Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

couldn’t have been more than twenty sitting at my table. Her straight black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and the only way I recognized her as Queen Martinez was from the St. Thomas sweatpants that she was wearing and that I had given her the night before. She had started coffee and had made some toast.
    “Hello?” I said, still not entirely sure that this adorable young woman was the same one that I had permitted to spend the night—and perhaps many more—in my house the previous evening. She looked more like she was ready for a track meet than a shift at Hooters. Even the big breasts seemed to have evaporated overnight, but having had some experience with push-up bras (and not good experience), I knew that these things could be manipulated very easily.
    “Oh, hi,” she said. “I made some coffee. I hope that’s okay with you.”
    “Okay? It’s fantastic,” I said, and poured myself a cup. “How did you sleep?”
    “Fine,” she said, nibbling on a piece of toast. Despite the fact that we had just met the night before and she was now staying in my house, she seemed pretty much at ease and at home.
    “I only have the two bedrooms and need to use the spare for an office so I put a futon in there. I’m sorry it’s not more comfortable.”
    She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Really. I can’t thank you enough for putting me up.”
    “I have to go to school today. Do you have to go to … uh, work?” I asked. What did you call what a Hooters waitress cum private investigator cum reality show participant did?
    She stood and came over to the sink to wash out her coffee cup. “I have an assignment to finish for school, then a shift at the restaurant, and then I have to meet with Max and the other private investigators for an update on our latest case.”
    Wow, pretty busy. It made my day seem positively tame by comparison and I would probably have to run the Sister Mary, Father Dwyer, President Etheridge gauntlet at some point. “School?”
    “Yep,” she said, putting her coffee cup, now dry, back into the cabinet. “Getting a degree in criminal justice from John Jay.”
    So there was more to this young chicken wing server than met the eye. Good to know. “There are fresh towels in the upstairs hall closet. Make yourself at home,” I said to this woman whom I had met less than twelve hours earlier. I knew more about my gynecologist, whom I only saw once every year or so, than I did about this woman who was now sharing my house. Max had given me no information beyond “she needs a place to stay,” and I wisely did not press. With Max, it’s better that way; the less you know, the better. “So, okay, well, bye,” I said, not sure how one behaves around one’s new roommate.
    I arrived at school a little more than a half hour later and attempted to lie low, something that a nearly six-foot-tall woman with a miasma of messy hair can hardly pull off. I slunk into my office after exchanging a few benign words with Dottie about the weather—wisely avoiding any talk about her relationship with Charlie or any additional relationship advice—and settled in behind my desk. From my messenger bag, I took out the business card that I had been carrying around for the last few days and put it on my desk, smoothing down the edges. After a few minutes of manipulating the card between my fingers, I finally got up the courage to dial the number that was printed on the front.
    John McVeigh, Mac the Medical Examiner, answered on the second ring, something I wasn’t counting on. “ME’s office. McVeigh speaking.”
    “Um, hi, Medical Examiner McVeigh.” Was he a doctor? Or just a mister? I wasn’t sure, so I went with his full title. “This is Alison Bergeron. We met the other day—”
    “Of course! Alison! How are you?” he asked, full of good cheer.
    “Well, I’m fine, thank you,” I said, surprised that he had asked. He asked me why I was calling, and up until this moment, I had thought I would go straight to begging for the exhumation of Carter Wilmott’s body, but on second thought, I went with a different tack. It hadn’t occurred to me until just now that my implying that Carter had not died of what the ME said he had died of would be a wee bit uncomfortable for both of us. “I think I have some information that might be germane to the Wilmott case and I wanted to share it with you.” The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening; obviously ME McVeigh was no