by Martin Clark
“Oh, I see. We’d heard that.”
Evers looked at the table and put his chin in his hand. “What a sorry mess.” The men were quiet for a moment. “I guess you suspicion that I have some involvement in her death,” he finally said.
“Why do you say that?” asked Greenfield.
“I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“Well, not really. No. It looks like she killed herself.”
“What?”
“Suicide,” said Loggins, pronouncing the word “sewer side.”
“Why did you think something was out of the ordinary, that we were here because we suspected you?” Greenfield cocked his head when he spoke.
“I’ve been a judge for several years. You didn’t show up here telling me in somber tones that you wanted to talk just to deliver the grim news. You’re watching me to see my reaction. If everything were routine, you would have simply called, or at least given me the sad report with downcast eyes and hit the road.”
“How do you know she didn’t just have a heart attack or get hit by a bus?”
Evers looked at the policemen. He raised his voice slightly. “Because you said ‘your wife is dead.’ Not ‘your wife has been killed in an accident’ or ‘your wife had a heart attack.’ I know the routine, okay?”
“Sure.”
“How did she kill herself?”
“Pistol. One shot, through the temple.”
“Did she die right away or at the hospital or something?” Evers asked.
“Right away, evidently.”
“If I had …” Evers stopped speaking and looked behind him. Pascal walked into the kitchen wearing a gray T-shirt, blue sweatpants and the cheap shoes from Utah. “Good morning, brother.”
“Hey,” Evers said.
Pascal looked at Greenfield and Loggins. “Selling insurance?”
“They’re policemen, Pascal. Detectives from Durham.”
Loggins stood up. “I’m Detective Loggins. This is Detective Greenfield.”
Pascal looked embarrassed. His neck turned red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I like the police. Someone broke into my car about a month ago and the folks down here did a real nice job on the case. Sorry.” He picked at a yellow crust in the corner of his eye.
“No problem.”
“So what’s up?” Pascal asked.
“Mrs. Wheeling is dead.”
“Damn.” Pascal looked at his brother. “That’s hard to believe. Dead? Geez.”
“What I was saying, gentlemen, is that if I had some involvement I would’ve been coy enough to keep my deductions to myself.” Evers looked at one of the ashtrays close to him and thought he saw the ragged, burned end of a roach. The little bit of dope made him uneasy. He was trying to read the note from Ruth Esther without tilting his head or letting the policemen see his eyes shift.
“What happened to her?” Pascal was standing beside Evers.
“Well, it appears to be suicide.”
“‘Appears’ is the key word, evidently,” Evers said.
“Well, it is a little strange, some things. There were wet clothes in the washer, and she wrote the note on her computer instead of by hand.”
“Her name was spelled wrong on the note,” Loggins said abruptly. “And she was in her bedroom, not at the computer.”
“Misspelled?”
“Miller was wrote out M-i-l-e-r. Just one ‘l.’”
“That is peculiar,” said Evers.
“Yeah.”
“I know how to spell it, Detectives. Two ‘l’s.’” Evers picked up a Monopoly bill.
“You’re awfully defensive, Mr. Wheeling.” Loggins smiled.
“Is there anything else?” Evers looked at Pascal, then at the detectives.
“You don’t seem too upset.” Loggins’ tone was unpleasant, challenging.
Evers hesitated. “I’m not, to be honest. I’m glad she’s dead. I just told you that. She ruined our marriage. She repaid my kindness and good nature with infidelity. If she killed herself, the world’s a better place for it. If someone killed her, he or she probably had a compelling reason. I didn’t kill her. I’m sure you’re not going to tell me the time of death before you fish around a little while longer, but I was here most of yesterday and all last night. Our friends left a few minutes after one this morning, and Pascal and I were awake until at least one-thirty watching a movie. Black-and-white romantic comedy. Anything else?”
“She died early this morning—sometime after midnight. And it ain’t but about an hour down to Durham from here,” Loggins said.
