Mavis stared numbly down at her shoes. They were pretty shoes, gold with delicate high heels and thin leather straps that made her ankles look amazingly tiny. She had bought the shoes in Chicago at an exclusive boutique. Mavis did love shopping in Chicago. It was quite a cut above over shopping at the Schuyler Square Shopping Center where absolutely nothing was exclusive. The shoes went perfectly with her dress, which was also gold. And expensive. When Mavis had put on her pretty, exclusive, expensive shoes earlier that evening, she had never dreamed that a few hours later she would be sitting at the police station looking down at them while Ron's body was being taken away.
A tiny frown formed between her eyes. Where was Ron being taken? Had they taken him to a funeral home or the hospital morgue or where? Mavis didn't have a clue as to what happened to people who had been murdered. It certainly wasn't anything she'd ever spent time contemplating before.
She shivered. Dear God, her husband was dead. Ron was gone. Forever. She'd never have to listen to him clear his throat over and over and over while she was trying to read the People. Never have to watch him fall asleep in his leather armchair after imbibing too much scotch, a fine strand of drool oozing out of his patrician mouth as he snored. She'd never hear him complain about her credit card bills ever again. She was free of Ron and of being Mrs. Ron Schuyler and although she had dreamed about such freedom many, many times over the years she had never expected it to come about so...rudely.
"How are you doing?" A police officer sat down next to her, sympathy in his eyes. Mavis looked at him, wishing he was Peter. She was in desperate need of seeing a friendly face. Oh, and of a Valium too. Where was Peter? He'd been at the ball--he'd been standing over Ron's body--but she hadn't seen him since.
"I'm all right," Mavis replied stiffly.
"We aren't going to keep you much longer, Mrs. Schuyler. We're all aware of how much of a shock this has been. We just need to ask you a few questions."
"Why do you need to ask me any questions?" Mavis asked. A terrible thought dawned on her. "You don't think I had anything to do with my husband's death, do you?"
"We need to talk to everyone who was at the ball and of course we need to talk to the people who most likely saw Mr. Schuyler last. That might have been you, Mrs. Schuyler."
Ugh. Police double talk. Mavis gave the upstart in a blue uniform her iciest stare. "I haven't seen my husband since three o'clock this afternoon," she informed him. "He was about to take a nap and I was leaving for the hairdresser's."
"You didn't see him after you got back home from the hairdresser's? You didn't come to the ball together?"
"No, we did not," Mavis snapped. "I arrived early to make sure that everything had been done properly. I was in charge of the ball, you know."
"And you didn't see him at the ball?"
Mavis thought about that. Had she seen Ron at the dance? She couldn't recall. "Maybe in passing," she said, "but I didn't speak with him." Mavis felt her hands beginning to tremble. She was starting to get nauseous. "May I go now?"
The officer looked at her for a long moment. "Yes," he finally said. "We'll be in touch though so--"
"Don't leave town?" Mavis asked. "Don't worry. I'm hardly in the position to leave town at the moment. I have to plan my husband's funeral."
Standing up, Mavis saw Peter Van Husen walk through the station's front door, his wife trailing behind him.
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