Love. Marriage. Murder.
By Ted Smith
First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes murder.
Table of Contents
-
The Ring May Come with Diamonds, But It Always Ends in Handcuffs
A lavish wedding ends in tragedy. Or was it tradition? -
He Promised Her the World. She Settled for His Will.
When an aging tycoon dies mysteriously, all eyes turn to his young, glowing widow. -
She Wept for Her Husband—But Didn’t Smudge Her Mascara
A televised funeral turns into a trial of tears and lies. -
They Took ‘Till Death Do Us Part’ a Bit Too Seriously
A seemingly perfect couple disappears—only one returns with a story that doesn’t add up. -
Love Is Eternal. Unless It’s Profitable
A celebrity power couple faces a deadly scandal when a prenup goes missing—and a body shows up. -
Cupid’s Arrow Turned into a Smoking Gun
A Valentine’s Day dinner ends with more than just heartbreak. -
Marriage: The Leading Cause of Fatal Misunderstandings
A honeymoon suite. A spilled bottle of wine. A silent scream. -
Behind Every Rich Corpse Is a Spouse With a Shopping List
The victim was worth more dead than alive—and someone knew it. -
If the Tears Are Dry but the Will Is Wet…
A last-minute change to the estate sets off a deadly chain of betrayals. -
Some Couples Grow Apart. Others Push.
A rooftop toast turns into a murder scene. Was it an accident—or just good timing?
Introduction
From the Author…
or Perhaps an Accomplice
Ladies and gentlemen,
I’ve always found it fascinating—how quickly love can turn... lethal.
One moment, you're exchanging vows under a canopy of roses. The next, you're wondering if the person beside you just accidentally served you decaf... with arsenic.
It’s a curious thing, marriage. A contract bound not just by love and trust, but by access. To your bank accounts. To your passwords. To the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer.
Now, I’m not saying your spouse is plotting your untimely end. But let’s be honest… if someone were going to do it, they’d have the easiest time.
They know your schedule. Your allergies. Your wine preferences. Your weak spots.
They know when to call 911. And when not to.
This book? It’s not meant to scare you. It’s simply a collection of observations. Cautionary tales, if you will. Explorations of that fine, red thread between devotion and desperation.
So light a candle. Pour a drink. Check your locks.
And remember:
Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is watching you sleep.
Enjoy.
– You know who I am.
Chapter One
The Ring May Come with Diamonds, But It Always Ends in Handcuffs
The society pages called it the wedding of the decade.
White roses by the hundreds, a rented vineyard in Tuscany, and a groom so wealthy he could afford to cry into hundred-dollar tissues.
But now, three weeks later, he was dead. Face down in a bathtub the size of most people's kitchens. A wedding ring still on his finger. A champagne flute shattered on the marble floor like a broken promise.
They always say love is blind. But this was love deaf, dumb, and… possibly premeditated.
Detective Felix Vaun stood at the edge of the tub, tilting his head as if trying to hear the dead man whisper his side of the story. He always said the body spoke first—you just had to know how to listen.
“The groom died happy,” the coroner joked quietly behind him. “Or at least well-moisturized.”
Vaun didn’t smile. He rarely did at scenes like this. Wealth made death quieter, neater—but no less brutal. The man in the tub was Benjamin Courtwright IV, hotel heir, wine snob, and new husband to socialite-turned-lifestyle-guru Melinda Fawn Courtwright. A woman whose smile looked better under lighting, and whose sincerity was best captured in 4K.
“She called it in?” Vaun asked, eyes still on the body.
The officer nodded. “Claims she found him like this after her afternoon mani-pedi. Said he was just... floating.”
“Hmm,” Vaun said, half to himself. “Marriage has that effect on people.”
He walked slowly through the master suite. Everything was white, soft, expensive. Except the air. That was stiff with the scent of tension and designer perfume. And a faint trace of lavender bubble bath that clung a little too hard to the nose. He opened the trash bin. A receipt from LaRue Jewelers. $36,000. Dated two days ago.
New diamonds. Old corpse.
Downstairs, Melinda sat on a velvet chaise, dabbing her eyes with a tissue so thin, it might as well have been for show. She wore black, of course—but designer black. No mascara streaks. No trembling hands. She was sad in the way only rich people can be: rehearsed and well-lit.
“I loved Ben,” she whispered as the detective approached. “We were soulmates. Even our horoscopes said so.”
Vaun gave a slow nod. “Of course. Out of curiosity, how much was the life insurance?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I find it helps to measure grief in millions,” he said, offering a small, unreadable smile. “You’d be surprised how often it aligns.”
Melinda didn’t answer. She just crossed her legs and looked off toward the window, as if the right breeze might blow this whole inconvenience away.
He let the silence hang. It was often more revealing than answers.
Finally, he stood. “We’ll be in touch. And Mrs. Courtwright?”
“Yes?”
“Try not to leave town. Even honeymoons have a return date.”
Outside, Vaun slipped his notepad back into his coat. Another love story. Another crime scene. The details changed, but the ending was always familiar.
