Peter laughed. “Well, Rosie, you know Christopher, maybe one of his underworld connections will get sick of him one day and make a merry little widow out of you.”
I didn’t say anything to that because at times deep down I would have welcomed such an outcome. This was one of them.
“Peter, I’m asking for a little reassurance. I want to know that Ben and Leila will always be taken care of. That they’ll be safe and comfortable, no matter what.”
“Well, that much is assured. They’ve got generous trust funds.”
“But will it stay generous? Even if something happens to me?”
“What could happen to you? And even if something did, I am their uncle. You think I’d let them be robbed blind?”
“You mean it, Peter? You would look after them?” Even as I ask this, I realize it is out of sheer desperation, that I have no one else to ask.
And of course Peter lets me down.
“Look, why don’t you go get a stiff drink or something?” he says. “Take your mind off this. You’re just working yourself up over nothing.”
That’s Peter’s answer to everything: a stiff drink. But this time, maybe it’s good advice. I hang up and go to the bar.
But two martinis later, my mind is still chewing over the image of my husband and that woman on the bed. I wonder who she is; I’ve never seen her before. When and where did he meet her? Does she know he’s married? Does she know anything about him?
I’m feeling drunk and reckless as I go to the hotel’s front desk. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’ve lost my key. It’s to room two fifteen. The last name is Thomas.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ll need to see ID.”
“Of course.” I show him my driver’s license. I’m gambling that Chris checked in under his real name.
The gamble pays off. He has taken a woman to our honeymoon hotel and has not bothered or cared enough to hide his identity.
“Here you go, Mrs. Thomas,” the clerk says, and he hands me a key card.
I wait until Chris and his latest slut are dining in the restaurant, then I make my way to their room and let myself in. Inside I find rumpled bedsheets, damp towels on the floor. In the bathroom I find a woman’s makeup bag, open it, and take out a vial of pills. The woman’s name is printed clearly. All I know about her is that she takes sleeping pills and I know her name.
Haile Patchett.
Belle stopped reading and looked up, her eyes locking on Haile’s. The room had gone absolutely silent, everyone staring at Haile.
Haile looked down at the floor, muttered, “Excuse me,” and left the room.
“Go on,” Nunn told Belle.
Belle cleared her throat and continued where she’d left off.
On that awful night when I saw her again at the Pollock opening after Chris had asked me for a divorce, it was just too much and I blew up. What a mistake that was. That’s the instant I recall when my life began to spin out of control
But Haile was just another conquest, another in a long string of women who were used and abandoned by Chris. There’s only one woman I know of who had the courage and decency to stand up to him and refuse his advances. And he made certain she suffered for it.
Which is why I will always consider Belle McGuire my friend.
Belle stopped again, seemed to catch her breath before she continued.
But she was the one shining exception. The others were only too eager to be used. I’ve learned to feel sorry for them, to think of them as merely weak-willed victims. I write about them now only to explain what kind of man I’ve been married to. It’s a poor defense, I know, but it’s the one defense I can offer to my children, who will one day read these words.
This, my final entry, is for them.
Dearest Ben and Leila, I have asked my friend Belle to keep this diary until the appropriate moment. By the time you hear these words, you will both be adults and in full control of your own funds. You’ll no longer need a protector. And you’ll be ready to know the truth.
Sitting alone in my jail cell night after night, I have repeatedly wondered if my phone conversation with Peter that afternoon in the hotel sealed your father’s fate. I’ve even wondered whether I am passively guilty. My brother’s primary motivation in life has always been money and I’ve always known that. Did he panic when he heard me blow off at your father about the divorce? I cannot fathom my brother being capable of such a crime, let alone letting me die in his place. Besides I have no evidence, and the law only considers evidence, and all the evidence somehow points to me.
You have been told that I am a murderer, that I killed your father. It may have been true that at times I wished him dead, but I did not kill him. I struck no blows, drew no blood. It’s important to me that you both know this.
Now the day comes to a close, and tomorrow is my last. I love you both, my darlings, and will forever blow you kisses from heaven.
Always your mother,
Rosemary Heusen Thomas
Slowly Belle closed the diary and said softly, “Those were the last words she wrote.”
“How do we know any of it’s true?” Stan Ballard snapped.
“That diary is like a deathbed confession,” said Hank Zacharius.
“She’d just finished writing this when she gave it to me,” Belle said. “She had no reason to lie.”
Nunn took a breath, looked directly at Peter Heusen, and said, “We have to assume that Rosemary did tell the truth. Which means that she did not kill her husband.”
24 Lisa Scottoline
No, she didn’t. But thanks to you, Detective, she’s dead.” It was Ben Thomas, Rosemary’s son. Although at first glance the young man seemed to have an almost uncanny resemblance to his father, the eyes that now bored into Nunn’s looked very much like Rosemary’s. His sister was standing beside him looking at the floor, her rich brown hair partially covering her face. Few of the guests had seen the Thomas children since the trial. They’d been away at school and later college.
Ben walked over to Nunn, his demeanor cool. “So now you know what we’ve always known, that our mother did not kill our father. What did it have to take for you to realize that?”
Nunn was quiet. The entire room had gone quiet.
“What did it have to take for you to do your job and investigate our dear uncle Peter?” Ben turned around and glared at Peter Heusen.
Peter sighed impatiently. “Why would I want to kill your father?”
Leila Thomas looked up. “Why? Mom says why in the diary. Money. It’s always been the only thing you’ve cared about. It’s never been enough for you.” She looked at her brother. “He used to dip into our trust funds before we were old enough to ask questions.”
Peter polished off his drink and cleared his throat. “That’s a lie!” he shrieked. Then he took a deep breath. “Listen, no one knew your mother better than I, and no one loved her more, and you know that. But Rosie had gone nuts in that jail cell, day after day, waiting to die. We can’t take those ramblings of hers seriously.” He looked at Stan Ballard. “She cracked up, remember?”
Ballard just nodded.
Leila had crossed the room and was standing across from her uncle, looking him directly in the face. “Don’t you ever stop, Uncle Peter? Our mom was a wonderful and loving person, she was framed for a murder she didn’t commit, and she suffered so many disgraces in her life-” Leila stopped, her gaze shifting to Justine, who looked down, avoiding the younger woman’s eyes. Leila turned to look at Peter again. “And now you’re disgracing her in her death.”