Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

pulled at a loose thread hanging from the waistband of her sweat suit and I got nervous. What if she unraveled the thread and her pants fell down? I was getting out of there as quickly as I could. “I’m sorry,” I repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I just wanted to say that.”
    But as I walked down the street, I admitted to myself that I hadn’t been there to say I was sorry. I had been there to nose around. Nobody just drops dead for no good reason in a coffee shop. At least I didn’t think so. George Miller, in my opinion, would have to have fists of steel to have killed Carter with one blow. But now, having met the grieving woman in person, I realized that going there was just a horrible, selfish thing to do. I got into my car, gave the news van the finger, and drove back to my house.

Six
     
    I was in a black mood by the time I got home, still in a tizzy about what I had witnessed the day before, and angry at myself for going to the Wilmotts’. I was even angrier at myself for buying into Elaine’s conspiracy theory, whatever that was. He was a healthy guy. So what? That wasn’t a guarantee that his heart would suddenly stop working, or his aorta would explode after the fight he had had with the DPW guy, or that a vein in his head would begin to bleed and would kill him almost instantly. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her beady eyes and the thread on her sweatpants and her insistence that Carter had been healthy. And about the fact that Carter would have been blown to smithereens had he not died in front of the muffin case of Beans, Beans. He was a healthy guy with a car about to blow up, and a lot of enemies, I suspected.
    Although I had locked the house up before I left, Max and Fred were sitting inside, at the kitchen table, Trixie by Fred’s side. Max gave me a cheery “Hello!” while Fred just grunted. That was the best I was going to get.
    The torn screen over my sink indicated Max’s point of entry. She saw me looking at it and offered a weak, “Sorry.” Max has a history of jumping in and out of windows; she’s a regular break-in artist. Given that she’s petite and wiry and has some experience at it, she’d be a perfect second-story man. Fred didn’t look contrite at all considering I knew that he had hoisted her up to the window, in, and over the sink right below it.
    I pointed at the screen. “You’re paying for that.” I went to the refrigerator, opened it, and peered inside. Unless I wanted a caper, pickle, and mayonnaise sandwich on stale bread, there was nothing to eat. I looked at the clock; it was twelve-thirty. I had a little breathing room before Crawford appeared. “And you’re getting it fixed today, so I hope you can find a hardware store that’s open.”
    “Where were you?” Max asked. “And have you been crying?”
    I closed the refrigerator with a loud thud; I wasn’t in the mood to explain. “What do you guys want to eat?” I asked. I pointed at the screen again but was at a loss for words. Surely Fred could have found a better way to gain entrance to the house.
    Max and Fred stared at me; it’s the rare occasion that I call them out on their venial sins, but today was one of those times. My meeting with Lydia Wilmott, while seemingly uneventful, had left me rattled. I was mad at myself for having insinuated myself in her life under the pretense of compassion. It was just plain wrong. And I was going to make myself, and everyone around me, pay.
    Even the sight of Crawford coming through the front door earlier than I had expected him did nothing to dampen my feelings of shame and self-loathing. He sauntered down the hallway toward the kitchen, took in the faces on the three of us, and whistled through his teeth. “What am I walking into here?”
    “What do you want for lunch?” I asked. “These two have gone dumb,” I added, hooking a thumb in Max and Fred’s direction.
    Crawford leaned down and let Trixie nuzzle his neck. “Turkey. Ham. Tuna. Whatever.”
    “That’s not helpful,” I said. “And what are you doing here so early?”
    He gave me a steely look; Crawford does not enjoy crankiness, particularly mine. He turned and walked back down the hall toward the front door. “Let’s start over.” He let himself out, and then back in, calling, “Honey! I’m home!”
    I couldn’t help but smile. When he came back into the kitchen, I put my arms around him and buried my head in his chest. “They broke my screen.” I