House on Fire (ARC)

by Bonnie Kistler

  “I’m gonna call some of these guests to confirm,” Frank said.

  “But really, there’s no question. He couldn’t have been on Hollow Road that night.”

  For a minute Pete couldn’t speak, the news hit him so hard. He’d fought with Leigh, he’d walked out on her, and all for nothing. Kip didn’t even recognize the man on the TV screen, but Pete pounced on the possibility anyway, and look where it got them. Nowhere.

  “Wait. Hold on,” he said. “The day Leigh met him. What was he doing on Hollow Road?”

  “That’s the one thing he wouldn’t share with us. Seal of the confessional or whatever. Not that it matters.”

  “Wait. He’s saying it was official business? Frank, your people canvassed everybody on the road and not one person said a priest visited them. Then or ever, right?”

  “I guess that seal works both ways.”

  “No.” He couldn’t let it go. “Something fishy’s going on.”

  Shelby’s sigh drifted through the speaker. “Fishy or not, who cares? Maybe he was on Hollow Road a hundred times before, but he wasn’t there that night. He couldn’t have made it from New York to St. Alban in two hours. So he’s not the guy. End of story.”

  After a minute Pete mumbled a grudging, “Right.”

  She rang off soon after, and he and Kip stayed where they were, on their haunches staring at the phone in heavy silence.

  Kip finally spoke. “He coulda helicoptered down.”

  Pete gave him a withering look. “This isn’t some comic book, Kip. This is your life.”

  The boy’s cheeks flushed pink under the plaster dust. “I know that.”

  The silence swelled, and after a minute Pete realized why. The trackhoe wasn’t running. He ran upstairs and found the pool guys waiting for him. They’d run into a problem, and he followed them outside to see that they’d unearthed a massive boulder in the exact space where the spa would go. They’d need a crane to get it out of there, and that would have to be an add-on to their contract price. While they were haggling over that, the landscaper came up to eyeball the boulder. He thought he could work it into his design for the roadside border, and for the next hour Pete dealt with that and tried not to think about the case and how they were losing it. Or Leigh and how he’d already lost her.

  He picked sides last night, and so did she. The trouble was, neither of them had picked each other.

  Leigh was at the office when Stephen called with the same news. It was what she’d been hoping and praying for all these months—now Peter would have to accept that Kip was lying—but her victory felt hollow. This wasn’t going to solve their problems. They couldn’t simply chalk this all up to a misunderstanding and move on. Say a blithe I’m sorry and I forgive you. So many times she’d made the children speak those words to each other, and finally she understood why they always resisted. Hurt feelings didn’t just evaporate. Wounds didn’t just disappear.

  “I’m so sorry they dragged you into this,” she told Stephen.

  “A good lawyer chases down every lead, right?”

  “Not one that’s so obviously a lie.”

  “I don’t believe it is a lie.”

  “What?”

  “If he’s lying, why would he say it might be me? Knowing I’d deny it. The poor boy must be telling the truth that someone was on the road that night.”

  “Or he’s sending up trial balloons and watching to see if they fly.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe his house is on fire. He’s telling the truth this time, but no one will believe him.”

  “You’re too charitable, Stephen.”

  He chuckled. “Occupational hazard.”

  At home that night she walked the whole circuit of the house, upstairs and down, but it was no victory lap. It felt more like a farewell tour. They should sell it, she thought suddenly. Now, before the divorce. Buyers always lowballed their offers when they learned the sellers were divorcing. They’d get a better price for it before the papers were filed.

  Once she would have shocked herself for even thinking the word divorce, but not anymore. The reason two-thirds of all second marriages ended in divorce was that divorce survivors knew when it was time to stop fooling themselves that things were going to work out. Hope had to surrender to experience. The way Peter turned on her last night, how quickly he jumped over to Kip’s side of the giant fault line that opened between them—that told her everything she needed to know about the state of their marriage.

  She had no appetite for dinner. Instead she took a bottle of wine into the family room and loaded a home video into the DVD player. But she didn’t select one of Chrissy’s baby videos this time. Tonight she chose the wedding video.

  She poured a glass and curled up on the sofa as the old country church lit up on the screen. The camera panned across the lawn in the misty morning light, then dollied in through the double doors, and there they all were on the screen, her perfectly blended family. The twins at fifteen already looking like young men as they ushered the handful of guests to their seats; tiny Mia with her flower basket balking at the aisle until Peter’s mother got up and coaxed her along; best man Kip and maid of honor Chrissy grinning at each other through the whole ceremony, already thick as thieves; and finally Peter at the altar, so handsome in his blue suit, his gaze on her so warm and steady as she walked down the aisle to join him, his voice so full of love as he recited his vows.

  Forsaking all others. That was what he vowed to do.

  Tears spilled, and she hastily wiped them away. She couldn’t blame him for choosing Kip over her. She’d probably do the same thing in his situation. No one should be forced to decide whether to be a parent first or a spouse. If this were a traditional nuclear family, if she and Peter were the parents of the same shared children—these problems would never have come up. It was divorce that was at fault.

