back?”

  “I’m not sure. The fall quarter starts in mid-September.”

  “Can I take a picture of your painting? I’d like to show my partner.”

  Her intestines began to cramp. “Be my guest.”

  He spent a minute ostensibly composing a shot of the painting, though she suspected it was a ruse to take a photo of the family portrait, and she had a sick feeling she knew why.

  “Is that it?” she said. “I’d like to get back to my work.”

  “I have just a few more questions.” He took out a notebook and pen. “It’s not exactly high tech, but I find it helps me think.” He held up his phone and said, “I’d also like to record this, if I may, just for backup, in case my notes aren’t clear.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”

  Olson looked genuinely surprised. “I’m not arresting you. I’m just gathering facts for my investigation. We don’t read you your rights unless you’re a suspect or in custody. Of course, if you refuse to answer my questions and ask me to leave, I’d have to ask myself why, if you have nothing to hide.”

  Evelyn sat down on the couch. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “Very well. How long was Ramon Esposito in your employ?”

  “Let’s see. Mario retired in May, so it must have been May. I don’t know when exactly. I’ll have a record of it in my checkbook, if you’d like the exact date.”

  “I would, but it can wait. Do you remember who referred him?”
>
  The detective may have run over his time, but Evelyn didn’t really mind. He had a pleasant voice and a chatty, conversational manner. When he asked about Ramon, she substituted an image of Mario, a largely invisible individual who came and went without drawing attention to himself. There was no need to lie or make anything up. It was more a matter of leaving certain things out. The questions, which seemed inconsequential to Evelyn, were helping to build a picture in Olson’s mind. Some questions opened doors, some closed them, but all the while the picture was taking shape and clarity.

  The detectives came a few more times, first Olson, then Marks, and once together. None of their questions seemed particularly relevant. The police had no motive to hang their case on. The familiar motives — cuckolded husband; business deal gone sour — didn’t hold water. The police could show no connection between the men. Connie would provide Howard with his alibi. So despite their suspicions, with nothing more to go on, it was still possible the death would be ruled accidental.

  She began to think they’d all gotten away scot-free. The more she thought about it (and she thought about little else), the more convinced she became that she was in the clear. Her alibi was impregnable. She was beyond the reach of authorities.

  Still, given her culpability, an objective observer might expect her to feel the prick of conscience, a twinge of guilt. And here that observer would be surprised, for with each passing day she began to think the whole sordid business with Ramon was just a bad dream, an aberration in her otherwise orderly life. She could almost believe she hadn’t done it. She could almost believe that Howard was the guilty party (and he was guilty, of course...of adultery). No, she hadn’t slept with that young man (of her own free will) and, she told herself, she hadn’t killed him. That wasn’t how she saw herself. Who would say she was capable? Who would accuse her? Ramon had had an accident, that’s all, a simple accident. She wasn’t a murderer.

  And then she thought of that poor gopher, and she knew otherwise. She felt bad about the gopher. She didn’t feel so bad about Ramon who, after all, had chosen his fate. She had no compunction about stopping him and his wicked ways. It was unfortunate, but when pushed to the edge of a cliff, it was perfectly acceptable to defend oneself. As she saw it, she’d had no choice. And if society held that self-preservation was no defense, she didn’t agree.

  The following days were quiet, if not carefree. The police tape was removed, and she went back to her routine of gardening in the morning, followed by a swim and long hours spent reading. She switched from mysteries to historical romances. In the afternoons, she worked on her business plan or painted, as the mood struck her.

  Evelyn’s nights were less sanguine. Howard was even more silent than usual, and carried an air of anxiety and barely contained anger. On days when the detectives questioned him at work, he would come home grousing about the incompetence of the police, and how he was being hounded by innuendos and false assumptions.

  “Goddamn it, I’m innocent,” he declared one night over a second martini.

  “I know, I know,” Evelyn said in a tone that meant, There, there, honey, don’t you worry. “I know you are. They’ll realize it soon enough.”

  “They’re just frustrated. They want someone to take the blame. It was just a goddamn accident. I can’t help it if the guy slipped. Whose fault is that? Nobody’s.”

  Samantha came home on the first of September, happier and more worldly than when she’d left. For ten short days, she brought life back into the house. Evelyn monopolized her time, taking vicarious pleasure as her daughter related the summer’s adventures with breathless enthusiasm. They went shopping and to lunch, and visited the grandparents. Evelyn had just gotten used to having her around again, when it was time to move her into her new apartment in Westwood.

  To his credit, Howard took a full day to help with the move. He put on a brave face, trying hard not to share his sullen mood. Robert and his girlfriend also made an appearance, and they all went out to dinner at a Thai restaurant near the campus.

