Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

  Like many women in my position, I’ve folded more than once over the course of my marriage, but this time I just can’t bring myself not to follow through with my threat. The problem, of course, is that if I do, my husband could be in real trouble.

  Real. Trouble. Life-in-prison trouble.

  I know enough about the law to know that the truth doesn’t always prevail in the courtroom. It’s more about proof than truth.

  And here’s the rub: I don’t know the whole truth.

  In desperate need of advice, I’m sitting in the holding tank sandwiched between Doug’s office and my husband’s, with my purse clenched tightly in my lap. This is a gamble, showing up here, at the boy’s club of Fordham, Holloway, and Lane.

  I stare at the firm’s logo: FHL in the center of the universal symbol for infinity.

  Doug’s longtime paralegal is periodically glancing at me, although she’s trying her best to camouflage her observance. I don’t have an appointment, and it’s good of Doug to see me on short notice less than a week after his return from his honeymoon. It’s equally very likely Doug would have already phoned Ian to tell him of my arrival under normal circumstances, so I conjured an excuse, naturally, to keep him from making that call.

  “A surprise party?”

  For a split second, when I look up, I think it’s my husband leaning into the reception area. But it’s Doug, with one hand lingering on the office doorknob and a warm smile on his face. I think Quinn’s right about Doug’s having had plastic surgery. He and Ian are maternal cousins, born less than a year apart, and their mothers are identical twins. They grew up as close as brothers, and our less informed classmates in high school assumed they were twins. But these days, Ian looks a shave older than his cousin. It’s the eyes, as Quinn suspected.

  Doug juts his chin toward the nicely appointed digs beyond the door. “Come on in and tell me all about it.”

  I have no intention of throwing a party for Ian. The element of surprise is what I’m counting on, however, to learn what I need to know—if my husband is completely full of shit—so I have to choose my moment carefully.

  “Please, please,” Doug Fordham says. “Sit.”

  I do so, in the leather chair closest to the door, where I’m most likely able to read Doug’s expression, as he won’t be apt to turn his back to me.

  “I have just a few minutes, but I like what I’m hearing.” He leans a hip against his desk. “For his fortieth?”

  “I was thinking so. I know he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of the big four-oh, but I think it’s warranted.”

  “I agree. Count us in. I’ll be sure to distract him when the time comes and help get him to whatever location you need.”

  “Great. Thanks so much, Doug. He works so hard—”

  “Don’t mention it.” He’s getting ready to close our meeting, and it just began. I have to work fast. “We’ll have to work around the court schedule,” he’s saying.

  “Of course.”

  “But by mid-December, maybe things will have slowed down. And maybe Donna can help you plan it. She has a knack for that sort of thing, and you gals should get to know each other.”

  I blurt out, “I wonder about Margaux.”

  Fordham’s brows come together. “Who?”

  “Margaux Stritch.”

  I wait.

  He folds his arms over his chest. “Why is that name familiar?”

  Because her name is all over the news.

  “She’s a friend of yours, I hear,” I say.

  Slowly, he shakes his head, searching some imaginary horizon for answers. And so far, I don’t know one way or another if he’s keeping secrets for himself, for Ian, or if he really can’t place the name. It wouldn’t be out of the question, if he doesn’t know her, for him to have missed the news of her death. He’s been back from Aruba for only a couple of days.

  His wife hadn’t heard, and judging by the way she rocketed away from me the moment I started a conversation about her, Donna likely didn’t rush home to spill the news that someone at their wedding had been murdered.

  “Adopted daughter of some political figure?” I offer. “She worked at the Aquasphere. I believe she was at your wedding.”

  “In that case, she must be a friend of Donna’s. You might ask her.”

  No man would suggest I speak with his new wife about a girl who crashed their wedding, a girl whom his cousin had to divert from making a scene there, if he were sleeping with that girl. But I never bought Ian’s explanation, anyway.

  “I didn’t think you knew her,” I say. “But Ian did.”

  He glances at the clock and pushes away from the desk. “How does Ian know this girl?”

  “Do you know where Ian was the night before last? How late he worked?”

  “He, uh . . . he’s been working late, I know that much, but I just came back to the office yesterday. I don’t know what time he left the office. The paralegals are usually gone around four. If he stuck around, he could’ve been here until ten or later.”

  My hand is in my purse; I tighten my grip on the resealable plastic bag containing the red thong. Doug can’t provide an alibi for Ian. I can’t, either. If I bring this evidence—is that what it is?—to the station and establish a connection between Ian and Margaux, it won’t matter if he killed her or not. It’ll be the end of us. He won’t forgive the lack of faith, or the accusation.

  But if I don’t . . . and he did it . . .

  “Why?” Doug asks.

  “You know, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I stand. “How silly of me to waste your time with details. I’ll give Donna a call to sort out the guest list.”

  “That would be best.” Doug offers a hand for a shake and pulls me closer and kisses my cheek.

