A is for Alibi

up and I think we should talk."
    "What is it?"
    "I'd rather talk to you in person. Do you know where Rosie's is, down here at the beach?"
    "Yes. I think I know the place," she said with uncertainty.
    "Can you meet me there in half an hour? It's important."
    "Well sure. Just let me get my shoes on. I'll be there as soon as I can."
    "Thanks," I said.
    I checked my watch. It was 7:45. I wanted her on my turf this time.
    Rosie's was deserted, the lights dim, the whole place smelling of yesterday's cigarette smoke. I used to go to a movie theater when I was a kid and the ladies' rest room always smelled like that. Rosie was wearing a muumuu in a print fabric that depicted many flamingos standing on one leg. She was seated at the end of the bar, reading a newspaper by the light of a small television set, which she'd placed on the bar, sound off. She looked up as I came in and she set the paper aside.
    "It's too late for dinner. The kitchen is closed. I gave myself the night off," she announced from across the room. "You want something to eat, you gotta fix it yourself at home. Ask Henry Pitts. He'll do you something good."
    "I'm meeting someone for a drink," I said. "Big crowd you got."
    She looked around as though maybe she'd missed someone. I went over to the bar. She looked as though she'd just redyed her hair because her scalp was faintly pink. She was using a Maybelline dark brown eyeliner pencil on her brows, which she seemed to draw closer together every time, coquettishly arched. Pretty soon, she could take care of the whole thing with one wavy line.
    "You got a man yet?" she asked.
    "Six or eight a week," I said. "Do you have any cold chablis?"
    "Just the crummy stuff. Help yourself."
    I went around behind the bar and got a glass, taking the big gallon jug of white wine out of the refrigerator under the bar. I poured a tumblerful, adding ice. I went over to my favorite booth and sat down, preparing myself mentally like an actor about to go on stage. It was time to stop being polite.
    Gwen arrived forty minutes later, looking crisp and capable. Her greeting to me was pleasant enough, but under it I thought I could detect the tension, as though she had some inkling of what I was about to say. Rosie shuffled over, giving Gwen a brief appraising look. She must have thought Gwen looked okay because she honored her with a direct question.
    "You want something to drink?"
    "Scotch on the rocks. And could I have a glass of water, too, please?"
    Rosie shrugged. She didn't care what people drank. "You want to run a tab?" she said to me.
    I shook my head. "I'll take care of it now," I said. Rosie moved off toward the bar. The look Gwen and I exchanged inadvertently indicated that both of us remembered her first reference to drinking Scotch in the days long past, when she was married to Laurence Fife and playing the perfect wife. I wondered what she was playing now.
    "I revert now and then to the hard stuff," she said, picking up my thought.
    "Why not?" I replied.
    She studied me briefly. "What's up?"
    The question was brave. I didn't think she really wanted to know, but she'd always struck me as the type to plunge right in. She probably whipped off big pieces of adhesive tape, too, with the same decisive thrust, just to get it over with.
    "I talked to Colin," I said. "He remembered you."
    The modification in her manner was slight and a look, not of apprehension, but of wariness flickered in her eyes.
    "Well that's nice," she said. "I haven't seen him for years, of course. I told you that. " She reached into her purse and took out a compact, checking her reflection quickly in the mirror running a hand through her hair. Rosie came back with her Scotch and a glass of water. I paid the tab. Rosie tucked the money in the pocket of her muumuu and wandered back to the bar while Gwen took a sip of water. She seemed to be holding herself in check, not trusting herself to pick up the conversation where we'd left off. I bumped her along for the sake of surprise.
    "You never mentioned that you had an affair with Laurence," I said.
    A laugh burbled out. "Who, me? With him? You can't be serious."
    I had to interrupt her merriment. "Colin saw you out at the beach house that weekend when Nikki was out of town. I don't know all the details, but I can make a guess."
    I watched her compute that and shift gears. She was a very good little actress herself, but the slick cover she'd constructed was getting shabby from disuse. It had been a long