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 Four — The Marsh

No time to paint today, and just as well because he didn' t feel like painting.  Some artist he was.  He even felt relieved because he had an excuse for not picking up a brush. He was off to George' s cottage.  Tomorrow he would find another excuse not to paint at least as good.  Stu felt oddly relieved but guilty at being relieved because another day would pass without giving him an excuse not to force himself to pick up his brushes, apply paint to canvas and realize once again that he had failed to produce a masterpiece.  No time now to reflect on his lack of talent, or ambition. Besides, he didn' t want to think about how he had changed, with Prudhomme' s death as the catalyst.

He enjoyed the hilly drive to George' s house, especially now, when the stately elms were already green and lush, shading the cool streets as they arched together and created a cathedral ceiling.  One thing you didn' t have at the beach, and that was trees.  Nothing to break the monotony of sea and sand, not that they were ever monotonous.  The shore wasn' t far — how could it be on Long Island, only 10 miles wide, but everything here was green, and not just one shade but many, more than he could count, more than a painter of his talents could portray, and he remembered what Sharon had said. Like Prudhomme, he had a feel for it.  He thought she was right. It was all he had, a feel for it, and it wasn' t enough.  He found himself enjoying the scene in front of him more since he didn' t have to think about painting it. Invisible houses lay behind ivy-hung walls on either side of the road, the secrets within hidden from idle passersby like him. Stu drove slowly, at long last having learned how to avoid being stopped by the police who seemed to lurk behind every other bush. His fault. the little red car was a magnet. Janet, the animal lover, had taught him to drive slowly, not because of the police but so he wouldn' t hit the dog, the cat, the squirrel when it ran out into the middle of the road.  Once, he remembered, she had held up traffic while a turtle crossed the road. She said she didn' t want to be the instrument of death for some creature the modern world thought it didn' t need.  " What use," she asked, " am I for that matter?  If anyone asked me, what should I say? If the order of things was suddenly reversed, and someone had to make a life or death decision on me, what would they decide? Would I make it? I don' t think so. In Texas, they slaughter 10,000 armadillos every year, stuff and sell them as souvenirs. I wouldn' t even make a good souvenir."

That was how Janet thought. Used to think. Stu wondered if she too had changed. Somehow, he doubted it.

On impulse, he turned off the main road onto one that led not to George' s cottage but to the Sound. He wanted to look at it some more, never seemed to get enough of it, water. It was why he lived where he did. In California, he had driven along a highway with the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other, thought seriously about moving but decided he couldn' t live there because it gave him such a doomsday feeling. 

The air smelled acrid, weedy and pungent, the grass long and, Stu knew from experience, razor sharp. Somebody boarded horses. there was a smell of manure beneath the other smells, but it wasn' t offensive. Stu drew a deep breath, thinking George was lucky, understanding George' s reluctance to dress up in a three-piece suit every day, drive to the train station and board the Long Island Railroad.  Prudhomme often remarked what a waste it was for George not to go into the office more than once or twice a week.  George had done that much only to placate his older brother. Since his death, probably George had not gone downtown at all. No one else, certainly not Reed, Prudhomme' s partner, cared.  Reed preferred to run the show alone. What would Reed say now? Another confrontation Stu knew he could not put off forever.

Driving up the carefully maintained road leading to the house, Stu felt the old reluctance, a relic of childhood, when, wedged in between Prudhomme and George, he made the trip up to visit his grandfather in upstate New York, there to be scrutinized by that old man.  The way he bent down and peered into Stu' s face still made him shiver. At the time, Stu remembered recoiling in fear of being sent away again because he didn' t know what the old man was looking at, what he hoped, or feared seeing in Stu' s face. Prudhomme knew, Stu sensed he did, but wouldn' t tell him even after Stu explained he just wanted the old man to like him.  Stu' s grandfather was old then, ancient now, but not to be discounted, and Stu knew eventually he' d have to talk to him as well as the others. However, he' d put it off as long as possible. Maybe he' d find the answer to Prudhomme' s death without him. Maybe Prudhomme' s death lay in the present instead of the past. Stu hoped so. He had a bad feeling, however, that it wasn' t so.

