Peter Van Husen was the first person to reach the scene of
the crime. He felt a surge of adrenalin rush through him, far more than a
trained police officer ought to be experiencing but in his gut he knew who he
was going to find lying in the kitchen—Mavis. She had been kidnapped the week
before and whoever grabbed her had obviously finished off the job in the
Schuyler Square Country Club kitchen, a tray of crab puffs probably dangling
precariously on the counter above her head.
Nausea swept over him. If Mavis was dead, he had a pretty
good idea of who had offed her: his wife.
Pushing open the double swinging doors, Peter rushed into
the large room, his attention focused on finding the victim. Hoards of people
poured in after him dressed in tuxedos and formals. For an insane moment it
reminded him of the board game Clue and
Peter had to fight back a strong urge to start laughing. The whole scene was
surreal with police officers swarming into the room, knocking over plates and
pans as if they were bloodhounds chasing an extremely fresh scent which, Peter
supposed, they were.
Peter screeched to a halt in the center of the kitchen, his
blue eyes darting around the space but coming up empty. There were no blood
spatters, no bullet holes, no Mavis lying on the black a white tile floor with
a butcher knife sticking out of her designer dress. “Where is she?” he shouted.
The caterer who had screamed about the body scurried up next
to him, her round face contorted with fear. “In there!” she said, pointing
toward the walk-in freezer. “We forgot to get the ice sculpture out so I went
to get it when I tripped over something. I looked down and saw—“ She put her
hands up over her face as if to block out the image of the murder victim. Peter
patted her well-padded back. “It’s OK,” he said as he tried to find the nerve
to enter the freezer. He so didn’t want to see Mavis dead. He hated seeing any
victim of a violent crime but Mavis—the afternoons and evenings they’d spent
together rushed back to him—so many stolen moments in hotel and motel rooms, so
many erotic events in hot tubs and saunas. Now they were over and he knew he’d
never find another woman like Mavis again. There wasn’t anyone else like her.
Forcing himself to move steadily, Peter crossed the kitchen
to the door of the walk-in freezer and pulled it open. The caterer had been
right. There was a body lying on the floor. Peter took in the prone figure, his
mind instantly searching for clues of how the victim had died and who might
have done it.
“What’s happening?” A fellow police officer appeared at his
side. “Dear God,” he breathed. “Someone’s killed Ron Schuyler.”
No comments:
Post a Comment