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RoseMarie worked for CIA and the UN before she was 20, took a tramp
steamer to Istanbul, was confidential secretary to the assistant
managing editor at The New York Times and, most recently, worked as a
programmer in Paris rewriting the reservation system for the high speed
trains and Eurostar. She has studied writing with
Catherine Ryan Hyde, author of "Pay it Forward" and 15 other novels,
Leslie Lehr, and Charlotte Cook. She tirelessly searches for agents to
represent her seven novels — so
far unsuccessfully, which is why she's frustrated.
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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, Chapter
7, Chapter
8, Chapter
9, Chapter
10, Chapter
11, Chapter
12,
Chapter 13,
Chapter 14
The Evil Men Do
Chapter Fifteen
Stu's grandfather lived in the mansion in which he had been born. A
semi-invalid, his mind was clouded on most days. Or so Stu had been
told. He didn't know what to believe any more. George, the only one who
still visited the old man, said he made sense on most days, more than
many people. Stu hoped he'd ask the right questions. Without knowing
exactly why, he guessed his grandfather would be the key. If he didn't
ask the right questions, he'd never find out what he needed to know. No
one else would, or could, tell him.
First Stu would apologize for never going to see him although he
doubted he would be made to feel welcome even
if he did apologize. Stu remembered his grandfather's hawk-like
profile, his bright blue eyes, the way they seemed to look right
through him, remembered as well that he had never felt any warmth
emanating from him. Yet he was the only grandchild. His father and
grandfather had enjoyed a relationship not shared by Prudhomme's
brothers. According to his father, Stu might have been accepted into
that charmed circle if he'd joined the firm, but Stu doubted it.
Stu didn't seriously expect to learn anything from his grandfather that
would help him solve Prudhomme's murder, but it was a stone he could
not omit to turn over. On one subject his grandfather had to know more
than anyone--the past. If he was lucid, and Stu asked the right
questions, he might get him to talk about the past. Old people loved
talking about the past. Mrs. Boyd, Stu's housekeeper, did, and she was
younger than his grandfather. What's more, old people remember the past
better than they remember what happened yesterday. He was counting on
that being true. He couldn't get away from the feeling that his
father's death had roots in events that occurred long ago.
Stu had telephoned before setting out on his drive and questioned the
housekeeper, Mrs. Cartwright. "How is he?" he had asked.
"The same."
Stu was annoyed. She knew he wasn't a regular visitor so how should he
know what "the same" meant? He asked.
"I guess you haven't been here in a while," she said.
She knew he hadn't. This must be her way of showing her disapproval.
"No, I haven't," he confirmed.
"He's the same as ever was." Stu wondered if they were going to go
round and round like this forever, but without being asked, she added,
"he's sharp as a tack," she said. "Don't let him fool you. He likes to
pretend he doesn't know what's going on. It amuses him. Are you really
coming to see him? Can I tell him?"
"Please."
"I'll tell him, but you better not disappoint him. I don't want to tell
him you're coming if you're going to change your mind."
"I won't change my mind," Stu said.
"He'll be glad to see you," she relented. "George is the only one who
comes, and he hasn't been here in a while. Young people don't
understand how grateful old people are for attention. A letter or a
visit now and then."
Stu never had any inkling that his grandfather might be glad to see
him, felt like telling her so. Like everybody else, he was sowing what
he'd reaped. Ignore your kids—or worse--when they're young,
and don't be surprised if they return the favor when they grow up. But
he said nothing. She must know by now that the relationships in this
family left much to be desired. If she preferred to cling to her idea
of what a family should be, Stu couldn't stop her. She was one of a
series of housekeepers who came and went. Some stayed in the background
while others wanted to make a difference. She was the latter kind.
Stu's grandfather used to maintain a residence on Long island too but
no more. Years earlier, foreseeing a time when the island economy would
grind to a standstill, he retreated upstate with the aim of living out
the remainder of his days there. He had supported a bridge between Long
Island and Connecticut, stating that it would save the island from its
inevitable future economic demise by providing access other than the
crowded east-west arteries, but no one jumped on the idea at the time.
