Sharyn McCrumb - If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

Stanfield blinked at this conversational U-turn. “Now, Eleanor,” he said in his courteous monotone, “I’m here to talk about you. As you know, your attorney has asked me to evaluate your condition so that I can testify at your trial.”

Eleanor Royden looked appraisingly at the bespectacled young man in the polyester-blend navy jacket. He gazed back, absently fingering his yellow paisley tie. He blinked first. Eleanor sighed and gave up. Another anal-retentive, just like everyone else she had been dealing with for lo, these many weeks. “I’m going to have to do a lot of background for you, Skippy,” she told the psychologist.

He stiffened. “Mrs. Royden, my name is Dr. Eric Stanfield. I hold degrees from-”

“Right, Skippy. And you probably still have your Smurf cocoa mug. Give it a rest. I need to make you understand what you’re dealing with here. Now, I’ll bet you studied the battered-woman syndrome in grad school, but, frankly, what we’re talking about in my case is much more sophisticated than that. You are taking notes, aren’t you?”

Despite his resolution to remain impervious, Eric Stanfield glared at the madwoman in the orange prison fatigues. He took out his Cross pen and began to scribble on a yellow legal pad. “You were a battered wife, Mrs. Royden?” he said, attempting to regain control of the interview.

“Jeb didn’t beat me up, no,” Eleanor replied. “I told you, my case is more subtle than that of the drunken bully who uses his wife for a punching bag because he’s a loser. Jeb Royden was not a loser. He was probably the most successful lawyer in southwest Virginia. If he could have kept his pants zipped, he might have run for attorney general.” She snickered. “Hey! Maybe he would have run for president if I hadn’t conducted my little exit poll in his bedroom.” She pantomimed the firing of a pistol.

“Your husband was unfaithful.”

“Show me one that isn’t,” snapped Eleanor. “Are you married, Skippy? Or do you still watch Winona Ryder movies and drool?”

“Mrs. Royden, your husband is dead. It is your mental health that we need to focus on.”

“He is the key to my mental health! You know what doctors tell you about allergies? Remove the offending substance from your life. It works with mental-health problems, too!” She laughed.

“Tell me what you mean.” It was all Stanfield could manage in the way of a response.

Eleanor spent ten minutes pacing the room and summarizing her marriage in an ironic invective that could have played at the local comedy club without a rewrite. Stanfield would have laughed if he hadn’t kept reminding himself that he was in the presence of a multiple murderer. This articulate, outspoken woman had killed two people in cold blood, and she didn’t seem the least bit remorseful for her crime. His notes were observations of her behavior, rather than a summary of her complaints. Uses punch lines when relating anecdotes .

“I didn’t kill him because he was unfaithful,” said Eleanor. “Write that down. I killed him because he made a blood sport out of our divorce. And I killed the Bitch-she gave a whole new meaning for the term golden retriever !-she was certainly determined to retrieve Jeb’s gold, let me tell you. Anyhow, she had to go with him, because she enjoyed the process. My husband set out to destroy me, and she cheered him on.”

“When you say that she-the second Mrs. Royden-had to go with him, do you mean that you had to fatally shoot her as well?” Stanfield thought it was time he injected some plain speaking into her narrative.

“That’s right,” said Eleanor cheerfully. “I blew the slut to kingdom come. Maybe it will deter other gold-digging home wreckers, but I doubt it. Not until more wives… go ballistic.”

“Did you attempt to counter your husband’s legal maneuvers through the court system?” He had to speak loudly, because she was laughing at her own pun.

Eleanor stopped laughing, and made a face at him. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she said. “Take Jeb to court? That would have been like trying to fight a tiger with a toothpick. Jeb was a golf buddy to all the judges in the district, and every lawyer in town was his pal. Besides which, they all truly believed that he was right to dump me, and that I ought to go away quietly with no settlement, and get a job in a hash house. His last threat was that he’d convince the world that I was crazy, and have me locked up in a mental institution. The more I protested, the more evidence he had of my derangement , as he called it. I had no alternative. A bullet was the only thing that Jeb couldn’t bribe or bully into being on his side.”

“I see what you mean,” Eric Stanfield said, nodding.

“I don’t think you do,” said Eleanor. “You are supposed to think how tragic it is for a woman to be driven to the point of believing that she could only solve her problems with a pistol. That’s the state of desperation I had reached on the night Jeb died. I was a victim of emotional abuse and psychological brutality. You do see that, don’t you?”

Bill MacPherson had never before interviewed a prospective client while wearing madras Bermuda shorts and tasseled loafers, but since the client in question was au naturel and leering at him from the edge of the pool, Bill felt that the honors of formality rested with him. At his elbow hovered Miri Malone, in a black swimsuit and sunglasses.

They had taken an early flight to Florida and proceeded to the marine mammals park in a rented Plymouth. Bill had been apprehensive about a possible trespassing violation, but Miri assured him that the owners did not object to visitation , since she was a former employee. “I go back all the time to see the gang,” she explained.

He wondered how they would react to the notion that she might soon be using illegal maneuvers to kidnap one of the gang, but since Miri was his client, he abandoned that train of thought. Maybe it’s a far, far better thing we do, he reasoned, and followed her through the gate to the large saltwater pool.

“Bill MacPherson, I’d like you to meet Porky Delphinidae,” Miri was saying.

Nearby, a nervous young man, wearing a wet bathing suit and a Sea Park towel, consulted his watch. “This isn’t going to take long, is it, you guys? Porky is on in half an hour.”

“I doubt if we’ll get too caught up in the conversation,” Bill told him solemnly. He still couldn’t believe that he was doing this at all. “I have a thing for you to sign here, Mr. Edmonds, certifying that you are a disinterested party in these proceedings, and that you understand what the dolphin is saying.”

“Porky wants Rich to be best man,” said Miri, stroking the dolphin’s head.

Whereas, Porky will be best what? thought Bill wildly, still trying to figure out how to proceed. Perhaps he should have brought a tape recorder. “Look, before we go any further here, I need to know how the owners of this marine park feel about-er-Porky’s personal life. I mean, what if you win the lawsuit, and they refuse to part with him?”

Miri Malone smiled sweetly. “If they refuse, they will have the public-relations nightmare of the decade. I will go on every talk show on the planet, telling how the cruel dolphin-slavers are keeping true lovers apart.”

“She would, too,” Rich assured him. “She’s quite a woman.”

Bill looked at the pair of them appraisingly. “Hmm,” he said. “Miri, what about you and Rich here-”

“I told you how I feel about primate males!” said Miri.

“Whereas those are my mates of choice,” said Rich, grinning. “Besides, I couldn’t cut in on a pal, could I, Porky, old buddy?”

Porky favored them with his maniacal smile, and bobbed in agreement.