Sometime shortly after eight-thirty, the image of Rosemary Fox pushing through the glass door began its stuttering trip along the monitors. She was accompanied by Alan and Gloria Ross. No one at the bar seemed to recognize Marshall Fox’s wife on the screen. However, diners seated at their tables turned their heads and watched as Rosemary and the Rosses were ushered to a table in the far corner of the large loud room. The Rosses took a seat on either side of Rosemary, who looked pale and angry, even behind her blue-tinted sunglasses. She also looked lovely in her $10,000 Versace “smock,” her thick hair falling nearly to her elbows. The hostess had given the invisible signal, and by the time the three were settling in, a basket of cracked poppy-seed bread was being slid onto the table, a deep blue bottle of sparkling water was landing on the linen, and a frog-faced man in a deliberately oversize silk blouse was folding his hands together and silently kissing the air in front of him as he crooned, “How might I please you with cocktails this evening?”
Rosemary answered that one. “Double vodka martini. Three olives. Tell your man he’s never built one so dry. Tell him also to wait approximately seven minutes and then build another one. No olives in that one.”
The frog-faced man practically snapped his heels. “The lady knows what she wants.”
“Yes.” Rosemary sighed. “The lady does, at that.”
Samuel Deveraux was going to declare a mistrial. This wasn’t officially official, but it was what Fred Willis had all but guaranteed when he’d phoned Rosemary earlier in the day. Something about the jury foreperson wigging out. A suicide attempt? Rosemary hadn’t paid much attention to the details. Apparently, the husband was a nut. That much was abundantly clear. There was even a rumor making the rounds that he was wanted for questioning in the murders of Zachary and the Quaker girl. As of early evening, the man was not yet in custody. Rosemary had also received a phone call from that woman detective, the one who had put Marshall under arrest in May. Real balls on that little gal, Rosemary thought, making that call herself. The detective had wanted to tell Rosemary about the juror’s husband, equivocating on whether she thought the man was really the murderer everyone was looking for, but she did feel confident that he was the one who had left the crude message on Rosemary’s phone machine. “A friendly warning, Mrs. Fox. You might want to be extra-cautious until we bring him in.”
Alan and Gloria Ross sat silently, waiting for their cue from Rosemary. Rosemary was only slightly difficult to read behind the blue sunglasses. Her left index finger was tapping rapidly on her folded napkin, and her perfect chin was dipped slightly. Ross couldn’t help but steal a glance at her breasts, pale and full, nudging the silver fabric of the dress. Familiarity with Rosemary Fox had bred no lack of astonishment on Ross’s part at how beautiful and sensual the woman was, even wound tight as a clock, as she clearly was this evening.
Gloria was giving her husband a signaclass="underline" a head bob in Rosemary’s direction. Ross reached over and placed his hand over Rosemary’s fingers, snuffing out her nervous tapping.
“I know a new trial seems like just about the worst thing on earth, honey,” he said in as soothing a tone as he could muster in the noisy restaurant. “It pushes the time line way back for getting your life back to normal, I know that. But that jury was getting more and more freaked by the minute, Rose. They could have easily come in with a guilty verdict, you have to remember that. Marshall could be in the stew this very minute, but he’s not. We all live to fight another day.”
He glanced at his wife, who nodded nearly imperceptibly. Ross continued, “That’s how you have to look at it, Rose. And there’ll be no surprises the next time. We’ve all seen what they’ve got. Fred can work with that.” He patted her hand again. “You’ll see. Fred says there’s a decent argument for getting Marshall out on bail now. It ain’t gonna be cheap, honey. But think of it. Marshall free. That would be huge.”
Rosemary’s martini arrived, along with a pair of gin and tonics for the Rosses. The frog-faced man started to make nice with his customers, but Gloria caught his eye and waved him off with barely a movement.
Rosemary took up her drink. The Rosses followed suit.
“To Marshall,” Gloria said.
As they toasted-somewhat lacklusterly-Rosemary spotted two men sitting several tables away, staring at her. Good-looking men. Rosemary lowered her glass and picked out one of the olives, making just a bit more out of sucking it into her mouth than was called for.
God, she thought. I am such a cunt.
Gloria was talking now. Rosemary wasn’t tuning in fully. More about Marshall this, Marshall that, future this, future that. Rosemary trained her eyes in the direction of Gloria’s face, just to look as if she were listening. Who was this woman kidding? Future? Future? Okay, Rosemary had a future. She had a lot of future, for that matter, as well as a lot of ideas about how she would like to spend it. She had no intention of bungling any more of her time than she already had. Rosemary was kind of surprised to hear Gloria talking that way. Gloria was in the business, she knew how a future could be cut short like that. She had to know full well that there would be no Marshall Fox after all this, whatever the outcome and whenever this endless tedious soap opera of a trial finally ran its course. Rosemary didn’t mean to be cold about it, only realistic. Marshall Fox was dead.
Rosemary finished off her drink. The frog-faced man appeared as if by magic, bringing her second martini on a tray.
“You tell your man he is making me happy,” Rosemary said.
The frog-faced man made a flourish. A laugh traveled about the table. The beautiful woman shared a smile with her dinner guests, both of whom responded eagerly. The good-looking men at the other table were still looking at her. Rosemary picked up her drink, tipping it ever so slightly in their direction, and allowed them the tiniest of smiles. Men. She thought about what was waiting for her back at the apartment. Her best-kept secret. She had to laugh. The lucky bastard would never have it so good again, that was for sure. He was probably not the future for too much longer, though that wasn’t important right now. Right now he was still there-that was the point-willing to cater to her whims. The power of a woman can be almost frightening. Rosemary never tired of marveling at it. She knew she’d have to start putting distance between the two of them. She’d waited way too long already. But for Christ’s sake, her husband was behind bars. What was she supposed to do, shave her head and find a convent? Rosemary anticipated some trouble when the time came for her to lay down the law. There’d be a scene; he’d already surprised her with his ability to make scenes. She realized she’d better start devising her plan of action now, just to be on the safe side.
The menus arrived. Yet another waiter. Rosemary held the single sheet down near her cutlery and looked over the options. The waiter was reeling off a list of specials, each one more elaborate and yummy-sounding than the next. There was an appetizer special of oysters. Rosemary envisioned the ugly little things. Floating in their own milky swill. Presented in those gnarly misshapen shells. The things people chose to consider special. The emperor’s new oysters. She thought they tasted disgusting. Squishy slime. Like swallowing someone’s mucus.
“I’ll have those,” Rosemary said. “The oysters.” A giddy thought came to her mind. No. Yes. Must be the martini. She reached out both arms, graceful and swanlike, and placed her fingers on Alan’s and Gloria’s hands, eliciting a smile from each of them. She looked back up at the waiter.