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

The Evil Men Do  — Chapter Five

Which to do first, talk to the police or to his uncles, the twins.  Stu thought the police ought to be first, but he wasn't looking forward to it.  What evidence did he have that Prudhomme was murdered?   

Prudhomme had been shot in his office in the city so no use informing Hinckley or anybody else at the police station in the suburbs.  A relief, as Stu felt sure that Hinckley would not be receptive to Stu's hypothesis.  Even so, Hinckley might decide to dig into Stu's relationship with his father, not because he believed Stu or wanted to help him but out of morbid curiosity. 
Would the city hotshots believe him?  Even if they did, would they be willing to give up an easy verdict, suicide, in favor of a not so easy investigation on his word alone?  Maybe they would if he could get George to go along with him, George and maybe Suzanne, only Suzanne would try and put the blame on Sharon. This made Stu wonder why Sharon wanted to meet and talk to George's wife. Were Suzanne and his father having an affair, and he ended it because he had met Sharon? Was that the source of Suzanne's animosity?  "We'll compare notes," Sharon had said. Did she mean what Stu was afraid she meant?

As usual, the Long Island Expressway was backed up; he should have waited and driven in later, should have called, ascertained that someone in charge would be at the station and would wait for him. Was that what people did when they talked to the police? He didn't know, the situation was a first for him. While he waited for the traffic to move, he phoned the other uncles, the twins. They didn't answer, and he left a message.

He thought about changing lanes, but it was no use; four lanes, and they were all clogged. Waiting for a break in the traffic, Stu remembered his father, wishing they had been closer. He didn't think it was all his fault that they were not close. Prudhomme thought he owned the world, and owning the world gave him little time for relationships. When Stu criticized his father's attitude toward conservation, Prudhomme excused himself by telling Stu he gave people jobs. He thought he and others like him represented society's elite, which gave them carte blanche to do whatever they wanted. Stu had listened to the blah, blah, blah long enough, his father and others like him stood for the material good of the whole of society, blah, blah, blah, but Stu failed to be convinced. Especially when it came to the marsh. And after all the talk, apparently his father had come to believe as he did.  

Now he saw what the trouble was. A fire engine raced by followed closely by an ambulance.  Both vehicles used the shoulder as there was nowhere for the traffic to go.  An accident. Seemed each time he drove in there was an accident. He rolled his head from side to side, up and down, easing the tension.

Stu didn't claim to be an environmentalist; he just loved beaches, especially those on Long Island, hated to see them being invaded by hordes of people from the city. He didn't blame the city dwellers for seeking refuge from the heat and humidity, but there were just too many of them. Like the rest of the country's resources, the beaches, the marshes at one time must have seemed like rivers that never would run dry. Before men like Prudhomme, to whom success meant building things. Everybody knew and accepted it.  Everybody, even the poor.  Successful businessmen deserved accolades. The richer they became, the more they benefited the community by creating jobs, contributing to charity.  You heard the same arguments whenever there was an election going on.
The cars ahead of Stu started to creep forward. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Not too bad, only forty-five minutes this time. Less than an hour. He'd still arrive in the city at a reasonable time if no other accidents occurred. 

The accumulation of capital illustrating the process of natural selection at work: Stu had had it drummed into him all his life, so why hadn't it taken? You were forgiven everything, but only if you succeeded. If George had been a success in politics, he'd be a hero. Stu couldn't remember his father really laughing, having a good time, enjoying himself. Everything he did served a purpose. When he played golf, he used the game to persuade others of the merits of his latest scheme. Until lately, according to Sharon. Until Sharon came along, if Stu could believe her. Suddenly Prudhomme was questioning everything he had stood for.
Who else knew about Sharon? Reed, Prudhomme's business partner, did he know? Each year an endowment founded by Prudhomme's father selected an outstanding student to receive a scholarship in the arts at C. W. Post, the school where Sharon taught. Prudhomme continued the endowment. Reed had tried to get him to discontinue it. Reed, who cared nothing for the arts, told him he was "throwing his money away."   

Yet Stu always thought there was something tragic about the man. He never remembered Reed laughing either. By all accounts, he had no life out of the office. He had been married once, had a daughter. A daughter but no wife. Like Stu, she had never known her mother. Reed must have had a wife once, but nobody talked about her. What had happened to her? Another secret or was Stu making too much out of her disappearance. He decided she must have died early on since even her daughter, Joyce, didn't remember her. Even though Stu was older than Joyce, he didn't remember Reed's wife any more than his own.

