If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

4

ON THE DAY of her husband’s death, Lucy Todhunter was visited by the local sheriff, a courtly, silver-haired politician, and told in the politest possible terms that she should not consider leaving town. Indeed, the law would take it most kindly if she would stay within the house itself while the authorities conducted investigations into her husband’s demise. Neither Dr. Humphreys nor Dr. Bell was prepared to sign a death certificate, the sheriff explained. Until the test results arrived, he suggested that she remain calm. He added that he hoped an attorney would be among those who dropped by to pay her a condolence call. Meanwhile, he would like her formal permission to question her houseguests about the events surrounding her husband’s final illness.

Lucy, already attired in mourning of the deepest black-dyed satin, complete with veil, nodded her assent and reached for her black-edged handkerchief.

Two days later the chemist’s report was telegraphed to Royes Bell from Richmond. He took the report with him to Richard Humphreys’s office to discuss its implications. “Well, here it is,” he said, sinking down into his colleague’s consulting-room chair. “Interesting results. According to Richmond, the samples of regurgitation from Philip Todhunter-the ones collected before we administered the nux vomica, mind you-were free of arsenic, but the autopsy samples tell quite another story.” He opened the telegram and handed it to the other physician.

Humphreys’s eyebrows rose as he read the report. “Trace amounts of arsenic found in Todhunter’s intestines. One thousandth of a grain in the kidneys, and a full one-eighth grain in his liver. Hair samples also indicate the presence of arsenic.”

“I wonder how the devil she did it,” said Royes Bell.

That statement was to become the refrain of the entire Todhunter case. On the basis of the chemical analysis, Lucy Todhunter was charged with poisoning her husband. Ascribing a motive for her actions was not easy, but finally the district attorney settled on Lucy’s anticipated inheritance of Todhunter’s wealth as her incentive for murder.

She made a lovely defendant, sitting on the witness stand in her widow’s weeds, so becoming to her pale skin and dark eyes. Her attorney, Patrick Russell, an auburn-haired Irishman with a gift for courtroom histrionics, heightened the illusion of Lucy’s frailty by escorting her to and from the defense table as if she were made of spun glass. He had other tricks, too, for the benefit of the twelve solemn farmers and shopkeepers who sat in the jury box.

“Now, Mrs. Todhunter,” he would say, softening his voice to the point of reverence. “In the matter of your departed husband, the former Union Army Major Todhunter-”

Several of the war veterans on the jury would stiffen each time he used that phrase, and Gerald Hillyard, the young prosecuting attorney, would mop his brow with his handkerchief-and hope that he had enough evidence to carry the day.

He was to be disappointed in that hope.

The medical evidence was clear enough regarding the symptoms of arsenic poisoning that Philip Todhunter had certainly displayed. Both doctors were adamant in their assertions that the dying Philip Todhunter had every sign of someone poisoned with arsenic: clammy skin, uncontrollable vomiting, esophageal pain, blood-tinged diarrhea, and finally a coma followed by death. The postmortem testing confirmed their opinion: arsenic in the internal organs-even in hair samples and nail cuttings taken from the deceased. Hillyard had felt confident that he was winning the case, despite Russell’s theatrics, until the defense began to present its own case.

The servants were questioned first. With each of them, Russell was charming and confidential. “Now here’s the person who knows what goes on at the Todhunters’,” he said to a stern-faced Mrs. Malone. “I always say that the cook is the heart of the house.”

The portly woman sniffed disdainfully. “I don’t know about that,” she said, but Russell’s exuberance was boundless.

“Now, Mrs. Malone,” he said, with a winning smile. “You were in charge of the kitchen, of course.”

“And you’ll find no tainted meat or bad mushrooms in my larder!” she informed him.

“Naturally not. And did Mrs. Lucy Todhunter give you instructions about what to cook?”

“Now and again,” the cook conceded. “But not what you’d call regular. She never seemed to care what she ate.”

“And was she much of a help to you in the kitchen? Buying the food? Or chopping vegetables, perhaps? Preparing the pastry?”