The grounds in back of George' s house sloped down to an inlet, really an estuary that was part of the Sound and also part of a creek, half salt water, half fresh water. Suzanne, George' s wife, complained about the dampness and the constant sound of the frogs that thrived there, but she complained so much about so many things that no one paid any attention, least of all George. Both waited for him in what Suzanne referred to as the music room because it housed a piano. Wishful thinking as, though a trained pianist, she hardly played any more, explaining that real estate sales took up all of her time. There they struck a pose while waiting for him, Suzanne on the couch, legs crossed gracefully, George, a scarf loosely knotted around his crepey neck, leaning against the fireplace. Suzanne had a degree in music, but Stu had never heard her play. Beautiful, but wearing too much makeup that only emphasized the beginnings of wrinkles around her mouth, she received the news that Stu didn' t believe that Prudhomme had committed suicide with more interest than skepticism. 

" You' re saying he was murdered?" she asked. Stu thought she enjoyed the idea.

" It' s a possibility," he said. " It should be looked into."

George looked at the floor. He seemed to be thinking.

" Wasn' t he seeing someone?" Suznane asked, offering up Sharon like an hors d' oeuvre.

" You met her," Stu said.

" Of course," she responded, pretending to have forgotten.  " At the lawyer' s office.  She was at the funeral too. At least she had the sense not to approach any of us. How did she get him to leave her that money, that' s what I' d like to know."

" You think she knew about the legacy?" Stu asked.

" Of course she did. He probably bragged about it the way men like to do. She may have killed him to get her hands on it. Cherchez la femme, Stu. Maybe she thought he' d marry her, and when she figured out it wasn' t going to happen, she decided to go for the money. A woman like that."

" A woman like what?" Stu asked.

She frowned. " Like that, you know what I mean, I mean, what did she think? He was old enough to be her father, blah, blah. Even I wouldn' t look at him, and she' s younger than me. Don' t get upset about it. Just because he was your father, doesn' t mean he was the answer to anyone' s dreams, a younger woman at that."

So that was the way the land lay. She had approached Prudhomme, and he had rejected her. " Her name' s Sharon," Stu said. " I met her, and she' s not like that."

Ignoring him, she went on. " So did I meet her. Before your father died. Once, at an opening.  I remember now. I dare say your father didn' t expect us to attend." She glanced at George. " As a rule, I can' t get George to go with me. Not if it means going into the city. She didn' t seem to be enjoying herself.  I' d say she felt out of place."

" She' s an artist," Stu said.  " I doubt if she felt out of place."

" Is she? Then it wasn' t the place, it was the company. Come to think of it, everybody else was much younger than your father. I suppose he wanted to show her off and didn' t think about how they looked together. He wasn' t comfortable introducing us. I tried to talk to her, but she acted very cold."   Stu wasn' t surprised.  He could imagine the third degree Suzanne had subjected her to. " It doesn' t surprise me she decided to get rid of him, especially if she knew about the money."

" She didn' t know about the money," Stu blurted out, regretting the outburst a moment later.

Suzanne smiled.  " Sounds like you' re falling for her too," she gloated.  " Like father, like son." Stu denied it.  " You don' t know for a fact she didn' t know about the money," Suzanne added.

" I met her too, Suzanne," George said. " She didn' t seem like a killer to me. She' s a serious artist. She teaches at the college."

" Doesn' t surprise me she' s pulled the wool over your eyes, you' re a man."

George ignored her and turned to Stu. " I had the same thought as you—Prudhomme wasn' t the kind of man to take his own life. If you hadn' t brought it up, I wouldn' t have either, but now that you have—I think I know who killed him."

" Really, George?  Who?"

" It was those crooks in Las Vegas. I' m sure of it."

" What makes you think so?" Stu asked. " He knew many of them, talked about building a casino for them at one time."

George looked down at his feet. " I owed them money," he said. Stu raised his eyebrows. " You don' t understand. I asked your father to lend me the money so I could pay them back, but he refused.  I don' t blame him. It wasn' t the first time, you see. The point is, they knew he gave me the money before, and they expected him to do it this time. When I told them he wouldn' t, they killed him, knowing I' d inherit. You don' t say no to these guys."

" Why didn' t you tell the police?"

" They were so sure it was suicide," George explained.

" You didn' t want your gambling debts to become known," Stu said.

George nodded. " I didn' t see what good it would do. Was I wrong not to say anything?  I was, wasn' t I?"

Suzanne, sneering, said, " you' re such a coward, George."

" I need a drink," he said. " You want one, Stu?"

" Too early for me," Stu said. He had to know more. Was Prudhomme' s death as simple as George was making it—an execution for money?

