The Late, Lamented Molly Marx by Sally Koslow Read Free Book Online Page B

glad when this ordeal is over.”
    The slightly nasal voice on the other end is the same person who has called around eleven every night for the last week.
    “Thank God it’s the last day,” Barry says.
    I study Barry’s face. His eyes look puffy, and I see wrinkles, newly engraved.
    “How do I feel? Like dog shit.”
    This does not make me unhappy.
    “I think she’s doing okay, but it’s hard to tell—she’s been practically mute.”
    Wrong. Annabel’s been quite a little chatterbox when Barry’s not around, especially when she’s alone.
    “Everyone’s all over her—Delfina, my mother-in-law, and that loudmouth Lucy. Oh, and Molly’s friends.”
    Who’ve come, one by one and in small groups, every night of shiva.
    “Yeah, especially the lipstick lesbians.”
    My gang has really been here.
    “Tomorrow? Impossible. I’m back in surgery.”
    That poor nose.
    “No, my feelings haven’t changed.”
    Does he care about this woman? I can’t tell. After the wedding, I never could tell if he cared about me.
    “I’m hanging up now.”
    The voice sounds even more nasal.
    “Have a little decency,” he says.
    He looks at the clock.
    “I mean it. I’m beat. Another time, Stephanie.”
    Stephanie
.
    Barry crawls into bed. He avoids my side as if rolling there would mean that he, too, will land in a grave, and falls asleep in less than two minutes.
    It’s true that he has surgery in the morning, but not until ten. A detective named Hicks arrives at seven forty-five. He is African American, no older than his early thirties, one earring, a discreet gold stud. I can’t resist watching him, a man who is far more handsome than he guesses.
    “Mr. Marx,” he begins, taking inventory of our living room.
    “It’s Dr.,” Barry answers reflexively
Putz
, he thinks,
why did I say that?
    “Excuse me,” Hicks says. “
Dr
. Marx. I’m sorry for your loss and intruding at this time, sir, but as I told you on the phone, this is standard. Just a few questions.”
    “I’m all yours,” Barry says.
    We’ll see about that
, I hear Hicks think. “The evening that Mrs. Marx went out biking—the night before she was found dead, that is. Where were you?”
    Barry answers immediately. “I was running. In Central Park. Training for the marathon.”
    “Same here,” Hicks offers, in a friendlier tone than I would have predicted.
    “Well, then you know how much time you have to put in,” Barry says. “At least an old guy like me does.” He laughs as he attempts to grease his way with charm. He guesses that he isn’t actually too many years older than Hicks, but the detective isn’t going to reward him with personal workout details.
    “Did anyone see you that night?”
    Barry takes a minute to answer, but he has already decided what to say. “The doorman.”
    Alphonso, our evening doorman, can’t remember if you had a colony of bats delivered twenty minutes ago, and he loves Barry, who gives him a few Yankee tickets every season.
    “And where did you run in the park?” Hicks says.
    “Entered across the street, ran south, up to the north end of the park, then back out on Eighty-first,” Barry says. “The usual loop.”
    “How long did it take you?”
    Barry shifts in his chair and twists the wedding band. “That run usually takes me about forty-five minutes.”
    Barry looks as if he is waiting to be congratulated on his seven-minute miles, but instead Hicks asks, “Did anyone see you running?”
    What the fuck
, Barry thinks. “Sure, a lot of people, I guess, but we don’t all stop and introduce ourselves.”
It’s not speed-dating, for Christ’s sake
, he thinks.
    “Was there anyone you can think of who would have wanted to harm your wife?” Hicks asks.
    After a long, considered pause Barry says, “Everyone loved Molly. She wasn’t a threat to anyone.” Not exactly the highest praise, but I imagine he thinks he is complimenting me to, well, the heavens.
    “Was Mrs. Marx upset about