There was a time when I could catch a man’s eye just by wearing a short skirt and high heels. I could walk into a gathering of staid historians and see the startled looks on their faces when they realized that the Arms and Armor curator was an attractive young woman. And I was attractive. The Rosemary who once was: confident and serene. Ready to love and be loved.
That woman is gone now. In her place is a woman whom no one seems to see, a woman who walks into rooms unnoticed and unacknowledged. In this, I am not alone. This is what the passage of time does to all women. It thickens our waists, streaks our hair with gray, crinkles the skin around our eyes.
But invisibility also has its uses.
I certainly found it useful that summer.
On this, my final evening on earth, I don’t know why I should be focused on that particular memory. Over the past weeks I have been reviewing my life, remembering all my bad choices, all the points in time when a wiser decision could have sent me on a path toward a different and happier fate. But this is the fate I am now locked into. And I can’t help thinking about one of those crucial points in time—that day in June when I walked into the lobby of the Coronado Hotel.
That was the day my future was sealed.
It was not my first visit to that grand old hotel. Years before, as a newlywed, I had strolled through the lobby in a sundress and had seen a bellman stare admiringly at my legs. But this time, when I walked in, no one looked at me. I was just a mousy, brown-haired matron in a shapeless shirt and slacks, scarcely worth a glance when there were other females to stare at, young females who still had the glow of youth. They hadn’t lost their figures to motherhood. Their shoulders weren’t bowed from the humiliations of marriage to Christopher Thomas.
It’s as if I am there now. I watch one of those magnificent specimens walk past me in the lobby. She has shiny hair and perfect skin and the stride of a woman who knows she is beautiful. Enjoy it while you can, honey, I think. Because someday you’ll be where I am. Exactly where I am. I hunch deep in a chair and the woman doesn’t see me as she walks past, into the cocktail lounge. But I can see her perfectly. I see her glide across to the bar counter. I see her tap the shoulder of a man seated there. He turns, smiles at her, and reaches an arm around her waist to pat her ass. It is a gesture of easy familiarity, the way a man might greet his wife.
The problem is that man’s wife is me.
I watch as the shiny-haired woman and Christopher leave the cocktail lounge and stroll hand in hand to the grand stairway. They are too wrapped up in their lust; they don’t notice me follow them up the two flights of stairs into the historic section of the hotel. They head down a charming but creaky hallway and disappear into a guest room. The door closes, and I hear the privacy lock click shut.
I cannot help myself. I stand outside the room and imagine what is going on behind the closed door. I picture the clothes strewn on the floor, the naked bodies on the bed. I picture my husband’s hands on that woman’s silky young body, a body that has not given him two children and a decade of devotion.
Why did I torment myself that way? Why did I follow him when I already knew the purpose of his trip? Not business, as he’d claimed. No, it’s never about business. After all the women I’ve had to suffer through, I knew exactly what he was up to whenever he’d disappear for a few days, or even for just a few hours.
Suddenly, standing outside the room, I can bear it no longer. I leave that closed door and walk out of the building, to the garden courtyard. There I call the only person I can call about this. I have little regard for him, but at least, in this case, his interests are aligned with mine.
“I have to find a way to divorce him, Peter. I can’t deal with it any longer.”
My brother, never one for sympathy, gives an impatient sigh. “This again? You always say it, and you never follow through.”
“Because of the children.”
“They’ll get over a breakup. Kids always manage.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s Chris. He’ll fight me for them.”
“Why? He doesn’t give a damn about them.”
“But he does give a damn about the money. He’ll use them as a bargaining chip to squeeze every penny he can out of me.”
Only then does my brother take me seriously. Money has that effect on him. “He can’t do that,” says Peter. “The money is from our family.”
“But the children are his too. And if he gets custody of them—”
“He could get his hands on their trust fund,” Peter says, finishing for me. Peter is clever when he wants to be.
“This could complicate your life too. It’s all tied together, all our investments.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know what to do! I want to be rid of him. But at the same time…”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think straight. I just want the pain to be over with. I want to stop hurting”
Peter laughed. “Well, Rosie, you know Christopher, maybe one of his underworld connections will get sick of him one day and make a merry little widow out of you.”
I didn’t say anything to that because at times deep down I would have welcomed such an outcome. This was one of them.
“Peter, I’m asking for a little reassurance. I want to know that Ben and Leila will always be taken care of. That they’ll be safe and comfortable, no matter what.”
“Well, that much is assured. They’ve got generous trust funds.”
“But will it stay generous? Even if something happens to me?”
“What could happen to you? And even if something did, I am their uncle. You think I’d let them be robbed blind?”
“You mean it, Peter? You would look after them?” Even as I ask this, I realize it is out of sheer desperation, that I have no one else to ask.
And of course Peter lets me down.
“Look, why don’t you go get a stiff drink or something?” he says. “Take your mind off this. You’re just working yourself up over nothing.”
