Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

briefcase, my laptop resting on top of it. I got out of bed, trying not to wake the dog, who opened one eye and regarded me warily. When she saw that I only had word processing in mind, she went back to sleep.
    I crawled back into bed with my laptop. A year earlier, Max had implored me to get a wireless router, even though I’m a cheapskate at heart and couldn’t stomach the expense of what seemed, at the time, to be a useless purchase. I usually sit at my desk when I do work, so why I had to be mobile with my laptop confounded me. Tonight, I thanked her, because I could get back under the covers, look up every fact I wanted about Carter Wilmott, and not have to sit in the steaming heat of the guest bedroom where I kept my desktop. I opened the computer and turned it on, listening to Trixie’s noisy exhalations as I waited for it to warm up. I was searching the Internet for Carter facts before she had snored four times.
    I started by reading the latest entries on the blog. Wilmott had a cadre of regular posters: HappyVillager201; Old Timer; Coffee Lover; BadgeGal; the prolific Wonder Woman. And the intellectual FancyPantz who could quote sections of the village building code with alarming accuracy and ease. That was someone I wanted to meet. He also had his fair share of detractors, led by RepubVoter and his sidekick, MuchAdo. These two were vociferous in their rants about Wilmott’s political leanings, and being as the village was in the hands of a Democratic majority at the moment, they were none too happy about anything. Conversely, posters such as Crazee About Cats, Straight A, and Law School Val were completely in love with him and his unabashed support of the village mayor and trustees. It was like an online Dodge City, with a post by Wilmott, and then a multitude of comments, some referencing earlier comments on a post or even comments on earlier posts; these people clearly had a history.
    I scrolled through various posts and accessed the archive, where I read more of Wilmott’s reporting about various members of the town. It was fairly sleazy and one-sided, and while he obviously thought of himself as a purveyor of truth in a town of dishonest officials, he was quite plaintive and biased in his reporting. There were no photos of Carter except for those that accompanied his restaurant reviews, reviews that I hadn’t read prior to tonight’s online reconnaissance mission. I read the reviews dispassionately; this was a guy who clearly had a high opinion of himself and his culinary expertise. Then, I got to a post about my favorite restaurant, Sadie’s, and my unbiased opinion of him turned definitely sour. Sadie’s was the first place that Crawford had taken me and I had warm feelings toward it. To read that Wilmott had called it “a dive—at best” got my hackles up and I must have let out a little sound because Trixie picked her head up from the floor and growled at me in agreement. He continued: “… the ambiance is poor, the service even worse, and the food abysmal. The only good thing I can say is that I got drunk on the rotgut house wine but only because the owner bought me a carafe in the hopes of getting a good review.” I hadn’t realized that Wilmott was also a restaurant reviewer, but he took on every restaurant and eating establishment in town.
    Even delis.
    I clicked on the link that was titled “Tony’s—I’d Rather Eat a Can of Worms Than His Chicken Salad”—a most unoriginal title written by a guy with a limited knowledge of adjectives. Again, we returned to “abysmal,” “poor,” and “worst.” The commenters who weighed in below the post were split between outrage—“Tony’s is a village institution”—to complete agreement with Wilmott’s assessement. Me? I loved Tony’s, but since Tony loved me, in the romantic sense, I didn’t go there very often anymore. Add in the crazy, jealous wife he had recently acquired and I was staying away for good. But he didn’t deserve to be lambasted on this hack’s Web site, that was certain. Tony was a kind man with a good heart, and a wife I was pretty sure had created the torture technique we had all come to know as “waterboarding.” She was that mean. And she didn’t like me.
    But Tony’s chicken salad was the best. I knew that for sure.
    There was a picture of Wilmott standing outside of Tony’s; he was making a face that conveyed his disdain for the place. In his hand was a wrapped sub—chicken salad, I