Rose Marie is trying something a little different, serializing a book she has written — "The Evil Men Do." Each month she will be sharing a chapter with you. As the months go by, you will be able to go back and re-read previous chapters if you wish to. This book is presented here exactly as she has written it. We welcome your thoughts on both the book itself and the process we are trying. So — jump in!

If you missed previous chapters, they can be read here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

The Evil Men Do  — Chapter Seven

Stu leaned against the car and looked at the house, wishing someone would come out and say something. Wished Jenkins would come out and start a fight. He felt like fighting. She had taken him along farther than she realized. He toyed with the idea of going in for a drink or even going for another swim or a run.

He wished Reed would come out so he could question him about Jenkins. Did Reed want him as a son-in-law, and, if so, why, when it seemed he didn’t even like the guy? Better yet, Stu wished Jenkins would walk out so they could talk. They were going to have to talk sometime. In the distance, a dog barked, and bushes rustled. A yelp, then silence. Stu looked up at the dark sky as if the answers to his questions were written there. He could no longer see any stars. Tomorrow it would rain.

Fewer people moved past the windows, shadows against the curtains, but no one came outside. No one had left yet, and it was getting late, getting too cold to be outside. At one point Stu thought he recognized Suzanne and Reed silhouetted against the window. Suzanne wore her hair up in a chignon on the top of her head. No one else wore her hair that way.

No mistaking Reed’s tall, gaunt frame either.

Joyce did not come to the window. Stu supposed she had gone to bed, one place where she could avoid Roy Jenkins. You couldn’t blame the kid for not knowing how to act. Who was there to teach her?  Women were always comparing themselves to other women. She was young and the envy of the women there who had everything but youth. In some way she knew it, and it had gone to her head, made her think she could do whatever she liked. Oh, hell. Maybe she was just a sex pot. At any rate, she was too young for Jenkins. Why didn’t Reed see that? What was his game?

Someone left the house and stood still long enough to light a cigarette, spotted Stu’s car and Stu leaning against it.  Suzanne. She walked over to him.  “I thought I recognized your car. I saw you two leave. Where did you go?”

“Joyce wanted to go to the beach.”
“Isn’t she a little young for you?”
He grimaced. “Yes, she is, and don’t I know it. I’d like to get a drink, but I’d rather not go back inside.”
“Wait out here. I’ll get you one.”

Suzanne went back in and returned a few moments later carrying a drink in a tall glass.  Something made him glance up at the dark windows. He half expected to see Joyce’s face, but, though the curtains swayed a little bit he couldn’t see anybody. “You think somebody’s watching? Must be Joyce.” Stu nodded. “I saw her come in. The way she looked, she didn’t feel like talking to anybody.  She left the party.”

A question in her voice. “We went for a swim,” he said. It was the wrong thing to say.
“I see.”
“You don’t see,” Stu said. “She has a boyfriend. She doesn’t want me. She’s upset because Reed’s pushing Jenkins at her so she’s pushing back by pretending to be interested in me. She knows her father wouldn’t like it.”
“Why’s that,” Suzanne mused, more to herself than to him. “She couldn’t have been having a very good time. Some party. I can hardly blame her for leaving. Mostly old people.”  She smiled. “Like us.” Stu didn’t contradict her although he was at least ten years younger. “Can’t fault Reed for trying, but he should have realized he doesn’t know anybody she’d be interested in.”
“George said you liked her,” Stu said, realizing it was true.
“I do like her. I feel sorry for her too.”
“How about Reed? Are you fond of him?”

She glared at him. “None of your business. You have no right to question me. You going to lay the blame for Prudhomme’s death on me next? George says he’s a suspect. I told him he’s wrong.”
“He is,” Stu said. “Do you know Jenkins expects to marry Joyce?”
“Joyce? I don’t believe it. He never told me that.”
“You talked to him?”
“Anything wrong with that?”
“Not a thing,” Stu said, wondering if he was one of Suzanne’s conquests.
“He’s older than you are,” she said.
“Thanks a lot. It’s what she thinks. She’s afraid she won’t be able to keep it from happening.”
“She’ll run away,” Suzanne predicted.
“Maybe you should talk to her.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she said. “Poor girl. As for Prudhomme, I know I can’t make you change your mind, but why are you so sure somebody killed him?  I mean, everybody else is satisfied.”
“I don’t care about anybody else,” Stu said. 
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but when’s the last time you two talked?”
“You’re right,” he said. “All the more reason not to let it go.”
She took his arm. “Who, then? Not George. Not Reed.”
“Why not Reed?”
“What makes you think he’s the one?”