Mrs. Malone’s incredulous stare suggested that Patrick Russell and his senses had parted company. “Not while I know it!” she replied. “I can’t remember the last time I saw Miz Lucy in the kitchen. And if I saw her do a hand’s turn of work, that would have been a day.”

“So she didn’t prepare any meals for former Union Army Major Todhunter during his last illness?”

“No more did I. He wouldn’t take so much as a bowl of gruel. Said his stomach wouldn’t stand for it.”

“But a cup of tea, perhaps? Or a glass of spirits?”

“Not that I ever saw.” A thought struck her. “Except his beignet.”

“Ah, the beignet!” Russell nodded encouragingly. “His breakfast pastry-an acquired taste from New Orleans. Could you tell us a bit more about that?”

“She used to take him one of my fresh-baked beignets every morning. It was a custom of his. He didn’t want anybody else to bring him his pastry, only Mrs. Todhunter. And she always did, except the couple of days he was sick. That day he was mortally stricken, she took him a beignet to keep up his strength, but it was no use, rest his soul.” Despite the piety of her words, she did not seem unduly grieved by her employer’s demise.

“And she never took him anything else during his illness?”

Mrs. Malone shook her head. “She wouldn’t leave his bedside, most times, unless she was so tired that she collapsed in her own room. So mostly I took up broth and juices, or I sent one of the girls up with it. Not that he’d touch a mouthful of it.”

“Was Mrs. Todhunter herself taken ill during her husband’s final days?”

“No, sir. She wore herself out sitting up with him, but she was fit enough.”

“And the other members of the household? All hale and hearty?”

Mrs. Malone’s lips tightened. “We were sound as a bell, all of us! I told you that no contagion came out of my kitchen, and there’s your proof!”

Russell thanked the cook profusely and excused her from the witness stand. He followed her testimony with that of the housemaids, who whispered agreement to Mrs. Malone’s version of the events. “And did Mrs. Todhunter ever take the broth or pastry, or whatever you brought, and add anything to it?” Russell asked gently.

“No, sir,” said the terrified kitchen maid. “That is, I couldn’t say for most days she didn’t, but that last day, she surely did not.”

“Well, perhaps she took the tray from you and sent you back downstairs so that she could give the broth or pastry to Mr. Todhunter herself?”

“No, sir.” The girl shook her head: a definite no. “She always made me stand there and wait so I could take the tray and dirty dishes back to the kitchen. And the slop bowl, too, like as not.”

“Caring for invalids is an arduous task,” said Russell sympathetically. “But I’m sure you were a great help in the family’s hour of need.”

“Besides, Mr. Todhunter wasn’t taking any nourishment by then, anyhow. Dreadful ill, he was.”

The other maid said much the same, but with considerably more terror in her voice at the prospect of being on display in such a menacing place as a courtroom. Patrick Russell called Dr. Humphreys and Dr. Bell to the stand, with a deference suggesting that they were on loan from the Oracle of Delphi. They were popular men in Danville, and Russell knew it. He did not challenge their statement that the patient had succumbed to arsenic poisoning.

“Now, Dr. Bell, I’ll ask you the same as I’ve asked Dr. Richard Humphreys. Did you ever see Mrs. Lucy Todhunter administer anything potable to her unfortunate husband?”

Bell’s eyes narrowed. “I did not. But I suspected she had. During my stay with the patient, I searched the rooms, and sure enough, finally after Todhunter’s death, I found arsenic-”

“You did find arsenic, Doctor? Tell us the circumstances.”

“It was white powder in a small glass jar. I suspected what it was, of course, and I took a sample away to be tested.”

“Oh, yes. And the results confirmed your suspicions, did they not?”

“They did. The substance in the jar was arsenic trioxide, a fine white powder that puts one in mind of sugar.”

“Humphreys says the same,” mused the attorney. “And one of you was with the patient at all times until the end?”

“Yes. Or Norville or her cousin Mary Compson.”

“Yes. And do you know, Dr. Bell, Mrs. Mary Hadley Compson of Maysville, North Carolina, has testified to the same statement-that at no time did she see Lucy Todhunter administer anything to her ailing husband, the late Union Army Maj-”

“You haven’t asked Norville yet!”

