Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

that I had just gotten involved in something that wasn’t going to end any time soon. Instead of having a problem like what bathing suit to wear, I now had the problem of appearing to stand up the entire Crawford clan, swimmers all. I also had the problem of being one of two witnesses who had seen a man clock a guy in the head, presumably causing his death. George Miller was long gone, having been put in handcuffs and transported off to the police station. There was no doubt in my mind as to what had happened, nor for any of the other witnesses, including Greg and the officers who had responded. He was protesting his innocence vehemently, but we had all seen and heard the ruckus and knew the outcome. Carter Wilmott was dead after having been punched in the head by George Miller. Case closed.
    The ME sat down at the table across from me and pulled out a notepad. “Once more,” he said, adding, “with feeling.”
    In spite of myself and the situation, I laughed. Ever since he had arrived, the mood had lightened considerably, despite the fact that we were all still in the presence of a dead body. He kindly positioned himself so that I couldn’t see Carter’s body or the assistant ME and his associates roll the body into a black zippered bag, which they placed on top of the gurney. I knew what they were doing, but Mac’s bald pate obstructed my view.
    “What would you like to know?” I asked.
    “Just the facts, ma’am.” He laughed. “I’ve been dying to say that.”
    I went over everything that I had seen. Again. I’ve learned that that’s the way these things go.
    “So you saw Mr. Miller punch Mr. Wilmott, our deceased, in the head?”
    I nodded.
    Mac regarded me, his kindly hound-dog face telegraphing his discomfort with my having witnessed what was probably a murder. “Not exactly how you thought your day would turn out, huh?” He leaned over to pet Trixie. “Nice dog. I used to have a beagle. Horrible animal, but great pet. Ate everything in sight but would go to the mat for me and my wife.”
    “What was her name?”
    “My wife or the dog?”
    “Both,” I said, laughing again.
    “Wife is Marie but I call her ‘Reezie.’ Dog was Daisy.” He pulled a card from his lab coat pocket. “Here’s my card. If you need anything, or want to add anything else, please feel free to call me.” He turned around, and confident that the gurney was gone, stood. “You’ll probably have to go to the police station. You know that, right?”
    “I figured as much.”
    “You have someone to pick you up afterward?”
    I didn’t know if he was just concerned or offering his services. “I’ll probably call a friend.”
    He nodded solemnly. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight. This was a terrible thing that you saw.”
    I blinked back tears. It was. So how come everyone was walking around the coffee shop as if it were a regular morning and business as usual? One cop was even eating a muffin that had survived the wreckage and another had whipped a latte for himself. Why was the medical examiner—the person with the most experience dealing with death and dead bodies and who should have been the most inured to the whole thing—the most sensitive one in the bunch?
    Before I had a chance to dissolve into a tear-filled puddle, the door to Beans, Beans opened and an attractive woman in a crisp white blouse and expensive tailored jeans walked in, her eyes covered by giant black sunglasses, the kind Max refers to as “Jackie O’s.” She stepped in and spoke to one of the uniformed officer’s, careful not to step on any of the broken glass that littered the coffee shop floor. From the murmurings of the officers around me, I gathered that she was Lydia Wilmott, Carter’s wife, and that she had come to see his body before it was carted off to the ME’s office.
    Greg gave me a meaningful look. “You know who that is, right?” he whispered from his perch on the counter, hooking a thumb in Lydia’s direction.
    “I can venture a guess,” I whispered back.
    Lydia stood over the gurney where Carter’s body lay, and bent over slightly, giving all of us a nice shot of milky white breast encapsulated in white lace. I looked away discreetly, as did Mac, the only gentleman in the room, it seemed. He unzipped the body bag a few inches and pulled it aside. Though an unorthodox viewing and identification at best, I guessed that everyone figured that now was as good a time as any.
    She nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s