Before leaving the house, Stu had phoned Reed, asked to see him later. You had to make an  appointment to see Reed. Stu wouldn't have dared to show up without one. Reed said time was money.  He actually talked that way.  "Time is money, Stu," Stu remembered.  He remembered the words, not the occasion.
The police station was near the United Nations building on 42nd Street and First Avenue.  Once Stu had visited a friend, a lawyer, who worked on the Secretariat's 36th floor and was invited up.  "The building sways," the friend told him. "It's built that way, to withstand stress."  Stu wondered if he still worked there, decided to phone him later if he had time.

He parked the car in a lot and walked two blocks to the police station. Identifying himself, he asked to speak to whoever had been in charge at the time of Prudhomme's death. The desk man didn't know, and, polite enough, left him standing there and went to check. Returning, he said someone would be out shortly.
Several people already sat on benches under windows opaque with city dust. Stu remained standing, examined them covertly. A man with dreadlocks wearing a neatly pressed suit, an elderly woman in a scarf, flowered dress and walking shoes, a young girl dressed for the weather in torn jeans, a halter top and sandals.
Stu looked up at the sound of footsteps, wearing, he supposed, the same expression as the others, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. 
The man walked up to Stu. He wore a tan jacket, black pants, a blue shirt and a green tie with blue dolphins. "I'm Lt. Fitzpatrick," he said. "Can we go somewhere and talk?" Stu asked.

The policeman nodded, led Stu to an empty office with a conference table and chairs. They both sat down, and Stu explained why he had come.  At the end of his recitation, Fitzpatrick shook his head.  "I can't help you," he said.

"How do you know?"

Fitzpatrick shook his head again. Stu concentrated on not displaying his sudden irritation. "I can understand you don't want to believe your father committed suicide," Fitzpatrick said. "Nobody wants to accept that, somebody was that depressed, and you didn't know about it, but there was never a question it was anything else. He left a note."

"Typed on the computer," Stu said.
"Easiest thing to do for somebody with bad handwriting. Was his handwriting bad?" Stu had to admit it.  "You see."
"He had plans," Stu insisted. "Why would he make plans if he was going to take his life?"
Fitzpatrick shrugged.  "I understand how you feel," he said again.
"You don't," Stu told him. "Believe me, you don't."
"I'm sorry."
"If I bring you proof," Stu stated, "will you listen then?"

"Go ahead and dig," Fitzpatrick told him. "If nothing else, it'll make you feel better. Just make sure you don't become a nuisance. Don't go accusing people."
Stu rose, walked out of the conference room, feeling Fitzpatrick's eyes following him, hating that the guy felt sorry for him. Sorry for him! In the hall, the same people sat on the same benches and waited.

Stu didn't feel like calling his friend at the UN anymore, didn't feel like eating either. Leaving the car in the lot, he phoned Reed's office again, asked Rose, who answered the phone, if he could come over now. Rose, who used to be Prudhomme's secretary and now worked for Reed, always said yes no matter what he asked and said yes now. Stu strode the long crosstown blocks quickly, pushed open the heavy glass doors on either side of the revolving door in the center, rode the elevator up to the 10th floor, where Prudhomme had moved his offices a year ago, explaining that it gave him more bang for the buck, room to live in when he didn't feel like driving upstate. Stu made no comment but privately thought that the new offices were less impressive than the former ones. He figured that Prudhomme must have had his reasons.

Rose, sitting at her desk in front of what had been Prudhomme's office, looked tired. How old was she? Stu thought she must be in her forties.  An attractive woman, curly blond hair forming an aureole over her head, she'd kept her figure but dressed soberly, as she obviously felt a secretary cum office assistant should. She inclined her head toward the office to the right of Prudhomme's. "He's waiting for you."

"Are you okay?" Stu asked.
"Are you?" she asked in return.
Should he tell her what he thought?  How did she feel about Prudhomme's alleged suicide?  Had she felt that it might have been something different, something like…murder?  Stu hesitated.
"You'd better go in," she said. "I told him you were coming. He said he was busy, but I told him he could hardly refuse to see you."
Stu wondered why he had tried.   

Chris Reed had been Prudhomme's friend and business associate for years. Stu didn't remember a time when he wasn't around. More than once, Prudhomme had called him at home for one reason or another, and each time Reed had proved himself ready at a moment's notice to do whatever Prudhomme asked. Stu was relying on him to provide information about Prudhomme that no one else could. If he would. He was closemouthed, too, once a virtue but not now, when Stu wanted answers.

