Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

“So, how does the Pollock look to you?” Christopher asked Tony Olsen.

“Shimmering. Brilliant. Expensive.”

“What about s-sloppy?” said Peter Heusen, insinuating himself between the two men, slurring his words.

Christopher sighed loudly. “My brother-in-law fails to notice the internal structure that Pollock is working with, the choreography of the drips, the interweaving skeins of paint almost like a dance.”

Peter made a noise through his nose and Christopher snagged him by the elbow, turned him around fast, and hissed in his ear. “Go away, Peter, now . You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Oh, fuck off, Thomas, I know you,” Peter said, his boozy breath hitting Christopher’s face like a damp sponge.

“Chris-”

Christopher let go of his brother-in-law and turned to the familiar voice.

“I’ve left over a dozen messages for you,” she said.

Haile Patchett .

Christopher could feel the crowd closing around him, collectors and artists, his staff, even the chief curator, his boss, Alex Hultgren, a man devoid of humor, and the chairman of the board, Tony Olsen.

“I can’t speak now,” he whispered to Haile. “I’ll call you.”

“That’s what you keep saying but you never do.”

“Who’s this, Chris?” Justine Olegard took a step in front of Haile Patchett.

“I could ask you the same question,” said Haile, eyeing Justine, lips pursed.

Christopher looked from one to the other. “I can’t do this, Haile, not here,” he whispered close to her ear.

“Oh, you remember my name, what a surprise.” She trilled a fake laugh and Christopher tightened a grip on her arm.

“Oh, relax,” she said, “I’m not going to cause a scene.”

“You already have.” He looked around, saw the chief curator, Tony Olsen, Justine, all watching him.

Christopher painted on a smile, trying to defuse the moment, as Haile Patchett reached up to smooth his hair, an old habit, something she’d seen in a movie no doubt; everything about Haile was theatrical. And he would have stopped her, the act totally inappropriate for the setting, his hand already up reaching for hers when he saw Rosemary cutting through the crowd toward him, her features distorted with anger.

“Enough!”

Rosemary Thomas was surprised to hear her voice, so much louder than she expected. She swatted Haile Patchett’s arm away from her husband.

“What on earth-?” Haile glared at her, mouth open.

“What you’ve done for me ?” Rosemary shouted at Christopher. “For me ?” She was trembling but it didn’t matter; nothing seemed to matter. “To think what I gave up for you -the years, my life !-and for what ?”

“Rosemary, please.” Christopher made tamping-down motions with his large hands, a smile frozen on his lips.

Everyone around them had gone quiet, a ripple effect in motion, the crowd quieting in successive rings until the only people left talking were those on the outer fringe, a throbbing chorus at the museum’s perimeter.

Christopher reached for Rosemary, but she slapped his hand away and pulled back.

“Rosemary-”

“You bastard! I gave you all this. And now-”

“Rosemary, please . You’ve had too much to drink, darling, you’re not yourself.” He managed an arm around her shoulder, but she shook him off.

“I’ve had nothing to drink. I’ve never been more sober.” The sound of her voice, her words, still shocked her, but she couldn’t stop. “You want a divorce, Christopher? We’ll see about that!” Then the room was spinning, the ceiling slanting on an oblique angle, the floor coming to meet it, and she saw Justine’s eyes narrowing and Haile Patchett smiling and Tony Olsen frowning and all the artists and dealers and curators like grotesque caricatures out of a Daumier print staring at her, and then, in a moment, as if someone had thrown a switch, the room came back to life, everyone chattering but looking away, embarrassed, pretending nothing had happened. But it was too late; the reality of what she had done in the middle of the exhibition, in the middle of the museum with everyone watching, rippled through her. Tears in her eyes, cheeks burning, she pushed her way through the crowd and ran out of the room.

Mom?”

Her day was only five seconds old, and already Rosemary dreaded the remainder of it. She rolled onto her back and pried her eyes open. Her daughter was standing beside the bed, still in her pajamas, a Barbie tucked beneath her arm.

“Are you awake, Mom?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

Chris’s side of the bed was conspicuously empty. Rosemary cleared her throat. “He had to go into work early today.”

It was an obvious lie, even to a child. One Rosemary had used too often.

Leila looked at Rosemary with sulky reproach. “Your eyes are puffy.”

“Are they?” Rosemary could tell by feel that they were. “I slept… hard.” She tried to muster a smile.

“Was it a nice party, Mommy?”

Rosemary avoided answering. “Is your brother up?”

“He’s downstairs. We’re hungry.”

“Ask Elsie to fix your breakfast.”

“We like your pancakes better, Mom.”

Her daughter stood there waiting for her. Rosemary pushed off the covers and got out of bed. The events of last night would catch up with her sooner or later, but in the meantime she must act as though this were an ordinary day.

For the children’s sake.

For her own sanity.

The first indication that this might not be a normal day in the life of Rosemary Heusen Thomas came at eleven o’clock after the pancake breakfast. Her children had eaten. She had pretended to. She’d sorted dry cleaning with her maid, Elsie, asked her to schedule the window washer for one day next week, and, having received a reminder postcard from the dentist, called to make appointments for her and the children.

Normalcy.

Getting on with the routine things of life.

But then just as she was on her way out to the garden to cut roses, Elsie approached her with the cordless house phone. “It’s the museum, asking for Mr. Thomas.”

Rosemary waited until Elsie was out of earshot. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Thomas.” It was Chris’s secretary. “I hate to bother Mr. Thomas at home,” she cooed. “But something’s come up that needs his immediate attention. May I speak with him, please?”

“He’s not here.”

“Oh.”

The single syllable was heavy on inflection, causing it to vibrate with implication. Rosemary’s cheeks flamed with anger and resentment, but the newfound audacity she’d exhibited last night was made shier by caution this morning. She decided she should volunteer nothing, say as little as possible.

With all the composure she could muster, she asked, “Have you tried his cell phone?”

“Numerous times. Mr. Olsen is quite anxious to speak with him. Do you have any idea where I might reach him?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Or when he might be available?”

“No.”

“Will you be coming in today, Mrs. Thomas?”

The busybody was really rubbing it in, wasn’t she? The department of the museum in which Rosemary worked wasn’t any business of hers. She was fishing for information-about Chris-that was all.

“Not today, no. Now if you’ll excuse-”

“You have no idea where I can find your husband?”

Rosemary pretended not to have heard the question and disconnected before anything more could be said.

Rosemary didn’t hearthe door open or even his footsteps.