“Let me remedy that at once, Doctor,” said Patrick Russell with a courtly bow.

Richard Norville came to the stand, wary of justice among strangers, but willing enough to tell what he knew. “Yes, I escorted Mrs. Todhunter to her husband’s room the day he took sick,” he told the court. “She wanted to take a tray up to him from the breakfast table, and I wouldn’t allow her to carry it.”

“And they say the Union had no gallant officers!” said Patrick Russell solemnly.

Norville seemed discomfited by snickers from the spectators, but he resumed his testimony. “I took the tray up to Philip’s room and went in with her. She handed him the plate of beignets and he ate most of it. Then he sank back as if he were taken ill again.”

Russell heard the buzz from the back of the courtroom, but he did not turn around. “He had an attack at once, did he? Well, that could have been the pastry, but it seems unlikely that it would work so quickly. What happened next?”

Norville squirmed in his seat and muttered something.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Norville? I couldn’t quite hear what you said.”

“I said: ‘And then she ate the rest of the beignet herself!’”

Russell raised his eyebrows, giving a convincing imitation of someone who is hearing startling news for the first time. “You say that Mrs. Lucy Todhunter herself consumed a piece of the same pastry her husband had eaten? The very same one?”

“Yes. There were half a dozen on the plate. He chose himself one at random. We had all eaten one.”

“And did you see her add anything to that particular pastry? More powdered sugar, perhaps?”

“I did not. Never took my eyes off her for a moment. She didn’t add anything. I’ll take my oath to that.”

“So you have, Mr. Norville,” said Russell, smiling. “Mrs. Todhunter gave her husband a beignet, and he became ill and died. But she ate from the same pastry and was not affected. Perhaps some secret antidote to the fatal dose?”

Norville shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. I told you: we had all eaten a pastry from that plate at breakfast before she took the tray up to his room.”

“You don’t tell me!” said Russell, slipping a bit of brogue into his performance.

“I do,” said Norville grimly. “All four of us-me, the Compsons, and Mrs. Lucy Todhunter-ate one of those baked goods from that very plate before it was taken upstairs to Philip Todhunter.”

“And this plate of pastries…” Russell leaned close to the witness, measuring his words by the syllable. “It never left your sight from the time you all ate one until the time Philip Todhunter took his last mouthful of sustenance on this earth from its contents?”

Patrick Russell gave a deep sigh and turned to face the jury. From the prosecution’s table, young Gerald Hillyard watched with a heavy heart. “There it is, gentlemen,” he said, without a single note of triumph in his voice. Hearing him, you might have believed that he was sorry to have to point out the inescapable conclusion to the assembled seekers of truth. “There it is, indeed. We have two eminent physicians who assure us that poor Philip Todhunter went out of this world on account of a few grains of arsenic that sickened his body. And I’m sure I don’t doubt the word of two fine, learned gentlemen such as these.” He nodded courteously at Bell and Humphreys, both scowling at him from just behind the railing. “And my earnest colleague Mr. Hillyard there-why, he would have you believe that the frail young lady whom I am defending, Mrs. Lucy Todhunter, did willfully poison her husband with that arsenic. There’s even been testimony by Dr. Bell that a jar full of the deadly substance was found hidden in the upstairs of the home. And yet, the beignets were tested. The kitchen sugar was tested. And the stomach contents of Mr. Todhunter were tested. All proved to be arsenic-free. Well, gentlemen of the jury, I suppose that leaves us with but the one question…” He looked at the jury, at Hillyard, and then stared down the crowd who had come to watch the trial.

“Can you tell me how in heaven the lady managed to do it?”

“How’s your case going?” Bill MacPherson asked his law partner, over spurious morning coffee. He tried to sound casual about it.

“I’ve just begun,” said A. P. Hill, turning a page of the Danville Register & Bee. “I’m still gathering information. Haven’t even decided on an angle for the defense yet really.”

“I had a question,” said Bill diffidently. “Just a hypothetical thingamabob, you know. Just a thought that occurred to me. Thought I’d run it by you.”

Powell Hill was reading the editorials now. “Um-hmm,” she said. “What is it?”