Stu's visit to the police station hadn't gone so well. He couldn't seriously expect help from that quarter. Of course, he hadn't told them about George's gambling habits, hoped to keep silent about that, as he'd promised, until he had no cards left to plan. He hoped this visit to Reed would not be a dead end also. Stu didn't trust Reed, but Prudhomme had trusted him. Out of misguided loyalty, Reed was capable of withholding information from Stu. No doubt he disapproved of Stu. He too had expected Stu to take his place in the office. Perhaps not in these offices. Stu wondered if there was an office for him here; why had they moved anyway? Rose must know. Stu resolved to ask her.

Reed was on the phone but gestured for Stu to enter. He hadn't visited these particular offices before. On the rare occasions when he forced himself to visit the former offices, usually to answer a summons he couldn't afford to ignore, he came reluctantly, couldn't wait to leave, wished himself somewhere, anywhere else. Reed, Reed's manner, Reed's office intimidated him, always had. Yet Prudhomme, though he must have known better (mustn't he?) had hoped that eventually Stu might find a spot behind a polished desk in an office like Reed's.

Reed looked to be about 50, younger than Prudhomme but not by much. He had looked the same ever since Stu could remember. Medium height but looking taller, he kept himself in shape. Tan and fit, either from golf or racquetball at the club he and Prudhomme belonged to, he seemed edgy, picking up and putting down the papers on his desk, drawing attention to his long, manicured fingers, running them over the scanty, graying hair on his balding scalp. Despite the manicure, something of the ascetic clung to him. His manner indicated to people, here's a busy man with no time for pleasure or for the people or things that don't count. Few people counted in Reed's world. Stu, given the life he led up to now, was sure he didn't. He gestured to one of the chairs across from his desk, and Stu sat down. Reed hung up the phone.  "So, to what do I owe this visit? Have you decided to join the firm?" His jovial manner ill suited him. It was false.
Stu wasn't sure if he was joking or not.  "Maybe," he said.  "But that's not why I came. What's the story on the new offices?" He looked around.  "I liked the old ones better."

"What difference does it make? You never expressed an interest in working here."
"Does this one have an office too? For me, I mean?"
"There's an office. Somebody else is occupying it," Reed said.
"Somebody else? Who?"
"I'll see you meet him. Later."

Reed acted like a man in charge. In the past, he had seemed deferential; no more, however.
"So why did you move?"
Reed gazed out the window as if searching for an answer out there, among the skyscrapers. Stu noticed a plane banking, heading south. Evidently, the building lay in La Guardia airport's flight path.
"Cost," Reed said. Noting Stu's expression, he added, "no sense spending all that money.  Maybe you haven't noticed, but construction has stopped."
"I didn't notice," Stu said.
"I didn't think so. You didn't before, why would you now?"
Stu nodded. He couldn't say otherwise.

"So just as well you're not a part of it. If you changed your mind, well, I'd have to tell you it's too late."
Something didn't track. An inconsistency.  "You're telling me you moved in order to save money, yet you hired someone?"
Reed blinked, opened his mouth. Stu thought, he doesn't know what to say. "Too bad you didn't make up your mind sooner. We could have used you. No secret your father thought your place was here. I took your part—that surprises you?  I told him he should give you time, stop pushing. You were too young, you wanted to paint, he should let you get it out of your system. Now it's too late."
"I wasn't interested at the time." But he was now; he wanted to know what was going on; it may have had something to do with Prudhomme's death. First he knew the firm was losing money.
"He was disappointed. First you, then the business. It made him sick to see things go downhill.  He was seeing a doctor, did you hear about that? Was he sick, do you know?"

Stu felt a chill--Prudhomme sick?—before remembering the psychiatrist.
"Must have been something like that for him to give up and kill himself," Reed said.
"I don't believe he killed himself," Stu managed to say.
"What then? An accident? Murder?"  Reed smiled. 
"You think it's funny?"

"Of course not, just, why not accept it for what it was. I know, you have a guilty conscience, and this is your way of expressing it. It's not your fault; you shouldn't blame yourself."
"I don't," Stu said.

"The police don't agree," Reed informed him, as if Stu didn't know.
"I know; I went to see them."
Now Reed looked rattled. He had something to hide. What was it?  "Why—why'd you do that?" he asked.
"He'd never have taken his own life."
Reed shook his head.  "I don't believe you knew him at all."
"But you think you did."
"Better than you. You were a disappointment, moving into that shack at the beach. I bet you didn't know he changed his mind about developing it."
"No, I didn't know."
"You shouldn't have turned your back on him," Reed said.

