Read Online Shut Your Eyes Tight by John Verdon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Verdon
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Burt Luntz and his wife … President of Dartwell College and her husband … Ashton’s literaryagent and her husband … President of the Tambury British Heritage Society and his wife … Congresswoman Liz Laughton and her husband … Philanthropist Angus Boyd and his young male whatever-he-is, calls him his ‘assistant’ … Editor of the
International Journal of Clinical Psychology
and his wife … Lieutenant governor and his wife … Dean of the medical—”
Gurney interrupted. “Are they all like that?”
“Do they all reek of money, power, connections? Yes. CEOs, major politicians, newspaper publishers, even a goddamn bishop.”
For the next ten minutes, the stream of privileged overachievers flowed into Scott Ashton’s backyard botanical garden. None appeared out of place in the rarefied environment. But none appeared particularly thrilled to be there.
“We’re getting to the end of the line,” said Hardwick. “Next we have the bride’s parents: Dr. Withrow Perry, world-famous neurosurgeon, and Val Perry, his trophy wife.”
The doctor looked to be in his early sixties. He had a fleshy, contemptuous mouth, the double chin of a gourmand, and sharp eyes. He moved with a surprising quickness and grace—like a former fencing instructor, thought Gurney, remembering the lessons he and Madeleine had taken together in the second or third year of their marriage, when they were still actively searching for things they might enjoy doing together.
The Val Perry standing beside the doctor on the screen like a film fantasy of Cleopatra radiated a satisfaction missing from the Val Perry who’d visited Gurney that morning.
“And now,” said Hardwick, “the groom and his soon-to-be-headless bride.”
“Jesus,” murmured Gurney. There were times when Hardwick’s lack of feeling seemed to go far enough beyond routine cop cynicism to qualify him as a marginal sociopath. But this was neither the time nor the place to … to what? To tell the man he was a sick prick?
Gurney took a deep breath and refocused his attention on the video—on Dr. Scott Ashton and Jillian Perry Ashton walking together toward the camera, smiling—a smattering of applause, a few shouts of “Bravo!” and a joyful baroque crescendo in the background.
Gurney was staring in amazement at the bride.
“The hell is wrong?” asked Hardwick.
“She’s not quite what I imagined.”
“The hell did you expect?”
“From what her mother told me, I wasn’t expecting her to look like a cover shot on
Brides
magazine.”
Hardwick studied the image of the beaming young beauty in a floor-length white satin gown, the modest neckline dotted with tiny sequins, her white-gloved hands holding a bouquet of pink tea roses, her golden hair swept up in a tight swirl topped by a glittering tiara, her almond eyes accented with a touch of eyeliner, her perfect mouth enlivened with a lipstick that matched the pink of the tea roses.
Hardwick shrugged. “Don’t they all want to look like that?”
Gurney frowned, troubled by the conventionality of Jillian’s appearance.
“It’s in their goddamn genes,” Hardwick insisted.
“Yeah, maybe,” said Gurney, unconvinced.
Hardwick fast-forwarded through scenes of bride and groom moving through the crowd, the string quartet attacking their instruments with great gusto, the catering staff gliding among the sipping and munching throng. “We’re going to cut to the chase,” he said, “straight to the segment where everything happens.”
“You mean the actual murder?”
“Plus some interesting stuff just before and just after.”
After a few seconds of digital artifacts, the screen was filled with a medium shot of three people conversing in a triangle. Some words were more audible than others, partly buried in the buzz of other conversations, partly overwhelmed by the exuberance of Vivaldi.
Hardwick pulled another folded sheet of paper from his pocket, opened it, and handed it to
International Journal of Clinical Psychology
and his wife … Lieutenant governor and his wife … Dean of the medical—”
Gurney interrupted. “Are they all like that?”
“Do they all reek of money, power, connections? Yes. CEOs, major politicians, newspaper publishers, even a goddamn bishop.”
For the next ten minutes, the stream of privileged overachievers flowed into Scott Ashton’s backyard botanical garden. None appeared out of place in the rarefied environment. But none appeared particularly thrilled to be there.
“We’re getting to the end of the line,” said Hardwick. “Next we have the bride’s parents: Dr. Withrow Perry, world-famous neurosurgeon, and Val Perry, his trophy wife.”
The doctor looked to be in his early sixties. He had a fleshy, contemptuous mouth, the double chin of a gourmand, and sharp eyes. He moved with a surprising quickness and grace—like a former fencing instructor, thought Gurney, remembering the lessons he and Madeleine had taken together in the second or third year of their marriage, when they were still actively searching for things they might enjoy doing together.
The Val Perry standing beside the doctor on the screen like a film fantasy of Cleopatra radiated a satisfaction missing from the Val Perry who’d visited Gurney that morning.
“And now,” said Hardwick, “the groom and his soon-to-be-headless bride.”
“Jesus,” murmured Gurney. There were times when Hardwick’s lack of feeling seemed to go far enough beyond routine cop cynicism to qualify him as a marginal sociopath. But this was neither the time nor the place to … to what? To tell the man he was a sick prick?
Gurney took a deep breath and refocused his attention on the video—on Dr. Scott Ashton and Jillian Perry Ashton walking together toward the camera, smiling—a smattering of applause, a few shouts of “Bravo!” and a joyful baroque crescendo in the background.
Gurney was staring in amazement at the bride.
“The hell is wrong?” asked Hardwick.
“She’s not quite what I imagined.”
“The hell did you expect?”
“From what her mother told me, I wasn’t expecting her to look like a cover shot on
Brides
magazine.”
Hardwick studied the image of the beaming young beauty in a floor-length white satin gown, the modest neckline dotted with tiny sequins, her white-gloved hands holding a bouquet of pink tea roses, her golden hair swept up in a tight swirl topped by a glittering tiara, her almond eyes accented with a touch of eyeliner, her perfect mouth enlivened with a lipstick that matched the pink of the tea roses.
Hardwick shrugged. “Don’t they all want to look like that?”
Gurney frowned, troubled by the conventionality of Jillian’s appearance.
“It’s in their goddamn genes,” Hardwick insisted.
“Yeah, maybe,” said Gurney, unconvinced.
Hardwick fast-forwarded through scenes of bride and groom moving through the crowd, the string quartet attacking their instruments with great gusto, the catering staff gliding among the sipping and munching throng. “We’re going to cut to the chase,” he said, “straight to the segment where everything happens.”
“You mean the actual murder?”
“Plus some interesting stuff just before and just after.”
After a few seconds of digital artifacts, the screen was filled with a medium shot of three people conversing in a triangle. Some words were more audible than others, partly buried in the buzz of other conversations, partly overwhelmed by the exuberance of Vivaldi.
Hardwick pulled another folded sheet of paper from his pocket, opened it, and handed it to
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