In the twenty-four hours that had passed since Ron Schuyler's death, tips had been pouring into the Schuyler Square police station. Unfortunately, none of them were much help.
"This is all crap," Peter said, hanging up the telephone angrily after the last caller reported that he had seen a plump red head enter the country club kitchen right around the time Ron had been murdered. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to remember that his wife Chelsea was now a red head and that she was also a bit of a porker. But Peter knew there was no way Chelsea murdered Ron. She wasn't the type. If Chelsea had murder on her mind, Peter had no doubt that he would be the intended victim, not Ron Schuyler.
"What's crap?" Jim Waterston asked as he peered over Peter's shoulder. "A red head, huh? That's the third time a broad with red hair has been mentioned from the tipsters, isn't it?"
"So?" Peter asked.
"So your wife has red hair now. Bright red hair. Lucy red hair. Little Orphan Annie red hair."
"What are you saying, Jim? Spit it out, OK?"
Jim sat down next to Peter and smirked at him. "Just putting two and two together."
"And coming up with five," Peter shot back. "Besides, the autopsy report isn't back yet. It's highly possible that Ron Schuyler died of natural causes."
The smirk grew even broader on Jim's face and he patted his basketball sized paunch. "Sure he did. It's also highly possible that I'll be chosen as the next Sexiest Man of the Year by People magazine."
"He could have had a heart attack," Peter said. "There was no gun shot wound, no stab wound, no external marks."
"Other than the six inch gash on his forehead."
"He could have hit the edge of the counter when he fell," Peter said.
Jim shook his head in disgust. "You are pathetic but go ahead and stay in La La Land for as long as you want. In the meantime, I'm going to go to your house and talk to your wife."
"The hell you are!"
"The hell I am. It's my job, Van Husen. There was a murder and it's all of our jobs to talk to likely suspects. That would be your wife, Mavis Schuyler and...you."
Peter stared. "Me?"
"Yeah, you. Where were you when Schuyler died anyway?"
Now it was Peter's turn to smirk. "Actually I was dancing with Mavis Schuyler. There's no way either of us killed Ron Schuyler."
"That still leaves your missus."
"No one killed Ron Schuyler." The captain's irritated voice interrupted them. "He had a massive heart attack." The captain looked from Peter to Jim. "However, we don't think he was alone. Evidence indicates that Ron Schuyler was...sexually active at the time of death."
"You mean he was bopping someone when he died? Who?" Peter demanded.
"What a way to go," Jim added. "Yeah, who was it?"
The captain sighed. "A temporary worker hired by the country club for the evening for eight bucks an hour. Apparently some gal was playing waitress for the night and she caught Mr. Schuyler's eye when she served him his drink."
Peter was even more disgusted than he'd been before--although also vastly relieved. Chelsea hadn't killed Ron and neither had Mavis. The women in his life were innocent. "Served him right," he commented, "but that had to be pretty awful for the kid."
"What kid? You mean the waitress?" The captain shook his head. "She was no kid. Sixty if she's a day and not in very good shape herself. Seems she had a little heart event after Ron collapsed. She's in the hospital right now, singing like a canary. You know what she said was the worst thing about the whole shebang?"
Peter could only imagine. What could be the worst thing about having sex with someone and then having them expire on you? "I'm afraid to ask."
"Ron was a lousy tipper."
No comments:
Post a Comment