The Late, Lamented Molly Marx by Sally Koslow Page B

shtick.”
    But Brie has it wrong. I think she wanted my marriage to be better than I presented it. Brie was the kind of friend sure enough about herself that she didn’t need my happiness to be less so she could convince herself that hers was more.
    “Can you elaborate?” Hicks asks.
    I wish I could
, Brie thinks.
I wish I had evidence
. “Just a sense I had.”
    Did Brie take me for a big, empty complainer?
    “Tell us about the last time you saw Mrs. Marx,” Hicks says.
    “It was a bike ride. Remember when we had that string of sixty-degree days in February?”
    Global warming. I wonder if I’ll be around to see how that plays out.
    Hicks removes a black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and scribbles in it. “You mention that the husband’s family was … what was your word, ‘difficult’?”
    “Molly got along with them fine,” she says, although she knows that Kitty only tolerated me, sometimes politely. “The same with her parents and sister.”
    “The sister,” Hicks says. “What’s up with her?”
    “Excuse me?” Brie asks.
    “At the service … you don’t think she was a little intense?”
    “It was her twin sister’s funeral,” Brie says, icy. “How was she supposed to act?”
    “Okay,” he says. “Sorry if I’m outta line. But what about the sisters? Were they close?”
    “Do you have a brother or sister, Detective?” Brie asks. “You know how it goes. Sometimes you love them, and sometimes you wish your mother had drowned them at birth.” As soon as the words fly out of her mouth, Brie regrets them. “The thing with Molly and Lucy is they knew how to press each other’s buttons, but they were very tight.”
They loved each other
, Brie thinks.
Lucy worshipped Molly. Molly was in awe of Lucy
.
    “Were you and Lucy tight, too?” he asks.
    Brie pauses. She always found Lucy smug and provincial, probably because she knew Lucy found her smug and pretentious. “Mutually respectful,” she says.
    Hicks chuckles ever so slightly.
    Isadora walks out of the bedroom carrying a large handbag. I can’t take my eyes off it—black leather embossed with swirling flowers, possibly even a canary. She walks to Brie, puts her arm around her shoulder, and grazes her lips with a kiss.
    Hicks seems to be enjoying the show. He grins. “Well, we’ll be winding things up soon here, Ms. Lawson,” he says. “Just a few more questions. Where were you the night that your friend died?”
    Brie squeezes her eyes shut, trying to stop the onset of tears. “I was working,” she said. “In Brazil.”
    When I was bowling in the Bronx
, Hicks thinks. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”
    Brie looks pale and tired. A lock of dark hair falls out of her chignon, and she brushes it away from her face. “Nothing I can think of.”
    “Okay, then,” Hicks says. “Just one more thing. Do you know a Luke?” He pulls out the notebook again. “Luke Delaney?”
    “Luke Delaney,” she says. “Yes—yes, I do. We met years ago, when I was a model.”
    A model
, Hicks thinks, not surprised. “And what was Mr. Delaney’s relationship to Mrs. Marx?” he asks.
    “Work associates. He’s a photographer.”
    “That’s all you want to tell me?” he asks.
    Brie finds her courtroom game face. “That’s all I know.”
    Hicks gets up and shakes Brie’s hand. I am fairly certain he holds her palm for a moment longer than necessary, but I can’t be held accountable for my observations, because the mention of Luke, whom I have refused to think about, has my mind in orbit.
    “If there’s anything else that you remember, here’s my card,” the detective says. He’s switched his tone to neutral pointing toward cordial, presses the card into Brie’s hand, and walks out the door. His rear view is possibly his best angle.
    After he leaves, she steps to a desk and puts the card in the skinny, empty drawer on the right.
Hiawatha Hicks
, it reads. She says the name out loud. “Hiawatha?” The laugh