They stared at each other for a long moment.
“Anyone could have done it,” she continued.
“If anyone could have done it,” Stu said, “why not Reed?”
“Reed’s learned to control his temper,” she said. “Unlike your father. Reed never would have lost control like that. If, and it’s a big if, your father didn’t kill himself, it could have been anyone. Nobody liked him, not even his own family. Especially them.”
Stu hung his head.  “I know.”
“What was that all about? They were at each other’s throats all the time.Your uncles wouldn’t throw George a life preserver if he was drowning. They wouldn’t throw you one either. What if one of them killed him? What a scandal that would be. You willing to cause a scandal?”   

The first Prudhomme, Noah, had made a fortune in the days of ruthless competition, when survival of the fittest was a way of life instead of a subject to be studied at school. He had not cared how many people he had brought down, how many families he hurt. His son, Philip, Stu’s grandfather, had had no other ambition but to increase the fortune which Noah had amassed. In this he had been equally successful and equally ruthless. Was Suzanne right? Was Prudhomme’s assassin a figure from the past?
“Prudhomme wasn’t as bad as the others,” said Stu.
“Bad enough.”
“He donated money, he supported the arts.”
“And lived to regret it when you took up painting. He was hoping you were just going through a phase, you know.”
“Maybe I was.”

Suzanne laughed. “I knew it. Now he’s dead, you’re going to turn into a businessman. This is rich, no getting away from the pursuit of success if you’re a Prudhomme. Excepting George, of course.  Tell me, what happened to George?”
“George is the only one of the uncles I ever liked,” said Stu.
“Liking George has nothing to do with it. I like him too. It isn’t enough.”
“You don’t mean that,” Stu said.
“You know more than I do then,” she whispered. She swayed a little. He took her arm, steadying her. “Your father really should have bailed him out when he needed it. He should have given him the money when George asked him. What the hell, it isn’t as though he didn’t have it, and after he died George got it anyway.”

“Why wouldn’t he give it to him?”
“You’re asking me? You know how he was. He said George got himself into it and he should get himself out of it. He didn’t believe the consequences could be as grave as George painted them. He was wrong, though. George was scared.” Her voice fell. “He thinks they did it.  Thugs from Las Vegas. He wants to go after them himself. I wish you’d talk to him. Better yet, I wish you wouldn’t stir it all up.  You may get more than you bargained for. To tell you the truth, I’m a little scared. For George, I mean.”
“I thought you didn’t believe my father was murdered.”
“Doesn’t matter. If George goes to Vegas and makes accusations there’s bound to be reprisals.” 

Stu didn’t know what to say, but Suzanne was turning around anyway, returning to the house.  Stu watched her until she closed the door, then he climbed into his car and drove off.

George had had gambling debts, and Prudhomme, so clever where business was concerned but innocence itself when it came to dealing with matters closer to home, had refused to bail him out. Why, because money was a sacred trust to him and always had been. That’s how he had been taught. To respect the money, not the man. The money that had been made by those who had gone before him had constituted the strongest influence on his life. Between the brothers, unhealthy competition had festered.

Prudhomme had always known what he wanted. He had insisted on striking out on his own, and when he did, had met only with success. Until lately.
Suzanne was wrong. Prudhomme championed the arts because he claimed to believe that aesthetic accomplishment was as important as any other kind of accomplishment but that anyone who craved it had to be prepared to give up everything else. That was Stu’s problem, he said. Stu had given up nothing.
Stu had wanted to ask him what he had given up but never did.  He was afraid of the answer.

Almost from birth, he had felt the pressure of others’ expectations. His twin brother, Stephen, having died shortly after birth, Stu was the natural recipient of the torch.  So far he had not done anything to deserve it. But he was not through yet. Soon, he hoped, he would learn the truth about Prudhomme’s death and also his life. Bound up in the mystery of Prudhomme’s life and death was the mystery of Stu’s own origins and destiny and his mother’s disappearance.

Father and son’s past exchanges had taken the form of lectures. Or small talk. Pass the potatoes. So Stu had learned along the way that Prudhomme hated cooked carrots and loved lemon meringue pie, facts even a biographer would disdain. Evidently, Prudhomme had harbored no secret desire for Stu to write his biography.

