Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

  She laughed.

  “Seriously, let me walk you home. You can tell me all about it.”

  “That’s a nice offer,” she said. “But after the day I’ve had, I’m not ready to go home.”

  “Okay.”

  She sighed. “My whole life, I’ve tried to do everything right, and you know what? It doesn’t help. It doesn’t get me where I want to be, it doesn’t stop bad things from happening to me, so . . . I’m done. Done doing what I’m supposed to do.”

  “What did you have in mind? Because I know you’re not interested in a one-night stand.”

  “Let’s take a detour,” she suggested. “Let’s go downstairs and see what happens.”

  Chapter 7

  KIRSTEN

  Her case is on the news again.

  Margaux’s neighbors place flowers and teddy bears and lipsticks near the lamppost outside her building at the corner of Leavitt and Webster in tribute to a life lost too soon.

  As I watch the news, I pace around my living room, periodically eyeing the half-finished bottle of wine Ian brought home last night, recorked on the island. I don’t want to drink it in case I have to drive later. But I can’t sit still.

  What the hell. I yank out the cork and pour a glass.

  Breathe.

  When my phone chimes, I pounce on it, although the ringtone alerts me that it’s an incoming message from Quinn, not her father, who hasn’t returned a single call or text all day.

  Are you watching the news?

  She’s hella familiar.

  Sigh. She probably recognizes Margaux from the wedding.

  And I’d interrogate Ian about the girl, but he’s MIA.

  Something must have happened to him. And no one wants to tell me about it.

  If he were in an accident, I’d surely know by now.

  If he were staying late at work, I would know that, too.

  And not a single judge in America is holding court well into dinnertime, so I’m not buying that he was in court all day.

  But suppose Ian was brought in for questioning in the death of Margaux Stritch? Doug might be willing to tell a white lie to conceal that fact, and Patrick wouldn’t want me to worry. He’d keep it from me, too.

  I glance at the television, where they’re rerolling the footage of the firefighter climbing into the ambulance, accompanying Margaux’s dead body to the morgue. I’m glad they didn’t toss her, lifeless, into the back like cargo. I’m glad she had company. But how must it have felt for the firefighter? Being alone with a dead body?

  I text Doug, Patrick, and Donna—all on the same thread: Has anyone heard from my husband?

  Because I can’t risk anyone assuming I’m about to have another episode—and I’ve been bothering these three people all day, so they very well may already be there—I add: Starting to miss him.

  I sip my wine.

  Pull the panties out of my purse.

  Take another lap around the kitchen island.

  The police are asking the public to call the station with tips, but I call for another reason.

  “Yes, I’m wondering if anyone’s been arrested in conjunction with Margaux Stritch’s murder. No?” I sigh in relief. “Okay, thank you.” Tears begin to build, to the point they might become a vicious storm. What if the police were lying about no one being arrested? They can probably do that. They can probably do anything they want to do, if they think it’ll help move the investigation along.

  I imagine Ian sitting in some cold room with harsh lighting discussing Margaux Stritch with a team of investigators.

  What if he tells them I can account for his whereabouts?

  I can’t. Not for the entire evening, anyway.

  And how am I supposed to hide the fact that there was a freaking red thong in his jacket pocket?

  There’s nothing I can do. If Ian had anything to do with this girl’s death, I can’t help him.

  Or . . . suppose he fled town to avoid facing charges, and he’s left us all alone to deal with everything?

  I’ve relied on him my whole life. Can I possibly make it on my own?

  I ball a hand into a fist and scream until my throat is raw. When I’m out of breath, I lay my head down on the cold granite countertop and cry. “Ian, where are you?”

  “Kirstie?”

  I bolt upright. “Ian?”

  He’s there, with car keys whirling around his finger, looking at me like I’m nuts. “You okay, hon?” He grips me under the elbow and helps me toward a chair at the island.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t want to sit down.”

  “No, you were screaming. For no reason. I think you should—”

  “I’ve been worried.” I slide the chair back under the countertop and refuse Ian’s offer of a seat. “I’ve been calling you all day, and you’re basically ignoring me, and after everything going on—”

  “Sorry. I had a full docket, and this evening, after hours . . .” He sits next to me. “Well, I brought something for you.”

  “For . . . for me?”

  “You seemed sad this morning. And I figured, now that you have some extra time on your hands, maybe you could use an outlet.”

  “Where’ve you been, Ian?”

  “What happened to the car?”

  “The car?” I cradle my head. “Oh. I hit a deer this morning.” It seems so long ago. “I thought Patrick might have told you. But listen, there’s something you should know—”

  “Can it wait?” He smiles.

  “Ian, have you seen the news today?”

  “The news?” As if he finally realizes it’s on in the next room, he pivots toward the television.

  Margaux’s face fills the screen. A reporter’s voice: “Authorities were called to the scene when a concerned neighbor located a suspicious note reportedly alluding to foul play.”

  I keep a close eye on my husband.

  His hand shakes a little as he reaches back for a counter stool.

  He swallows hard.

  His flesh pales. He doesn’t say a word, but his silence says enough.