That’s Peter’s answer to everything: a stiff drink. But this time, maybe it’s good advice. I hang up and go to the bar.
But two martinis later, my mind is still chewing over the image of my husband and that woman on the bed. I wonder who she is; I’ve never seen her before. When and where did he meet her? Does she know he’s married? Does she know anything about him?
I’m feeling drunk and reckless as I go to the hotel’s front desk. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’ve lost my key. It’s to room two fifteen. The last name is Thomas.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ll need to see ID.”
“Of course.” I show him my driver’s license. I’m gambling that Chris checked in under his real name.
The gamble pays off. He has taken a woman to our honeymoon hotel and has not bothered or cared enough to hide his identity.
“Here you go, Mrs. Thomas,” the clerk says, and he hands me a key card.
I wait until Chris and his latest slut are dining in the restaurant, then I make my way to their room and let myself in. Inside I find rumpled bedsheets, damp towels on the floor. In the bathroom I find a woman’s makeup bag, open it, and take out a vial of pills. The woman’s name is printed clearly. All I know about her is that she takes sleeping pills and I know her name.
Haile Patchett.
Belle stopped reading and looked up, her eyes locking on Haile’s. The room had gone absolutely silent, everyone staring at Haile.
Haile looked down at the floor, muttered, “Excuse me,” and left the room.
“Go on,” Nunn told Belle.
Belle cleared her throat and continued where she’d left off.
On that awful night when I saw her again at the Pollock opening after Chris had asked me for a divorce, it was just too much and I blew up. What a mistake that was. That’s the instant I recall when my life began to spin out of control
But Haile was just another conquest
, another in a long string of women who were used and abandoned by Chris. There’s only one woman I know of who had the courage and decency to stand up to him and refuse his advances. And he made certain she suffered for it.
Which is why I will always consider Belle McGuire my friend.
Belle stopped again, seemed to catch her breath before she continued.
But she was the one shining exception. The others were only too eager to be used. I’ve learned to feel sorry for them, to think of them as merely weak-willed victims. I write about them now only to explain what kind of man I’ve been married to. It’s a poor defense, I know, but it’s the one defense I can offer to my children, who will one day read these words.
This, my final entry, is for them.
Dearest Ben and Leila, I have asked my friend Belle to keep this diary until the appropriate moment. By the time you hear these words, you will both be adults and in full control of your own funds. You’ll no longer need a protector. And you’ll be ready to know the truth.
Sitting alone in my jail cell night after night, I have repeatedly wondered if my phone conversation with Peter that afternoon in the hotel sealed your father’s fate. I’ve even wondered whether I am passively guilty. My brother’s primary motivation in life has always been money and I’ve always known that. Did he panic when he heard me blow off at your father about the divorce? I cannot fathom my brother being capable of such a crime, let alone letting me die in his place. Besides I have no evidence, and the law only considers evidence, and all the evidence somehow points to me.
You have been told that I am a murderer, that I killed your father. It may have been true that at times I wished him dead, but I did not kill him. I struck no blows, drew no blood. It’s important to me that you both know this.
Now the day comes to a close, and tomorrow is my last. I love you both, my darlings, and will forever blow you kisses from heaven.
Always your mother,
Rosemary Heusen Thomas
Slowly Belle closed the diary and said softly, “Those were the last words she wrote.”
“How do we know any of it’s true?” Stan Ballard snapped.
“That diary is like a deathbed confession,” said Hank Zacharius.
“She’d just finished writing this when she gave it to me,” Belle said. “She had no reason to lie.”
Nunn took a breath, looked directly at Peter Heusen, and said, “We have to assume that Rosemary did tell the truth. Which means that she did not kill her husband.”
24
LISA SCOTTOLINE
No, she didn’t. But thanks to you, Detective, she’s dead.” It was Ben Thomas, Rosemary’s son. Although at first glance the young man seemed to have an almost uncanny resemblance to his father, the eyes that now bored into Nunn’s looked very much like Rosemary’s. His sister was standing beside him looking at the floor, her rich brown hair partially covering her face. Few of the guests had seen the Thomas children since the trial. They’d been away at school and later college.
Ben walked over to Nunn, his demeanor cool. “So now you know what we’ve always known, that our mother did not kill our father. What did it have to take for you to realize that?”
Nunn was quiet. The entire room had gone quiet.
“What did it have to take for you to do your job and investigate our dear uncle Peter?” Ben turned around and glared at Peter Heusen.
Peter sighed impatiently. “Why would I want to kill your father?”
Leila Thomas looked up. “Why? Mom says why in the diary. Money. It’s always been the only thing you’ve cared about. It’s never been enough for you.” She looked at her brother. “He used to dip into our trust funds before we were old enough to ask questions.”
Peter polished off his drink and cleared his throat. “That’s a lie!” he shrieked. Then he took a deep breath. “Listen, no one knew your mother better than I, and no one loved her more, and you know that. But Rosie had gone nuts in that jail cell, day after day, waiting to die. We can’t take those ramblings of hers seriously.” He looked at Stan Ballard. “She cracked up, remember?”