It was the other way around. He turned his back on me." Why was he explaining himself to Reed?
Reed nodded.  "I told him you'd come around, you were just sowing wild oats, same as him."
Prudhomme sowing wild oats?  This was the first Stu had heard of it. "What wild oats?" he asked.
Reed, sorry he'd brought it up, backtracked.  "I don't know," he said, "but there must have been some."
"My grandfather was pretty strict," Stu said, "especially with my father since he was the oldest."
"That's right," Reed said, "but you mustn ‘t dig things up just because you feel guilty."
"It isn't guilt, Reed," Stu said. "What are you afraid I'll dig up?"
"Nothing," Reed said. "Just…your father wouldn't have wanted a scandal."
"There you go again. I'm not trying to cause a scandal, I just want to find out what happened."
"What did the police say?"

"They didn't believe me," Stu said, "anymore than you do. But I'm not giving up. I didn't tell them everything."
"What didn't you tell them?"  Was that fear on Reed's face?
"I'm not at liberty to say right now." Stu meant what George had told him, but if Reed thought he meant something else, let him. "At this point, I'm talking to people. Sooner or later I'll find something to point me in the right direction. I'm sure of it, I only have to look hard enough. There's something strange about my father's so-called suicide. You honestly don't think so?"
Reed tried, failed, to laugh.  "No, I don't."

Stu just looked at him, knowing he was lying but unable to say why.
"Let me help you," Reed said. Stu stared at him.
"You want to help?" Why the change of heart?  He asked Reed.
"I may not agree with you," Reed said, seeming flustered, "but I can still help."
As a way to keep tabs on him. "I appreciate the offer," Stu said. "I'll let you know if I think of anything." Reed nodded, licked his lips. Stu realized that he looked thinner; had he lost weight? Something was bothering him; that much was obvious. "Did you know he was seeing someone?" Stu asked.
Reed licked his lips.  "I don't recall."
She was there when the will was read, and she attended the funeral. That's how I got to know about her."
Reed shrugged.  "I must have met her then."

"The thing is, she doesn't believe he killed himself either."
"You talked to her?"
"To her, to George. I'll talk to everyone sooner or later. The twins, my grandfather."
"No use talking to him," Reed said. "He's senile."
Stu nodded. "So I heard, but I'll give it a try anyway."
Reed looked up quizzically. "His girlfriend," he said.  "What do you know about her?"
Stu relaxed. This was a question he could answer. "She's an art professor at C. W. Post. A redhead. Young, not very tall."
"Just the way he liked them," Reed murmured.
"What did you say?"

Suddenly, the buzzer on Reed's desk went off.  A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He punched the intercom and spoke abruptly. "What is it?"
Stu didn't hear what was being said. The words came through in a mumble intelligible only to Reed. "Tell him I'll be through in a couple of minutes." No mistaking it. Reed was annoyed. Stu felt curiosity grow—who had interrupted them? Was it the new hire?
Noting Stu's inquisitive look, Reed said, "Roy Jenkins, my assistant."
"He's the one in the third office."
Reed said yes.
"When was he hired?"
"Several months ago.
"Before my father's death," Stu said. "My father never mentioned him. Should I say hello?" Curious, Stu wanted to meet him.
"Let's do it another time," Reed said.

Stu stood up. "I'm surprised you hired someone if the firm's in trouble."
It was a question, but Reed chose not to answer. "Keep me posted," he said. Getting up and walking around the desk, he walked Stu to the door, his hand firm on Stu's shoulder. "By the way, I'm having some papers drawn up for you to sign so I'll be in touch."
"What kind of papers?"
"A development projects."

Stu stopped in his tracks. "If it concerns developing the marsh, I won't sign," he said.
"It's not the marsh," Reed said.  Stu looked at him. "Really," Reed insisted, "I have no intention of putting anything there."
"I'm glad to hear it," Stu said.  "Surprised, but glad. Whatever it is, I'll have to know the details before I sign."
"The only detail you need to know is that it should allow us to put the firm on sound footing again, which is in your best interests too."
It sounded like a threat. "I'll still have to look it over."

"You'll have plenty of time to do that," Reed said, in a hurry to get rid of him. "One more thing—I'm giving a party next Saturday, and you're invited. Bring someone."
Stu immediately thought of Janet. Would she go if he asked her?
"Joyce will be there." Reed's daughter.  "As a matter of fact, the party's for her. A birthday party."
Stu had lost count.  "How old is she now?"
"Nineteen." Reed held open the door so Stu could precede him into the outer office, where a dark, handsome man of about thirty waited. Reed introduced them. "Roy Jenkins, Stu Prudhomme."

