As Husbands Go by Susan Isaacs

Author:Susan Isaacs [Isaacs, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Contemporary Women
ISBN: 9781416573081
Google: Kwac8-GB3woC
Amazon: 1416573089
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2011-04-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

I blessed the Tuttle Farm nursery school’s four-hour day, its “yummy, nutritious, all-organic lunch,” and its “wide range of exciting, individualized, optional after-school activities.” The wide range was two: Yay for Yoga or Creative Clay. My three boys went for clay. Each indulged his unique artistic vision by making humongous plates with SpongeBob and/or Squidward painted on them. So I was free, and with Ida and Ingvild off with another au pair to explore still more wonders of Long Island mall-dom, I had my Monday in front of the TV in the den watching Dorinda Dillon.

Not that there was much to watch except the perp walk. There she was at JFK, handcuffed, with a quilted jacket too big to be hers draped around her shoulders. Two female detectives for whom the word “strapping” must have been invented led her past a lineup of photographers and reporters who shouted to get Dorinda’s attention: “Hey, look over here!” “Did you know him before that night, Dorinda?” “Over here, beautiful!” “Did you ever have plastic surgery?” “Yo! Dor! Why’d you kill the doc?”

CNN and MSNBC had slightly different angles. I went with CNN’s because Strapping Detective #1’s shoulder wasn’t blocking the camera at the moment Dorinda turned her head to the shoving pack of journalists and rolled her eyes in Give me a break boredom. Her expression was more what you’d expect from a celebrity-hounded eighteen-year-old hip-hop star than a handcuffed hooker with no makeup except atrocious blackish-red lipstick, whose shoulder-length hair (not the roots but the part that was still blond) looked like the hay they fed hansom cab horses around Central Park. Too bad for her that her chances of getting near a stylist, or even a box of Clairol Champagne Blond, were iffy—at least for the next twenty-five years.

I couldn’t get enough Dorinda. I had recorded a bunch of evening and late-night local news shows so I could watch them first thing the next morning, the instant the boys left for school. After I’d seen them, there was nothing to do except wait for the perp-walk clip on CNN Headline News every half hour. Right after it ran, I’d race upstairs to my computer to check out online videos on a couple of Las Vegas TV websites.

Since I’d spent extra on a high-quality color monitor for viewing flowers, I was able to check out the style and eye-burning purpleness of Dorinda’s halter sundress, which had been hidden under the borrowed jacket at the airport in New York. The purple had a sheen not just of the sleaziest polyester ever manufactured but also of newness.

I played those Las Vegas news segments over and over. As I watched them, parallel videos ran in my head. I pictured Dorinda getting to Nevada in New York winter clothes and spending twenty dollars of Jonah’s fast-disappearing cash in a dreadful store with filthy linoleum on the dressing room floor. Maybe she thought she looked luscious in the dress. On the other hand, she could

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