“Well, supposing that Jeb Royden hadn’t divorced Eleanor. I mean, supposing he just up and announced that he’d had-oh, say, a message from God-and that he had been instructed to take a new wife. So instead of tossing Eleanor out to the wolves, suppose he had just brought in a third party. Wife number two.”

She lowered the paper slowly until her eyes met Bill’s. “What do you mean, brought a new wife home? You mean bigamy?” A. P. Hill’s voice could have frosted beer mugs.

“Well, not technically. I mean-just say, for example-that he had exchanged vows with the new wife privately, without benefit of the state licensing procedure.”

“This is a legal question, right, Bill?” Powell Hill gave him a cold smile. “I mean, I know what I’d do.”

Bill crossed his legs. “Yeah, but you’ll have to pay Edith a quarter if you tell me.”

A voice from the receptionist’s area called out, “Are you all talking about Manassas Three again?”

“No!” Bill yelled back. “Just some legal theorizing.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Powell, giving up on the Bee.

“Oh, all right. I took a new case while you were in Roanoke, interviewing Eleanor Royden.”

“A case about bigamy? You found a bigamist in Danville?”

“Well, sort of.” Bill explained about Chevry Morgan’s directive from God. A. P. Hill listened in silence, but her expression suggested that she would not be converting to that particular brand of religion. In fact, if an angel had appeared to her, she might have sent him back for the fiery sword while she made out her hit list. And lo! Chevry Morgan’s name would lead all the rest.

Powell sipped her tea, discovered that it was cold, and set it down again. “I can’t believe it,” she said softly. “There is actually a woman alive today who would fall for that crap?”

“Two of them, to be exact,” Bill pointed out. “And you can’t blame it on an unenlightened generation, either, because both of the Mrs. Morgans seem to have accepted the news of their husband’s divine mission without too many qualms. Remember wife number two is a teenager.” He looked at his partner’s forbidding expression. “Of course, that isn’t to say that most women of any age would be taken in. Er-I don’t suppose you’re his type, Powell.”

“Probably not,” she agreed. “I am neither adolescent and gullible, nor old and helpless. I’m trying to think what we can do to help these poor women.”

“I don’t think the second Mrs. Morgan wants any help. When I saw her last night, she looked like the cat in the cream jug.”

“You saw her?”

Bill reddened. “Did I forget to mention that? Edith and I went to church.”

“I hope you didn’t put anything in the collection plate,” snapped A. P. Hill.

“Edith wanted to contribute something, but it wasn’t monetary. I talked her out of it. I don’t think there’s much we can do about Mrs. Morgan the Younger, unless we can think of something to charge Bluebeard with, and get him sent to jail. She might wise up once he’s gone. Right now they’re like birds hypnotized by a snake. You should have seen him at the service. He was very charismatic. Sort of an ecumenical Elvis, prancing around with his microphone.”

“I can imagine. And nobody questioned his lunacy? What about the girl’s parents?”

“Members of the congregation. He convinced them, too.”

Powell Hill shook her head. “I hope the tabloids don’t get wind of this. You haven’t lived down the Confederate Women yet.” Bill winced at this mention of his first case-a real-estate transaction that had become a nightmare. “Tell me, why did the other Mrs. Morgan come to you?”

“Glimmerings of common sense, I think,” said Bill. “Every so often Chevry Morgan’s spell wears thin. Then she realizes how absurd the whole thing is. When hubby comes back, she’s trapped again. For all I know, she may call off the case any day now. If he finds out she’s been seeing a lawyer, he’ll pressure her until she gives in.”

“Get her out of there, Bill.”

Bill looked uncomfortable. “Well, it’s tricky. She claims she doesn’t want a divorce.”

“She doesn’t want a divorce?”

“Doesn’t believe in them. They belong to a very strict fundamentalist sect. Mrs. Morgan the Younger has a long list of thou shalt nots to follow. No short skirts; no dancing; no lipstick.”

“Oh, right,” said A. P. Hill, emptying her teacup into Bill’s philodendron. “This teenage honey isn’t allowed to dance or wear makeup, but her folks let her go off and have sex with a married man old enough to be her grandfather. Right.”

