Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

Miller.
    I put Trixie on her leash and walked outside, noting that Jane’s car was in the driveway. I knocked on her front door and let Trixie sniff around the boxwood hedges while I waited for her to answer. “Hi!” she said, surprised to see me. She opened the door wide to let us in.
    “I hope I’m not getting you at a bad time.”
    She was still dressed in the outfit she had worn to church: black pants, a black sleeveless top, and kitten-heel pumps. Her blond hair was pulled back into its usual low ponytail and her makeup was expertly applied. As is often the case when I’m with Jane, I felt like a slob, and my jeans, St. Thomas T-shirt, and flip-flops did nothing to counter that feeling.
    “No,” she said. “It’s a good time. Come on in.”
    We walked back toward the kitchen, and settled in at the breakfast bar. Jane grabbed two Diet Cokes from the refrigerator and two glasses from the cabinet. “Soda?”
    I guessed it was too early to ask for a martini, so I accepted the soda. Trixie flung herself into a sunny patch by the back sliding doors and let out a long sigh. Things hadn’t turned out the way she had expected when I had put her leash on. For me, either, I wanted to remind her.
    Jane handed me a cold glass of Diet Coke. “Your eye looks better,” she said.
    “Thanks,” I said. “It was kind of scaring people, so I was hoping that it would start improving.”
    “And the wrist?” she asked, pointing at my Ace bandage.
    I flexed it back and forth. “I fell down, or maybe it was up, the stairs at school and sprained it. It’s better, too, though.”
    “You’re like a walking accident,” she said, smiling.
    “I guess I am.” We moved on to the memorial service. “Lydia seems to be holding up well,” I said.
    “She’s doing better than I would be under the same circumstances.”
    I waited a few seconds before asking the question that I had come to ask. “Do you know Ginny Miller?”
    Jane blanched. “Why do you ask?”
    Interesting reaction. “Well, I’ve run into her a few times over the past few days, so I was wondering if you knew her at all.”
    Jane looked away and toyed with a corner of the newspaper on the counter.
    Oh, good. There’s a story to tell, I thought.
    She looked up, her blue eyes steely. “Let’s just say that Lydia does not have any fond feelings for that woman, nor do I.”
    I waited a few more seconds for the rest of the story to come out, my mind reviewing the horrible pictures of Ginny Miller taking out the garbage in sweatpants and posted on Carter’s blog. “What did she do?”
    Jane laughed but it was not a happy sound. “I don’t know why I’m trying to protect him. He’s gone. And Lydia can move on.”
    “What is it, Jane?”
    “She slept with him.”
    I gagged on the sip of soda that I had drunk. “Ginny Miller? And Carter Wilmott?” The thought of it was too bizarre to consider. I grabbed a napkin from the holder on the counter and blotted the front of my T-shirt.
    “I know. Right?” Jane said. “Hard to believe.”
    “When?” I thought of the unflattering pictures on the Web site; I didn’t know when they had been posted but I remembered thinking that they hadn’t been in the too-distant past.
    “George Miller went to Iraq for an eighteen-month tour about three years ago.” Jane looked up at the ceiling, trying to piece together the time line. “Yes. Three years ago. So that’s when it was.”
    “Wait. George Miller was in Afghanistan?”
    “Yes. He was working for some contractor before he became head of the DPW. Something with munitions.” Her distaste for the Millers was obvious. “You didn’t know?”
    “How would I know?” I asked. “I lived across the street from you for five years before making contact. I have no idea what goes on in this village and wish that I had never heard of the Millers or the Wilmotts.” I grimaced. “Yikes.”
    I thought back to my first conversation with Ginny and when I had asked her if George had ever been to war. She had said no, which technically was true. But he had been in Afghanistan, a war-torn country, and was obviously familiar with explosives. She was asking me to lie while at the same time lying to me. That was even more curious to me than the fact that Ginny had slept with Carter. And that was an extremely odd pairing. The spandex-wearing gym rat and the hoity-toity yellow blog journalist. Takes all kinds.
    It seemed to me that George Miller had been planning to kill