The Late, Lamented Molly Marx by Sally Koslow Page A

they teach keeping cool in law school?
    “Ms. Vega, would you mind if I had a few moments alone with Ms. Lawson, please?” asks Hicks. Isadora stands and smooths away nonexistent creases on her sleeveless black dress, in which she manages to appear as dignified as a head of state despite the fact that it clings to her tiny waist and curvy hips. Isadora possesses the kind of beauty that generally requires a passport. We were the same height, but she looks a head taller than I ever felt. On the middle finger of her right hand, a ring featuring a large, lemony stone—I have no idea if it’s a rare diamond or a hunk of glass—reflects the afternoon light.
    “As you wish,” she says, and walks into the bedroom and closes the door. Hicks and I both know that through the wall Isadora can hear much of what’s said.
    “So, Ms. Lawson, what’s that phrase people use nowadays? Friends with benefits? Did that apply to you and Mrs. Marx?” I’m getting the feeling that he is going out of his way to offend.
    Brie scowls ever so slightly. “No, Molly and I were always friends,” she says. “No ‘benefits.’” She signals quotation marks with her fingers, her manicure a flawless taupe.
    Hicks says … nothing.
    “In those days I had boyfriends,” she adds, although he hasn’t asked.
    “Thank you for the clarification, Ms. Lawson,” he says. “Now, let’s see. How would you describe the state of Mrs. Marx’s marriage?”
    Brie shifts from left to right and back again. “You never really know what’s going on in another relationship.”
    It sounds reasonable to me, but all Hicks says is, “Ms. Lawson, the question, please?”
    “They weren’t exactly one of those couples with a joint mission statement tucked away in a drawer, but in their own way Barry and Molly were devoted and well matched. He was very caught up with work, has a difficult mother, and could be a flirt, but I always thought Molly took it all in stride. He’s a loving, doting daddy, and I know that meant a lot to her. She and Annabel were his home port. His heart. She knew that.”
    Tell me something I don’t know
, Hicks thinks.
Did Barry kill his wife? Was she cheating on him? Was he cheating on her and did he want Molly out of the picture? Did this lawyer lady do it, or maybe the jealous señorita in the next room?
    “Barry criticized Molly, but I always read it as affectionate teasing, and assumed Molly did, too,” Brie added. “He’d never hurt Molly, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
    “Because he loved her?” Hicks asks.
    “Well, that,” Brie says, “yes, of course—that’s a given—and …” Brie hesitates.
    “Go on,” Hicks say.
    “Because I imagine that any kind of brutality would effectively terminate his career.” She makes an odd noise. It’s her nervous laugh, a dry, low gurgle.
    “How so?”
    “Detective, women are pretty damn scared to go under the knife-can you imagine using a cosmetic surgeon rumored to be a butcher?”
A goddamn butcher
is what Brie thinks.
    “Interesting,” Hicks says. He gets up from the Eames chair and moves to the far end of the low burnt orange sofa across from its twin, where Brie is sitting. From this spot, the view of her legs is even better.“And Mrs. Marx—did she love her husband?” he says, picking up a book, a biography of Maxwell Perkins, which he absentmindedly pages through and puts down while he waits for Brie’s answer. “Didn’t that guy always wear a hat to work? Maybe I should start that.”
    “Without a doubt, yes,” Brie shoots back, and I’m not sure if she means the hat or is answering Hicks’ question. “Barry could get to her, but he was also her flotation device.”
Where in the hell did I come up with that term?
Brie is asking herself. And why is she so sure about this? I wonder.
    “Her what?” the detective asks. Now he’s interested.
    “I always thought Molly pretended her marriage was worse than it was. Some sort of self-deprecating