Murder for the Bride Read Free

Bryant?”
    “Yes. If you don’t mind, I …”
    “Can’t go in there, son. Sorry.”
    I took two steps over to him and glared down at him. “And just why can’t I go in there?”
    “It’s sealed. Police orders.”
    “Where’s my wife?” Marriage was so new that the word “wife” felt strange on my lips.
    He bobbled his toothpick over into the other corner of his mouth. I saw that his eyes were a funny color—like still water, like nail heads. I heard heavy steps coming up the stairs.
    “Your wife is dead, son,” he said in a tired and gentle voice. The world stopped turning and the sun stood still in the sky. I turned away from him. A uniformed policeman with a long sharp-featured face came into sight. Funny how every sense becomes so sharp at a time like that. The look of a long crack in the plaster engraved itself in the back of my brain. A mosquito had been mashed beside the crack. Maybe Laura had killed it. I could smell dust, varnish, dampness. I heard horns blaring at some distant traffic tie-up, soap-opera organ music on a radio on one of the floors below. I could hear the slow thud of my heart, the roar of blood in my ears, a tiny creakof belt leather as I breathed. Laura had ceased breathing. There was no more warmth to Laura. The long lovely legs were still.
    I leaned my forehead against the rough plaster. I hit the plaster very, very gently with my fist in time to the thud of my heart. The knuckles were still a bit swollen from hitting Paul a thousand miles away.
    “When? How?” I asked without turning. I whispered it, the way you tiptoe into a room where the dead wait for burial.
    “Last night, son. Somewhere around midnight, as near we can judge. Somebody slugged her, wrapped a wire coat hanger around her neck, and twisted it tight with a pair of pliers. We don’t know who, yet. But I imagine we’ll find out. Heard you were on your way, Bryant. Figured you’d come right here. Been waiting.”
    “Where is she?” I whispered.
    “Police morgue. Been legally identified. You don’t want to see her.”
    I turned then. “Yes, I do. There could be some mistake.”
    “It’s not a good thing to remember, son.”
    “I want to see her.”
    We went down the stairs. I didn’t notice until we got to the police sedan that he had carried my bag down. He opened the door and tossed the bag in. As he got behind the wheel he said, “I’m Zeck, son. Lieutenant Barney Zeck. Captain Paris is right anxious for a chat with you.”
    “Let’s go see her first, Lieutenant.”
    The car was like an oven from sitting in the sun. But I didn’t feel warm. There was a coldness in me that no sun would reach. This was the one trouble I hadn’t thought of.
    We went and looked at her. I made it out through the arch to the courtyard, where I was sick. Then we went to see Captain Paris. He was a big man, and he seemed to suffer badly in the heat. His white shirt stuck to his chest and there was heat rash all over his arms. His office had only one window. A fan on top of a file cabinet snarled as it turned from side to side, blowing stale hot air around the room.
    We sat down and an old man with a bald head and a green eyeshade came in with a notebook and sharp pencils. He opened the book on the corner of the desk.
    “I’ve been talking to Sam Spencer about you, Bryant. He thinks you’re a good man. Maybe too quick on the trigger, but sound in your field. How come that floozy got you on the hook, Bryant?”
    I leaned across the desk at him, trying to get my hands on him. Barney Zeck got hold of my belt and yanked me back into the chair.
    “That’s no way to act, son,” Zeck said in his weary voice.
    “Then tell him to watch his mouth.”
    Paris yawned and scrubbed at his prickly heat with his knuckles. “Let’s pick it up from the beginning. You met her seven weeks or so ago. Middle of May. What were the circumstances of your meeting this woman?”
    “What’s that got to do with somebody murdering