Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

the condolences of the assembled. I saw my neighbor, Jane, envelop Lydia in a tight embrace. I looked around but didn’t see Jane’s partner, Kathy, which I thought was odd; if a friend of mine had died—or even if it was the husband of a friend of mine—Crawford would be there. I thought about offering my sympathies, but figured that I already had, and didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself as I had a few days earlier when I visited the Wilmott estate. Instead, I moved out of the back pew as quietly as I had when I had entered and headed out onto the sidewalk, where I had the good fortune to run into Detective Madden, clad in one of her ubiquitous navy pantsuits.
    She nodded at me, not unkindly. “Professor Bergeron.”
    “Detective Madden.” I looked down at the pavement and caught sight of a very nice pair of navy pumps peeking out from under Detective Madden’s sensibly cut pants. Now that was a surprise. I figured her for a dowdy pair of loafers, but even though they were blue, you could tell that her shoes had set her back a few hundred dollars. “Nice shoes,” I said.
    “Thank you,” she said, a little surprised that anyone had noticed. Did she not know who she was dealing with here? I may not look like it but I can tell the difference between Payless and Via Spiga. “What are you doing here?”
    “Oh, just paying my respects,” I said, trying to sound casual and nonchalant.
    “Go to a lot of funerals?”
    “Not if I can help it.”
    She pursed her thin lips together in contemplation.
    “Listen. Can I be completely frank with you?” I asked.
    I took her silence to be tacit acceptance.
    “I saw the guy die. I felt it was only right to be here.” I stuck my little clutch purse high up under my arm in the hopes of soaking up a bit of the moisture that was present there. Why did I always feel like this lady was interrogating me? Maybe because she was?
    She looked at me for a few minutes. “I guess that makes sense.” She looked around. “But Greg from the coffee shop isn’t here. George Miller isn’t here, either.”
    “Well, he killed the guy so why would he?”
    “Is that what you believe?”
    I thought about Ginny Miller and her threats and her begging me to lie. “I don’t know. I’m not a medical professional. I just thought that was what everyone else was thinking.”
    “Maybe. Is that what you think happened?” God, she was good at being cryptic. She reminded me of a therapist I once had who had promised to patch up my and Ray’s relationship and make our marriage as good as new. I left our tenth session with no husband, a bruised ego, and no self-esteem after enduring her vague musings and open-ended questions. Detective Madden might consider a new career.
    “Again,” I said for emphasis, “I’m not sure. Isn’t that why you arrested George Miller?”
    “Could be.”
    That was enough of that. Sufficiently aggravated, I stomped off toward the parking lot and made my way toward my car. Before I got there, an overly coiffed blonde wearing lots of pancake makeup with breasts like giant cantaloupes got in my path and shoved a microphone in my face.
    “You were there, right?” she asked, moving backward as I kept moving forward. “LeeAnne McDermott, News47 Westchester.”
    Oh, yes. “The One to Watch!” Especially if you wanted inaccurate weather reports, extended rantings about traffic, and nearly naked news from toothsome anchorwomen not unlike this one shoving the microphone down my throat.
    “I was where?” I kept an eye on the camera guy who was walking backward as well and in danger of stepping into a giant pothole. “Watch out!” I said, distracting both of them enough to run to my car, jump in the front seat, and lock the door. This would look fabulous hours later on their six o’clock broadcast when all of the nuns, Sister Mary included, were having their aperitif and realizing that the woman whose car window was being banged on was mine. I smiled as broadly as I could as the whole scenario played out, faked a cough for good measure in case I did end up on the news, and peeled out of the parking space, doing my best not to run over the camera guy now wedged in the pothole.
    I screeched out of the parking lot, any attempt at being inconspicuous now ruined by the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader masquerading as a news reporter and her inept camera guy. I sped up and came to a traffic light that turned red faster than I was expecting and I slammed on the