  “Did you know her, Ian?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Not very well.”

  “How did you know her?”

  He presses his lips together, as if to show me his lips are literally sealed.

  “Where did you meet her?”

  He shakes his head. “Kirstie, you don’t have to worry about it. It’s not what you think.”

  I wipe a tear from my eye. “Not what I think.” I reach for my purse. “I’ll tell you what I think.” I toss the thong to the island.

  His stare is directed toward the underwear for long, uncomfortable seconds. He finally glances up at me.

  “Well?” I plant my hands on my hips and stay rooted.

  “What?”

  “What do you think?”

  One brow rises. “I haven’t seen you in something like this since—”

  “I’m not offering to wear them. The dry cleaner found them in your suit coat.”

  “My suit coat?”

  “Yes. The coat you asked me to take in. And that girl. Margaux. I saw you talking with her at your cousin’s wedding.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “She touched your arm and called you Ian.”

  “So you heard that.”

  “You don’t deny it.”

  His lips form the word I don’t hear him say: “No.”

  “What were you doing with her, Ian? Why were her panties in your pocket?”

  “I don’t know why your panties would be in my pocket, let alone someone else’s.”

  “She’s dead.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “Such a tragedy.”

  “Well?” I nod toward the panties. “What do you know about it?”

  “I . . . nothing! I just found out right now, this minute.”

  “Do you know what it’s like, hour to hour, waiting for your husband to call? Waiting for a smidgen of confirmation that he hasn’t been hau
led into the police station for questioning when a girl he’s been sleeping with turns up dead?”

  “Sleeping with? Hey, now—”

  “Her panties were in your suit coat.”

  “You keep saying that. Her panties. Surely, you’re not suggesting that I—”

  “Whose are they, if they’re not hers?”

  “How should I know?”

  “If you have another woman’s panties in your jacket—”

  “I. Don’t. Know.” He shoves the bag containing them toward me.

  When he slowly rises from his seat, I’m forced to take a step back.

  “I hung the jacket on the back of my chair at the reception,” he says. “It’s a basic black jacket. Any man, especially with the amount of drinks flowing that evening, could’ve mistaken the coat for his. Anyone could have slipped anything into those pockets. Is it just possible that our son mistakenly grabbed my jacket when he went out for a cigar? That the panties belong to his girlfriend? He’s much more of the age to be looking for a quick tryst in an alleyway than I am, anyway.”

  “Don’t play lawyer with me.”

  “Damn it, Kirsten. Stop accusing me of something you know I didn’t do!”

  “My whole life, I’ve done nothing but believe in you, Ian.” I’m pacing again. “At the wedding, I saw you talking to her. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I’ve seen signs, and maybe I should I have pressed the issue sooner. But I didn’t because I was afraid. Afraid of what the truth might lead to. Afraid that you’d do what you’re doing now . . . that you’d try to make me feel as if I’m crazy.

  “But it doesn’t make sense. I saw you talking to her—you still haven’t denied that—and now she’s dead, and the thong was in your pocket, and it’s too coincidentally similar a color to the dress she was wearing that night. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t. I hardly knew her.”

  “She knew your name.”

  “You know what? I think you’re still not quite right after the episode. Are you listening to yourself?”

  “And still you haven’t told me: Who is she? How do you know her?”

  “It’s not relevant.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply before again meeting my gaze. “You need to trust me on this. If I tell you who she is, I risk someone else’s confidence. It’s privileged.”

  “So she’s a witness in one of your cases?”

  “Privileged.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I can’t trust you.”

  “You can trust me. Kirstie, after all these years . . .”

  “After all these years, I never expected to find another woman’s thong in your pocket. I can’t trust you if you don’t explain: How do you know her?”

  He regards me with an expression of surrender. “Doug had an affair with her.”

  He fiddles with the band of his Tag Heuer. I lock my gaze on it.

  “She showed up at the wedding,” he continues, “ready to make a scene. I was running interference that night.”

  “And the panties?”

  “Honestly, Kirsten, I just don’t know. On the life of our children, I just don’t know how they’d end up in my pocket.”

  I study him, look him in the eye.

  He can’t hold my gaze.

  I drive the heel of my right palm into his shoulder. “You swore on the lives of our children,” I say. “And you can’t even look me in the eye.”

  Silence hangs between us.

  After some time, he clears his throat. “You know, I think I’m going to the city tonight. I’ll have dinner with Patrick, and I’ll stay at his place downtown.”

  “What?”

  “For a day or so. Two, three.”

  “Ian, wait.”

  “I, uh . . . I think I’ll go now. Give you some time to come to your senses.”

  “Come to my senses? Why is it that every time we get into an argument, you tell me I’m nuts and you leave? Normal couples talk it out, spend the night together. Ian, if you leave, you’re giving me all the more reason to think you’re hiding something.”

  “You’re not making any sense. You’ve had a long day, with the deer, and with the news . . . and you’ve let yourself fill in the blanks. Once you’re thinking clearly, you’ll see that I had nothing to do with this girl.”

  “Ian.”

