Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

presumed—which he was in the process of pitching into a garbage can. I looked closely at the picture. Although he was dressed similarly to how he had been dressed that morning in his oxford shirt and khakis, they were clearly one or two sizes larger than the ones he had been wearing when I saw him. He was a husky and robust man in the picture, not the thin, almost frail-looking guy that I had met and watched die. I wondered if his wife had put him on a diet, because no man would want to go from the way he had looked in the picture to a ninety-eight-pound weakling. From the looks of things, he should have eaten that sub. He had obviously been wasting away.
    Or maybe Tony’s wife, Lucia, had been poisoning him. I wouldn’t put it past her.
    One of the most recent, and as it turned out, last entries was about the DPW and, specifically, George Miller. I could see why Miller might have a problem with Wilmott after he was described as having a “bulbous nose—one that could only belong to a full-blown alcoholic” and a “less than stellar record on environmentally sound methods of waste disposal.” Wilmott also took issue with Miller’s wife, saying that she was the most flagrant scofflaw in town when it came to recycling or lack thereof. Pictures taken of an unsuspecting Ginny Miller were posted on the blog in various stages of scofflawness. In the photos, she was shown throwing beer cans into the regular garbage and shoving plastic shopping bags down into the sewer grate at the side of her house. Besides getting joy from posting extremely unflattering photos of the rather hefty Mrs. Miller, what purpose did dragging her into this serve? I had already decided that Carter Wilmott was a jaded, cynical, angry man with too much time on his hands. But last time I checked, besides being not good for the environment, you could still throw beer cans into the garbage and put anything you wanted down the sewer with the only punishment being a stern talking-to from the head of the DPW or a passing cop. And if you’re married to the guy who runs the garbage removal in town, you can basically do whatever you want.
    But now at least I had an idea of what had precipitated the fight that morning. I think if Wilmott had posted shots of me lugging out the garbage in spandex leggings and a too tight Syracuse University T-shirt, like he had of Mrs. Miller, I would have beaten the crap out of him myself.
    Before turning in for the night, I found something on the blog that piqued my interest: Lydia Wilmott’s advice column. Having met Lydia earlier and watched her identify the remains of her husband calmly and coolly, I was drawn to her column to see what might be in there that would give me insight into a woman who was extremely composed in the face of death. I read a couple of the “Ask Lydia” columns that appeared under the masthead. Lydia, it turned out, answered questions from the community on everything from getting your grout clean, to Botox, to setting up a book club, to marriage. It was the marriage postings that were of most interest to me, because from the sound of it, Lydia and Carter’s marriage was like Jean and Billy Graham’s crossed with Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. Solid, holy, steamy, and full of great sex. Lucky Lydia. A sampling to a poster with doubts about his or her upcoming nuptials: “The first time Carter kissed me, it was like the ground moved. My loins trembled. And that, ColdFeet, is what it should be like. No doubts. If you don’t feel overwhelming love for this person you’ll be marrying—if you wouldn’t DIE for this person—or them for you—don’t get married.” I groaned. That was way too much information. Especially for a town blog that focused on the irregular holiday schedule of the garbage department and the not-green ways of the DPW head’s wife.
    I, for one, had no idea where my loins were and if they trembled. I would have to ask Crawford. I bet he knew. He knows stuff like that.
    But I had to admit that it wasn’t bad advice, except for the dying part. Lydia was extremely descriptive about her love, but she was right about her counsel to ColdFeet. Where had Lydia Wilmott been when I was in the process of marrying Ray Stark, the man with the golden penis? Had I had the luxury of posting anonymously to a blog lo all those years ago and gotten Lydia’s sage advice, I might have avoided nine years of heartache and humiliation.
    One more thing crossed my mind, and although I