Jenkins' hand felt cool and his grasp almost too firm, as if he had read a manual on how to make a good first impression with a firm handshake. His dark hair reached just below his ears, and he had blue eyes and long, straight black lashes. Stu thought, irrelevantly, everybody in this office has blue eyes.  Up close, he was older than Stu first thought, closer to forty than thirty. "I'm glad to finally meet you," he said, holding on to Stu's hand till Stu retracted it.
Reed said, "when I say I don't want to be disturbed, I mean I don't want to be disturbed."

Jenkins flushed with embarrassment, or anger. Stu listened attentively, hoping to figure out their relationship from the exchange. Unfortunately, Reed seemed to notice Stu's interest and said, "I'll walk you out." Stu had no choice but to go along. When they reached the hall, he stopped, made an attempt to apologize. "I have a lot on my mind," he said.  "I'm sorry I lost my temper back there."
"Maybe you should apologize to him," Stu said. "If you don't want him to quit, that is."
"No chance of that," Reed said.  Stu thought it was an odd thing to say, and Reed did too as he explained, "tight job market lately." He changed the subject. "So, I'll see you on Saturday?"
"I'll be there."
"Good."

Stu was unwilling to drop the subject of Reed's new assistant. "Where did you find him, Jenkins?" Stu asked. "An agency?"
"No," Reed said.  "He found me. I knew his father."  Reed's mouth turned down, as if the memory were unpleasant.
"Don't be so hard on him," Stu said. "Not that it's any of my business."
"No," Reed agreed. "I won't be." He smiled oddly.

Reed escorted him all the way to the outer door. Stu waited a few minutes after Reed went back inside, then opened the outer door softly and re-entered the office. Rose looked at him questioningly.  He glanced toward Reed's office. "Have time for coffee?" he asked. She reached under her desk and stood, holding up her handbag to show him she was ready and putting something into it. They walked out together, and, without having to be told that their conversation should be kept private, she softly closed the door. They didn't speak in the elevator, not until they were sitting in a booth in the coffee shop downstairs. "What's going on, Rose?" he asked.
"You don't know, do you?"
"Reed says they're in financial trouble. Is that true?"
"It's why they moved."

"That's what he said. Why, Rose? My father was so careful." He relied on her to tell him. A long-time employee, she knew a lot about Prudhomme, about Reed, about them all. "And who's this guy, Jenkins? It doesn't make sense to hire him if they're in trouble."

Rose patted her chignon, touched both her earrings, pulled out a pack of Winstons from her purse. "You smoke?" Stu said no. "Don't worry, I won't light up, I can't. You can't smoke anywhere in New York. A good thing, I guess; I'm trying to quit, but it's hard with everything that's going on.  I tried the nicotine patch, but it didn't work." She shrugged and widened heavily mascaraed eyes. "I have no idea who he is or where he came from. Reed brought him in one day, that's all I know. He hasn't been here long, just a few months. Right before your father died, now that I think about it."

"He didn't object?" Stu asked.
"If he did, he didn't let on." She regarded him thoughtfully. Stu felt as if he were seeing her for the first time and realized he didn't know a thing about her. How long had he lived in ignorance about Rose, about Reed, about Prudhomme himself? "Something funny about the relationship between Reed and Jenkins," Rose told him. "I get the feeling Reed doesn't like him, but if he doesn't like him why doesn't he fire him? Also, if the firm's in trouble, like you said, why hire him at all?"
"If it's true," Stu said, hoping to hear her deny it.
"That's what I hear."

"It doesn't make sense. How could it happen?"
"Fast," she said. "It happened fast," she said. "I'm glad your father's not here to see it."
The way she said it, Stu wondered if there had ever been anything between her and Prudhomme. "Who else was in the office on the day he died?" Stu assumed she was there.
"I wasn't there," she said. "I took the day off.  So far as I know, he was alone."
"Reed?"  Reed was always there.
"Reed called in sick that day."
"That was unusual, wasn't it?"

"The flu was going around. I had it myself. That's why your father told me to take the day off.  I wasn't through recuperating."
"What about Jenkins, was he sick as well?"
"He was in the field."
"Did my father have any appointments that day?"
"I thought you might want to see his calendar so I brought it with me." She took it out of her purse and handed it to him. "He kept a diary too, but I haven't been able to find it."
Stu thanked her and copied down the appointments that Prudhomme had made for the day he died and the week before. "You can keep it," Rose said. "Nobody else is going to ask for it."
"Thanks."
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"Talk to people. Ask questions, "Stu said. "What else can I do?"
"Let me help," Rose said.
"Try to listen in when Reed and Jenkins talk. Let me know if you hear anything interesting."
"I'll use the intercom," she said.