  It was an ironic admission for a divorce lawyer to make, but there it was.

  The real reason two-thirds of all second marriages ended in divorce? No couple could ever hope to forsake all others, not when their hearts ­already belonged to the children who came before.

  That week she received notice that the appellate court had scheduled oral argument in the matter of Beck v. Beck for the first Tuesday in October. The next day she received notice that Hunter Beck was dropping his ­appeal.

  It was the logical move. The baby would be two months old by then and a whole new set of rules on custody and visitation would apply. Nonetheless it was a surprise: Hunter hadn’t done anything logical before this. He’d just paid his lawyer tens of thousands of dollars to write seventy-five pages of argument only to call Never mind.

  Still, it was good news, and she called Carrie as Jenna’s proxy to relay it.

  “Yeah, he told us he was dropping it.”

  Here was another surprise. “You’ve talked to Hunter?” The last time she saw them together Fred was chasing him off his lawn.

  “Oh, all the time. Would you believe he and Fred call each other just to talk?”

  “About what?” Leigh couldn’t imagine.

  “What else do men talk about? Sports and politics. But he talks about Jenna to me. He gave me a letter to read to her the next time she calls. Of course I read it right away. He loves her, he misses her. Please forgive him. She’s the only one who matters.”

  Ah, Leigh thought. Here at last was the reason Jenna left him, and there was nothing mysterious about it. It was a tale as old as time. Hunter cheated on her.

  “He said he’s called off the hounds. The lawyers, the investigators, all of them.”

  And there was his second admission. Jenna might be paranoid but she hadn’t imagined that Hunter’s goons were stalking her.

  “You know,” Carrie mused. “Get past all of Jenna’s drama, and he’s really not a bad guy.”

  Those were the same words
Hunter used to describe himself. Leigh hoped there wasn’t some kind of Svengali effect at work here. “Well—I’d still be on my guard.”

  Carrie snorted. “Jenna’s on guard enough for all of us.”

  John Stoddard called later that morning. He’d dug up some new intel on Bill Gunder, something pretty useful, he thought. He wanted to come in and show it to her. “Would six thirty be too late?”

  “Not at all. See you then.”

  She hung up with a smile. It was such a pleasure working with a can-do client like John. It saved her from thinking helplessly about Devra and the nightmare she must be living at the embassy. She was still haunted by the words Devra choked out over the phone. I want to leave. Help me, please. She tried to help: she began every day with another round of phone calls to the embassy and the State Department—dialing for Devra, she thought of it—but her persistence was pointless. She never got through. It was her biggest failure.

  No, not her biggest, she admitted, but the prospect of John Stoddard’s arrival saved her from having to think about that, too.

  The reception desk was unattended after business hours, so as six thirty approached, Leigh took some files and went there to work. Reception was a space meant to impress visitors and it was fitted out accordingly, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the boulevard and cool travertine floors and furniture covered in buttery soft leather. After hours a grate of steel bars descended from the ceiling to block access from the elevator lobby. The grate was in place now, and Leigh tapped in the access code on the security panel to get through. She spread out her papers on a coffee table and settled in to wait.

  At precisely six thirty the elevator chimed, and she glanced up through the grate as a man in a tuxedo stepped off. One of her partners must be making a pit stop on his way to some black-tie event. She bent her head back to her work.

  “Ma’am?”

  She looked up again, and her mouth fell open. “John?”

  He grimaced through the gridwork of the gate. “It’s the penguin suit, right? I’m working security at some fancy party tonight. They want us to blend in, but I look like a moron.”

  She laughed as she got up and unlocked the access door. “You look just fine,” she said and shook his hand as he came through.

  He waited for her to sit before he pulled up a chair beside her and opened his courier bag. “I did some digging on Gunder like we talked about.” He spread out some papers on the desk. “He works for the State of Maryland. The Budget Office. I was able to get my hands on his personnel file.”

  “How?” In a city full of government employees, she knew all too well that civil service files were practically sacrosanct.

  “I have some good connections. Please, take a look.”

  She skimmed through the pages as he passed them to her. Gunder’s file was thick with warnings and adverse actions relating to his poor conduct and job performance. He’d been written up repeatedly for absenteeism and insubordination, and there were three reports of intoxication on the job, the most recent only last month.

  “So he’s still a drunk,” John said.

  Leigh nodded. She was amazed that he’d been able to obtain these documents. She’d worked with some good private investigators over the years, but none of them could have unearthed material like this in this time frame.

  “So what next?” As always, John was focused on the mission. “What else do we need?”

  She closed the file. “We’ll have to show that his drinking has a deleterious effect on Bryce. There are high-functioning alcoholics who somehow manage to raise their children. We need to show that Gunder isn’t one of them.”

  He considered that. “I’ve got a lead on Bryce’s school records,” he said. “If they show any kind of medical issues or behavioral problems, would that help?”

