Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

company.
    Max came out of the attached powder room and screamed, not expecting to see us. A young black woman at the kitchen table used her hands to shield herself from the droplets of water flying off my wet dog and me. Trixie yelped at the sight of Max and scurried off to hide under the dining room table, her “safe place.” And I nearly collapsed from the sheer terror that accompanies seeing someone in your house when you’re sure it’s unoccupied. I had been so focused on getting home—not to mention nearly blinded by the wall of water that had fallen on me—that I hadn’t even noticed Max’s car outside.
    Max, of course, found my screaming to be a serious affront to her delicate auditory function. “Shut up!”
    I sat at the table and put my hand over my heart. “Good God, Max. Have you ever heard of calling first?” I looked over at the young lady across from me and held out my hand. I recognized her as the woman who had taken down the seemingly staid businessman in front of the apartment building a few nights earlier. “Alison Bergeron. This is my house.”
    “Queen Martinez.” She looked at Max. “Friend of Max, I guess?”
    “She’s a Hooters waitress,” Max said, as if that explained everything.
    “The Hooters tank top was a dead giveaway,” I said, taking in Queen’s interesting ensemble: the aforementioned Hooters tank top; a long-sleeved sweatshirt with a hood; Daisy Duke shorts that rode up so high in the sitting position that I could only imagine what they looked like when she stood up; and red platform shoes with a cork bottom. “You waitress in those?” I asked, pointing at the shoes. I didn’t remember her wearing them the night of the confrontation with the cheating husband but there had been so much more to focus on that I hadn’t really noticed her shoes.
    “They’re surprisingly comfortable,” she said, bending one ankle to admire the shoe’s construction.
    “Max, a word please?” I asked, dragging Max by the collar into the hallway. Once we were out of earshot, and I observed Queen playing with the dog, I tore into Max. “What is going on?”
    She pulled her collar back and adjusted it. “Sheesh. You didn’t have to get so rough.”
    “Yes I did. What is happening here?” I could only imagine given my history with my best friend. “And why have you brought RuPaul to my house?” I looked over again and watched while Queen adjusted her very long, and very full, blond wig, which had come loose while she played tug-of-war with Trixie. She was on her knees, and half of her butt cheeks were hanging out. I needed to get this girl some pants.
    Max took a deep breath, signifying that there was a long story to be told. “Well, here’s the thing. Queen has run into a little trouble and needs a place to stay.”
    I pulled Max close so that there would be no misunderstanding what I was about to say. “She. Cannot. Stay. Here.”
    And then Max did something I had rarely seen her do: she started to cry. Loudly. And wetly. Queen rushed from her place under the dining room table and put her arms around my terribly misguided friend. Trixie, who we have established loathes Max, also came running. The dog herded us together, me, the tall, unkempt college professor; Max, the tiny, well-dressed cable television executive; and Queen … well, she defied description. We stood in a tight group, the dog circling us to keep us together. I looked down at Max and then up at Queen, who up close was stunning once you weren’t distracted by the hair, the tank top/sweatshirt combo, and the short shorts. “What’s your story?” I asked.
    Before she could answer, the doorbell rang. As if this day couldn’t get any weirder—or truly, any worse—there stood Ginny Miller.
    She looked at me sheepishly, while tugging at the seat of her spandex exercise pants. There was no greeting, nor a preamble. She just stated her business. “Hey. I need your help.”

Twenty-Three
     
    I don’t think I could have put together a more disparate group of people, but here I was in my dining room surrounded by Max, Queen, and Ginny. While I had thought that Ginny was off my back for good with George being out on bail, it seemed that she was even more determined to make his troubles go away, and to do so, she had to come completely clean to me. That meant confessing the scintillating details of her torrid affair with Carter Wilmott to me and my new partners in crime, one in hot pants, another in a