Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

decided that after adding that little repeated gem, I wouldn’t speak unless spoken to.
    “What were you doing there?”
    “Where?”
    “Beans, Beans.”
    Wasn’t that obvious? Maybe not. The coffee was horrendous. “Getting coffee.” I let go of the counter. I don’t know why I felt compelled to offer my unsubstantiated opinion, but I did. “Maybe it was a heart attack. Or an aneurysm. Something major and fatal. A stroke, maybe. There was no time.” I found myself choking up, something that I shouldn’t be doing in front of a dead man’s wife. “And they tried,” I said, a tear falling onto the counter. “I was there. They tried.”
    Lydia came over to me and graciously put her arms around me. “It must have been horrible for you,” she whispered.
    It was! I wanted to cry, but I gently disengaged from her hug and wiped a hand across my face. “I need to go,” I said. “I just wanted to say I was sorry.”
    Lydia called out to me as I passed the powder room in the hallway. “Alison. One more thing.”
    I went back into the kitchen, once again astounded by the view from their French doors. I went back to my place at the counter.
    “It doesn’t matter how he died,” she said. “He would have died eventually.” She saw my face and quickly amended, “We all do.”
    I thought about George Miller and his involvement in all of this. Was he the one who had attached the device to the car engine, sending pieces of it sailing through town? Or was the fight completely unrelated to what would have been the eventual murder of Carter Wilmott? I didn’t know, but I did know that I had spent way too much time in his house and I had to get out. I didn’t even think about asking the question that was on my mind but for which I already had something of an answer: who wanted your husband dead? Short answer? Everyone. I bid good-bye to Lydia again and left the kitchen. I went into the hallway and was just about at the door when I heard Elaine’s voice behind me.
    “He was as healthy as a horse, you know.”
    I turned and looked at her. “Pardon me?”
    “Carter. Healthy as a horse. He just had a checkup last week.”
    That’s great, I thought. That hadn’t helped him when he keeled over in front of me in Beans, Beans from maybe an aneurysm, maybe blunt force trauma to his head. I wondered if his doctor was hiding under his desk, his malpractice insurance policy clenched in his trembling hands. Elaine looked at me, waiting to hear my response. “Well, that’s interesting,” I said, for lack of anything else to contribute. I felt as if I had stumbled into one of those real-life mystery parties where there is a dead guy, lots of suspects, and one person who can figure the whole thing out.
    “Don’t you think it’s strange?” she asked.
    “People die of mysterious causes all the time,” I said. Or they die from getting punched in the head. If they don’t die of that, they get in their car and get blown up, particularly if they are Carter Wilmott, seemingly the most unlucky man ever to have lived. I didn’t say anything else because I didn’t want to incriminate George Miller any more than he had already incriminated himself. Although the ME suspected the blow to the head as the culprit, Carter looked way too winded and sick for someone who had only been in a fight. “He probably had an aneurysm. A stroke.” Brought on by getting boxed in the head. I was back to my old script. Who knew? I had no experience with people dying suddenly and of seemingly natural causes. Everybody around me lately seemed to die a violent, untimely death. What was I supposed to do? Assume that he was murdered by George Miller? From a punch to the head? Or was I supposed to sit around and wonder who had the means and motive to create a car bomb and attach it to his engine? Not much of a mystery concerning the punch to the head; the ME would be all over that in a matter of days if that was the case. The car bomb, however, was definitely a more interesting twist in the case.
    Elaine raised an eyebrow. “I just think it’s weird,” she said cryptically. I decided that Elaine was the sister that they kept locked in the attic; all that time alone had given her a flair for the dramatic. She had probably been constructing this mystery in her head for years after reading the Nancy Drew book The Secret of the Old Clock.
    “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I said, “but I just came to say I was sorry.” She