“Hour and ten minutes.” Evers stared at the detective.
“Well, Mr. Loggins, Evers was here at about two-thirty. I was up, and I know he was right here.”
“You a light sleeper, Mr. Wheeling?”
“Whatever,” said Pascal.
“I mean, that’s right convenient that you get up and see him at two-thirty.”
“You guys are phenomenally good at your job,” said Pascal. “How long have you been detectives?”
“Long enough.” Loggins put the cigarettes back in his pocket and hitched his thumbs under the top of his belt buckle.
Pascal walked across the kitchen and squatted down in front of him. They were almost face to face. “You’re sort of hinting that I’m lying to cover for my brother, aren’t you? That it’s just too extraordinary to believe what I’m saying? It’s like the alibi’s just too perfect. That’s because you’re skilled at your job. Tell you what: Check our phone records, Marshal McCloud. Around two-thirty. Nine hundred number, Carolina Date Line. I call women on the phone and talk to them about sticking vibrators in their pussies. I have a lot of free time on my hands. And check the months before, too. You’ll see this wasn’t the first call in the early morning, just in case you think I staged this one.” Pascal had moved his face closer to Loggins as he spoke, so that their noses were almost touching when he finished. Pascal stayed in Loggins’ face after he had stopped talking, not batting an eye, breathing the detective’s pissed-off air right back on him.
“Gentlemen, this is getting out of control.” Greenfield put his hand on Pascal’s arm. “Come on. We’re not suggesting anything.” He turned and looked at Evers. “Judge, you understand, I hope. This is our job. You are certainly a routine suspect. Right now, this looks like a suicide. Crazy people probably don’t proofread their suicide notes. There’s nothing really that we’re trying to do to you.” He let go of Pascal.
“Sure.” Evers’ tone was flat and noncommittal.
“The medical examiner said it looks like she had sex before she died,” Loggins said.
“Must have been really shitty, huh?” Pascal was still crouched down in front of the policeman.
“That should help us a bit. A little lab work might tell us who’d been with her just before she died.”
“That ought to eliminate me,” Evers said.
“Like I told you, we aren’t here to point fingers,” Greenfield said.
“Of course not.”
“We thank you and your brother for your time.” Greenfield stood up from the table, took a step across the kitchen and patted Pascal on the shoulder. “No hard feelings, Mr. Wheeling. I hope you understand.” Greenfield made eye contact with his partner. “Let’s leave these gents alone; we need to get on back.”
When Loggins got up, Pascal stood up with him, and the two men kept looking at each other until Greenfield spoke again and said he’d be in touch if anything important happened.
“Damn,” Evers said once Loggins and Greenfield had left and pulled the screen door shut behind them.
“No shit,” Pascal said, heading back into his bedroom, the flip-flops slapping against his heel and the floor, the pops and snaps picking up speed as he got farther away from the kitchen. Evers heard Fantasia start, and soon he smelled dope smoke. He walked to the bedroom door and looked in; Pascal was sitting in the recliner with the bong in his hands.
“That’s some prett
y unpleasant shit. Jo Miller winding up dead, then the police coming by.”
“They seemed dumb, Evers, didn’t they? Didn’t they seem dumb to you?”
“I guess.” Evers sat down on Pascal’s bed. “Give me a hit for the road.”
“Is Ruth Esther still asleep?” Pascal asked.
“No, she’s gone. She wasn’t here when the police came. She left us a nice note.” Evers handed his brother the note from the table.
Dear Pascal and Evers:
When I woke up it was raining pretty bad. I guess the weather’s a surprise, and that it ruins our trip to the amusement park. The week of the fourth is always a busy time at work, so at least I can try to sell a few cars. We’ll have to go to Carowinds some other day. I enjoyed seeing you all and will try to call you if something fun comes up in Winston. Please call me again, too. Thank you, Pascal, for the wine and being so nice to me.
