Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

merrily about their business in the town. “Thank you for being honest.” I started down the street again, Crawford and Trixie by my side. “What’s with me and dead bodies, Crawford?”
    He took my hand. “You’re shaking.”
    “Have you ever seen anyone die?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question but he answered anyway.
    “They’re usually dead by the time I get to them.” He pulled me back to the bench and patted the space next to him. “Sit down.”
    Instead, I paced nervously up and down the sidewalk. It was hot and humid, and in the short time I had been outside, my shirt was plastered against my back. “I’m serious. What’s up with this? Nobody I know finds dead bodies or sees people die like I do.” I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I plopped onto the bench and put my face in my hands. The whole day came crashing down on me and I let out a few muffled sobs. I could feel Crawford’s hand on my soggy back; eventually, it made its way around my shoulders and he pulled me close. I sobbed into his polo shirt for a few minutes before pulling myself together.
    He leaned in and kissed me above the ear. “What happened?”
    I started to explain but was interrupted by a loud “Dudes!” coming from the walk in front of the police station. I drew the bottom of my shirt across my face and turned to face Greg. “Hi, Greg,” I said.
    Greg lumbered toward us, looking a little worse for wear. “Did they give you the third degree, too?” he asked. He stuck a huge, meaty hand out to Crawford. “Greg Weinstein.”
    That made Jesus as Greg’s homeboy even more curious, but I decided not to go there. “This is my boy …” I started. “This is Crawford.”
    Crawford gave me a look that indicated that if I hadn’t watched a man die that day, we’d be having a very long talk about Ring Pops, engagements, and various and sundry other topics related to matrimony. He then gave Greg the once-over, something that he did with most people upon introduction. It was a cop thing, I gathered.
    “Your boy Crawford? That’s pretty hip, Alison. Nice to meet you, Crawford,” Greg said. “Jeez, I thought I’d never get out of there. What else is there to say besides ‘he came in, he grabbed his throat, he stopped breathing’? How many times can you say that?”
    I nodded. “Same story, different detective,” I said. I thought of Detective Madden and decided that I was going to go through my closet, find anything that was navy blue, and throw it out. It is not a flattering color.
    “I had that Hardin guy. He finally ran out of steam a few minutes ago and let me go.” Greg wiped his hands on his jeans. “I gotta get back to the store. Do you think it would be in bad taste to open tomorrow?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
    I didn’t think it would be in bad taste but I wondered how many people would actually show up. Or how many would show up just to say that they had been in the store where Carter Wilmott had died. I didn’t have time to answer. Crawford jumped in. “If I were you,” he said, “I would open again on Monday. That’ll give you a chance to process what happened today and let things settle down a bit.”
    I looked at him, a little stunned. “A chance to process what happened”? That wasn’t Crawfordspeak. But obviously, he was adapting to the situation at hand and to Greg’s vibe. Good job, Detective Crawford, I thought.
    Greg mulled this over for a minute and decided that Crawford was correct. “Good call, dude.”
    I saw Crawford flinch slightly; I knew the “dude” business wouldn’t go over well, but he took it like a champ. He held out his hand again. “Good luck with everything.”
    Greg nodded and looked at me. “Alison, can I give you a hug?”
    With those “guns”? I thought. Of course. I let myself be enveloped by Greg’s big, giant, sweaty, flabby guns and let out a sob that I had been holding in. He hugged me tight for longer than I was comfortable with and finally let go. “See you Monday?” he asked.
    “Most definitely,” I lied.
    I watched Greg walk away, my mind going through a mental spin cycle of the events. What would be the aftermath of Wilmott’s demise? Would Greg have to close, the stench of death forever washing over his little business? Selfishly and without compassion, I wondered if I could now break free of the hold that Beans, Beans and Greg had over me, forcing me to drink really terrible coffee on a regular basis. I blushed at that