“A certain invitation.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “You got one too?”
“Not me, exactly. Stan.”
“And what does Ballard say?” Jon asked, although he told himself he didn’t give a shit what Ballard thought or said about anything.
She shrugged. “We don’t see eye to eye on attending the memorial. He says we’re too busy and that we should just send flowers.” She stopped and, looking down at the floor, said, “But she was innocent, you know.”
Jon laughed out loud. “That’s ironic. Didn’t you say I was obsessed? That I should be locked up in a rubber room, along with my goddamn briefcase and a gallon of Jim Beam?”
“I know what I said,” she said quietly. “But I’ve had a long time to think about it.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
They stood there a long moment, looking at one another, Nunn not sure of what he should say or do.
“Since Tony Olsen’s invitation came, I’ve been thinking about it even more, and…”
Nunn raised an eyebrow.
“Well, the invitation was for Stan and I don’t care if he doesn’t want to go. I was hoping I could go, that you would take me.”
Another long moment, then Jon Nunn did what he’d wanted to do, had thought about doing for a long time. He took his ex-wife in his arms and tugged her toward him.
“Jon, no.” She pressed her hand to his chest. “That’s not why I came.”
Nunn didn’t say anything, just dropped his arms and turned away.
Later they had dinner at a nearby café, where brick-oven-baked pizzas were served on proper white tablecloths, and copper pots and sailboats dangled from the ceiling. Talking. Laughing. Like old times. Only this time it didn’t take booze to grease the wheels.
They were in bed by eleven. Separate beds. Sarah curled up on the double, hair spread out on the pillow, smudges of blue under her eyes, a bolster at her back and the duvet tucked under her chin. Nunn claimed the sofa and the remote control and fell asleep in the middle of Leno.
Seven a.m. now, and she’d hardly moved. Nunn got up, fetched his briefcase, then closed and locked the bathroom door. He perched on the toilet seat, balancing the briefcase on his knees. He eased open the catch, soundlessly, and began pawing through the contents, as familiar to him now as the deepening lines on his face when he studied himself in the mirror every morning.
A newspaper clipping, yellow with age, detailing Rosemary’s trip to Mexico, where she told friends she knew that Chris would never be coming home. Stupid-ass thing to say, Nunn thought, like that crazy nurse in Maryland who’d offed her husband with succinylcholine chloride-on Valentine’s Day no less-after telling colleagues exactly how she’d do it.
Nunn studied the black-and-white photos of the Thomas children, Leila and Ben, that accompanied the article. The same brown hair and inquisitive eyes as their mother, but where Rosemary’s hair had been long, Leila’s was cropped and curly, almost the same length as her older brother’s. He wondered if they’d show up at their mother’s memorial.
He exchanged the article for crime scene photos and a transcript of the trial, where he had testified for over two hours, the evidence he’d found in the back of Rosemary’s closet-the blouse stained with Christopher’s blood and the missing button that had been inside the iron maiden; the strands of Rosemary’s hair in Christopher’s fist.
Damn.
Nunn slid an issue of Vanity Fair out of its protective plastic sleeve, the one he’d saved for over a decade, the one containing the pre-execution interview from death row at California’s Valley State Prison for Women.
Nunn flipped to a picture of Rosemary wearing an orange jumpsuit and white sneakers. He skimmed the piece and reread a line here and there, Rosemary telling the world her story: how Christopher had asked her for a divorce; how they had fought at the museum; how she’d stormed out and how sad and desperate she’d felt. But that she had not killed him.
“So, your husband was a… whoremonger?” the interviewer had suggested.
And Rosemary, ever dignified, had refused to answer.
“So, how,” the interviewer had asked, “did your husband’s body end up in the Eiserne Jungfrau, the iron maiden that was on loan to the McFall?”
Rosemary claimed she had no idea.
“And all the evidence against you?”
Again, Rosemary could not supply the answer to a world waiting to hear a confession from one of the few women who was slated to die by lethal injection in the state of California.
Nunn closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool bathroom tiles. He remembered the exact moment he’d seen the magazine at a newsstand. By the time he got around to reading the article, it was two days after Rosemary Thomas was dead.
He put everything neatly away and closed the briefcase. He washed his face and shaved and eased into the same shirt and trousers he’d worn the day before, then gently shook Sarah by the shoulder.
“It’s nine o’clock. You getting up anytime soon?”
Sarah moaned and pulled the duvet over her head. “Go away.”
Nunn smiled. It suddenly felt as if they were an old married couple. “I’m going out for breakfast, a café just across the street. Want to join me?”
The duvet shrugged.
“I take that as a no.”
“I’ll be down soon.” Muffled.
Nunn stared at her a moment, trying to decide what it was he felt. It was like some B-grade movie, his beautiful ex-wife asking him-not her current husband-to escort her to such an important event. But the ache he felt in his heart was all too real and definitely not part of a script.
Nunn settled into a chair with a cup of Italian-roast coffee and a copy of USA Today. He had read through the Life section and started on Sports, but he couldn’t concentrate.
What did Sarah really want? Was her marriage to Ballard coming apart?
Nunn was picturing Sarah from the night before, fantasizing about whisking her off to someplace exotic such as Rio or Bali, when she finally made her appearance. She looked fresh and bright, her hair still damp from the shower. She laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going shopping.”
“For what?”
Sarah straightened, extended her arms. “I can’t wear this to the memorial, now, can I?”
In Nunn’s opinion, Sarah looked spectacular, her extraordinary body in a white, scoop-necked sweater and tight jeans. He raised an eyebrow. “I guess not. Coffee?” He indicated the chair opposite him.
She flapped a hand. “No, thanks. Gotta run.” She executed a delicate about-face, waved, and was gone.
Nunn watched her disappear down the street.
He downed a second cup of coffee, then left the café, walking down North Point to the Embarcadero and wandering up to Grant near Pier 39. It was unusually quiet for this time of day, he thought, but the back of his neck prickled, as if he was being followed. He turned and thought he saw… something… but then there was no one, and he walked on.
A few blocks later he felt it again. This time when he turned, he was sure he caught the shadow of a man. He sprinted after it, but when he rounded the corner, the alley was empty.
Enough, Nunn thought, and headed back to his apartment. He still needed to tie up a few things before the memorial this evening.
He starts the car and follows the ex-wife.
When she goes into a department store, he parks, cuts across the street, makes his way past counters of women’s perfume and makeup, men’s underwear and cologne, keeping the ex-wife in his sights only yards ahead, a few shoppers between them, mostly women, and it’s early, the store practically empty so he’s got to be careful.
He almost swats the bottle of cologne out of the saleswoman’s hand after she sprays him with something he thinks smells like rotten oranges, and she catches enough of the expression behind his metallic aviators to back away mumbling apologies.