Stu wondered why; it seemed like the sort of project that his father
too would have been happy to be a part of. It would have meant tearing
up part of the marsh. Had Reed been against that at the time? If so,
had he possessed that much clout? And if he had been against it then,
why was he for it now, when Jenkins was pressing him to go along with
it? What was the relationship between these two?
Stu shook his head. No sense thinking about that now; his grandfather
would have no idea what Jenkins' hold on Reed was.
The house his grandfather lived in was a fortress. He believed in
protecting himself against a time to come when marauding bandits unable
to provide for themselves and their families other than by stealing
from the rich would attempt to storm their way in. You had to phone
from outside the gates, which would open by remote control if you
turned out to be expected or desirable. Except that when Stu drove in
the gates stood open.
The only servants consisted of a couple who cleaned and manned the
gate. Stu hadn't met either of them yet. People came from outside to do
the heavy work. The housekeeper was there 24 hours a day and also
prepared meals, but Stu's grandfather didn't need a special diet and
liked plain food. Stu remembered that he didn't eat a lot, didn't drink
much either. Stu wondered what he did do—mull over the past?
He didn't have anybody like Stu's Mrs. Boyle. For this reason, Stu
almost felt sorry for him.
It gave Stu an eerie feeling to see the outside gate standing open. Was
it always like that now? George hadn't told him, maybe didn't know. He
wondered what else had changed. He drove up the long driveway, lined
with poplars, standing erect as soldiers on either side, and stopped in
front of the door. The bushes and shrubs in front of the house needed
trimming, and Stu had noticed on the way in that beyond the poplars a
tangle of greenery provided an effective screen between the windows and
the gate. Did the old man know that the gate afforded protection no
longer, that the grounds were going to seed? He lifted the heavy brass
knocker, badly in need of polishing, and let it fall. After a few
minutes, a man who looked nearly as old as his grandfather opened the
door. What was his name, Stu asked himself, and dredged it up from
memory. "Hello, Johnson," he greeted the old caretaker. Stu felt glad
he at least was still employed there.
"Haven't seen you in a while," he said and man pointed up the stairs,
where a door stood open. "They're expecting you." Stu mounted the
stairs and knocked softly, then pushed the door all the way open and
waited. His grandfather sat by the window in a wheelchair. He seemed to
be asleep. A woman sat across the room, knitting what looked like a
baby blanket. "Mrs. Cartwright?"
She rose and laid down the knitting. "So you're here," she said. "He
won't sleep long."
"I'm not asleep. I'm bored. Come and talk to me."
Startled, Stu looked into the bright blue eyes he remembered. They
seemed to be assessing him. Still. There was nothing about them to
suggest his age, only the fact of the wheelchair, and Stu wondered if
it was really necessary.
"He pretends he's asleep so I won't talk to him," she said. Over the
phone, her voice had grated on him, and in person, it was worse,
practically a screech. Stu didn't blame his grandfather for tuning her
out and closing his eyes so he could think his private thoughts without
jarring interruption. "I thought you were coming last week," she said.
"I wasn't up to it after the funeral."
At this, Stu's grandfather shot him a piercing look.
"Someone my father knew," Stu said, addressing him in response to the
question he hadn't asked..
"Male or female," his grandfather asked.
"Female," Stu told him. "Her name's Sharon. Did my father ever mention
her?"
"No."
"That's the world," Mrs. Cartwright was saying in her harsh voice.
"More goodbyes than hellos. I haven't seen my daughter in two years.
She married an Australian, they moved to Australia. She writes, though,
and calls. Every week, like clockwork." She glared, criticizing him.
"Listen, maybe you could leave us alone," Stu said in his most
persuasive voice.
"That's for him to say."
"Please leave us," his grandfather said.
Hands on her hips, she glowered at them. Gathering up her knitting, she
flounced out.
"I can't give you any money," the old man said.
"I didn't come here for money," Stu said. Nevertheless, he felt a
chill. Was this the meaning of the abandoned gate, the dying greenery?
"Reed says the firm is in trouble." He hesitated, stopped there.
