Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

to meet a violent and untimely end. She had crafted a very believable explanation in the event that she was found out by someone other than me and Queen. I believed her; I wasn’t sure why. My own unrelenting grief over the loss of my mother clouded my judgment, but I walked from the Wilmott house, secure in the knowledge that, like the identity of who had stolen Mr. Posso’s cabina, the identity of the person who had rigged Carter Wilmott’s car to explode would remain my secret alone.
    Because I understand that kind of love.
    Once back in my house, I took a deep breath and felt the wound that was my sorrow close over one more time.
    But it would open again. It always did.

Thirty-Six
     
    I found myself sitting in front of the Millers’ tidy abode just a few minutes later. I wasn’t sure what had brought me there. Maybe it was to offer a silent apology to George Miller for suspecting him of murder these past days or maybe it was to see how he was doing. Everyone had suspected him of murder, so I couldn’t take on that guilt all by myself. And I didn’t know him, so why would I care how he was doing?
    The Subaru Outback that had belonged to Ginny, the car that she had used to follow me and Crawford on the day that Carter had died, was parked in front of the house with a homemade FOR SALE sign stuck inside the windshield on the dashboard. BEST OFFER , it said. The car was a little banged up, and had a few miles on it, just like its previous owner, and I wasn’t sure how much money George would actually get for it, but it was clear that he wanted it gone. Beyond the car and down the driveway, I could see George Miller crouched beside a motorcycle, a toolbox beside him. Before I lost my nerve, I walked down the driveway toward him, a man with a lined and florid face that telegraphed sadness and a slight bit of menace, if I was being completely honest with myself.
    I imagined Crawford’s reaction when I told him what I had done, deciding then and there that he would never know. Why give him another illustration of my poor judgment and lack of common sense?
    George stood slowly as I approached, pulling a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiping his brow. He folded it neatly and put it back into his pocket. Introductions weren’t really necessary, but he held out his hand anyway. “George Miller.”
    “Alison Bergeron.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m very sorry about your wife. About Ginny.”
    “I know what my wife’s name was,” he said, not unkindly. A brief smile passed over his face. “And I’m sorry about what happened to you. I never meant to hurt anyone.”
    “Thank you,” I said. I touched my eye briefly and was relieved to find that it no longer hurt. That was the thing about physical pain: it goes away. The emotional kind just lingers and that’s what makes it so hard to transcend. I thought about this as I stared into George Miller’s craggy face. I would never know how deep his pain went, but judging by his eyes, it had no end.
    “You interested in the car?” he asked. “I saw you looking at it.”
    “No,” I said. “I was just thinking about how Ginny chased me in that car on the day that Carter died.”
    “She made it her business to make sure that I didn’t get convicted.” He ran a hand over the glossy leather motorcycle seat. “I’m lucky she was so devoted.”
    I knew why I had come. “Why did she kill herself, George?” I asked. “I mean, I have my suspicions but it’s been bugging me. Why take her own life?”
    He looked around, seemingly deciding how much he wanted to share with me. Finally, I guess he decided that there were no more secrets to keep and he just let it out. “The affair. With that scum, Wilmott.” The menace that I detected drained out of him and all that was left was a grief-stricken husk. He was a big, powerful man who couldn’t hold it in anymore. “She couldn’t live with herself. Once I got out and it was clear that I had nothing to do with his death, she was done. ”
    “But you didn’t know.”
    “Not until right before she died. I don’t know why but she told me.” Again, the rueful laugh. “I never would have found out if she hadn’t let her guilty conscience get in the way.” The last part he muttered under his breath, but it sounded to me like “stupid broad.” “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared into the house. When he returned, he held out an envelope. “Here. Take this. It’s addressed to