"But be careful," Stu cautioned. "You'd better get back."  She nodded and slid out of the booth. Stu watched her walk to the door, still wondering if she and Prudhomme had had a relationship.  He wouldn't be surprised; she was still a good looking woman, her hair still that shade of auburn that Prudhomme admired. Stu left the coffee shop and collected his car from the parking garage. He felt tired. Trips to the city took their toll. He watched youngish men in three-piece suits stride purposefully down the street on the way to some appointment and thought he should be more like them. He was ashamed of himself, pretending to be an artist. His father was right. Prudhomme had admonished him, saying Stu had never been hungry, never had to give anything up, he didn't have the right to call himself an artist. He was soft; he was spoiled. Prudhomme was right. More than anything Stu had wished for a sign, and that in itself implied he was only an amateur. Only amateurs look for signs.

Glancing up at the street sign while waiting for the light to change, he realized that Sharon lived nearby. Suddenly it seemed important to know more about her. Was she the predator that Suzanne had called her? She had said she would phone Suzanne; had she done so, and had they met? Stu parked and pulled out his cell phone, punched in Sharon's number. When no one answered, he let it ring, willing her to pick up, imagining she was there but didn't want to be disturbed, putting his need ahead of hers. But if she had loved Prudhomme, she must be used to that.

At last, sounding breathless, she did pick up. "I just got in. Where are you? On the island? I have lots to tell you."
"I'm in the city, not far away."  She told him to come over. "I'll be right there."  Stopping only to buy cigarettes, which he smoked only when he felt nervous, he turned the car around, drove the few short blocks to Sharon's apartment on East 73rd Street, parked in a new public garage a block away.  On the street two elderly women waited for a bus, and an old man shuffled by carrying a shopping bag.  A beautiful day, but no one was enjoying it but old men, old women. And him. The rest of the world sat in offices earning a living. Stu crossed the street alongside a young woman, long black hair flying who suddenly turned the corner and, walking fast, quickly caught up with him. He guessed her to be a model from her appearance and capacious handbag. Their eyes met, held for an instant before both looked away. He might have asked her for a date. She might have said yes. 
Life called to him. The way he lived was not very different from the rigid discipline to which Prudhomme had subjected himself. Yet even Prudhomme had had time for sensual pleasure.

Stu walked across to the north side of the street and pressed the elevator button. Sharon waited at the door. Belying the upbeat way in which she had answered the phone, she looked tired, or ill. Was she mourning Prudhomme? "I decided to teach a class this summer after all," she informed him.
"I thought you were going to take a trip."
"One class, that's not so bad. I have to get my head together. After that, I'll see about taking a trip."
"You should go now," Stu said.
"Not while everything's up in the air."  She meant Prudhomme's death. "I want to know what happened, help if I can, then I'll go. I'll use the money he left me to visit Paris, but I'll stay for while.  I'll take a sabbatical."
"Suppose we fail," Stu said.

"We won't fail."  She asked him if he wanted coffee, and he said no, he'd just had some. He told her who with.
"His secretary, Rose, yes," she said. "That's a good idea. If anybody knows anything, she does."
"You met her?"
"I've been to his office," she told him. "He lived there too." Stu said he knew. "I got the feeling they had a thing going at one time."
"I thought so too," Stu said. "Funny it never occurred to me before. She wants to help. I asked her to listen in when Reed and Jenkins talk. You meet him?"
"Dark hair, blue eyes," she said.

For a moment Stu felt jealous. "That's him. Rose says the firm's on the rocks so why did they hire this guy?  Something wrong there." They sat down, Stu on one end of the couch, Sharon on the other. "What do you have to tell me?"
She brightened. "I spoke to Suzanne. I called, told her I remembered she's a real estate agent and I was looking for a place to buy. While she was showing me around, we talked, and I told her I didn't believe your father killed himself.  She said you didn't think so either. Then I asked her if she knew anybody with a reason to want him dead."  Sharon grimaced.  "According to her, the whole world's a suspect. Except her husband. You accuse him or something?  I mean, why would she say that?"

"He insisted on telling me he had a motive," Stu said. "George didn't kill him." 
Sharon raised her eyebrows.  "You're sure?"
"He gambled, ran up debts. He thinks the guys in Las Vegas killed him, made it look like suicide."
"What did the police say?"
"I haven't told them about George," Stu said,  "and I don't intend to unless I can't think of anything else. I don't want to involve George. For one thing, I don't believe the guys in Last Vegas killed my father. They wouldn't make it look like suicide, they'd want George to know so he'd be scared and not try and stiff them."
"Maybe he does know," she said.