" Never too early for George," Suzanne remarked bitterly.

" Suzanne' s right," George admitted.  " I' m a coward and worse. Only, tell me what good it would do for me to go to the police now?"   He poured himself a generous drink from a bottle on the table near the piano.

" I' ll go," Stu said. " I' ll tell them."   

" Maybe it wasn' t them. Prudhomme ticked off a lot of people."   Stu' s ears perked up. This was what he had come to hear.

" Who?" he asked.

But George was regretting having said anything. " How should I know who his enemies were?  I imagine he must have had enemies, a man in his position. You' re the one digging around in the past. Be careful what you may dig up."

" What do you mean by that, George?" Stu hadn' t called him " uncle" for a long time.

" Stop throwing my words back at me," George said. " For all you know, it was suicide after all.  He left a note, didn' t he?"

" Typed. On a computer. Anybody could have typed it."

" Are you going to tell them about the guys in Las Vegas?" George sounded worried. " I wish you wouldn' t."

" Why, what are you afraid of?  You don' t still owe them money, do you?" George shook his head. 

" Your father left me the money," George said, " like I knew he would.  He had no choice really."

" What do you mean by that?" Stu asked.

" It was trust fund money." George stood up, walked up and down the room, paused, looked out the window.

" You said he had enemies. Tell me who they are," Stu ordered.

" I don' t know," George said.

" You know," Stu prompted.

George sighed.  " I don' t," he said. " It' s just, you know how he was. Well, lately he' d changed."

" Changed in what way?"

George looked at him. " You really shouldn' t have stopped talking to him."

" I know," Stu agreed.

" I don' t mean to accuse you," George said. " Lord knows he wasn' t easy to get along with.  That' s the point. How he changed? Well, for one thing he used to be gung ho about developing the marsh and suddenly he changed his mind about it, wanted nothing to do with it." George snapped his fingers. " Changed his mind just like that, from one day to the next. Said we shouldn' t destroy the marsh. Gave the investors their money back. After holding on to it, making interest on it, at least that' s what they all thought, that he' d never been serious. Dangled a carrot in front of them, got them all worked up about this sure fire investment that was going to make them a ton of money and then took it away." Stu said nothing, just stared at him. " You didn' t know he was planning to develop the marsh, did you? He didn' t bother telling you. You weren' t speaking, and he knew you' d object and thought he' d save himself the trouble. You live right there, don' t you?"

" Sharon told me he was against it. When did he change his mind?  And why?"

" Who knows? He never discussed anything with me. As for when, not long ago. It was a sudden decision. Prudhomme the conservationist. Of course, nobody believed it."

" Who were the investors?"

" I don' t know that," George said. " Ask the twins. They might know. Have you talked to them yet?"

Stu watched him drink, pour himself another. " Not yet. What you' re telling me convinces me more than ever that he was murdered. And you think so too, George. Yet you neglected to say a word to the police. It doesn' t have to be your guys in Las Vegas."

" They' re all murderers," George said. " Are you going to the police? You want me to go with you?"

" Might be a good idea.  If there' s two of us, the police will have to listen. If it' s just me, they' ll think I' m making it up to salve my conscience."

" George," Suzanne said. " I don' t think it' s such a good idea."   Turning to Stu, she said, " they may think George did it."

" Me!" George sounded horrified.

" You had a motive, didn' t you?" she reminded.  " The money you owed?  If he hadn' t died you wouldn' t have been able to pay them off."

George turned, fear in his eyes. " She' s right."

" Of course I am."

" You don' t have to come with me, George. I' m going to tell them about Las Vegas, though.  I have to. And about changing his mind about the marsh."

George nodded. " I' ll tell them I agree with you if they ask me."

" Wait for them to ask you," Stu said.

Suzanne looked from one to the other of them but said nothing. Her expression, though, made it clear she disapproved. Damn them both. Stu lost patience with both of them and suddenly pitied his father, who had had no one to confide in.

" What difference does it make now anyway?" George asked. " He' s gone, and nothing you do will bring him back. You may as well give up, Stu. You didn' t ask for my advice—"

" No," Stu said, " I didn' t."

" I' ll give it to you anyway. Let it go. You don' t know what trouble you may be causing.  To yourself and others."

" To you, George?"

" Not me," George said.  " You may not believe it, but I don' t care about myself."

