Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

deck.” Etheridge had designated this entire weekend for extra orientation and expected everyone to be in their offices to attend to any students who might have questions or concerns before school officially started.
    Crawford’s first reaction to my story? “That’s what happens when you lie about being sick to your boss,” an “I told you so” that I didn’t appreciate one bit.
    “WIMP is an underground battered women’s rescue operation and, apparently, Lydia, her creepy, sweatpants-wearing sister, Elaine, and some castrato named Clark are deeply involved with them.”
    Crawford was in his car on his way to work. “I must have misunderstood you. Did you call someone a ‘castrato’?”
    “I did.”
    “I’m impressed.”
    “Don’t be. They think you’re a batterer.”
    “What?”
    “You know, the black eye, the taped-up wrist.”
    He interrupted me. “I hope you disabused them of that notion.”
    “Of course I did.”
    “So you’re not hurt, and they’re not too sinister, and all’s well that ends well?”
    “I guess.”
    “Do you want to press charges?” he asked.
    I thought for a moment and decided that I didn’t.
    “Okay. Take the screen off the back window and bring it to the hardware store. And keep that back window locked, all right?”
    “Got it.” I managed to thread my shoe strap through the buckle and fasten it. I worked on the other one. “Hey, Crawford?”
    “Yes?” he said in his comic, deeply serious voice.
    “See you soon?”
    “You bet.”
    I wasn’t sure why he had come around, and so quickly, but I decided not to push it and ask for an explanation. It seemed that we were falling back into our old pattern and I was happy about that. The question was: how long would he be happy?
    I thought back to our conversation about WIMP. We’ve had a lot of these types of conversations, and the fact that he still cares enough to hear the details, as ridiculous as most of them are, was a testament to his gentle nature. The idea that Lydia and company could consider him a wife beater was absolutely preposterous but I decided that there was no reason to try to convince them that they were way off the mark. But I would tell Jane that her friend Lydia was a certified nutcase.
    I stood up in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door and assessed my appearance: black eye fading? Check. Wrist almost fully mobile? Check. Stockings unsnagged and without runs? Check. Things were looking up. I put on a pair of diamond stud earrings—the remaining material vestige of my marriage—and headed downstairs to let Trixie know that I was on my way out.
    She still wasn’t talking to me after last night’s debacle. See, I didn’t think I’d be gone for as long as I was, but then again, I hadn’t counted on being mistaken for a battered woman and being kidnapped. By the time I arrived home, she was beyond manic, pacing back and forth in the guest bedroom where Clark had stowed her after he had broken in and lured her away with a giant bone. I don’t know how she interpreted that to be my fault, but she was cool and distant when I came down to the kitchen and refused to look at me before I left.
    “Suit yourself,” I said, leaving money on the counter for the dog walker.
    It was another hot and humid day and I prayed that the weather would break before the semester actually began and I had to start teaching. My office was air-conditioned but most of the classrooms where I taught were not. And to top it all off, most of the windows in the nearly one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old building didn’t open so it made for some interesting teaching experiences. Fortunately, today would be spent in my office, my presence at school a mere formality. Classes hadn’t started and I didn’t have any more prospective English majors to interview. I was going to get myself organized for the new semester and make sure I could hit the ground running. Or so I thought.
    Dottie was waiting for me with a look on her face that radiated glee. She was happy to report, before I had even fully set foot into the office area, that Dr. Etheridge was looking for me and that I was to see him immediately upon arriving at school. I wanted to smack the smug look off her face but good sense prevailed and I only thanked her for the message and exited the space by her desk as quickly and as gracefully as I could. No reason for her to know that even hearing Etheridge’s name made me break out in a cold and clammy