"No," Stu said, "he's not scared, he's angry. If he knew it was them, he wouldn't talk about it."
She nodded. "You may be right. Suzanne said she told you I did it."
"She told you that?"
"Said it like it was a joke. We got along really well, I think she likes me. When I said I'd been to your father's office, she asked me if I knew the new guy. Roy something. She says he's a hunk."
"You think so too?"
She shook her head.  "Not my type." She sighed.  "I guess I could finagle a meeting if you think he knows something."
"Unlikely," Stu said. He didn't like the idea, preferred not to think why.
"It's funny he came to work there just before your father's so called suicide."
"I think so too."

"So why shouldn't I try to question him?" 
"Do me a favor and stay away from him. Him and Reed both. The firm's in trouble, that's what Reed says. Rose says so too. If it's true, it happened awfully fast."
"In that case, you think your father really did kill himself?"
"At this point, we have to keep all options open," Stu said. "I wish I knew him better. You knew him better than I did."
"He didn't tell me everything. For instance, I didn't know the firm was in trouble. No wonder he seemed preoccupied." She rose, walked around the couch to the kitchen. Craning his neck, Stu could see her standing in front of the sink, looking out the window at the street. "I'm going to make tea. Want some?" An hour ago he'd been drinking coffee but said yes.
"So how's the painting going?" she called.
"It's not."

"Maybe you should go to Paris," she said.
"Someday maybe," he said. "I prefer beaches."  She laughed, a laugh that was not a laugh.  "What?" he asked.
"You're more like him than you think."
"What do you mean?"
"He liked beaches too," she said.
"He never said." What else, Stu wondered, had Prudhomme failed to share with him?  "I'm not at all like him."
"Yes, you are."
"Okay, tell me something else."  He didn't know whether to be pleased or chagrined; being like his father wasn't entirely a positive so far as he was concerned.
"You paint, he painted."
"I don't, not anymore."

The kettle didn't whistle but rattled on the burner. Sharon, standing in the doorway, explained, "it's broken, doesn't whistle anymore." She poured the boiling water into a teapot. Stu saw the labels of the teabags hanging over the side. "I suppose he didn't tell you he was leaving." She wasn't looking at him.
Stu didn't know what to say.  If he was sick, and he didn't want anybody to know, that's what he'd do. Crawl away somewhere and die. Like an animal. Stu shivered. "Because he was sick?
She poured the tea.  "He wasn't sick. He was making some drastic changes in his life." She looked at him, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't know what to say. "You really didn't know, did you?"  She sighed.  "Or do you just not want to admit it?"
"Admit what? I don't know what you're talking about," Stu said.
"Let's just say he made plans. You know what they say when you make plans--life happens."
What plans, why wouldn't she tell him? How come she knew, and he didn't. Stu felt a rush of jealousy. Always Prudhomme. "What plans?"
"You really don't know?"
"Forget it," he said. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me. Let's go out, have dinner. You like to dance? Let's go dancing."
"Some other time."
"Why not tonight? He wouldn't've minded."
"That's not it," she said. "I have to think twice before going out with you. One Prudhomme is enough for any woman."
"I'm a different Prudhomme."
"That remains to be seen."

He should have left at that point, but she still represented a link to an important part of Prudhomme's life. "How did you meet?"
"He came to an opening. Turned out he invested in the gallery. When he asked me to go out with him, I thought he was someone important and could help my career. I felt flattered. That was all. I didn't much like him at first.  He was so sure of himself, but as we talked I started wondering if it could possibly be a façade.  Well, it was, and it wasn't."
How clear that is, Stu thought.
"I felt, I don't know, diminished. Not that he set out to make me feel that way, but I felt like I didn't matter, I mean at all. Until I got to know him."
"At least you got to know him," Stu said. "Some people never did. I can't think of anyone who liked him, even his own family, much less anybody who loved him."
"You loved him, didn't you?"
"We fought a lot, but we'd have got back together at some point. If he hadn't died."  But he had died.  He had been murdered.  Regardless of what he told Sharon, no other options were on the table so far as he was concerned.  "All the more reason to figure out what really happened.  It's the least I can do."

"I wonder how he'd have reacted if I'd been the one murdered." She shivered as if the possibility suddenly seemed real to her.
"He'd have figured it out," Stu said firmly, "and caught the person."
She nodded. "You're probably right."
"He enjoyed puzzles. Problems."
"All the Prudhommes of the world should be locked up somewhere and given a problem to work on, world famine, global warming. Let them unleash their energies with that and keep them away from the female sex."
"It's time to turn that page."
"You're right."
"You should be seeing other men."
"Oh, I will," she said.
"Did he want you to stop seeing other men?" Stu asked.
"Yes."  She smiled. "I had no time left for anybody else. Men like him move in and take over."
"That was how he operated, not just with women."
"With women it was probably worse. As if women have no souls. Like cattle."  She sighed.  "I thought we were over that."
"Did he talk about anybody?  Mention any names?"

