“What does that mean?”
“They’re very close.”
“How close?”
“Oh, I don’t think they were ever an item. If you’re asking whether Owen had affairs with other women, well, that’s another story.”
He had to work to get that into the conversation, Margot thought. It wasn’t a natural transition.
“Did Owen have someone on the side?” Margot asked.
“You’re the detective,” Leo said.
Margot couldn’t decide whether Leo was trying to help the investigation or throw Owen under the bus. “What was Irene’s relationship with Luna like?”
“They were friendly, I suppose. Irene was a generous woman.”
Detective Burns sharpened her gaze. “What did Irene’s generosity have to do with their friendship?”
“I merely meant that Irene didn’t hold a grudge,” Leo said.
“A grudge? About what?”
“Her wedding. I think it’s safe to say that Luna ruined that day.”
* * *
—
An hour later, Luna was sitting in the same interview room. The smell of Leo’s cologne lingered.
“Thanks for coming in,” Margot said. “My partner told me you were in between jobs, so I’m assuming it’s not a great inconvenience.”
“No,” said Luna. “It’s not.”
“How long have you been unemployed?”
“About a year.”
“What did you do?”
“I was a drug rep at Nyteq,” Luna said.
“Really? A drug rep is sales, right?”
“Yes,” Luna said.
“You don’t seem like a salesperson.”
“That was the conclusion we all came to.”
“What made you work for Nyteq?”
“I needed a job. A friend was working there and put in a good word. It paid well and the hours were flexible.”
“Why did you leave?”
“The company was downsizing. I took the buyout because I could afford to. They were going to fire someone.”
“And you don’t have to work. Your husband makes a good living?”
“I want to work,” Luna said. “There are limited opportunities in the Hudson Valley.”
“You and Owen have lived in the same general area since college, right?”
“Not exactly. Owen lived in Manhattan for a few years. But it was too expensive, and he was offered a teaching job at St. Michael’s.”
“Doesn’t Markham have a better art department?” Burns asked.
“Markham wasn’t hiring,” Luna said.
“Do you think he came back to the area because you were here?”
“I think it helped that he had a friend nearby.”
“Would you say that Owen is satisfied with his career?” Burns asked.
Luna shrugged. She’d met few men who were satisfied. Few women as well. Was she satisfied? She wouldn’t know how to answer that question. “I think he imagined a different life. But he accepted the life he had.”
“You guys seem really close. Am I wrong?”
“We are close,” Luna said. “But we’re not cover-up-a-murder close.”
“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.”