“Maybe you ought to take this case,” said Bill, rooting around on his desk for the pertinent manila folder. “You have exactly the right tone to highlight the folly of it all. I can just picture you cross-examining Chevry Morgan.”

“Sorry, partner,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I’m doing a murder case, and I don’t handle domestic matters. But if someone murders old Chevry, I’ll defend them for free.”

“Well, do you have any suggestions on what I might do?”

“Check the statutory-rape laws. The girl is probably too old for that to work, though. Give Chevry credit for being sly enough to escape the obvious pitfalls. Then see if laws pertaining to alienation of affection or criminal conversation are still on the books.” Powell Hill grimaced. “I never thought I’d hear myself recommending that one.”

“Criminal conversation?” echoed Bill.

“Legal euphemism. It means that you can sue someone for committing adultery with your spouse.” She shrugged. “It’s a form of property damage, I guess. The early silverbacks put it into law to keep their wives off-limits. It would be nice if you could use that old legal chestnut the other way, to ensure the fidelity of the male spouse.”

“You mean, Mrs. Donna Morgan could sue Mrs. Tanya Faith Morgan for husband-napping?”

“More like sexual trespassing,” said Powell. “Possibly, yes. You’ll have to crack the law books to find out for sure. It’s an old law, seldom if ever used today.”

“I wonder if Ivana Trump thought of it.”

A. P. Hill picked up her briefcase. “If that doesn’t work, let me know. We can dredge up something else.” She grinned. “Maybe we can fix up Mr. Morgan with a knife-wielding manicurist from Manassas.”

From the other room, a voice called out, “You owe me a quarter!”

“Amy P. Hill, what an unexpected pleasure! What brings you up here to Roanoke?”

“Hello, Bob. Just visiting a client.” A. P. Hill remembered Bob Creighton from law school. He had been a class ahead of her, and she hadn’t been particularly impressed by his legal skills or his clumsy attempt to add her scalp to his belt in after-hours student socializing. She wondered if he was as obvious in court as he had been as a prospective suitor. He still looked like the fraternity social chairman, she thought: blow-dried hair, navy-blue blazer, and a tie that looked frivolous to the uninitiated. The law-school Ken Doll. She decided to ignore the fact that he had called her Amy. “You’re in the DA’s office, aren’t you, Bob?”

He checked to see if his shoes were shined. “Got me there, Amy girl. How’d you guess?”

“Women’s intuition,” said A. P. Hill with what passed for a smile.

“Can I buy you a Coke?”

“Sure. Why not?” She realized that this was not a casual meeting. Bob Creighton represented the DA. Old school pleasantries aside, her adversaries were about to fire the opening salvo. Still, she wanted to hear what the prosecution thought of the Eleanor Royden case, and this might be a civilized way to find out. She decided to play along.

Bob Creighton led her to the snack bar, a collection of small tables flanked by a row of vending machines. He chatted amiably about the weather, his golf game, and how much he enjoyed his work. He asked very few questions of A. P. Hill, but, in her experience, that was not unusual. Creighton was the sort of man who used women as sounding boards, preferably mute and adoring. Powell Hill thought she could just manage the former; the latter was past praying for.

They settled in metal chairs, sipping diet soft drinks and smiling warily at each other. “So,” said Bob, who had run out of small talk, “I hear you’re up here talking to that Royden woman.”

“I’m thinking of taking the case,” said Powell Hill, trying to sound casual. “I’d have thought it would be considered quite a plum. Major publicity. Possible movie interest. I can’t think why nobody in Roanoke wanted it.” She gave him an innocent smile. “Or am I just being modest? I assumed I wasn’t the first attorney Mrs. Royden contacted.”

Bob Creighton winced. “The first Mrs. Royden,” he said. “Those of us who knew Jeb like to think of poor Giselle as the real Mrs. Royden. I’m sure Jeb would shudder if he could hear Eleanor referred to by that honorific.”

“To which she is still legally entitled, of course,” purred Powell Hill.