  That was another set of records that should have been inviolable. She wondered if locks simply fell open for war heroes. “Possibly,” she said. “Or if there’s any evidence that his drinking puts Bryce in physical danger. For example, if he drove drunk with Bryce in the car—”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I couldn’t let that happen. Covert or not, I’d have to step in if I saw that happening.”

  “Of course you would.” She put a reassuring hand on his arm. “I meant if you hear of such things from anyone else.”

  He nodded like he’d received a set of orders. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  He packed away the file and got to his feet. She looked up at him towering over her in his tuxedo, ready to head off to his next assignment, so calm and capable. An idea struck.

  “John, I wonder—could I hire you to do some investigative work for me?”

  If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Sure.” He sat back down. “What’s the job?”

  “I have this client—” In broad strokes she told him about Devra’s imprisonment and the mysterious Emily Whitman and the showdown at the embassy gates. “I need to find out who this State Department employee is. If I can figure out a way to expose her arrangement with the ambassador—”

  “—then State’ll lean on the ambassador, spring the wife, and fire this Whitman woman. That about it?”

  “That’s my hope.”

  “Got a photo?”

  “Sorry,” Leigh said but did her best to describe her. “Oh, and she drives a little red car. A Mini Cooper, I think.”

  “License plate?”

  “No, sorry.” She felt foolish. Obviously this wasn’t enough information for him to launch any kind of investigation.

  He tucked his notes in the breast pocket of his tuxedo. “I’ll have to book this through my employer if that’s okay. I don’t moonlight.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Then I’ll be in touch.”

  “Leigh,” Stephen said the next day. “There’s something I have to say to you.”

  “Yes?”

  They were driving back from the Acropolis and he’d been boisterously singing along with the Met’s Saturday afternoon broadcast—Fidelio was today’s performance. He reached to the lower the volume on the Saab’s old radio. “It might make you angry,” he warned.

  She couldn’t imagine. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Chrissy. I’ve been thinking about what a delightful, wonderful child she must have been. Truly exceptional. I wish I could have known her.”

  “Me, too.” It was crushing to know that he never would. That the whole world would never have the chance to know her. World without Chrissy. Amen.

  “But here’s the thing,” he said. “It’s a mistake for you to canonize her.”

  Her mouth fell open. “I—I’m not,” she sputtered. “I haven’t—”

  “Don’t burden her memory with impossible standards. She was a brave, generous girl but she wasn’t a saint.”

  “I never said she was!”

  “She was magical. That’s the word you always use to describe her, but you have to remember it’s only a metaphor. She wasn’t magic, she was ­human.”

  “I never—I never said otherwise!”

  “You think it, though. That’s why it’s so hard for you to accept that she may have done one selfish act in her young life. That’s why you can’t believe Christopher might be telling the truth. Because it would mean that for once she put herself ahead of someone else. She stood by and let him take the blame.”

  Her mouth trembled. This was such an unjust accusation. She never said Chrissy was a saint. That wasn’t the reason she couldn’t believe Kip. It was simpler than that. Chrissy didn’t drive, and if she had driven, she never would have lied about it, because—because—

  “I knew you’d get angry. But please, consider the idea, won’t you?”

  She turned her head to the window, and he turned up the volume on Fidelio and drove on without singing or speaking. The
idea lodged like a lump in her throat—that Chrissy stood by and let Kip take the blame. That she lied to protect herself. Stephen was right. She couldn’t believe it. She thought back to the scene in the police station that night. She remembered Kip in the interview room, looking so small and scared with the cops looming over him and Peter yelling at him. She remembered Chrissy at her side, looking into the same room, blinking back tears at the same scene.

  They were nearly back to his cottage, and the “Prisoners’ Chorus” was on the radio. Stephen made the turn through the stone pillars to the lane. On the distant hill ahead gleamed the old porticoed plantation house as he turned into the woods.

  “You’re right,” she said at last.

  “Ah.” He beamed at her.

  “I don’t believe Chrissy would have lied.”

  His smile faded.

  “If you’d been there that night, if you’d heard the charges they were threatening Kip with and you saw how scared he was? Chrissy saw and heard every bit of it, and there’s no way she would have stood by and let him take the blame for her. You have to remember: She wasn’t drinking and she didn’t have a suspended driver’s license like Kip did. She wasn’t facing anything worse than a scolding. It wouldn’t take a saint to tell the truth in that situation. Just an ordinary decent person. Which is what she was.”

  He turned into the drive. “What a fool I am,” he said with a smile, “to even think of arguing with a lawyer.”

  Then he slammed on his brakes. A blue station wagon was blocking his driveway. A woman was slumped behind the wheel, her legs half-in, half-out of the car. She staggered to her feet as the Saab lurched to a stop behind her. It was a hot summer day, but she wore a long tattered cardigan that she clutched with both hands around her ribs. She was barefoot and her hair stood out in a wild gray frizz. If not for the late-model car and her stylish eyeglasses, she could have been mistaken for a homeless woman. From fifty feet away Leigh could see that she was crying.