Read Online Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery) by Maggie Barbieri - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggie Barbieri
Ads: Link
happened. She also didn’t mention the car exploding and I wondered if Lydia left that little tidbit out of the conversation. Seemed likely. A lot had happened that day.
“Would you let me know when the arrangements are finalized?” I asked.
Jane seemed a little surprised that I would want that information but she assured me that she would. “I’ll call you later.” She broke down and I put my arms around her, happy to be comforting her and not the one being comforted. I’m in that position far too often and felt as though I were using up all of the good will I had in the comfort bank. When she composed herself, she kissed my cheek and started back toward her house.
Inside the house, I heard Max calling to Trixie. I knew the dog wouldn’t come. She finds Max exhausting and hides under the dining room table every time she’s around. I took that into account when I had asked Max to walk her; it would take at least a half hour to track the dog down and get her on the leash, which would hopefully keep Max occupied during my absence. Leaving Max without a task is akin to giving a toddler a roll of toilet paper: there won’t be too much of a mess but you’ll still have a lot to clean up. “Will there be a murder investigation?” I asked as we walked to the car.
He opened the passenger side door for me. “Sounds like they’ve already got the guy.”
I slid in and waited for him to get into the car. “George Miller.”
“They’ll probably get him on manslaughter. The fight, the big blow to the head, it’s all there.” He looked over at me and could tell that I was dubious. “Whatever you’re thinking, Inspector Clouseau, forget about it. The police will investigate, and hopefully find out, who put the device on the engine, and that person will go away for attempted murder along with George Miller,” he said, stressing “attempted.” “But if you want more information, call my brother, the hotshot lawyer, and have at it.” He backed down the driveway, our conversation obviously over. There’s nothing worse than a hungry Crawford.
He drove us to the Stop & Shop at the corner of Route 9, but thankfully, he didn’t ask me about my visit to Lydia Wilmott’s house. That didn’t mean we wouldn’t be discussing it later. I grabbed a cart and wheeled it inside, happy to be doing something normal and ordinary, like looking at fruit and deciding between potato salad and cole slaw. He followed behind me, admiring the big selection of fruits and vegetables; Crawford lives on the Upper West Side and gets most of his groceries from the Korean grocer two doors down from his apartment. Suburban grocery stores never ceased to amaze him with their size and selection. I turned to hand him a bag of limes but instead found myself staring at Lydia Wilmott, an Hermès kerchief on her head, giant black sunglasses hiding her presumably red, tear-filled eyes. I stuttered out her name, careful not to alert the other shoppers that the newly widowed woman walked among us in the grocery store.
Crawford dropped the kiwi he was holding and waited for an introduction. “Lydia Wilmott, Bobby Crawford,” I said, and she took his hand tentatively. I didn’t go into the whole, “he’s my boyfriend even though we’re too old for that terminology but I haven’t decided whether or not to mess up a good thing by marrying him” spiel.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Crawford said, good former altar boy that he was.
Lydia stood, straight-backed, her hands gripping the handle of her shopping cart. Her lips were set in a grim horizontal line and she stared at Crawford from behind her very expensive designer sunglasses, ignoring his condolences. “I appreciated your visit this morning, Alison.” She plucked a kiwi from the stack next to Crawford and threw it into her cart. “I had to get out of the house. There are too many people there and I just need to be doing something normal.”
“I understand,” I said. I handed
“Would you let me know when the arrangements are finalized?” I asked.
Jane seemed a little surprised that I would want that information but she assured me that she would. “I’ll call you later.” She broke down and I put my arms around her, happy to be comforting her and not the one being comforted. I’m in that position far too often and felt as though I were using up all of the good will I had in the comfort bank. When she composed herself, she kissed my cheek and started back toward her house.
Inside the house, I heard Max calling to Trixie. I knew the dog wouldn’t come. She finds Max exhausting and hides under the dining room table every time she’s around. I took that into account when I had asked Max to walk her; it would take at least a half hour to track the dog down and get her on the leash, which would hopefully keep Max occupied during my absence. Leaving Max without a task is akin to giving a toddler a roll of toilet paper: there won’t be too much of a mess but you’ll still have a lot to clean up. “Will there be a murder investigation?” I asked as we walked to the car.
He opened the passenger side door for me. “Sounds like they’ve already got the guy.”
I slid in and waited for him to get into the car. “George Miller.”
“They’ll probably get him on manslaughter. The fight, the big blow to the head, it’s all there.” He looked over at me and could tell that I was dubious. “Whatever you’re thinking, Inspector Clouseau, forget about it. The police will investigate, and hopefully find out, who put the device on the engine, and that person will go away for attempted murder along with George Miller,” he said, stressing “attempted.” “But if you want more information, call my brother, the hotshot lawyer, and have at it.” He backed down the driveway, our conversation obviously over. There’s nothing worse than a hungry Crawford.
He drove us to the Stop & Shop at the corner of Route 9, but thankfully, he didn’t ask me about my visit to Lydia Wilmott’s house. That didn’t mean we wouldn’t be discussing it later. I grabbed a cart and wheeled it inside, happy to be doing something normal and ordinary, like looking at fruit and deciding between potato salad and cole slaw. He followed behind me, admiring the big selection of fruits and vegetables; Crawford lives on the Upper West Side and gets most of his groceries from the Korean grocer two doors down from his apartment. Suburban grocery stores never ceased to amaze him with their size and selection. I turned to hand him a bag of limes but instead found myself staring at Lydia Wilmott, an Hermès kerchief on her head, giant black sunglasses hiding her presumably red, tear-filled eyes. I stuttered out her name, careful not to alert the other shoppers that the newly widowed woman walked among us in the grocery store.
Crawford dropped the kiwi he was holding and waited for an introduction. “Lydia Wilmott, Bobby Crawford,” I said, and she took his hand tentatively. I didn’t go into the whole, “he’s my boyfriend even though we’re too old for that terminology but I haven’t decided whether or not to mess up a good thing by marrying him” spiel.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Crawford said, good former altar boy that he was.
Lydia stood, straight-backed, her hands gripping the handle of her shopping cart. Her lips were set in a grim horizontal line and she stared at Crawford from behind her very expensive designer sunglasses, ignoring his condolences. “I appreciated your visit this morning, Alison.” She plucked a kiwi from the stack next to Crawford and threw it into her cart. “I had to get out of the house. There are too many people there and I just need to be doing something normal.”
“I understand,” I said. I handed
Similar Books