Ruth Esther
“You’re not, I mean, you’re not upset about your wife, are you?” Pascal was holding Ruth Esther’s note in one hand and the bong in the other.
“No, not really. It’s just strange; that’s about all I can say.”
“There’s no reason to let it get to you. You’re better off without her. I know that sounds callous … hard, but you know….”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“So everything’s all right?” Pascal looked up at his brother.
“No doubt. Everything is all right.”
“Okay.” Pascal lit the bong and sucked in as much smoke as he could. The water in the pipe boiled and gurgled.
“Did you really check on me when you called the nine hundred number?”
“Check on you? Right. Yeah, I did. Whatever.”
Evers rubbed his fingers back and forth across his chin. He hadn’t shaved yet. “Why are you acting so strange? What is it?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” Pascal put his lips inside of the bong and relit the pot in the bowl.
“I was in the room, okay? Not on the couch. Ruth Esther and I changed places. She couldn’t sleep where she was. Is that what it is? Did you really get up and call?”
“I really called. I’m fine. I’m with you.” Pascal was holding the smoke in his lungs and talking at the same time; his voice came out deep and strained, a cough just under the words.
“Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
Pascal blew the smoke out of his mouth. “Yes.”
“So nothing’s bothering you?” Evers asked.
“No. It’s just weird, that’s all.”
“You’re positive.”
“I’m positive.” Pascal handed the water pipe to Evers.
Evers was still sitting on the bed, and he smoked some of the pot and gave the bong back to his brother, watched a wisp of smoke curl out of the bowl and turn into nothing. “I’d better call her family before I leave. That should be delightful.”
Evers left Pascal’s trailer in the afternoon and drove, just drove around, without any place to go, until he was tired and his eyes turned red and his legs started to feel heavy and stiff. Even though he was weary, he couldn’t sleep; he rested at a wayside near the Virginia-North Carolina border, closed his eyes for a few moments there and listened to an oldies station on the radio. He checked into a motel near Richmond, bought some peanuts and crackers from a vending machine and took a shower. While he was drying off with a thin, scratchy towel, he decided to drive through Chatham and then back to Durham to check on the farm and his wife’s funeral.
Evers left Richmond at night. He traveled rapidly and did not dim his lights a single time. The road to Chatham wasn’t crowded, and the car lights illuminated the night well up the highway. Empty road, empty lanes. Near Danville, “Lay Lady Lay” came on the radio, from beginning to end, and he turned up the volume.
When he reached Chatham, Evers drove slowly through the town and by Chatham Hall, the school for girls. The campus was asleep and tranquil, nothing stirring, empty except for a few summer students and three or four teachers who had nothing to do until chapel at nine. It was early in the morning, almost light, but not quite. Evers parked his car on the street in front of the school and walked through the fading dark up a brick path to Pruden Hall, a large, classical building with a porch, columns and wrought-iron railings. The entrance was locked, so he went into the building through a back door and climbed a flight of stairs, sliding his hand along the smooth, slick oak banister until the wood wound into a spiral and ended. He saw the school’s crest on each and every riser in the steps, and noticed the marks and scuffs and impressions left by hundreds of young feet, late to class or eager to meet a parent or friend waiting in the formal parlor. The ceilings were high, the floors ash with old Oriental rugs, beginning to grow threadbare in their centers.
The smell was there, too, the flush, ripe, sweet scent that Evers recalled from his Woodberry visits, a joyous, invisible vitality commingled with the air, a scarce touch of the past and present so pure that it seemed to strain and buck in an effort to separate itself from the dull breaths spread by the rest of the ordinary world. There was time in the Chatham Hall air, a lot of time.
Evers sat down at the top of the stairs. He and Pascal had been here once, double-dating, the both of them boys. They had rum in silver flasks, and Pascal ended up fucking his date in an earth-science classroom. Evers remembered that it had been warm, springtime, and that Pascal was so at ease, so blithe, reckless and bright, perfect for that time of his life. The next afternoon they played golf and drank beer and tomato juice, and Pascal decided to stay another day before driving back to William and Mary. What happened, Evers wondered, to all that, the girls who came on weekends, the lacrosse sticks and rugby jerseys, the friends standing with him in a cafeteria line, waiting to eat, talking about all kinds of things.