  Later, on the way home, the conversation naturally turned toward the children. Howard was as relaxed as she’d seen him in a year. It was almost like old times, and she reminded herself that he’d been a decent husband (so far as she knew) for most of their marriage. She wished she had a positive opinion of him now, but his infidelities and constant lying had undermined what esteem she’d had for him. Now, listening to Howard talk about his hopes for their children, she thought she could almost forgive him, but she didn’t think she could live with him.

  A week later, Howard was arrested at his office, charged with Voluntary Manslaughter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Later he came to her quite over the limit, his speech slurred with gin. “Honey? Evy? You know, I didn’t kill that goddamn pool boy, but...well, you know I’m not perfect. They’ll try to drag me through the mud and...I’d rather you didn’t sit through the trial.”

  “How would that look? If your own wife isn’t there to support you? How would that look?”

  “Just the same, I’d rather you didn’t come to court.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. I’ve been served a subpoena; I’m a witness. I have to be there.”

  “But on days when you’re not needed....”

  “I could be called on anytime.”

  Howard looked around as if confused. “I just...I’m sorry, Evy.”

  He was so pitiful that Evelyn felt compelled to comfort him, until she remembered, Come and get it! Then her heart hardened.

  Howard was more annoyed than worried. He retained his partner to present the defense.

  “The judge wouldn’t allow a Preliminary Hearing,” Albert Katz Jr. said, “because you’re too high profile. They have to show that no one is above the law, not even lawyers. So she’s sending it to the Grand Jury, which means we can’t tell our side unless it goes to trial. I’ll do what I can, but you haven’t given me much to work with.”

  “There’s nothing to give; it’s total BS,” Howard told him confidently. “I don’t know what they think they’re going to prove, because I didn’t do anything. I never even met the man. Evy hired him.”

  When the Grand Jury handed down its indictment, Howard was baffled. “Why would I possibly want to kill the pool boy? What motive would I have?”

  “That’s what we’ll find out, as soon as I file a Motion of Discovery.”

  The first thing Katz saw, when the inventory of evidence was turned over, was the list of witnesses. He stormed into Howard’s office and slapped down the report on his desk. “Why does my ex-wife show up as a witness for the prosecution?”

  Howard blanched. “Shit,” he said. He picked up the file and looked at the witness list. Also listed as witnesses for the prosecution were Brooke Bass, Evelyn Marsh, and Samantha Marsh. “What the fuck is this?”

  “You tell me.”

  Howard pursed his lips, staring at the names, his heart hammering in his chest. “We may need to call Connie as a witness for the defense, too.”

  “What the hell have you done?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t want to bring her into this.”

  “I’ll have to withdraw from the case, of course. It’s a conflict of interest. I’ll fix you up with Donald LeMay. He’s competent.” Albert stared at him until their eyes met. “Tell me you didn’t do it.”

  “I didn’t, I swear.”

  That Howard and his paramour were quits, was evident by his actually going to the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Exercise seemed the only thing that relieved his stress, and Evelyn was happy to have him out of the house, for his company had become almost intolerable, their conversations fraught with tension. If she asked about the case, he offered noncommittal answers.

  “I don’t like being kept in the dark,” she’d say.

  “It’s nothing for you to be concerned abo
ut,” he’d say.

  “Nothing to be concerned about? Are you crazy?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  And so it went, ’round and ’round, until the day she got an hysterical call from Samantha.

  “Mom, I’ve just been served with a subpoena to testify against Daddy!”

  Evelyn’s heart sank. “Did they say about what?”

  “No, it’s just an order to appear. I don’t understand; I wasn’t even here.”

  It could only be about one thing, the only thing that could provide a motive, and Evelyn couldn’t tell her daughter she knew.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, Sweetie, I believe you do. Can you excuse me a minute? I’ll be right back.”

  Evelyn ran for bathroom and threw up.

  That evening when Howard came home, they had a row. “When were you going to tell me our daughter has been called as a witness?” Evelyn asked furiously. “How long have you known?”

  “I thought maybe they were bluffing. I can’t imagine what they think Sam could know. She was in Paris, for gods’ sakes. It can’t be important.”

  Evelyn sat in the first row behind her husband, squirming from time to time with the discomfort of the hard, wooden seat. She tried to look engaged; she was being observed, after all, but it was impossible — she was bored with the endless repetition of questions directed at each potential juror during the selection process.

  Nonetheless, she was curious to know what the Grand Jury had seen to persuade them to indict Howard. She didn’t see how he could be connected to the murder weapon — she hadn’t used his gun as she’d intended. And there could be no evidence connecting her to the murder weapon, as there would be no fingerprints. She’d worn gloves. Her worries were all reserved for Samantha. The only saving grace was that Santa Barbara’s newspapers were so small that Samantha’s shame would garner less exposure over the course of the trial than internet porn sites garnered in a day, and newspaper coverage would wane as the next story took precedence.