“But morally,” said Creighton, frowning, “morally, it pains me to hear it. Consider the circumstances. Calling Eleanor that is an affront to Mrs. Royden’s memory. Jeb’s wife, I mean. His true soul mate, till death-a.k.a. Eleanor-did them part. You didn’t know Giselle, of course, but she was such a ray of sunshine in Jeb’s life.”

A. P. Hill preserved her reputation for humorlessness by not remarking, “I expect she was a hot little number, all right.”

“Jeb and Giselle.” Creighton sighed. “They were such an ideal couple. It was the most touching thing to see them together. So in love.”

A. P. Hill looked puzzled as the name finally registered. “Giselle? That’s not the name on the documents-”

“Oh, no.” Bob gave her a sad smile. “Her real name was Staci, but she once studied ballet, and Jeb thought she was so graceful, with her big brown eyes. Like Bambi. So the pet name went from Gazelle to Giselle. Giselle is a famous ballet,” he added, in case A. P. Hill were culturally challenged.

She returned his smile with a cold stare. “A ballet? Really? Is it about adultery?”

“I see that woman has poisoned your mind,” said Bob. “That’s because you didn’t know Jeb and Giselle. Eleanor couldn’t run that game on any of us around here, which is why she had to import a lawyer.”

“Maybe she just wanted an unbiased trial,” A. P. Hill replied. “Clients are funny about that.”

“Oh, we’ll be fair, all right,” said Creighton. “But we take it very personally when an hysterical middle-aged woman guns down her ex-husband out of jealousy and spite.”

A. P. Hill made a mental note to look again into a change of venue for the trial. “I hear he wasn’t exactly benevolent in the divorce,” she said.

Bob Creighton hesitated for a moment. Deciding which argument to pick, thought A.P. Finally he smiled at her and said, “He was a lot like you, Amy. I know you wouldn’t expect some old flame to support you for the rest of your life. And I know you wouldn’t care to have one sponging off you, either.”

“I might choose a spouse more carefully to begin with.”

Creighton shrugged. “Hindsight doesn’t win football games.”

“So tell me about this divorce,” Powell prompted. “I have my client’s side of it, of course, and I can get the documents, but I’m sure the legal community here saw a good bit that I won’t find in either account.”

“Oh, for sure. Everybody knew Jeb. He was a pillar of the community. Symphony fund-raiser, great golfer. Famous for his dinner parties.”

“Oh, he cooked?”

“Well, no. For the last couple of years he’s hosted his dinners at La Maison, because Giselle didn’t cook that sort of fare.”

“But before that?”

“I suppose that woman handled the cooking,” Bob Creighton said grudgingly. “Eleanor. Probably it was all she was good for.”

“You were going to tell me about the divorce.”

“It was just one of those things, Amy. Jeb and Eleanor Royden got married very young, and over the years they grew apart. It happens-and it certainly isn’t uncommon these days.”

“Not among people who can afford a trade-in, no,” said Powell Hill sweetly.

“I told you. He met Giselle and then he couldn’t see spending the rest of his life being middle-aged and bored. Then none of them would have been happy. He tried it for a while, though. He and Staci-Giselle-used to be seen around town together. She’d go with him on trips sometimes, but he still went home to Eleanor like a good boy. I think he tried to keep his marriage intact.”

“How very noble of him.”

“Yeah.” Creighton sighed. “Eleanor Royden found out about it, though. She was out with Jeb at a charity event one evening, and they ran into an attorney who was new in town. The attorney asked Eleanor if she was Mrs. Royden’s mother.”

“No doubt it was awkward,” said A. P. Hill. “I’m sure he felt just like Aldrich Ames.”

“Who?”

“The CIA fellow who got caught spying for the USSR. It’s always unpleasant to be caught.”

Creighton raised his eyebrows. “I know it’s good form to identify with one’s prospective client- publicly, at least. But such hausfrau sentiments are a little out of character coming from you, Amy.”

A. P. Hill’s civility had worn thin. “Nobody calls me Amy, Creighton.”

“You’re talking like an Amy, Counselor. All bourgeois horrified at the wicked ways of the world. Surely you aren’t so naïve, whatever your client’s failings.”