Because as he liked to say—and as this case was quickly proving:
The ring may come with diamonds, but it always ends in handcuffs.
Narrator’s Recap – Chapter One
Ah, love. So beautiful… until someone’s face-down in a $30,000 bathtub.
Let’s review, shall we?
- The victim: Benjamin Courtwright IV. New husband. Old money. Now... no pulse.
- Cause of death? Unknown. But the champagne wasn’t the only thing that went flat.
- His bride, Melinda? Dressed in black, dry-eyed, and freshly manicured. Grieving or auditioning for the next step of her influencer career?
- Oh, and the $36,000 jewelry receipt dated two days before he died? A new diamond purchase… with no diamond in sight.
Detective Vaun isn’t convinced this was a tragic accident. And frankly, neither are we.
So stay close. The champagne’s gone flat, but the secrets are still bubbling.
Chapter Two
He Promised Her the World. She Settled for His Will.
The funeral was tasteful, which is to say it was expensive and nobody cried too loud.
In attendance: minor royals, major donors, and enough black designer dresses to launch a new fall collection. But the real show was at the wake—specifically at the estate of the dearly departed, Lawrence Bleeker III, real estate magnate, former philanthropist, and recently, very married.
His new wife, Ava Bleeker, stood like a porcelain statue at the base of the spiral staircase, accepting condolences with the grace of a woman who’d either lost her soulmate… or successfully completed a five-year financial plan.
She wore veiled netting, gloves, and no visible signs of distress.
Detective Felix Vaun arrived mid-toast, just in time to see Ava raise a crystal flute and softly declare, “To Lawrence. He gave me everything… and asked for so little.”
“That should’ve been a red flag,” Vaun murmured as he slipped beside a tray of smoked salmon and scanned the room.
This death wasn’t officially his case. Lawrence had suffered a massive heart attack in his sleep, so said the private physician. But the timing, the new will, and Ava’s strangely calm demeanor had piqued more than curiosity. Especially when an anonymous tip claimed the original will had named someone else entirely.
“Detective Vaun,” Ava said, her voice smooth as velvet. “What a surprise. Are you here as a guest… or as a complication?”
“I wear both hats equally well,” he said. “Though I prefer the view from the corner of the room. Fewer lies in the shadows.”
She smiled, unbothered. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with my husband’s death?”
“No,” he said lightly, “just curious how someone goes from yoga instructor to billionaire widow in eighteen months.”
“My love life is not a crime.”
“Not yet.”
They stared at each other for a moment, a silent war of charm and suspicion.
Then Vaun moved past her, down the hallway, where a door stood ajar—Lawrence’s study. Inside, stacked papers, a safe slightly open, and a scent of old money and new panic.
A woman was already inside.
Mid-40s. Blazer sharp enough to cut through red tape. Tears real.
“I’m Margot Bleeker,” she said before he could ask. “His sister.”
“Condolences,” Vaun replied. “You were close?”
“He raised me. He was... everything.” She inhaled deeply. “Until she showed up.”
“She?”
“Ava. He met her at some retreat in Tulum. Came back obsessed. Changed his will. Cut out most of the family. Said she opened his soul.”
“Did she open the safe too?” Vaun asked, nodding toward it.
Margot didn’t smile. “He kept the original will in there. But now? Gone.”
Vaun looked at the safe again. No signs of forced entry. Just someone with the code—and the confidence.
“Funny,” he said. “The dead don’t lie, but their paperwork disappears like magic.”
Narrator’s Recap – Chapter Two
Let’s recap, before the champagne chills and the tears warm up:
- The deceased: Lawrence Bleeker III. Heart attack in his sleep… or maybe outmaneuvered in his own bed.
- The widow: Ava. Elegant, unreadable, newly rich.
- The sister: Margot. Cut from the will. Left with questions.
- The will itself? Poof. Gone. No original. Just the version that makes Ava very comfortable.
So what do we know?
Someone changed the game.
Someone opened that safe.
And someone’s inheritance came a little too easy.
The detective isn’t sure who’s lying yet.
But rest assured… someone is.
Chapter Three
She Wept for Her Husband—But Didn’t Smudge Her Mascara
The television played the funeral on loop.
Muted piano music. Soft-focus camera angles. The widow’s trembling voice mic’d just enough to sound tragic, but not enough to catch the slight inflection of sarcasm that lived in the back of her throat.
Detective Felix Vaun turned the volume up, just in time to hear the closing line of her eulogy.
“He was my light, my shield, my partner. Life without him feels… colorless.”
Vaun paused the clip and leaned in.
“Colorless,” he repeated aloud. “Funny, coming from a woman in hot pink heels and a diamond choker.”
The widow in question was Celeste Duvall, famed lifestyle guru, perfume mogul, and queen of the 3-minute cry on live television.
Her husband, Vincent Duvall, a respected Broadway producer, had been found at the bottom of their penthouse balcony the night before opening night. A tragic accident, the papers said. Stress. Overwork. Maybe suicide.
But the detective? He didn’t believe in coincidences.