" I' ll give up when I find out the truth."

George sighed. " He made enemies, but look at Reed. He worshipped your father. Probably still does. Of course, your father treated him like one of the family."

" I' m not interested in people who loved him, I' m interested in his enemies."

" May as well count me."

" George!" Suzanne cried.

George shrugged. " He knows what I mean."

" You' re talking about the money you owed."

George nodded. " Did you know I like to gamble? Did your father tell you?  They were hounding me, which is why I went to him in the first place, begged him for the money even though I knew he wouldn' t pay a second time. You know what he used to say."

Stu nodded. " Fool me once, shame on you. fool me twice, shame on me."

" That' s it," George said. " The only reason I got the money to pay them off is because he died. If he hadn' t died, I' d' ve been up the creek. That' s a motive."   Stu shook his head in disbelief, but George added, " You can' t pretend it isn' t true."

" I' ll never believe you' d kill anyone, George." Stu saw that his remark pleased George and felt glad that George couldn' t know that, even though Stu said it he wasn' t sure he believed it.

" Thank you, Stu," George said gravely. " Fact is, he made more enemies than friends. That wasn' t unusual. It' s the nature of business."

" He had no friends," Stu said. " I never saw anybody with him but Reed."

" You see?"

" No women either. Till Sharon came along."

" Her again." Suzanne sounded bitter, forcing Stu to wonder if Prudhomme had led her on—or if it the flirting had been all on her side, as he thought originally. " She didn' t mean anything to him."

" How do you know?" George asked in a mild voice. " He left her money, didn' t he?"

" She didn' t kill him," Stu said. " At least, I' m proceeding on that assumption for the time being. Look, have you told me everything?"

" Everything," George said. " You know everything I know." Suzanne in a rare gesture, took his arm, pressing it to her side. " Except," he added.

" Yes?"

" I know you have to tell the police, but I' d appreciate it if you wouldn' t tell your other two uncles about my gambling debts. They found out about it the first time it happened, and I don' t want them to lecture me again."

No love lost between Stu and the uncles either. " I won' t tell them," he said.

" Thanks," George said.  " Good luck figuring it out, for my sake as well as yours. Let me know if I can help."

He had forgotten about going with him to the police. " I will." At the door, Stu hesitated, turned.  Something troubled him. " I' ve been remembering things. Not enough, unfortunately. Something that happened a long time ago. You know what it was?"

" What sort of thing?" George asked.

" That' s the trouble," Stu said. " I don' t know. I remember something happened, and I got sent away for a while." He grimaced. " I thought whatever happened was my fault, but how could it have been when I don' t remember what it was? You must know, George."

But George shook his head. " I don' t, Stu."

Stu felt like he was lying, but why would George lie? Stu leaned against the door. " You suspect someone. Who?"

George, being George, wouldn' t say. " I don' t, Stu. Could have been anyone."

Surprise, surprise." Even family?" Stu asked.

" You mean your uncles? They don' t have the balls," George sneered. " Any more than I do."

" I' m only asking because if it' s a family matter I' ll drop it. My father wouldn' t want a scandal.  No matter what. Even if it meant letting a murderer go free."

George shook his head. " It wasn' t one of us," he said firmly, and Stu decided he meant it. It didn' t mean he was right, however.

He arrived home to hear the phone ringing, but by the time he picked up the caller had hung up.  The clock said five, and now he felt sorry he hadn' t accepted Suzanne' s rather diffident offer of dinner.  That " cottage" of theirs made him uncomfortable, the loneliness of its occupants so bleak and so palpable yet his own wasn' t much easier to bear, he decided. 