She seemed to return from a great distance. "He talked about you, he talked about his brothers.  Especially George.  His gambling problem. We talked about that. He wasn't sure he was doing the right thing, not giving George the money."
Prudhomme unsure; it was hard to imagine. "You meet any of them?"
She smiled. "He hated running into people he knew when we were together."

"His partner, Reed, thinks I'm wrong, but he offered to help. I think he just wants to keep tabs on me. Which means he knows something.  He knew Dad the longest."  First time Reed gave a party also.  So soon after Prudhomme's death. What was that all about?
Sharon was bothered about what she had told Stu. "I asked him if he didn't want anyone to see us together, and he denied it, but it was true. Funny, I believed him anyway. I guess you see what you want to see. He never said he loved me either. Why was that?"  She apologized. "Why am I asking you?"
They cost too much, some words. Prudhomme had had his fill of love. He was an iceberg, nine-tenths submerged. Now, he'd never get the chance to tell her what he felt. Time ran out for him. "He was just very private. Always was."
"What happened to your mother? I wanted to ask him but was afraid to."
"I don't know. She died or she left."
"Nobody told you?"
"No."

She grimaced. "I wish I hadn't said I'd teach a class this summer."
"Are you're really going to Paris?"
"Why not?  Now that I have the money."
He wondered, despised himself for wondering, how badly she had wanted the money that Prudhomme had left her.
"I know what else I'll do this summer. Paint my apartment." She gestured toward a painting on one of the walls. "He painted that. I suppose I should give it to you, but I don't want to part with it, and he asked me not to. Should I tell you? He said I should give it to his partner, but I don't want to. I want to keep it. You think I'm wrong?"

Stu remembered that Prudhomme had been a Sunday painter. "No, you should keep it."
"He was more than just a Sunday painter." She seemed on the brink of divulging something, then thought better of it. "You want it?"
"No, you keep it."
"Thanks."
"Odd subject." A ship, a galleon, adrift on a turbulent sea.  A lowering sky and, close up, no one  on board.
"Yes.  It doesn't go with the rest of the apartment, but it will when I finish painting." Stu looked around, appreciating the clean, modern lines of her simple furniture. Beige predominated, books and paintings furnishing the only bright touches. Several paintings, which must have been hers, depicted a woman holding a child. "Next I'll buy a cat and a bottle of sherry and start growing old."
"You're too young for that."
"You think that's why?"
"Why what?"
"He wouldn't take me with him," she said.
"What are you talking about? Where was he going?"

Somehow, his questions made her happy. "So you really didn't know.  I was sure you did. In that case, I'm the only one."
"Stop talking in riddles. Knew what—tell me."
"He wasn't sick. He had a different reason for leaving."
"What reason, and if he wasn't sick why did he go to a doctor?"
"Talk to him—his name's Berenson."  Stu nodded. She had told him the name. He had the telephone number from Rose. "He'll give you reasons."
She refused to say any more, telling him he had to find out for himself.
Stu left soon after. What happened to your mother, Sharon had asked. She had gone away, too.  Stu had not thought about her in a long time. Prudhomme and Reed had that in common. Reed's wife had gone away too, or died, Stu didn't know which and no one seemed to want to talk about it. On impulse, he phoned Reed at the office. Of course, he was still there. Was Jenkins there too, Stu wondered.
"Did you know my father was planning to leave the city?" he asked.
He thought at first that the connection had been broken, repeated the question. Reed cleared his throat.  "Yes, I did."
"You know why?"
"The firm was in trouble. You know it was a partnership. He sold his shares to me."

Stu was shocked. "When did that happen?"
"Not long before the time Jenkins came."
It didn't sound like his father, cutting and running. "He didn't want to stay, turn it around?" Stu asked.  "He just …gave up?"
"I guess that's what it sounds like to you," Reed said.
"What it sounds like. What else was it?"
"He had reasons," Reed said.  Somehow Stu knew he wasn't going to say any more.
Reed and Prudhomme, hard men, old school, reacting to grief the same way, by burying their feelings and refusing to talk to anyone. With Prudhomme it had been the accumulation of wealth that claimed his attention. With Reed it took the form of service. He had made himself a life attending to the needs of others. One other. What might that do to a man? 

Check Next Month's Issue for Chapter 6