Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

this situation: gone to the mall and tried on every bathing suit in the store. However, since it was August, I was sure that fall clothes were already on the racks, and I would be destined to take one of the last suits in the store, either a string bikini or a flowered muumuu with matching leggings.
    Crawford said that “everyone swims” at Jimmy’s parties; that was a direct quote. Apparently, Jimmy had spent a boatload of money on a pool and hot tub and the family was a bunch of waterlogged Irish Americans who couldn’t be dragged out. And they loved to play Marco Polo, according to Crawford. I lay back on my bed, considering my options. I could tell Crawford’s family that I had just had liposuction on my abdomen and I couldn’t get my stitches wet. Nobody would believe that. Even in a prone position, my stomach was visible over the waistband of my pants. I could tell them that I almost drowned as a kid and was afraid of the water, which was true. Or, I could just tell them the truth, which is that I can’t swim and avoid water and all related sports. One thing I’ve found is that if you tell someone you can’t do math, they’re fine with it. Can’t read? No problem. We’ll teach you! Can’t swim? Admitting that is akin to admitting you’ve been in the pen. Nobody believes you and then, after they’ve stopped laughing, everybody eyes you suspiciously.
    I have a lot of other admirable qualities but didn’t feel like I could share them with the Crawfords without sounding like a braggart. One of them is that I exaggerate everything to the point of paralysis at the thought of certain situations.
    Like meeting your future in-laws. And revealing a character flaw like not being able to swim.
    I got off the bed and looked at my bathing suit on the floor next to the bed. It was the same one I had had since my honeymoon with my late ex-husband. I had forgotten to pack a bathing suit for the trip (which gives you a little insight into my preoccupied, postwedding state—paging Dr. Freud … ) even though we were headed to Aruba, and had been forced to buy a two-hundred-dollar Speedo in the hotel gift shop that was now more than ten years old and missing some important expanses of elastic.
    I threw the bathing suit on the bed and decided that I wasn’t going to do anything I didn’t want to do. But I also decided that I needed a big iced coffee to steel my resolve. I put Trixie, my golden retriever, on her leash and started into town, a short walk from my house.
    I live in a little village in tony Westchester County, where, years before, with a small inheritance from my parents, I was smart enough to buy a tiny house perfectly situated due to its proximity to both my work and New York City. After my divorce from the aforementioned late ex-husband, it turned out the house was just the right size for me, my dog, and Crawford when he visited. Crawford lives in Manhattan and commutes to the Bronx to the detective squad at the Fiftieth Precinct. I wondered what would happen if we did marry. Would he move here? Would I move there? How would two people who had lived on their own for a while adjust to living with other people again? We had been dating for a little over a year and Crawford was clearly perfect, but he also had two teenage daughters, an ex-wife who was getting remarried in a few months, a really intense job, and his own way of doing things after living alone for a long time. We had a lot to finagle if we were going to make this work.
    Most important, how would Trixie feel?
    I grabbed my coffee cup from the dish drainer before I left; my village was going green and I was going right along for the ride. Before leaving, I took a quick look at the calendar that hung on the side of the refrigerator. Yep, still August. I find August to be a tough time for me, something that never changes from year to year. My mother’s birthday had been in August. She had also died in August. Every year, I expect it to get better, but here we were, a decade later, and I still feel like I can’t catch my breath. Was that ever going to change? Was I being unrealistic to expect that it would?
    I didn’t feel the same way about my father’s death, even though at the time, it had been just as difficult. The difference was that he hadn’t suffered like my mother had. He had just gone to work one day and dropped dead, too young, at the UPS office where he picked up his truck and deliveries every day. His friends said he was