"Why tell me? What do they expect me to do? I watch the news. There's a
recession. During a recession, firms go out of business. They have to
wait for better times. Their trouble is, they don't know how to plan."
"You know about the gate?" Stu asked.
"What about the gate?"
"That it's open."
"Mr. and Mrs. O'Donnell are long gone. You haven't been here in a
while."
"I didn't think you wanted to see me."
"Rather see you than the others."
Stu concealed the surprise caused by his grandfather's remark. Could it
be possible that the old man really wanted to see him? Stu regretted
having been a stranger. He had always hated the gloomy house with its
tiny windows, heavily draped to keep the sun from ruining the massive,
ugly furniture and rugs. The house and his grandfather resembled each
other, both hiding under appearances. "He still have those surveying
instruments?" he asked, meaning Stu's father.
"I have them," Stu said. "The compass and measure and a couple of other
things. I found them in the office and didn't want anything to happen
to them."
"You know what they're for?" he asked.
"The chain measures distance, the level is a telescopic sighting
device. Those instruments had a sort of mystic importance to him."
"He started out as a surveyor," his grandfather said. Stu nodded. "You
know how to use them?"
"He made me learn."
"Why did you take them?"
"I don't know," Stu said. "They were important to him." He was thinking
about Jenkins, measuring that day. Obviously, he didn't know how to use
surveying instruments or he would have used them instead of a measuring
tape. But why had he been measuring?
The old man studied him. Stu couldn't tell what he was thinking,
wondered if his grandfather was remembering the bad old days. If his
grandfather ever felt affection for him, he did a good job of
concealing it. Stu guessed the three sons who weren't like Prudhomme
had disappointed him. As he had, too.
"You going to write my biography?" he asked suddenly.
Stu smiled. "You want me to?" His death would signal the end of the
special something that had made the family successful until in another
couple of generations, or three or four, the combination of intellect
and the thirst for power would make them reappear. Stu hoped that his
grandfather would say yes and give him the reason he needed to question
him about the past.
"Somebody should. Why not you?"
"Why not?" Stu echoed. "What do you want me to say?"
"I made some notes."
Stu felt excitement stirring. "Where are they? I want to read them."
"All in good time. I'm not sure how much I want to tell the world."
"I'll only write what you tell me to."
Although it was mid-morning, the sun failed to penetrate the room,
except at the window where his grandfather was sitting a narrow shaft
of light fell on him, illuminating the wrinkled face and dust motes in
the air. An afghan draped over his knees protected him from drafts from
the window. He gave every impression of decrepitude, but his voice when
he spoke was strong and clear. His grandfather raised a narrow finger
and pointed it at him. "How well did you know your father?"
"Not well enough," Stu said. "I regret that."
"It's too late for regrets. Your father made mistakes. Worst of them
was, he chased women. From what he said, so do you."
"No way," Stu said.
"Then why'd he say it?"
"He didn't know the facts," Stu said. "We never talked."
"I hope you're not arguing." Mrs. Cartwright arrived with a tray and
two glasses. "I brought you some iced tea." Stu, grateful for the
distraction, accepted the drink. His grandfather waved it away.
We're not finished here," he said.
"Can we change the subject? I have some questions," Stu began
tentatively.
His grandfather wasn't listening. "George is the only who comes to see
me. I used to think he should never have been born. Your father was the
anointed one, even with his foibles." Let him ramble, Stu thought. He
might say something useful, something Stu didn't already know.
"He's worn out," Mrs. Cartwright whispered. "You should leave."
"Give me a minute."
"You still here? Get out!"
Who did he mean, Mrs. Cartwright or his grandson? "One minute," Stu
said.
"He's tired," she said. Stu reflected that that must be one of the
worst things about being old, being talked about in the third person.
"Where are your notes?" he asked.
"Next time," his grandfather said. "I'll give them to you next time.
When you find out who murdered your father." Stu's surprise showed on
his face. "You thought I didn't guess he was murdered? He'd never kill
himself? Don't you think I know that? I'm stuck here," he slapped the
arms of the wheelchair, "but you're not.You find him, then come and
tell me about it."
"I will," Stu said.