Ballard just nodded.
Leila had crossed the room and was standing across from her uncle, looking him directly in the face. “Don’t you ever stop, Uncle Peter? Our mom was a wonderful and loving person, she was framed for a murder she didn’t commit, and she suffered so many disgraces in her life—” Leila stopped, her gaze shifting to Justine, who looked down, avoiding the younger woman’s eyes. Leila turned to look at Peter again. “And now you’re disgracing her in her death.”
She reached up and slapped him, hard, across the face.
Peter’s eyes flashed with resentment. He stared at his niece for a moment, then turned and left the room.
Ben Thomas moved over to stand beside his sister.
Tony Olsen came forward, took the diary from Belle, closed it with care, and handed it to Ben. “This belongs to you, to both of you. It’s a living legacy, and your mother would want you to have it. You’re its rightful owners.”
Ben accepted the diary.
Leila blinked away tears. “Thank you.”
Tony walked over and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You know, I never believed your mother had anything to do with it.”
“I know,” Leila said.
“I was secretly hoping we’d expose a murderer, tonight. And we might have,” he whispered in her ear.
The girl looked up at him and nodded.
25
PHILLIP MARGOLIN
Nunn knew he had to get away for a few minutes. He needed to be alone, needed to mull over what had just happened, so he headed for the ramp to the lower exhibit gallery, and the exit. A guard had been stationed at the ramp but he was now gone. When Nunn got to the ground floor, he wandered through the darkened halls, preoccupied by his thoughts about what he’d just heard, until he found himself in the Arms and Armor Room.
He walked around the room, then stopped when he walked past one of the display cases. Something was wrong. The case contained daggers and swords. Each was labeled with information about the artifact. One of the labels read RONDELL DAGGER, FOURTEENTH CENTURY, but there was a space where the dagger should have been.
He was walking over to the case so he could examine it more closely when he heard a scream echoing through the marble halls of the museum.
Hank Zacharius could sense a news story when other reporters were oblivious to what was going on around them, but he didn’t need any special instinct to know that a hideous scream at a museum was out of place.
He was off and running. He made the turn into the corridor and was surprised to see Tony Olsen walking down the hall toward him. Olsen’s shoulder was even with the door to the ladies’ room, and Hank thought he saw the door closing, but he couldn’t be certain.
“Did you hear a scream?” Olsen asked.
“Yeah, I thought it came from this hall,” said Zacharius.
“I already passed the offices,” Olsen said, pointing to the rooms on the other side of the hall from the restrooms, “and there’s no one in any of them.”
“That leaves the bathrooms.” Hank pushed open the door to the men’s room, which was empty.
“In here,” Olsen shouted from the ladies’ room.
Hank got his cell phone and darted inside.
Haile Patchett lay crumpled on the floor.
Hank snapped a quick photo of the young woman and a close-up of the blood that was coming from a nasty gash on the back of her head.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Olsen shouted.
Hank took a step closer to Haile but Olsen pushed him away.
“Go outside and keep everyone away from here,” said Olsen. “And get someone to call the police.”
Everyone was huddled around the door to the ladies’ room.
Nunn pushed his way inside.
He found Tony Olsen and a horrified Haile Patchett, who was seated on the floor with her back pressed against
the wall. Haile had a hand to the back of her head and blood was seeping between the matted strands of her red hair.
“What happened?” Nunn asked.
“I, I don’t know,” Haile said. “I was fixing my lipstick when I saw a shadow across the mirror. The next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing him.” She pointed at Tony Olsen.
Olsen looked up at Nunn. “I was with Zacharius when I found her.”
Nunn nodded. “Do you think the attacker was already in here when you came in or do you think whoever it was followed you in?”
Haile just shook her head.
Two policemen rushed up the ramp toward the ladies’ room, and a few minutes later, Haile Patchett came out, a bandage on the back of her head.
“I’m fine,” she announced to a confused and worried crowd. “It’s just a scratch.” She was embarrassed everyone was staring at her.
Hank Zacharius had rejoined the group but hung back, whispering on his cell, calling the story in.
26
JEFFERY DEAVER
Crazy night, huh?” the crime scene officer, who’d just come, said to the security guard sitting behind the massive desk in the front lobby of the museum.
“Rates as one of the strangest,” the guard answered the cop, who along with his partner was assembling their gear. The two police officers who’d initially responded to the call had left, but not before asking him a few questions. The poor lady with the cut on her head had also left the museum, but in an ambulance. The guard glanced up at the crime scene officers again. They were wearing those outfits—jumpsuits and bootees and hats and masks—that made them look more like surgeons than cops. They’d come in to process the scene—he knew that was the term they used because he watched CSI.
The guard looked outside and noticed the crime scene van parked on the curb. Beside it another ambulance that had responded to the call.
No Rest for the Dead Page 18
