Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

muted and muffled voices, put me on high alert. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, hiding behind the giant mahogany dresser, and waited while I heard someone unlock the door and start down the stairs. As the sound of the footfalls got closer, I lunged out from behind the dresser and posed with my foil. Instead of shouting “En garde!” out came “Lydia!” and I was surprised and then not surprised that my captor was Carter’s widow.
    Lydia grabbed her chest, almost losing her breath at the shock of seeing me jump out from behind the dresser with her antique foil. “Oh, Alison. Put that thing down,” she said. “You scared the life out of me.”
    I don’t know why, but I was inclined to do what she said. I rested the foil against the dresser and crossed my arms over my chest. “So this is an interesting twist. What the hell am I doing here?”
    “Would you like dinner?” Lydia asked. “Chef has made coq au vin. I know it’s a bit early in the season but I had a yen.”
    I was kind of hungry. The Riviera’s chicken piccata was a distant memory. “No,” I said definitively. My growling stomach was a dead giveaway. “Kind of.”
    “Why don’t you come upstairs?” Lydia asked, as if my coming here had been my idea alone.
    “I think I’ll stay here,” I said, realizing how ridiculous it sounded.
    Lydia regarded me with something akin to pity, but not quite. “Suit yourself,” she said, starting up the stairs.
    “Wait!” I called and followed her up the stairs. When I got to the top, I was back in the kitchen with the spectacular view of the Hudson that I had been in only days before while offering my condolences for Carter’s death. Elaine was seated at the granite counter, drinking the same chardonnay that I had found in the refrigerator below. She was in head-to-toe cotton, her purple sweat suit accentuating the big roll of fat around her waist. I had a hard time buying these two women as sisters; they were polar opposites. Also at the counter was a giant man who reeked of the same cologne as the man who had brought me here.
    Lydia made introductions all around. “You remember Elaine,” she said, holding a hand out. Elaine gave me a sullen nod. “And this is Clark, Elaine’s husband.”
    I held my hand out to Clark as if meeting him under these circumstances were the most natural thing in the world. Clark, you need to lay off the cologne, brother, was what I wanted to say, but I shook his hand politely. I surreptitiously brought the hand up to my nose. Yep. It smelled like cologne. That was some pretty potent stuff and, most certainly, not a lady killer. Clark was a hulking mass, not unlike Max’s Neanderthal husband, but while Fred was bald, Clark sported a slicked-back black ponytail that hung below his massive shoulders.
    Lydia reached into a cabinet and brought out an expensive-looking wineglass. My guess was Baccarat. These were some fancy people, these Wilmotts. “Do you want some chardonnay? It’s Conundrum. One of their special vintages and one of our favorites.”
    “Thank you,” I said graciously, until I realized I no longer had to be gracious. We could pretend all we wanted that I was a guest who had come to sample the special vintage from the Conundrum vineyard, but I was essentially a hostage. I had been brought here with a burlap sack over my head. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. “No! No chardonnay. What I want are some answers.” I stared at Lydia in her usual white shirt and pricey designer jeans. “What am I doing here?”
    “Have some wine,” she said, pouring me a healthy glass of this special vintage.
    I took a sip. I had to admit: it was excellent, far better than anything I had ever purchased. But even that didn’t alleviate the stress I had felt being kidnapped and brought here under duress. I banged the glass onto the counter and demanded some answers. Elaine jumped a little bit.
    Lydia looked at me sadly. “We’re just trying to help you.”
    “Help me? With what?”
    Elaine recited some kind of gobbledygook about denial being the first stage of something or other.
    “Alison,” Lydia said gently. “We all know what’s going on.”
    “Well, then could you let me know?” I punctuated my outburst with a long slug of wine. Clark eyed me but didn’t say a word.
    Lydia gave me that pitying smile again. “The eye. The wrist.” She looked down at the counter. “The abusive cop boyfriend.”
    The eye, the wrist, the abusive cop boyfriend?