Arriving home, Stu felt restless and took out the diary containing the appointments that Rose, Prudhomme’s secretary, had given him. One of the appointments was to see Dr. Berenson, and Rose had written down his address and phone number under the appointment day, less than a week before Prudhomme’s death. Sharon too had mentioned him, and Stu resolved to see him as soon as possible. 

Something else about the list of names bothered him. The name C. Forster sprang out at him. Surely it couldn’t be Chuck Forster, whom he had run into in Anthony’s. Forster was the second name on the list. Stu looked up Chuck’s number. He ought to be calling him anyway about the meeting Chuck asked him to attend. Too late to call him tonight. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

He awoke the next day with Chuck Forster topmost in his mind and phoned as early as decency allowed. Forster sounded pathetically glad to hear from him. Stu wondered if he had expected to hear from him at all. “I knew you’d call,” Forster said. “I figured if I could get your father on my side you were bound to be interested, too.”

“What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t tell you? Gee, sorry. I’m working on the committee to save the marshland. Your father had this development project planned, and I went to talk him out of it.”  Forster laughed. “I didn’t expect it to be so easy! He was on our side from the start.”  Stu could hardly believe it. “What a tragedy he had to die,” Forster continued. “It would have made a big difference, getting somebody like him to side with us, I mean, against the developers.”
“I bet,” Stu agreed.
“That’s why, after he died, I thought I’d ask you if you wanted to join us. I know you don’t normally get involved in business, you’re an artist, right? But maybe you’d make an exception in this case. Because of your father.”

No, Stu thought grimly, he normally didn’t get involved. “You’re right,” he said. “I do want to get involved so tell me what you need me to do.”
“That’s great news.” Forster went on to tell him when and where the meeting would be held, and Stu promised he’d be there.

He had promised himself he’d start looking into who Jenkins was and where he came from.  He’d already asked Reed about the man’s background, but Reed had been reluctant to talk about him or explain why he’d been hired. Stu googled his name but found nothing. Idly, he googled Reed next and hit an item that shocked him. Reed had served time. In prison. Quickly, he scanned, then printed the article. Reed had been charged and convicted of manslaughter. Not murder, but manslaughter. Prudhomme had testified at the trial, explaining that Reed had shot the man in self-defense. 
Stu realized he had found the reason for Reed’s loyalty to his father. What had really happened, would Reed tell him? Would George? He phoned George, put it to him. George said, “so you found out.  How?”

“The internet,” Stu said.
“Nobody has any privacy anymore,” lamented George.
“What did he do?”
“Trust me, it has nothing to do with any of this.”
“You hinted at it before,” Stu said. “You may as well tell me the details.”
“It happened a long time ago.” Stu waited.  “Somebody attacked your father. In a bar. Reed beat him up.”
“Killed him, you mean,” Stu said.
George nodded. “He gave Reed a job.” 
“Why was my father attacked?” Stu asked.
George shrugged. “Over a woman, what else?”

Later on Stu went for a walk on the beach, still later took a drive. It hadn’t rained after all. The day was cloudy but bright, a good day to paint yet Stu still felt no desire to pick up a paintbrush. On impulse he drove by the Mathiesen’s house, a white frame in need of painting. Maybe he should offer to paint it. He wouldn’t mind that kind of painting; the physical labor would be good for him. He wished he could expect a yes answer if he did offer. The house looked empty, but he knew that Per must be lying inside, propped up against pillows and thinking of, who knows what, revenge or satisfaction because his old enemy was dead.  Janet had said he didn’t hate anyone, but Stu doubted it was true. You always left room for hatred.

Putting aside what he had learned about Reed, Stu phoned the doctor his father had been seeing.  Unable to reach him at first, Stu kept phoning, and eventually the answering service put him through.  Stu identified himself, telling Berenson he had some questions. 

“Lucky you called today. I’ll be on vacation starting tomorrow. Let me see, I can give you some time later today if you can come in.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know how much I can help you, though. You may be wasting your time.”
“I’ll risk it,” said Stu.

After hanging up the phone, he stood for a few moments and looked out the window at the gulls frantic searching of the water. They knew, better than he did, that a storm was still brewing.

Check Next Month's Issue for Chapter 8