Wronged (Book 1)

Wronged

  By Sylvia McDaniel

  Copyright © 2002 Sylvia McDaniel

  Published by Virtual Bookseller

  Originally published by Kensington in 2002

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Returned To The Author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered, stored in or introduced to any information storage and retrieval system, in any form, whether electronic or mechanical without the author’s written permission. Scanning, uploading or distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic versions, and do not participate in, or encourage pirated electronic versions.

  eBook conversion by Ink Lion Books

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Cuvier Women Series:

  Author Bio

  Chapter One

  New Orleans, 1895

  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 stern 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?

  The door to the room burst open and a blonde woman dressed in an exquisite, embroidered crepe lisse flouncing with white India silk, hurried into the room. Her heart-shaped face and soft blue eyes looked distressed and her complexion pale. “Where is he? Is he all right? They told me he was ill.”

  The detective put himself between the young woman and the door to the room where Jean’s body lay sprawled.

  “Who are you?” Officer Dunegan asked, halting the stylish woman who looked almost like a young girl.

  “I’m Mrs. Cuvier,” she replied, her face anxious. “I went by Jean’s office and they sent me over here. Is the doctor with him?”

  “Good Lord, another one?” the detective muttered, gazing at both of them.

  “Who did you say you were?” Marian questioned as she stared at this woman in disbelief.

  The woman gave Marian a quick disdainful glance. “I’m Mrs. Nicole Cuvier, Jean’s wife. Now, where is my husband?”

  Marian wondered if she’d heard her correctly. Did she say she was Jean’s wife?

  The detective glanced at Marian and then at the other woman. “Jean Cuvier is dead.”

  Marion watched the woman as her trembling hand clutched her delicate throat. Her eyes reflected horror, while her face tightened with shock and her body swayed. For a moment Marian thought the newcomer would faint and she wondered if this whole scene was a bad dream.

  “No! No!” the blonde woman cried, tears rushing to her eyes. “Dear God, no. He can’t be! Let me see him. Please tell me this is a mistake. Where is he?”

  The detective glanced at Marian who stood staring at the scene in front of her, shock freezing her at the woman’s outburst. Jean had likely never been faithful, but how many women could one man be involved with? And did he really marry them?

  “I’ll take you to him,” the man said taking Nicole by the arm. “I’m Detective Dunegan, with the New Orleans police.”

  He led the latest Mrs. Cuvier into the bedroom where the body lay sprawled on the floor. Marian stood in the center of the parlor, not knowing what to do, feeling like the ground had been ripped from beneath her feet.

  Two other women claimed to be Jean’s wife! The latest wife was young, attractive, and certainly more appealing for Jean to bed than herself. Could the women be lying about their marital status? Yet the newest Mrs. Cuvier certainly appeared the grieving widow, more so than even Marian. If she were lying, she certainly played her part well.

  Or could this be some ploy to cover his murder? Extort money? None of this felt
real, but it didn’t feel like a lie either. Speculation, but possible.

  When the detective and the young woman returned, Marian still stood in the same place, the policemen walking a wide path around her as she stood transfixed, staring, stunned by the day’s events.

  The room filled with the sounds of the newest Mrs. Cuvier’s soft sobs, and Marian felt the most incredible urge to comfort her. To shield her from the hurt that Jean could so easily inflict. She shook herself. When Nicole learned of Marian’s identity, she would not accept Marian’s offer of solace.

  “I think we need to remain calm, sit down, and find out what happened,” the officer said, his voice firm and reassuring.

  Calm? Remaining composed seemed impossible when you suspect your husband had found you so inappetent that he kept not one but two women to stimulate his sexual desires, leaving you to wait for him to return to the home you shared.

  “What—what ... happened,” Nicole sobbed, her face streaked with tears. “How did he die?”

  Marian gazed with interest at the detective. What did it say about her relationship with Jean that she hadn’t even thought to ask that but rather just accepted the fact that Jean was dead.

  “Poisoning. We suspect that his wi... the woman we found him with poisoned him.”

  Nicole spun around and glared at Marian through her tears.

  Marian gazed back at the angry and beautiful young woman, until she realized Nicole thought she had killed Jean. “Not me. There’s another woman.”

  “What do you mean another woman?” Nicole asked.

  “You’re not the only Mrs. Cuvier in this hotel suite.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Nicole said almost hysterical.

  Marian wanted to laugh, but thought it would be cruel and there was already more than enough pain in this hotel room. So instead she remained quiet, let the detective explain the situation.

  The detective took Nicole by the arm and motioned for Marian to follow him. They walked into an adjoining room where a girl who looked like she should still be in school sat staring out the window at the horizon, her dark eyes glazed and distant.

  “Layla,” the detective said, releasing Nicole. “Tell these women how the man you’re suspected of killing was related to you.”

  She turned her oval-shaped face toward the door. Hair as black as night was swept up off her neck in a coiffure that left wisps of curls swirling around her pale face. She glanced at the detective and raised her brows in a disdainful look that was both elegant and disapproving. “I told you I did not kill my husband.”

  Nicole moaned, the knowledge seeming like a blow to her. “What are you saying? You lie. You can’t be married to Jean?”

  The girl stared at Nicole, not responding.

  “Did you marry Jean Cuvier?” Marian asked gently feeling more certain that Jean had married each one of them. If Jean had done what she suspected, she had a sudden premonition they were all going to need consoling in the next few minutes.

  “Yes,” the young girl said, her voice starting to tremble. Her bright red lips pouted.

  Marian squeezed her eyes shut, letting the waves of pain almost overwhelm her at Jean’s deception. How could he do this to her? To the others? To their children?

  “That can’t be. He married me. He’s my husband,” Nicole said, her voice rising, the pain and hurt audible in her voice.

  “And mine,” Marian said quietly, as she sank down onto a nearby chair. “I’m Marian Cuvier. I married him twelve years ago at St. Ann’s Cathedral.”

  Nicole turned abruptly and looked at Marian in disbelief. “No. That’s impossible.” She paused, her face contorted in disbelief. “No. We were married four years ago. I don’t understand. He would never do something so horrible.”

  “And I married him a year ago,” Layla whispered, her face turning ashen.

  “Impossible. Jean loved me. That’s ... that’s bigamy!” Nicole said, shaking her head from side to side.

  “Yes it is bigamy. We’re all married to the same man,” Marian replied, her voice distant and hollow. Her insides were numb. Her mind slowed to a crawl, as she comprehended the situation. “And now we’re all Jean’s widows. The Cuvier Widows.”