“Understood,” Margot said, reviewing her notes.
“Do you have any suspects?” Luna asked.
“Not exactly.”
“That was not a definitive no.”
“How close were you and Irene?” Burns asked.
“We were friends. I don’t know how to quantify our closeness.”
“Were you and Irene as close as you and Owen?”
“No,” Luna said. “But I did love her.”
An old memory came to Luna. Irene looking down on her, in her wedding dress. A smile where a frown should have been.
Luna, caught in the memory, refused to blink, hoping the tears wouldn’t spill out. She’d always hated crying in front of people. There was that ancient courtroom illustration, her face scrunched up like an ugly doll. The artist had been deliberately vicious.
Burns saw genuine grief. But grief and guilt can commingle.
“Would Irene have told you if something unusual had been going on in her life?” the detective asked.
“Unusual how?”
“Like if she was seeing someone?”
“Having an affair?” Luna asked, mind whirling.
“Something like that,” said Burns. “Or maybe she was just thinking about it. Or talking to someone an awful lot.”
“Was she?” Luna said.
“I don’t know. I’m asking you.”
Luna knew the detective was lying. There was someone. Luna couldn’t imagine who that could be.
“If she was, she didn’t tell me about it,” Luna said.
“Would she have? Did she confide in you about other things?”
“Yes. But I was Owen’s friend first. If she was cheating on him, I guess she wouldn’t have told me.”
“Did you know about Owen’s affair?”
“Yes,” Luna said.
“Who told you about it? Irene or Owen?”
“Irene told me,” Luna said.
“She confided in you,” Burns said. “And what did you do?”
Luna could see the trap coming but couldn’t escape it. “I told Owen.”
Burns jotted something in her notes. “No question where your true loyalty lies, is there?” Burns said.
“I’m not sure that’s fair,” Luna said.
“Okay. Cards on the table,” said Burns. “You don’t doubt Owen, not at all? There’s no chance in hell that he killed his wife?”
“No chance in hell,” Luna said, her voice solid as steel. “No one wanted Irene dead.”
“Someone did,” said Burns.
Irene, March 2005
Chantal Boucher had phoned Irene that morning with the “wonderful” news. She was engaged. Again. It would be her third wedding. Irene, knowing that her mother was incapable of remaining single, had hoped Chantal might meet a banker or a doctor or anyone with a fat wallet and unimpeachable motives. Alas, the fat-wallet guys seemed partial to the young, skinny-legged girls.
“Leo and I are flying to London on Saturday. Call the service in for another cleaning.”
“Leo? That’s his name?”
“Leo Whitman. He’s a painter. I’ve heard him described as a post-post-Impressionist.”
When Irene didn’t respond, Chantal added, “He had a series of nudes at the Tate Modern a few years ago.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Irene said. She was thinking about how a friend from college once described Whitman’s nudes: like Renoir using a 1970s Playboy centerfold as a subject.
After an extended bout of silence, Chantal said, “I know. Another artist. I clearly have a type.”
“How long have you been seeing each other?” Irene asked.
“Long enough,” Chantal said. “Call the service for Friday morning and don’t make any plans this weekend.”
* * *
—
Irene tried to clear her head with a long walk. Occasionally she’d take photos on the sly. She always kept a camera in her bag, a vintage Olympus Trip 35 with red skin. It had been her father’s. She worried sometimes that she looked like a tourist. But her manner was more amateur spy. Once she’d snapped a picture of an unsuspecting pedestrian, she’d stash the camera in her bag and briskly walk away. That day, someone behind her shouted “Hey.” The tone was angry. She assumed it was her last photo victim. It was not. She jogged around the corner and slipped into her local pub, the Three Legs.
Irene sat down at the bar and looked over her shoulder. She was safe. Tessa, the bartender, served her a G&T.