Sitting on a black leather Eames chair, he might be taken for another sleek minimalist object in Brie and Isadora’s loft. “Ms. Lawson, was that reading of yours at Mrs. Marx’s funeral by Elizabeth Barrett Browning?” he asks, as if he honestly cares about Victorian poetry. “Emily Dickinson,” Brie says. She’s wearing her Jessica Rabbit-goes-to-court suit, bought to scare the nuts off opposing counsel. It has a tight jacket, strategically unbuttoned to show a peek of cleavage. The pencil skirt, which hugs her butt, ends just below her knees. Her hair is pulled back into a severe chignon. Isadora sits beside her on the couch, a wrinkle that I’ve never noticed etching a delicate valley between her slightly hooded hazel eyes. “I knew it was one of those depressed women,” the detective says, helping himself to chocolate biscotti that Isadora has set out on a square white china plate. “Now, I gather from Mrs. Marx’s funeral that you two were close,” he says. “Can you tell me a little about the … relationship?”
What do You think about The Late, Lamented Molly Marx?