So he' d make his own dinner. He hated to cook but wasn' t hard to please.  Looking in the refrigerator, he concluded that eggs would do very well, but it was time for him to go shopping again.  He missed Mrs. Boyd, who came in weekly when she was not away on one of her trips to clean and restock the refrigerator. A young grandmother at fifty, Mrs. Boyd abhorred laziness as nature abhorred a vacuum. Thus, she declined to help her children with their finances. Better they should help themselves, she said. She had never met Prudhomme but had a lot in common with him. What she thought about Stu' s desultory way of life, if she disapproved, she never hinted, but once in a while he caught her glancing at him, lips pressed tight, and he thought he knew what she was thinking. If he was still asleep when she arrived, he felt obliged to explain that he' d worked late the night before. Only she didn' t consider painting work. Her housecleaning jobs paid her very well, and she had been to Europe and flew to Nevada every year, where she had purchased a house on Lake Havasu, near the London Bridge and planned eventually to retire. She didn' t realize it, but Stu thought of her maybe not as a mother but as something close to it. A grandmother, perhaps. Stu did not remember either his mother or grandmother, and Prudhomme had never been willing to answer questions about them, as if something about the women in the family had to remain hidden. Stu took it for granted that Prudhomme wasn' t hiding anything, that he chose only not to reopen old wounds or be reminded that once he had suffered defeat.  Death being a kind of defeat.  Stu' s mother was dead, he knew that much or thought he did, but when the death occurred and how it occurred were secrets Stu had not been made privy to. To be perfectly honest, he hadn' t insisted on knowing because he sensed that he himself was to blame. While Stu had never known a mother' s love, at least he now had Mrs. Boyle. Some women had a knack of bringing peace into the house with them, peace defined as order and cleanliness, and Mrs. Boyle was one of them.

The telephone rang again as he put butter in the pan, and he turned off the heat and removed the frying pan from the burner.  " Sharon."

" Where have you been? I' ve been trying to reach you all day."

Suppressing annoyance—what gave her the right to question his whereabouts?—he explained, " I' ve been to see my uncle George."

" And?"

" And not a whole lot. Prudhomme had enemies. As if we didn' t know." He promised George not to tell anyone who didn' t have to know about his gambling debts, and it was none of her business anyway. What would she say if he told her what Suzanne said, cherchez la femme, meaning her. What would she say if he told her that? Maybe nothing—Suzanne could get away with saying anything she pleased because no one paid serious attention.

" Silly, of course he had enemies. Men like him always do. He was a tyrant. You know it, I know it. He thought money and power gave him the right to boss people around. He thought if people were poor it was their own fault.  He thought poor people were too shiftless to make something of themselves.  Or just plain stupid."

" Why are you suddenly talking like you didn' t like him?" Stu asked.

" I didn' t always like him," she admitted.

" How could you love him if you didn' t like him?" Stu didn' t know why she made him feel so angry.

" It wasn' t easy," she said.

Then why had they remained lovers? " Did you know about the money?"

" No," she said.

" Should I believe you?"

She was silent, then said, " if that' s how you feel then we have nothing more to say to each other."

Stu apologized. " It' s just, I' ve been finding out things I wished I didn' t know."

" Nobody' s perfect," she said.  " You' re not at all like him."

" A disappointment, I' m sure."

" Not really."

" He talked about me?"

" A little," she said, and Stu understood that she didn' t want to hurt his feelings. " He said you were frittering your life away, but he thought eventually you' d see you didn' t have the talent to become a serious painter and you' d come around."

" Is that what he said?" Stu found himself wanting to believe it.

" It' s happening already, isn' t it? You said you stopped painting."

" That' s true."

" You see? You were more alike than either of you admitted, and if he' d lived you' d have reconciled."

" I wonder," Stu said, hoping she was right. " I get depressed because I' m living off somebody else' s money. I' m not paying my own way."

" You need money?"

" I need to know I can make money. I don' t want to be like him, but.." Stu thought, that wasn' t true anymore. " If I can' t make any money at it, painting' s just a hobby, and hobbies are fine, but if that' s all it isn' t enough." He was sounding more like Prudhomme every day. How and why had that happened?

" I' m grateful he left me money," she confessed. " I always thought it would be heaven to quit my job, travel, not worry about paying bills. So what if you sell or you don' t sell. What' s money if you don' t need it to pay bills?"

Not the rich, but the poor were contemptuous of money. 

" Probably he," she said, stressing the pronoun, " felt the same way you do, or he would' ve retired a long time ago. You didn' t know he was an artist."

" I wouldn' t call him an artist," Stu scoffed.

" If he' d stuck to art, he' d still be alive." She inhaled sharply. Stu heard her over the phone.  " Hear what I said?  He should have stuck to art. So should you. Give it up, Stu. The digging. I have a bad feeling."

" Can' t, not till I find out the truth."

" You feel guilty," she said, " but no matter what you do you can' t bring him back."

Funny, George, whom Stu had never credited with having any insight, had said the same thing.  " I have a feeling it has to do with something in the past. If that' s true, it' s part of my past too, and I should know about it."

" The past—did your uncle tell you something?"

" He says he doesn' t remember. I think he' s lying."