  “Donna’s lovely, by the way,” I say. “I’d love to get to know her better.”

  “You should. Why don’t the two of you have lunch?”

  “I’d like that. She made an absolutely beautiful bride.”

  Doug chuckles. “Don’t ask what she’s doing with me.”

  “Nonsense,” I say over my shoulder as I approach the door. “You’re a catch. It’s in the family genes.”

  “Kirstie.”

  I turn back toward him.

  “You and Ian never had a wedding.”

  I shake my head. “The drama of being knocked up in high school and all.”

  “You’ve overcome some great odds together. Who’d have thought, after all you’ve been through, you’d still be here, standing strong together?”

  “I admit I had my doubts.” I try to laugh. “I traded college enrollment for onesies and the Playtex bottle system. It wasn’t exactly a surefire way to find happiness.”

  And that’s not all I sacrificed. I lost my whole family the moment I decided to pursue this path with Ian. Both my parents are gone now. They were dead before I turned thirty, but I’d said my goodbyes and mourned the loss before I was twenty. If I lose Ian now, it’ll be like I’ve lost everyone who’s loved me in my lifetime. I’ll still have Quinn—I don’t think anything will ever come between us—but I’m not sure about Patrick. Funny how he’s the reason I’m still here (not that I regret it), but he’s so in awe of his father that I might lose him, too, simply because I may opt to do the right thing.

  “Consider a double event,” Doug is saying. “A vow renewal and a birthday party. Give our grandmother an excuse to have another glass of champagne.”

  “What a thoughtful idea.”

  “And well deserved. You’ve been putting up with my cousin for long enough to be sainted.”

  For a moment, I stand there with an expression on my face that I hope conveys amusement. He means it to be funny, but given recent events, he doesn’t know how true his statement is.

  I’m numb as I descend the stairs and make my way through the maze of cars in the Ohio Street garage.

  Everything is falling apart.

  My marriage is in pieces.

  I’ve go
t one kid lecturing me and the other placating me.

  And worst of all: a young woman is dead.

  I sit for a minute in my car, tears welling in my eyes.

  Ian is all I’ve ever known. I’ve built my entire life around his goals, his needs, his dry cleaning. I sacrificed my college education, and a career, to have his children, to raise them. And it’s not that I regret doing so. I take pride in the fact that I’ve raised two amazing people. But now that that job is all but complete, it’s supposed to be time to reap the benefits of all the sacrifices I’ve made.

  And now my husband is already traveling another road, and I’m hitting a dead end.

  What happened? What went wrong?

  I start the car and pull out of the garage, the bright sunlight practically blinding me as I emerge.

  But I’ve been blind enough, it seems.

  I steer the car toward Bucktown, toward the fourteenth district police station.

  Right is right.

  THEN

  MARGAUX

  “Someone requested you for a private dance.” The dominatrix known as Gail Force placed an envelope on the makeup table in the dressing room. “He paid up front for half an hour.”

  “Half an hour? What the hell am I going to do for half an hour?” Margaux, known in the Underground by her code name, Babydoll, opened it. An old-fashioned skeleton key fell into her hand. “Tell me it’s not someone creepy. Or . . . or, God, what if it’s Arlon? He’ll absolutely die if he finds out I’m working here.” Thus far, she’d been fortunate enough to schedule shifts only when she knew Arlon would be working out of town, but she was playing with fire. It could only be a matter of time before everything came crashing down.

  “I don’t know who it is,” Gail said. “I’m just the messenger.”

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out.” She rouged her nipples and stuffed her breasts back into a lace demi bra. She shoved a wig of long, red hair—her trademark in this place—over her blonde curls. With her eyes lidded with glittery lashes, and an entire drugstore’s worth of makeup on her face, she didn’t resemble herself as much as she looked like a caricature of someone she’d never be. But at least she felt anonymous in this getup.

  “You know what’s crazy?” Margaux said. “The first time I came here, as a spectator, I was floored. I couldn’t get enough of this place. Everything was so exciting and liberating. And now . . .”

  “It’s sort of like being backstage at a magic show,” Gail said. “But hell. Beats paying the cover, right? This way, you get paid and you get off.”

  “Not entirely. I don’t get off dancing.”

  “Keep your eye on the prize, girl.” Gail patted her on the shoulder. “Eye on the prize.”

  “Law school.” Margaux stared at her own reflection and repeated the words a few more times. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and, key in hand, left to pursue a portion of her tuition money.

  She walked through the crowds to private room number nine, where her client was waiting behind a red drape. Another deep breath.

  “Good evening,” she said. “I’m yours for the next twenty-nine minutes and forty-five seconds. No touching of any kind. We’re on a monitor, and if you neglect to abide by this one simple rule, security will, in a flash, flood this room, and you will be escorted out. No refunds will be given for either your private dance or your cover charge. The Aquasphere Underground not only will eject you from the premises but reserves the right to send video footage to law enforcement and local media outlets to best pursue your prosecution. Any questions?”

