Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

She eventually learned that the heroine of the novel, like herself, occasionally caught herself longing for her ex-husband. But she refused to let this stand in the way of her new-found freedom and the fact that there were other men in the world; and that there was a very good chance that she might someday find a man she could love just as much as she had once loved her ex-maybe even more so. The heroine, however, was strong and independent, unlike herself, with a more open mind. Ann realized that she needed to start being just as strong and independent as the heroine; otherwise she could never hope to shrug off her past and find someone else to take Sam’s place.

The plot thickened, and during one of the more intense encounters between the heroine and the tall dark stranger, Ann found herself longing to be in her place; to be held in a stranger’s arms and doted on by someone who loved and respected her for who she was. This longing, along with the richly detailed rendering of the scene, actually made her feel vital and optimistic for a change… if not downright horny.

Ann became so engrossed in the romance novel that she lost all track of time. Then it suddenly dawned on her when the eleven o’clock news came on that Amy hadn’t come home yet.

Lustful eyes peered through the partially closed mini blinds and watched Amy Middleton as she closed the bathroom door and went over to the bathtub to turn on the water. She was fully clothed, wearing a black skirt cut just above the knees, a black cardigan sweater and a white blouse buttoned all the way to the top. She bent down, rested a knee on the edge of the tub, and held her fingers under the running water. She turned the hot water knob a little further to the right until she was satisfied with the temperature, then stood up and began removing her sweater.

He observed Amy as she haphazardly flung the sweater onto the floor then turned and faced the mirror above the sink. As she watched herself in the mirror, she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, seemingly distracted by the image of her face. His heart raced madly as she fumbled with a couple of buttons half way down before she finally unfastened the last one. She brought her hands up near her neck and laggardly removed the blouse, allowing it to rest on her shoulders for just a moment before finally taking it all the way off and flinging it into the corner along with her sweater. He could feel his pulse surge as he stared at her breasts, concealed for the moment by a flimsy sheer white bra. It was the kind with the little meshed holes strategically placed in just the right spots that left little to the imagination.

Amy continued staring at her reflection in the mirror and brought her small, delicate fingers to the front of the bra and unfastened it, exposing her milky white breasts. Her nipples were rosy-red and erect, the curves of her breasts round and firm. She brought each arm through the straps of the bra and pitched it into the growing pile of clothes in the corner.

His unblinking eyes stared intently as Amy slipped out of the skirt-the movement surprisingly swift and graceful. His gaze was locked onto her smooth, slender legs as she tossed the skirt onto the floor and pulled down her cottony white, nearly see-through panties.

The window began steaming up and the Observer silently cursed under his breath. Amy was still fairly visible as she leaned a little closer to the mirror for a better look at herself. He could hear his own breathing now-short, uneven gasps, as he stared at Amy’s luscious body from head to toe. What he wouldn’t give, he thought, to jump on top of her right this moment!

He felt the lump in his pants throb relentlessly as he strained his eyes to see through the droplets forming on the windowpane. Steam was everywhere now, a thick blanket of fog keeping him from eying his prey. He nearly screamed out loud in his frustration and for a brief moment felt the nearly uncontrollable urge to crash through the bathroom window and finish off what she had already started.

His foot suddenly slipped off the shrub he was standing on, causing the elastic-like branches to spring noisily against the side of the house. Instinctively, he glanced first through the window at Amy, who apparently hadn’t heard anything over the running water, then looked around the backyard. To his horror, he saw Amy’s mother peering out through the kitchen window. He stood there frozen in his awkward position for several moments, confident that she probably couldn’t see him even if she tried-the yard was pitch dark and he was only partially in her field of vision.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he saw Amy’s mother back away from the window. His eyes returned to the bathroom. All he could see now was the obscured form of Amy Middleton through a shroud of steam as she stepped into the tub, closed the shower curtain and disappeared completely from his sight.

Sam knew that Roger was pissed off at him, and he couldn’t really blame him. After all, he was off-duty today and midway through a bottle of Jack Daniels when he had called the lieutenant to set up a time to go over to the Bradley house. What really had irked his friend was the fact that the Bradley’s were to be allowed to return to their home tomorrow morning; which meant that in order to comply with Sam’s request, they would have to go over there this evening-no doubt the last thing Roger Hagstrom wanted to be doing in his present state of inebriation.

Sam had asked Roger why the police were surrendering the Bradley house now, all of a sudden, and he’d replied that the investigation of the murder scene was officially completed. The house had already been dusted for prints and gone over with a fine-toothed comb, so there simply wasn’t anything left to do there. And besides that, he’d added dryly, Dave Bradley did have a right to live in his own home.

Sam told Roger that he would pick him up at five-thirty and as he pulled into the driveway of his friend’s two-story frame house, he wondered what kind of shape Detective Hagstrom would be in by now. He pulled up beside the house and laid on the horn. A moment later, Roger emerged from the front door carrying a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Roger Hagstrom was short and stocky with rusty brown hair, wore a two-day old stubble, wrinkled khakis, and a ragged Kent State sweatshirt as he lumbered over to Sam’s Jeep and opened the door.

“Yo,” Roger greeted as he climbed in.

He wasn’t blasted yet, Sam thought to himself. “Yo, Rog. Sorry about interrupting your bliss,” he said, throwing the gearshift lever into reverse.

“Fuck it,” Roger growled good-naturedly. “Nothin’ else shakin,’ anyway. Just another drunk day in this sleepy old burg.”

Sam turned his head and watched as he backed out of the narrow driveway and onto the street. “It’s been pretty lively around here this past week or so, you’ve got to admit.”

Roger nodded. “True. But socially speaking, let’s face it: this town’s the skids.”

Sam smiled knowingly. “No shit.”

“You want a taste?” Roger asked, proffering his glass of straight Jack Daniels.

“No thanks-too early for me,” Sam replied. “Did you make it to the funeral home today?”

“Yeah, I went this afternoon. Just missed you guys, as a matter of fact. Only stayed a couple of minutes, though. I can’t stand that depressing shit.”

“I know what you mean. Dave sure looked rough, eh?”

Roger nodded. “Yup, I really feel for the guy-Marsha was one hell of a lady. She really loved that kid, too. I sure hope the little tyke snaps out of it.”

“What’s the latest on Tommy, anyway?” Sam inquired. “Have you heard anything new?”