Especially not when someone fell exactly eight floors and landed directly on a valet cart—empty except for a bouquet of lilies from his own wife’s brand. Maison de Celeste.
He arrived at the penthouse with a single question: Was it grief, or marketing?
Celeste greeted him like a hotel hostess—smile practiced, posture perfect.
“Detective Vaun,” she said, offering her hand, “You’ll forgive the mess. Mourning is so… disorganized.”
The room was immaculate.
“I understand you were inside when your husband fell,” he began.
“In the bath,” she said, gesturing toward a silk robe and glass of untouched rosé. “I heard a scream. I ran. But it was too late.”
“Interesting,” Vaun said, “Your concierge mentioned the alarm was disabled that night. Odd for someone so high-profile.”
Celeste’s eyes flickered. Barely.
“We had a habit of disabling it on date nights. Vincent was... spontaneous. He liked to sneak onto the balcony with wine. Look at the skyline. He said it made him feel young again.”
“Did it?”
“Until it didn’t, I suppose.”
Vaun turned toward the balcony, noting the champagne glasses—one full, one smudged with lipstick. He didn’t need forensics to see that only one had been touched.
“How long were you married?”
Celeste took a sip of rosé, finally. “Seven months. Married in spring. Buried in fall. Quite poetic, if you think about it.”
“I’d call it suspicious.”
She tilted her head. “Are you suggesting I pushed my husband off the balcony for a better advertising campaign?”
“I’m suggesting your tears seem… conveniently timed.”
She smiled. “I’ve always believed in good lighting. And waterproof mascara.”
Narrator’s Recap – Chapter Three
Grief is many things. Loud. Quiet. Private. Or, in this case… branded.
- Vincent Duvall: Broadway’s golden boy, now dead center stage.
- Celeste Duvall: Widow. Perfume mogul. Calm. Glossy. Perfectly contoured.
- The scene: A fall from grace—or from an 8th-floor balcony.
- The clues: Disabled alarm. One lipstick-stained glass. A eulogy fit for a PR campaign.
She says it was love.
He says nothing—he’s dead.
And the detective? He’s listening for the truth behind the mascara.
Because if it doesn’t smudge… it might not be real.
Chapter Four
They Took "Till Death Do Us Part" a Bit Too Seriously
A second funeral. A second spouse. A second whisper of staged heartbreak.
Detective Felix Vaun stared at the glossy black-and-white invitation card.
"In Loving Memory of Connor Vance – Architect. Adventurer. Angel."
“Angel?” Vaun muttered. “Only if angels sign prenups.”
Connor Vance, dead from a rock climbing ‘accident.’ His wife, socialite-turned-mountain-guide Vivienne Vance, tearfully recounted how his rope “snapped mid-ascent,” just moments after she descended safely.
A fluke. A tragedy.
But now—two husbands, both rich, both dead, both with public wives who could give masterclasses in how to cry just enough.
And something else.
They were both wearing the same cologne.
Maison de Celeste.
Vaun pressed his pen to his notebook and wrote:
Case Merge Point?
Vivienne met him at her estate, wrapped in fleece and faux sincerity.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, brushing windswept hair from her cheek, “I just returned from a sunrise hike. It clears the fog.”
He looked past her at the infinity pool and the mimosa bar. “Looks like it brings the brunch, too.”
Vivienne giggled, placing a manicured hand over her heart. “Connor would’ve laughed at that. He hated formality. He’d say, ‘If I die climbing, at least I went out reaching for the sky.’”
“Funny. His best friend said he was terrified of heights.”
Vivienne’s smile faltered.
“He overcame it.”
“Or he didn’t,” Vaun said. “You said the rope snapped. Who packed it?”
“I did,” she said. “We always packed our own.”
“But he didn’t double-check?”
“I always said he was too trusting,” she whispered, dabbing her eyes. “I miss that about him.”
Vaun stared at her. Noticed the same brand of perfume Celeste wore—though Vivienne said she hated celebrity products.
“Mind if I check your gear?” he asked.
“Help yourself.”
Inside the shed, he found what he was looking for.
Ropes. Perfectly intact. Some still tagged. And a forgotten receipt in a pink envelope, signed: Thanks for your bulk order – C.D.
He called the lab.
“Run a trace on the rope fibers found on Connor Vance’s gear. Compare it to a sample I’ll be dropping off.”
“Got it,” said the tech. “Still working the Duvall balcony case too. That lipstick on the glass? DNA match came in.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t match Celeste Duvall.”
Vaun grinned. “Well then. Maybe she wasn’t drinking alone after all.”
Narrator’s Recap –
Chapter Four
One death? An accident.
Two? A coincidence.
But two women, two husbands, two staged tragedies—and one scent lingering in both crime scenes?
Now that’s suspicious.
- Connor Vance: Dead on the cliff.
- Vivienne Vance: Widow. Hiking influencer. Rope packer.
- Celeste Duvall: Perfume mogul. PR-perfect. Not drinking alone.
Two husbands are dead.
Two wives are playing innocent.
But Detective Vaun? He smells something familiar.
And it’s not just the cologne.