The police found her at sunrise, slumped over the steering wheel in her white Lexus. The socialite huddled inside a mink coat, her jaw slack, saliva drooling. Her wedding band and engagement ring sparkled in the morning light.
They tried the door. It was locked. One of the officers knocked on the window; she didn’t respond. When they pried the door open, the smell of alcohol hit them hard. They recognized her as one of the fundraisers for the annual community event benefitting the police and fire departments.
An ambulance raced her to ER where the doctors pumped her stomach and tried to wake her. A blood sample showed that she’d taken sleeping pills with vodka. It had happened before. This time, it didn’t look like an accident.
When they reached her husband in Paris for a banking conference, he was furious. “No, he couldn’t return that day, he had an important meeting. He’d call the kids. They could handle it. “Thousands of dollars on a shrink, he thought, ‘and she was still pulling this kind of stunt.” He was glad he’d filed for divorce before he left town.
He was hoping the police could keep this latest event out of the papers as they’d done many times before.“We can’t keep it quiet, Sir,” the officer told him.”Unfortunately, a divorce filing is public information.”
He slammed the phone down. “Bitch” he snarled. “The damn woman was always messing things up for him.”
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