Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

them, the Damoclean sword of the proposal not swinging over my head and threatening to impale me at every turn. I stuck my hand into my jeans pocket and pulled out the lavender-scented note card. “What do you make of this?” I asked.
    Crawford read the note, his eyes growing wide. “When did you get this?”
    “Today.” I popped an olive in my mouth. “It’s the third one of these that I’ve gotten. The first one encouraged me to ‘get up’ or ‘get it up’ or something like that. The second one was shorter but equally cryptic.” I looked around for the waitress. “We need bread,” I said to myself. I was starving.
    “You’ve gotten three?”
    “Yes,” I said, distracted. I couldn’t remember if our waitress was the actress-model who looked like Tyra Banks or the one who looked like Halle Berry. I finally grabbed a busboy and asked him for a basket of bread. “And butter!” I called after him.
    “This is disturbing,” he said.
    “It is,” I agreed, my mind on a completely different topic. “You’d think that they’d give you bread and butter automatically.”
    “No, not the bread situation. The notes.” He flipped the note over. “Did you try this number?”
    I looked at him as if to say, “what do you think?” “Nobody answers.”
    “That’s weird.” He sat back in his seat. “This is concerning.”
    I looked at Crawford and was momentarily stunned by just how adorable he really was. Especially when he was concerned about me. What in God’s name was wrong with me that I couldn’t commit to this guy? “You think?” I knew it was, but I was trying to downplay my reaction. I’ve been through a lot during my time with Crawford and I was loath to think of our relationship spiralling into one where I continually played the damsel in distress. This situation, I thought, called for practiced nonchalance.
    “Uh, yes.” He downed a bit of the glass of merlot that he had ordered. “When did the first one come?”
    I thought back. “A few days ago?”
    “You’re not sure?”
    “So much has happened, Crawford. I can’t remember a lot since Carter’s death. It’s been a blur.”
    “What about the second one?” he asked. When I shrugged, he asked, “Did you tell Detective Madden about this?”
    Thankfully, the busboy came back with a big basket of bread but only two pats of butter. I grabbed his arm. “We’re going to need more butter.”
    Crawford waited before asking me again. “Did you tell Detective Madden about this?”
    “No. I never want to see her again, let alone talk to her. I don’t think she needs to get involved.” I put forth my lavender-scented note card/good penmanship theory.
    “I don’t agree. And I want to see the other notes.” Crawford looked around the restaurant before returning his gaze to the car across the street. “What else has happened since I entered my self-imposed exile from you?”
    That was an interesting way to put it. “Not much.” I dug through the bread basket for a roll. “I went to Carter Wilmott’s memorial service. Ginny Miller was there.”
    Crawford raised an eyebrow.
    “She was actually in her car across the street, but she was looking for something. Or someone. I followed her to the Stop and Shop.”
    Crawford didn’t take his eye off the window but his exasperation with me and my handling of the situation was palpable. “You didn’t.”
    “I did.”
    “I hope you didn’t try to buy cold cuts.”
    “I didn’t. But I made quite a scene, if I do say so myself. And I prevented an old lady from knocking an entire display of Goya garbanzo beans to the ground.” I slathered some butter on my bread and shoved it in my mouth. “Good bread.”
    Crawford stood up abruptly, knocking my drink into my lap. Now there was a first. I’m usually the one knocking things over. He ran from the restaurant and out onto the street, his long legs a blur as he ran across the street, against the light and toward Kevin, who stood on the other side by his sensible and energy-efficient Honda Fit.
    In mufti, Kevin looked like a normal, everyday denizen of Greenwich Village. Even up close, nobody would have had any idea that he was a man of the cloth. In his baggy jeans, hipster T-shirt with a slightly ironic saying on it, and Puma sneakers, he could have passed for a bike messenger, barista, or young dot-com executive. But I knew the truth. And I also knew that if Kevin was under deep cover, as he appeared to be, something was