If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

stopped including Eleanor in their get-togethers. For a while she didn’t notice, because her new job was time- consuming, and in the evenings she would come home too tired to cook, much less to socialize.

But lately Eleanor had been taking stock of what she had left to sustain her as she grew old, and the answer was: not much. The sprawling house in Chambord Oaks had been remodeled by that creature. Eleanor wished she had taken pictures of the rooms, so tastefully decorated in stripped pine woodwork and country French furnishings. She had spent many hours poring over fabric books and paging through North Carolina furniture catalogues to achieve just the right look, and then it had all been sold, and replaced with (in Eleanor’s imaginings) tubular steel chairs and erotic neon sculptures. Eleanor’s new apartment was furnished in discounted floor samples from the local furniture store and luxuriant green plants, trailing vines onto the carpet. She had sold the Mercedes and bought herself a sensible little Dodge, more in keeping with her new, muted lifestyle. And she now had paperback novels instead of friends, because you didn’t have to entertain fictional characters or buy them dinners.

Eleanor Royden was quite alone, with her aching feet and her Budget Gourmet evenings, while Jeb’s life sailed on like the ship of state. And that was not fair. She had sat up all night pondering the inequities in life-the fact that men got more than one chance to live happily ever after-and she decided that it just wasn’t right, this cosmic double standard.

At 4:58 A.M., her makeup neatly applied and her old London Fog belted across a gray wool dinner dress, Eleanor selected a sturdy but unmatching red Capezio handbag, large enough to hold her car keys, a flashlight, two lace handkerchiefs, and a Taurus PT92AFF fifteen-shot 9mm semiautomatic. People who wanted to start a new life ought to have to completely vacate their present one first- and hope that reincarnation was an option. Besides, it was about time that people started taking that phrase until death do us part more seriously.

Bill MacPherson was having morning coffee with his law partner A. P. Hill. Actually, neither of them drank coffee-she started the day with a pot of unsweetened Earl Grey tea and he drank hot chocolate made by squirting chocolate syrup into a pint of milk and heating it in the office microwave-but they called their morning ritual coffee because they felt that it sounded sophisticated. When you practice law in a sparsely furnished office the size of a broom closet in a shabby building with wanted-poster tenants, you need all the elegance you can muster. When Bill complained that the office lacked class, A. P. Hill had offered to put a photograph of her cousin Stinky, Virginia’s attorney general, on the wall of the waiting room, but when the aforementioned eminence was asked to inscribe said photograph, Stinky declined and bought the novice law partners a microwave as an office-warming present, on the condition that they not put his picture anywhere on the premises. If it had been in Bill MacPherson’s nature to be suspicious of anyone, he might have surmised that A. P. Hill had planned the photo gambit to turn out exactly that way.

“So is there any new business?” asked Bill, stirring his hot chocolate with a yellow pencil. Bill was not good at what he called the “aluminum-siding side of a law practice”-that is, drumming up business.

“Someone named Morgan is coming to see us at ten,” said A.P. “Edith has written re: marriage beside the name in the appointment book. Did she mention it to you?”

Bill shook his head. “Not a word. A prenuptial agreement, do you suppose?”

“Maybe. Or an annulment. Whatever it is, it’s all yours, Bill. I don’t do family law.”

“So you keep telling me. Fortunately for the practice, I do. In fact, I could specialize in the family law of my own family and stay busy indefinitely.”

“Or you could have commitment papers drawn up in form-letter style. Fill in the blanks.” A. P. Hill smiled sweetly. She had met most of Bill’s family.

Bill helped himself to the last stale doughnut. “Speaking of family, have we got anything for my sister to investigate yet?”

“She’s a forensic anthropologist. You think the coroner’s office will ask us for second opinions?”

“She can do regular investigative work, too,” said Bill. “She’s very capable-just a little depressed right now.”

“I know,” said A. P. Hill. “It’s completely understandable. I just hope that investigating seamy divorces and whatnot for you doesn’t make her more depressed.”

“Oh, I think other people’s troubles are easier to bear, don’t you?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m a lawyer.” She was pouring herself a second cup of tea when the phone rang.

“Edith still isn’t here,” said Bill. “I’d better get it. You always swear in Latin and hang up when they mistake you for a secretary.”

He lunged across the desk and snatched up the phone. “MacPherson and Hill.”

Bill’s partner made a face at him. She had wanted to call the firm “Hill and MacPherson,” and he had countered facetiously with Hill and Bill, a suggestion later withdrawn when Edith pointed out that they might be mistaken for a more exalted legal team from Arkansas. They settled on MacPherson and Hill when Bill won the coin toss.

He listened for a moment. “Yes, there is a woman attorney named Amy in the firm. Are we what? Say the last name again, please.” Then a pause while he listened again. Finally he said, “No, I think we can promise that we are not friends of that gentleman. What? Well, whatever. I mean, we didn’t know him. Would you like to speak to A. P. Hill?”

Bill handed over the phone and took his mug to the tiny office refrigerator to begin a second cup of cocoa. When he returned, the telephone was back on the hook, and A. P. Hill was staring into space. “Aside from the fact that she called you Amy, is anything wrong?”

She nodded. “I think so. That was Eleanor Royden, calling from jail in Roanoke. She’s just given herself up for the murder of her ex-husband and his new wife.”

“Great!” said Bill. “Well, not for the happy couple, of course-but you love murder cases; so it looks like your lucky day.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said A. P. Hill, reaching for her purse. “Do you know who Eleanor Royden’s ex-husband was?”

“I’m going out on a limb here,” said Bill. “A Mr. Royden, perhaps?”

“No. The Mr. Royden. Jeb. The famous trial lawyer in Roanoke. He was known for showmanship and for getting multimillion-dollar damage awards for his clients, and there was talk of him running for the Senate.”

“Roanoke is ankle-deep in lawyers. Why did she call you?”

“Her explanation wasn’t particularly flattering. She said she’d heard of my suit against the National Park Service on behalf of female reenactors, and said she liked my willingness to take on the male establishment. Also she knows Cousin Stinky.”

“Oh, the attorney general recommended you?”

“Just the opposite. She says she met him at a party once, and she got the impression from him that we were legal lepers, and that’s exactly why she wants us to defend her.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re outsiders. When she goes on trial for the murders, everybody from the judge to the bailiff will be one of her ex-husband’s cronies. She thinks I’m the only one she can trust not to throw the case. I said I’d drive up there today and talk to her. Can you manage here?”

“Family law? Sure. Piece of cake.”

“Tell that to the lawyers for the Menendez brothers,” said A. P. Hill.

An hour later Bill, in his navy-blue jacket and spotted power tie, was practicing looking professional and reassuring while he waited for Edith to usher in Mrs. Morgan. When she appeared in the doorway looking dumpy and dowdy in a shabby cloth coat, Bill felt a pang of dread. She was fifty-something, with unkempt graying hair and a sorrowful pudding face. Her brown eyes were already brimming with tears. Not another discarded wife, Bill thought with alarm. It’s like looking through the chain links in the back of the dogcatcher’s truck. He hoped that the bright young women in his generation wouldn’t end up like that-fading and sad, while their husbands went on to a second youth. He tried to picture a fiftyish A. P. Hill in such straits, but his imagination was not equal to the task. In twenty-five years A. P. Hill would probably be a tiny, testy federal judge with a stainless-steel heart. His new client sniffled ominously. Bill shoved the box of tissues to the edge of the desk and asked her to sit down.

“My name is Donna Jean Morgan,” said the woman, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “My sister said I had to come talk to you, but I want to tell you right up front that I don’t believe in divorce.”