A girl in a housecoat and sweatpants walked by Evers. He had been sitting on the landing for about ten minutes, looking down. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said. “Are you waiting for someone?” The girl was pretty. Her hair was flat against her head, and she wasn’t wearing shoes.
“I know,” Evers answered. “I was just resting a moment. My wife just died. My brother and I used to come here. Once, we came here together. I came a lot, but once we both did. He had sex with a girl—I can’t recall her name now—in the earth-science room over in Holt Hall. I sucked face, but that was about it. He was a freshman in college then. Be on guard, you know?” Evers knew he was acting rude and bizarre, but that’s how he felt, and certainly he was entitled to a few days of latitude.
After wandering the campus a little longer, he drove to Durham and out to Jo Miller’s farm. Evers and Jo Miller had never divided their ownings, nor had there been any court orders—beyond the temporary support award—regarding their money and property. In an effort to be generous, Evers had told his in-laws—a mother, two sisters and two brothers—that they could stay at the farm until the funeral was over and they’d collected Jo Miller’s personal belongings. Now, driving up to the farm, he saw that Jo Miller’s family had taken most of the furniture, a stereo, two TVs, a freezer, an antique bed and all the china and silverware and loaded it all into a large moving van. Evidently, their work was not finished; the van’s loading door was still open.
Jo Miller’s family, especially her sister Aimme, was surly and belligerent, and Evers was in no mood to quarrel with them. Aimme was strident and angry and shrieked at Evers, started crying as soon as she saw him. The youngest brother was theatrical and threatened to hit him. Mrs. Covington, the mother, stood behind the children with her head down; she was the only one who didn’t sail into Evers the moment he stepped out of his car. In fact, Evers had a hard time deciphering her mood. She wasn’t as spittle-throwing rabid as her sons and daughters, and it struck him that, for some reason, there was a measure of understanding and pity in her stooped shoulders and mute hands. She smiled at Evers when she saw him, but the cor
ners of her mouth wrinkled down instead of turning the other way.
“This is all your fault,” Aimme blurted.
Evers was standing beside his car. “I suppose you and your brothers have forgotten who cheated on whom, who screwed a cattle farmer and an associate psychology professor, and who refused to live with me?”
“She wouldn’t have done anything,” Aimme yelled, “if you’d been a decent husband and supported her.”
“Right, Aimme. Her adultery and promiscuity are my fault. All I did was buy her a farm and drive to visit her every weekend so she could live in Durham and fuck somebody actually called Falstaf and work at her bullshit, half-assed job with Brockman. To hear Jo Miller talk about it, you would’ve thought the two of them were just a paper or two away from a Nobel Prize.”
“You belittled her, and then abandoned her when you couldn’t have everything exactly your way.” The whole family—except Mrs. Covington—had clustered around Aimme. “You could have been just a little more patient, Evers. You put everything in front of her.”
“Speaking of which, you and your vulture family can unpack my freezer and stereo and furniture.”
“So now you’re going back on your word,” Clifford said. He was the oldest. He taught computer classes at a South Carolina community college.
“No, Clifford, I’m not. I said you could have her personal belongings. You may not raid this home—my house—and take my personal property.”
“It’s her house and her stuff.” Aimme was inhaling hard, almost choking, sucking in spastic gulps of air one right after the other.
“The deed is in my name and, anyway, as her husband, I inherit all her property. Besides, I bought it. All of it.”
“Oh. Mr. Lawyer now, are we?” Clifford snarled. “We’ll just see.”
“We will, Clifford. Unload it or get sued. You can take her clothes, pictures and books, and that’s about it.”
“We’ll go to court for our fair share,” said Russell, Jo Miller’s other brother.
