Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

dead before he hit the ground, and for some reason, that gave me some measure of comfort. I was only a teenager when that happened but still, I could deal with his absence in a way that I couldn’t when it came to my mother.
    Maybe it was all those years we had together, just the two of us. Or maybe it was because of how much she had suffered. Every year, I tried to sort it out, and every year, I just marked the days down until August was over and it was no longer an issue.
    When I got outside, I was not surprised by the weather: hot and steamy, a typical August day in New York. The humidity would have me looking like Gene Wilder in no time. I reconsidered the jeans and T-shirt that I had put on before I left and decided that an ensemble a little less sweat-producing would be appropriate for the pool party. At which I decided I would definitely not be swimming. Trixie tugged at the leash, delighted that we were heading into town, even though she would be sitting outside the coffee shop while I had my iced coffee in the air-conditioned comfort of Beans, Beans. (I know—my mind goes there, too, but who am I to tell the hippie owner, Greg, that “beans, beans” is the start of a not-so-nice childhood rhyme of a scatological nature?) Greg is a lovely guy with a messy, gray Afro who loves coffee and calls everyone “dude” regardless of their sex. He often has on a T-shirt that says JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY and thinks that Beans, Beans is the most clever name for a coffee shop. Who was I to disabuse him of that notion? The store is decorated with thrift-store finds and has a funky, neighborhood vibe that I love. So what if the coffee isn’t great? Greg is a nice guy, he needs the business, and I need the coffee. It worked for me. Crawford, on the other hand, thinks it is overpriced and a little precious. He likes his coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid and Greek-looking decorations on the side. And he likes his muffins like he likes his women—hard on the outside, soft on the inside, and without any adornment. I only fit that bill about sixty percent of the time, but he’s accepted that. That’s the way he’s been drinking his coffee and eating his muffins for years and nothing is going to change him. And he really doesn’t like being called “dude.”
    I wrapped Trixie’s leash around a parking meter and gave her a kiss, thinking about my soon-to-be-consumed iced coffee and what I would wear once I peeled these jeans off. The bathing suit with the missing elastic was looking better and better.
    The village was hopping on this Saturday morning and I took in the building traffic in the center of town. Almost every parking space was filled and people milled about, waiting until ten o’clock when the boutiques and other stores opened. I was glad that I had walked.
    I thought about the impending party. I was friends with Crawford’s Aunt Bea and she had made a few comments about his mother being a “piece of work.” I had heard the expression before and knew that it connoted a lot of different things in different people’s minds. Was she an eccentric? A little bit loony? That I could handle. I came from a long line of French-Canadian whackos. Or was she mean and nasty? I never could get Bea to commit, and what was I going to do? Ask Crawford? “Hey, what’s the deal with your mother? Is she a bitch on wheels or just a little crazy?” That wasn’t going to work. I had myself kind of worked up about the whole thing. Meeting the parents was stressful enough, but when you had a wild card in the mix—one Kathleen Crawford—it was enough to induce a seizure.
    I was lost in thought as I approached Beans, Beans and put my hand on the handle to the outer door, not really paying attention, lost in the reverie of thinking about what items resided in my closet. I thought about a pink shirt that made me look thinner than I actually was but then remembered that it had a huge chocolate ice-cream stain on the right breast area. Trixie made a sound and I turned to tell her that I would be right out and that I would probably bring her a treat. While my head was turned, the door to the coffee shop swung open, my hand still gripping the handle, the edge of the door catching the side of my nose and the right side of my face as I was pushed backward onto the sidewalk. Two men spilled past me, locked in some kind of pugilistic fox trot. They tumbled onto the sidewalk a few feet away from me, punching and kicking each other.