  “Just one: Why Babydoll?”

  She froze.

  She knew that voice.

  She peeled back the curtain.

  Richard “Granddad” Akers sat on a red velvet throne, awaiting her. He wore khakis and a light-blue button-down, now untucked over his slight paunch. His full head of hair, salt-and-pepper, was mussed, as if one of the girls had already run her fingers through it.

  “It’s because I used to call you that, isn’t it?”

  The music filled the room while tears filled her eyes.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because I miss you. Because you left, and you won’t return my calls.”

  “You lost my money.”

  “I see you’re putting all those years of ballet classes to good use,” the alderman said.

  “Quiet, please. Let’s not talk.”

  “That wasn’t the rule.”

  “Since when do you care about the rules, anyway?”

  “We waited until you were eighteen,” he said.

  “We waited to do the deed,” she said. “That’s true enough. But the rest of it . . . all the presents, the looks and the touching . . .”

  “It wasn’t wrong.”

  “Maybe it was just a hand on my thigh or a hug that lingered too long, but you knew where it was leading. And the night it happened . . . I tried to stop you. You’re my legal guardian. It wasn’t right.”

  “You needed love. I gave it to you. Morally, it wasn’t wrong.”

  “I’m not sure Helen agrees with you.”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Oh, she knows.”

  “How do you know she knows?”

  “Because after we started, she only got meaner.”

  “She’s stern, always has been, but—”

  “I don’t want to talk. I’ll just give you what you paid for.”

  “I want more than what I paid for. I want you back home for Sunday dinners. I want to know what you’re up to, day in, day out. I want my family back.”

  “I want my tuition money.”

  “Is that why you’re working here?”

  “Why else?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I, Richard. But you left me with no other options.”

  “I’m working on it, you know,” he said. “Working on getting your money back.”

  “You’ll lose it again.”

  “I’m not drinking anymore. You know I only crossed the line with you when I was drinking.” His hand went to his crotch. “God, the way you used to look at me.”

  “You were my savior,” she said. “The only light in my life. You were nice to me, and she hated me! What did you think was going to happen when you climbed in my bed? Of course I thought I’d fallen in love with you. You’re the only one who was even remotely kind to me. You took advantage of a naive girl desperate for love.”

  “Margaux.”

  “Uh-uh.” She waggled a finger. “That’s not my name here.”

  “Tell me about the new guy.”

  “No.”

  “Is he good to you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Come to dinner this Sunday.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars for every dinner. I want my family back. Time to heal, the three of us. Together.”

  “You want me to earn my own money back?”

  “That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it? Do it my way, and you don’t have to take off your clothes. That new guy never finds out what you’ve been doing here.”

  “He already knows.”

  “No, he doesn’t. I know you. I know this isn’t who or what you are, and you’re not proud of what you’re doing. It’s the same way I know you didn’t tell him about what happened between us. So what do you say? Dinner, and I’ll pay back what I took.”

  “At the rate you propose, I’ll never make it to law school. And if you have that kind of money, which you must if you’re getting off in a place like this, you should be paying back what you stole from me, regardless of whether or not I sit at your table and pretend everything’s fine.”

  “Down payment.” The alderman placed a stack of bills on the side table, where his drink would normally be sitting.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long.”

  “I think it would have to be roses.” Ma
rgaux walked home from the L stop with her phone at her ear. With all the paint and glitter washed from her face and body and the leather and lace replaced with a T-shirt and jeans, she felt like a completely separate entity from the girl who’d danced for Richard.

  Arlon made it easy to push all those terrible memories into deep, dark closets in her mind.

  “I’m partial to red ones,” she continued. “But roses are kind of like chocolate. You never look at them and say . . . eh.”

  “On that note, what’s your favorite chocolate?” Arlon asked.

  “White. Definitely.”

  “Red roses. White chocolate. How do you feel about panties?”

  “I wear them.”

  “Say I’m coming over, and you haven’t seen me in a week. And you know I’m dying to see a show.”

  She paused for a second. Was this a trick? Did he know she’d just come from the Aquasphere Underground?

  “I have a few interesting things you might like. Leather, mesh.”

  “Anything a little softer?”

  “You’d like that?”

  “I’d love to watch you cook in a red nightie. Red satin, with a lacy G-string.”

  “I’ll have to put that on my list of must-haves.”

  “You’re my kind of girl.”

  “And you’re my kind of guy. So . . . what’s happening in Houston at three in the morning?”

  “Nothing. Anywhere without you is boring.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Where are you, anyway?”

  “I’m almost home, and thank goodness, too, because I think a storm is coming, and I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

  “You shouldn’t be walking so late in the city alone.”

  “Well, you’re not here all the time, and I have to fill the void somehow. I couldn’t sleep.” And now, time for a lie: “Went to a midnight show.” Or performed one . . . fine line between the two, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving! But the only place still open anywhere close to home is that little diner.”

  “Want to have a three a.m. dinner together?” he asked.