"Good."
"Your notes may be able to help me," Stu said. "I think it goes back to
something that happened in the past."
"I promised him I wouldn't tell. After your mother left him, he
realized what he did was wrong, tried to get her to come back, but she
wouldn't come back, and when he realized that he went back to the other
woman, and that got him into trouble. Maybe even killed him. I kept
telling him how foolish he was. After all, she was only a woman."
"I don't understand."
Stu's grandfather shook his head. "I haven't made up my mind. I
promised. I keep my promises." He looked up at Stu. "But you should
know."
"What should I know?"
The old man glared at him. "Use your head, Stu. It was that partner of
his. Why you think he felt he owed him something?"
"He saved my father's life."
His grandfather turned the remorseless blue eyes on him. Pathetic old
man? Quite the opposite. "That was before."
"Before what?"
"So you know he went to prison."
Stu said yes. "For manslaughter. Did he really do it—or was
he protecting somebody else?" No need to mention who.
"What damn fool idea is going through your mind now?"
Stu cleared his throat. "I'm thinking maybe my father killed the guy,
and Reed took the blame."
"Why would he do that, why would anyone? Besides, there were other
people there at the time. They'd have no reason to lie."
"Who did he kill?"
"They called it manslaughter, but that was because your father hired a
good lawyer. It was murder. Reed has a temper."
"Who did he kill?"
"A man in a bar. Your father said Reed was protecting him." An
expression of distaste crossed his face. The man was drunk, accused my
son of seducing his wife."
"Was it true?" Stu asked.
"Probably. What happened was later, while Reed was in prison."
What happened?" Stu whispered.
"Up to his old tricks," his grandfather said. "He seduced Reed's wife
while Reed was in prison."
Suddenly Stu understood Reed's reluctance to allow him to date Joyce.
Mrs. Cartwright interrupted again. "You need to go now."
"Wait," Stu protested. She was using her impressive chest to push him
toward the door.
"Wait a minute," he insisted. "Can't you see he wants to talk?"
"Let me talk," his grandfather insisted, his hands gripping the
wheelchair as if making ready to rise.
There was a question Stu had to ask him. "Who is Joyce?" His
grandfather looked puzzled. "Reed's daughter. Is she my sister?"
His grandfather slumped back in the chair. "She could be."
"Will you go now?" Mrs. Cartwright hissed.
Stu started out. "Will you come back?" his grandfather called.
Already at the door, Stu turned back. "Yes, I will."
"Be careful," his grandfather told him. "And don't cause a scandal."
Stu slunk out, and a moment later the housekeeper joined him in the
hall.
"You see. One minute he's fine, the next minute he's off in La-la-land."
"He seemed fine to me."
"I wouldn't trust everything he says if I were you." Luckily, Stu
thought, he wasn't her. "Mostly, he lives in the past."
"That's what I'm interested in," Stu said, "the past." He wondered if
he now had the entire story and if what he knew was enough to account
for both his father's and Sharon's deaths. But he remembered that Reed
had an alibi. For the time of his father's death, but what about
Sharon's?
She sighed. Like all of us, I'm sure he'd do things differently if he
could go back and live it over again. Wouldn't we all."
Was she human after all? "No doubt, but it's what really did happen
that I care about."
The old man, Johnson, who had let Stu in wasn't around. Mrs. Cartwright
followed him part way down the stairs and watched him look around.
"Looking for Johnson? He's probably having his dinner," she said, "or
taking a rest. Too much to do for one person."
"He's the only one?"
"The only one besides me. Used to be more of us."
The reduction in the number of help must be due to financial troubles.
Stu hadn't realized that his father's firm and his grandfather's
resources were connected. Probably his grandfather had attempted to
stop the bleeding. He resolved to do what he could to allow his
grandfather to go on living here. The knowledge should have oppressed
him, but he felt freer than before. From now on he'd have only himself
to rely on.
Shocked at how much his grandfather had known and been able to conceal,
Stu drove away again, down the shaded drive where dusk had already
fallen, into the road and ultimately the highway.
Check Next Month's
Issue for Chapter
16
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