Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

the over-fifty-five complex down the road, to the cashiers, to the mothers with little children in line and making less of a ruckus than I was. Ginny turned to glare at me and gave me a warning scowl. I heard someone on one of the checkout lines whisper, “That’s Ginny Miller.”
    Sadly, when someone whispered, “And who’s the other one?”, not one person knew the answer. Welcome to my world.
    Ginny flushed deep red and disappeared into the frozen food section. Confident that I had caused enough trouble for the day, and convinced that I needed to get her alone to find out just exactly what she was up to and what she was looking for on the boat, I headed out of the store, leaving my English muffins behind a copy of The National Enquirer .
    If I kept this up, I might find myself as the lead story in a future issue.

Sixteen
     
    I ran into the house and went immediately to the phone. I had dialed the area code and first few digits of Crawford’s phone number before I realized that I couldn’t call him anymore, at least not for a little while. Seemed like we needed a cooling-off period or maybe a heating-up period? Any way you sliced it, we were on a break and I needed to respect that. I put the phone back on the handle and stared at it for a few minutes, wondering how I had gotten myself into this mess. My boyfriend and I had broken up and now I was fighting with townspeople in the local grocery store. What was next? Causing a commotion at the hair salon?
    I decided that I would call Max since I couldn’t get the good Lord’s advice from Kevin, His mouthpiece. She picked up on the first ring. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ms. Commitmentphobe.” Although he only speaks in a series of grunts and clicks, Fred had obviously taken the time to give Max a blow-by-blow of my argument with Crawford.
    “Max, this is not the time.”
    “Oh, this most certainly is the time. What is wrong with you?”
    “How much time do you have?”
    “I’m serious.”
    “So am I.” I leaned against the kitchen counter and picked absently at a banana in a bowl of fruit that had seen better days. “Listen, I want this to work as much as you do. I just don’t know if I’m ready to make that kind of commitment. Or maybe I am. I don’t know.” I forgot that I was talking to someone who had married her husband after weeks of courtship, broken up with him months into the marriage, and had taken him back—all in the same calendar year. I asked a question I should never pose her, under any circumstances. “What should I do?”
    “The first thing you should do is set that house of yours on fire for the insurance money so I never have to look at that hideous Crate and Barrel coffee table again. Or your selection of horrific St. Thomas T-shirts. Then, I think you should crawl on your hands and knees to Crawford and beg him to take you back.”
    “Great solution, Max.”
    “Seriously. Marry the guy. You love him. He loves you. What else do you need?” She gasped audibly into the phone. “This is about your mother!”
    “It is not.”
    “It is. It’s August. You go crazy in August. That doesn’t account for the rest of the summer, but this is always when you go crazy.”
    She was right, something I’m always surprised to acknowledge when it happens, say once every five years.
    “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.”
    “What?” I said.
    “Never mind. Listen, marry the guy or let him go. This is getting really annoying.”
    I was still mulling over this advice as I changed into one of my “horrific” St. Thomas T-shirts and a pair of jeans. At the thought of marriage, my stomach lurched and I found myself hugging the toilet bowl in the bathroom, unable even to commit to throwing up. I finished dressing and lay on my bed, not sure how any of this was going to turn out but knowing that whatever did happen was going to be my fault alone. And wondering why I felt as if I were going to throw up all of the time.
    I wanted to touch base with Jane but didn’t know when she’d be back from the funeral and the afterparty, which is the only way I can think of the gathering that takes place after the ceremony. I waited a few hours before checking in with her to see how things had gone after I had left and had contributed to l’affaire Stop & Shop. I’m sure the bus ride back to Leisure Village had been exciting, with everyone giving their version of what they had seen transpire in the store between me and Ginny