  “No, Kirsten.” He raises his voice and points a finger at me. “I’ve never given you any reason to doubt me. I’ve been faithful to you since we were fifteen years old. I don’t deserve this.”

  “You have to admit this is an unusual circumstance. This girl is dead, for God’s sake, and a pair of panties was stashed in your suit coat. And you were gone all day, and no one knew where you were, and you came waltzing in hours after the close of business. What am I supposed to think?”

  “You want to know why I was late today?”

  “Ian. There were panties in your suit coat. And a girl is now dead.”

  “I drove out to Blick studios. I bought you an easel and canvases, and brushes, paints. I know you wanted to be an art major.”

  “Seriously, Ian? I don’t paint.”

  “I thought you did. You won a prize, didn’t you? At the art fair our senior year?”

  “It wasn’t for a painting.”

  “Well, whatever. The point is that you need something to occupy your time. My heart’s in the right place.”

  “Don’t distract me. I mean, thank you. Thank you for doing that, but you’re skirting the issue!”

  He turns toward the stairs. “I’m going to pack a bag.”

  “Ian, please.”

  “I think you need time. Take a few days,” he says. “Let me know if you think you can put this negative energy toward something useful and satisfying. If you want to reconnect with friends from Evanston, or make friends here . . . you let me know. But if this is what you want to do with your life . . .” He waves his hand at me, as if he’s swatting me away, as if I were a housefly.

  “We should talk about this girl. No matter how much time passes, she’ll still be here, standing between us.”

  “Christ, think about it! If I knew there were a pair of underwear in my suit, would I be nagging you to take it to the cleaner’s?”

  I shut up.

  “Her death, while tragic, has nothing to do with me. Once you’re thinking clearly, you’ll see that.”

  Chapter 8

  JESSICA

  I decide to wear my department-issue jacket, even though I’m not at the home of Helen and Richard Akers in any official capacity.

  They don’t have to talk to me, but I’m hoping they will.

  I walk up to their enormous brick residence and ring the bell.

  The missus answers, perfectly coiffed and wearing a rust-colored pantsuit and black pumps. I can tell by the widening of her eyes that she recognizes me—you don’t forget the people who tell you your loved one is dead—but I introduce myself anyway.

  “Jessica Blythe.” I extend a hand. “Chicago Fire and Rescue. I was on the call . . . with your . . .” Granddaughter? Daughter? “Margaux.”

  “The police already came by.” She hitches a hip. “Unless . . . do you know when they’re going to release her to me? I’d like to see to the arrangements.”

  “I’m sorry about that, ma’am, but I don’t know. I’m not here for the city. I just thought I’d check with you to see how you’re doing.”

  “Oh. Well, come in.” She steps aside.

  I enter.

  The place doesn’t feel lived in. Rather, it feels like one of those houses photographed for an interior design magazine. And there’s not a single family portrait anywhere to be seen.

  “I apologize that my husband won’t be able to join us,” she says. She perches on a small sofa in the foyer.

  “That’s all right.” It’s clear I won’t be admitted any farther. I take a seat in a chair opposite her.

  “He’s indisposed, dealing with some personal issues.” She says
it as if half the city doesn’t know he’s under investigation. “I’m sure you understand. Margaux’s death has crushed him.”

  “I imagine.”

  “Well . . . the Lord must have a plan. We go through trials at his whim, don’t we?”

  “Was Margaux a believer?”

  “That’s how I know she didn’t take her own life. I sent her through catechism classes, and she went to church with us weekly until a few years ago. She knew the gargantuan sin it would be. She’d fallen out of practice, but I still feel, in her heart, she wouldn’t have done it. May the Lord save her.”

  “You know, ma’am,” I say, “if there’s anyone else you think I should pay a visit to . . . a boyfriend, maybe?”

  “She was seeing someone. Arlon Judson. But they’d broken up.”

  I nod and commit the name to memory. “Any idea as to where we can find him?”

  “I don’t know more than the name.”

  “Or friends? A colleague at work, maybe . . .”

  “Margaux didn’t have friends. And she didn’t work outside of school.”

  “Everyone has people,” I say.

  “Margaux didn’t.”

  “Hmm. Why do you think that is?”

  “She’d been through a lot in her life. I suppose others couldn’t relate to her.”

  “I know something about that. Too bad.” I nod. “She had a job, though. At the Aquasphere Underground.”

  “That’s a ridiculous accusation. I read about it in one of those gossip rags, and it’s disgraceful what people are allowed to print.”

  I try another angle. “You know, Mrs. Akers, I appreciate everything you do for Catholic Charities. I, myself, went through a counseling program with the organization when I was young.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “My mother had a problem with addiction.”

  Her brows slant downward, and she nods, as if urging me to continue.

  “One of her boyfriends took certain liberties with me that he shouldn’t have.”

  Her lips thin into a white line, her brows come together, and she begins to wring her hands in her lap.

  She looks angry.

  I suppose I can understand that. It’s a terrible reality.

  “If not for people like you,” I blurt out, “I don’t know how I would’ve survived.”