" You want me to talk to Suzanne?" she asked.

How could he disclose what Suzanne had said about her?  He couldn' t.  I met them. " You hardly know her," he said.

" I know her enough to call Suzanne and offer my condolences, see if we can meet next time she' s in the city."

" She doesn' t know anything," Stu said.

" How do you know? Listen, if you can dig, so can I. Let me do something."

Stu thought it wouldn' t do any harm, and in truth he was glad of her help even if she failed to discover anything new. " I guess it can' t do any harm," he said.

" And if she doesn' t know anything, I' ll find somebody who does."

" Just stay out of trouble," he cautioned, although he didn' t see what trouble she could get into. If he was right, and Prudhomme' s death resulted from some event in the past, she could know nothing about it.

" We' ll have a contest, see who finds out most. I always wanted to be a detective."

" It' s not a joke," he said.

Her voice was serious. " Of course not."

He promised to keep her informed, would have done so anyway just to have an excuse to talk to her again. 

Prudhomme still surprised him. Stu had known the man so little. His own father. Whose fault was that? Now he brooded over the fact that Prudhomme too had painted, that he was dead, that a beautiful girl had loved him.

Later he remembered that he had been trying to make a meal. The eggs had congealed in the pan, but they were the last food he had so he turned on the stove again, only to hear someone knocking at the door. Tempted not to answer it, he was too curious not to see who it was, turned off the stove again, strode to the door. Annoyed, he felt that telephones and doorbells should be servants of the people who owned them instead of the other way around. Any bore could phone or walk up to the door any time at all, and there was no realistic way to prevent it.

He didn' t have to open the door but, when he did, there she was. Janet.

" I shouldn' t have come," she began inauspiciously.

" Yes, you should." He stood aside.  " Come in."

She slid past, and he took a good long look at her, which he' d wanted to do the day before but hadn' t been able to because she' d run off too fast.  She wore jeans and a plaid shirt.  " You cut your hair.  It looks great," he said.

She fingered the short curls. " No, I shouldn' t be here."

" I' m so glad you are here."

" Stop," she said. " Don' t get the wrong idea.  I don' t want to create any false impressions. I have a reason for looking you up, not what you think. I thought I could come here without, without its being misconstrued as being—personal."

" I shouldn' t have let you go off like that.  If only you' d give me the chance to make it up to you.  If only I' d said, to hell with him. What could he have done about it?"

" Followed us, brought you back."

" Maybe not."

" You know he would."

" You didn' t tell me where you were going. I couldn' t find you. I wanted to hire a detective, but I didn' t have enough money. Can you imagine that?" It suddenly occurred to him that Prudhomme' s settling money on him afterward might mean something, represent some kind of gesture. Remorse?  More likely a reward.

" Let' s not talk about it. I just want to forget about it that period of my life." She lifted up her chin and looked him in the eye. " I have forgotten, and you should to.  I nearly wrote you to tell you that only there didn' t seem to be much point. I figured sooner or later we' d meet, and I could say it in person."

" Is that what you' re doing now?"

The bottom line for Stu was that this was something he could not lay at Prudhomme' s feet.  Much as he tried. Came a time when no matter what obstacles were placed in your way you had to at least try to surmount them. Even if it was a foregone conclusion that you wouldn' t be able to you had to try. You had to make the effort because some things were worth it, after all. But because at the time it wasn' t easy he had hesitated, waited. When he finally woke up to what he really wanted, it was too damn late.

" No," she said. " You haven' t changed," she added, her expression puzzled, " but why would you?"

" I have changed, though. Just not about you."

She was the one who' d changed. Of course she had. For one thing, she seemed a lot surer of herself than before.

" Where did you go?"

" You knew I was gone?" he asked.

" People tell me things. Your friend, Anthony. I asked him to keep me informed."

" Once we quarreled about you," he said. " Where did I go? I went looking for you."

" To California? How did you know?"  

" You used to talk about it, remember?" She nodded. In California, after he couldn' t find her he' d lived on the beach for a year, met girls totally unlike her. They fell in and out of love easily and frequently and moved on without a backward look.

" It' s a big state," she said, " and I didn' t stay there."

" Where did you go?" he asked.

" Back east."

Back east, but he hadn' t seen her. Of course not, he' d stayed in California till he ran out of money. 