A. P. Hill gave him a mildly attentive stare, the look she used to give fetal pigs in high-school biology lab. “So, Bob, you are saying that if something is a common occurrence, one should not be upset when one encounters it. Child abuse is fairly common. Drunk driving is routine. Torture goes on in most parts of the world. Should we take all that in stride merely because it happens a lot? I thought morality depended on what was right, not on what was popular.”

Creighton looked over his shoulder. Then he turned around and peered at the empty chairs of the snack bar. “Is there a jury in here?” he asked. “I don’t see one. Or were you just grandstanding from force of habit?”

“Just presenting the rebuttal for that smug little editorial of yours. Now get back to the Roydens’ divorce. What happened after Eleanor found out about Staci?”

“Oh, she became completely irrational. Probably something to do with menopause.”

“An interesting defense,” said A. P. Hill. “What did she do?”

“She stormed out into the parking lot to Jeb’s new car. He had just bought a white Nissan 3002X.”

“Probably something to do with male menopause,” she said solemnly.

“Why shouldn’t he? It was his money. Anyhow, Eleanor got into the trunk, took a tire iron, and did a pretty thorough job of smashing that car into an unrecognizable wreck.”

A. P. Hill thought that she might have been tempted to do much the same, but she only nodded. “I see. So the battle lines were drawn.”

“Actually, Jeb was pretty sympathetic. He didn’t move out. Didn’t even seem too upset. He probably told Eleanor that she was imagining things, or that he’d break it off. And then he tried to be more discreet.”

“I do like an honorable man,” said A. P. Hill with a sour smile. “But tell me about the divorce.”

“Well, as I said, Jeb tried to be discreet. Eleanor, however, had a nasty suspicious mind, and she behaved like an absolute bloodhound. No matter how he covered his tracks, she simply wouldn’t believe that he was being faithful. Her endless badgering grew tiresome, so, of course, he moved out.”

“Well, poor old Jeb. And in the divorce proceedings, I suppose he cast her as the Polish cavalry?”

World War II metaphors were wasted on Creighton, whose intellect was even more limited than his imagination. He ignored the remark and launched into a detailed account of Jeb Royden’s legal maneuvers in his efforts to humiliate his ex-wife and to deprive her of every vestige of financial security. He described the campaign as dispassionately as he might have discussed the strategies of the Trojan War. To Creighton, any human suffering incurred in the legal battle was a minor side effect of the technical process. A. P. Hill detected a note of admiration in her colleague’s description of the suits and countersuits in Royden v. Royden.

“Jeb was remarkably patient with her,” he said. “He was always a lawyer first and a litigant second. Eleanor really lost it a few times. She stormed into his office and started relating her version of the divorce to his clients, so Jeb quietly had her arrested and charged with trespassing.”

“How noble of him.”

“He was fed up. Anybody would be. She took out an ad on the Possibilities page of the Roanoke Times-that’s the dating section. It said: Prosperous Roanoke lawyer, long on financial assets, short on physical ones, seeks gold-digging bimbo to jazz up his briefs. Preference given to sluts named Staci.”

A. P. Hill raised her eyebrows. “What did the happy couple do about that?”

“They just laughed. Eleanor was becoming the town loony by that time. Everybody could see why he wanted to get away from her. But Jeb got even with her by donating their furniture to Goodwill, and giving her a check for half its appraised value as used household goods. About two hundred and fifty bucks. The stuff was brand-new James River furniture worth nearly twelve grand, but Jeb said he could afford to take the loss, just for the pleasure of hearing Eleanor scream about losing it. The next week he took Giselle to North Carolina and bought almost exactly the same stuff for their new home. Boy, was Eleanor steamed!”

A. P. Hill stood up. “This has been fascinating,” she said. “But I’ve got to meet with my client now, Creighton. Before I go, let me give you one of these. A woman’s group in Roanoke had them printed up, and they sent me a stack.” She reached into her purse, and handed the assistant DA a red-and-white bumper sticker: FREE ELEANOR ROYDEN AND SEND HER OVER TO MY EX-HUSBAND’s PLACE.