Marian Cuvier for years thought her husband kept a
mistress and that her marriage to Jean Cuvier wasn't
worth
the paper their marriage license was printed on. Still,
the
sight of the man she had spent the last twelve years of
her
life with—borne two children and made a home
for—lying dead on the floor of a bedroom in the
Chateau Hotel ripped a sob of anguish from her throat
"What happened?" she cried, her mind reeling with
thoughts of her fatherless children wrenching her heart.
Policemen stood around the body in small groups, ceased
their low whispers and glanced her direction, their gazes
stern, but curious.
A man half–bent over Jean's body turned and gazed
at her, his dark eyes intense. "Who are you, Madame?"
"I'm his wife, Marian Cuvier," she said, starting to
tremble from the shock of her husband's death. His body
lay
twisted grotesquely on the floor, his skin an odd pinkish
hue.
Oh God, no matter how much I hated him, I would never
have wished him dead!
The man crouching over the body slowly rose to his full
height, his brows drawn together in a frown. "His wife is
sitting in the next room Madame."
"What?" she asked, not sure she heard him
correctly. "I'm Marian Cuvier. I'm his wife. Who are
you?"
"I'm detective Dunegan." He gave her a stem look and
took her by the arm, leading her from the bedroom.
Unable to resist, she glanced back perhaps for the last
time at the still form that long ago had been her lover,
and of late an absent husband. She closed her eyes, the
image of the handsome man she'd married twelve years ago
foremost in her mind. When she opened her eyes she looked
toward the detective, not at the corpse who'd never been
a
good husband.
"Madame, I will ask you again. Who are you? His wife
is
sitting in the next room."
Confusion rippled through her and she pulled away from
the man as they entered the parlor. "That must be his
mistress. I am Mrs. Jean Cuvier, we've been married for
twelve years."
The hotel clerk, who earlier had summoned her from her
house and brought her to the Chateau Hotel, cleared his
throat to draw the detective's attention. He leaned over
and whispered something to the younger man who glanced
again at Marian.
As if she were at a play, she watched from a distance
as
the scene unfolded before her, a sense of uneasiness
holding her in its grip. The body lying on the floor of
the
bedroom looked like her husband, Jean, who was expected
home today. She supposed the corpse littering the floor
must be her cold–hearted husband, the man who had
visited her bed fewer times than he had the church, which
was almost never.
Detective Dunegan gazed at her, his expression one of
bewilderment. "My apologies, Mrs. Cuvier. There seems to
be
some confusion. The hotel clerk confirmed you were indeed
married to Mr. Cuvier. If you're his wife, then, who is
the
woman who was with Mr. Cuvier?"
The detective watched her closely as if he feared she
would be overcome by the news her husband had died in a
hotel room with another woman. Clearly, the detective had
no clue that her marriage existed only on paper. How could
she explain that her husband no longer found her
attractive? That Jean often sought the company of other
women.
Impossible. So she said nothing about the state of her
marriage. Let the police figure it out, maybe they could
find the reasons why her husband no longer made love to
her.
Marian lifted her chin and consciously pulled her
shoulders back. Made of stronger fabric than most women,
she would weather this storm, just like all the others
Jean
put her through. She ignored the way her insides began to
quiver.
"Perhaps she is his mistress," she acknowledged, her
suspicions about Jean realized.
Damn him, did he never think of their children?
