Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

guy.”
    “He’s the best,” she repeated.
    “So if he asked you to marry him, would you?”
    “Of course!” she said. “I’ve been alone a long time. I’d love to be married again.” Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t really trust me or this line of questioning. “Why do you ask?”
    “Oh, no reason,” I said. “You just seem very happy.”
    Glad that one of us was able to make a decision on our love life, I let myself into my office, leaving the door open behind me so that students could come in freely, or more important, so I could see when the rest of my colleagues on the office floor arrived.
    “Well, if it isn’t Chesty Morgan!”
    Kevin stood in my doorway, his hands cupping his pectorals. I didn’t know what he was talking about until he pointed at my chest. The Scotch tape had predictably gotten loose and both my bra and a pretty healthy portion of my breasts were hanging out of the front of my dress. No wonder the mail guy had been stricken mute at my arrival. I hastily gathered my dress back into an appropriate show of neck and cleavage and held it there with my hand. “Well, if it isn’t Father Inappropriate. Welcome back from your vacation, Your Excellency.” I offered him the chair in front of my desk with a wave of my hand. “And who’s Chesty Morgan?”
    “Just one of the most famous exotic dancers, by way of Poland, in the seventies and eighties,” he said, sitting down. “Are you doing that to draw attention away from your black eye?” Kevin has known me long enough to know that I am a klutz of the highest order. He didn’t seem surprised by the Technicolor band around my eye.
    “And you would know about this Chesty woman how?”
    “I have four brothers, remember? She had a seventy-three-inch chest. That’s not something you forget hearing about.” He smiled. “Especially if you have taken a vow of celibacy.”
    I held up a hand. “Okay! Enough!” I leaned back in my chair. “How was your vacation?” Kevin usually takes the month of August to travel, and this year he had gone to Paris for two weeks.
    “First, the eye.” He leaned back in his chair. “Explain.”
    “You first,” I said. “Tell me about the vacation.”
    “It was great.” He reached into the pocket of his black trousers and pulled out a small package wrapped in tissue paper. “Here. This is for you.”
    I opened it up and found a small medal with the image of the Blessed Mother printed on it. It was blue surrounded in gold and very pretty. “Why, thanks, Kevin,” I said, truly touched. I knew what these kinds of medals meant to him, and to be given one that he transported back from France was truly special.
    “It’s from the Church of the Miraculous Medal. It’s the actual place where our order of nuns here was founded. How great is that?” he asked, beaming. From strippers to churches, that was my Kevin. After accepting my heartfelt and profuse thanks, he changed the subject. “Oh, hey, I saw that there was a weird death in your village this weekend. Something about a guy around my age dropping dead in a coffee shop?”
    “Oh, Kevin, do we have a lot of catching up to do,” I said.
    “Make sure you put in the part where you ended up looking like Jake La Motta.”
    “I will.” I went through the whole story, starting with the blog, going into great detail about the black eye and the death of Carter Wilmott, and ending with my conversation with Ginny Miller on the street.
    “Sounds like this guy had a lot of enemies and any number of them could have wanted him dead. And it’s pretty easy to get information on terrorist tactics off the Web, too, so just about any of them could have figured out how to make an explosive.” Kevin knew a lot about many more things than I gave him credit for. “What was his motivation in writing the blog?”
    I pondered that. “Good question. No idea, actually. I know he was a rabid liberal to the point of socialist, despite being one of the richest men in Westchester. But beyond his taking issue with most of the politicians and public officials in town, I don’t know why he did what he did.” But I can find out, I thought. My previous day’s shame at poking around Lydia Wilmott’s home and life was gone and I was now back to my old nosy self.
    Kevin got up. “Gotta run. I’ve got a ten o’clock with Etheridge.”
    Mark Etheridge was the college president and a bit of a horse’s rear end, but he was our boss and we were suitably fearful of