" Not here," she said. " I worked in a resort for a while. You know, waiting on tables." Janet had been a tomboy, preferring boys' games to girls' games from an early age. It did not seem fair to her that she should stop herself from participating in sex as an equal partner as she had participated in all the other games that boys enjoyed. Getting caught was like catching a mortal illness. It happened to other people, not to her. At first she had hated her body. Her body, not Stu, had betrayed her. She trusted him out of naivete because love and trust were the same to her, the way Stu' s visiting cat would display her jugular, because she knew he would not harm her.

" Let' s try again," he ventured.

" That' s not possible."

" Okay," he said, " so why did you come here, to gloat because he' s dead? Not to express sympathy, I know that much."

" Don' t say that, I' m sorry he' s dead. It' s just hard to believe a guy like him would commit suicide."

" I don' t believe he did."

" Then what?" Her eyes were huge. " You think he was murdered?"

" Yes, I do, and I' m not the only one who thinks so." He regretted telling her that.

" Really? Who?"

" He was seeing someone," Stu told her, wishing he hadn' t brought her up. " She doesn' t believe it either. Neither does my uncle, George."

" What are you going to do?" she asked. " What can you do?"

" Talk to people. See what I can find out."

" You?"

" Why not me?"

" I don' t know," she said. " Isn' t it dangerous? What about the police? The paper said suicide.  Are they just saying that so nobody will know it was murder?"

" The police accepted it was suicide, but I' ll be talking to them," he said.

She thought about it. " It makes sense. He made a lot of people mad. Maybe one of them finally got sick and tired and decided not to take it anymore."

" My uncle thinks so too," Stu said. He didn' t add that George had his own reasons for wanting Prudhomme dead. He didn' t believe that George killed him.

Janet nodded. " He should know," she said. " But I didn' t come just to offer sympathy," she added. " I came to ask a favor. For Per." Per Mathiessen, who told him to leave because his daughter didn' t want to see him anymore. Per didn' t care who he was. Per hadn' t been afraid of Prudhomme.  " Now that your father is dead, maybe you' ll do something for mine."

" I heard he had a stroke."

" Who from, Anthony?" Stu nodded. " He' s not really your friend," she said. " He resents you because he thinks you' re keeping him from selling the restaurant."

" I can handle him," Stu said. " What about Per?"

" Getting better every day," she said. " But slowly. By inches. I think if he still owned the marina it wouldn' t have happened. Your father closed it even though it' s on the other side and wouldn' t have interfered."

" Interfered? With what?" He had a sinking feeling he already knew.

" You didn' t know? Your father had plans to develop the area. I don' t know the details."

Stu nodded. " That' s what I heard, but he changed his mind. I don' t  blame you and Per for hating him, by the way, if that' s what you thought."

She shrugged. " He doesn' t hate anybody anymore. How would you feel if we took it over again—not to own, of course. It must be worth a lot more now. Now that your father' s gone, we could re-open the marina, run it again. It would be enough for Per to run it, give him something to do. All he does now is sit around."

" Manage his own property?"

" Not his own anymore. He needs something to do. You really think with Prudhomme gone the plans to develop the marsh will be dropped?"

" I don' t know anything about anybody else' s plans," Stu said, but I' ll find out and see what I can do to stop it. " He remembered Chuck Forster and the meeting to which he' d been invited. He told her about it. " Will you be there?"

She didn' t answer him. " I guess I shouldn' t be surprised you didn' t know anything about his plans to develop the marsh although, considering you live there, I' d think you' d be interested. You plan to stay here?"

" No plans to go anywhere else anyway," he said.

She looked around. " Still painting?"

" Not for a while," he said.

" I didn' t think you' d stick with it," she said. She rose, walked to the door in a hurry.  " Well, thanks. That' s all I wanted, to ask about the marina."

She had hurt his feelings. " Does Per know—about Prudhomme?" he asked.

" He knew before I did. Television, you know. That' s all he does, sit and watch television. I thought he' d be overjoyed, but he' s not. I guess when you go through what he did, the stroke, nearly dying, you stop hating."

She headed toward the door. Stu called out. " Hey, feel like eggs? I' m making an omelet."

" No, thanks," she said. " I have to get home."

Stu felt like kicking himself. She probably had to make dinner for Per. " Sometime," he said, " you think we could go out?"

She turned at the door.  " No," she said.

Check Next Month's Issue for Chapter 5

Border Collie Banner Image by Richard Davis