Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

numbers. Once in my room, I dialed the number and settled back on my pillows while waiting for Lydia Wilmott to answer.
    She was surprised to hear from me. “And I’m surprised to be calling you. But I need your help. Were you serious about the things that WIMP can do to help women in need of assistance in leaving abusers?”
    “Of course I was,” she said, sounding indignant. Apparently, my not accepting her help had been a slight and a blemish on our nonexistent relationship.
    “Here’s the thing,” I said, and I outlined the situation with Queen. At the end of my recitation of the facts, Lydia was quiet, which led me to believe that perhaps she wasn’t on board with what I had outlined. I knew she had a lot of money, so even if Queen didn’t go through the whole WIMP thing, I figured I could blackmail Lydia into paying for her new apartment for at least a few months until she got on her feet. “Listen, you’ve two choices. One, you help me, no questions asked. Or two, I go to the police and finger Clark for assault and battery. Oh, and kidnapping,” I added. “Don’t forget the kidnapping.”
    That got her attention. “Of course I want to help your friend, Alison. I was just formulating a plan in my head,” she said. Liar.
    “And don’t think this is a veiled request to help me, Lydia. I am not now, nor was I ever, an abused woman. This is for a friend who is young and really at a loss as to how to disengage from her situation.”
    “Fine.”
    “Good. Where do you want to meet?”
    You could have blown me over with a feather when Lydia suggested Beans, Beans. She explained her choice. “Nobody will expect to see me there and anybody who does see me there will probably leave once I get there. I’m getting tired of the staring, Alison.”
    I hadn’t been there in a few days and I was feeling guilty. I didn’t think Lydia would ever want to go back there, but who was I to question her judgment? I thought of Greg and his doughy “guns” and decided that it was as good a place as any, as long as Lydia was comfortable with it. I went back downstairs and sat at the table. Kevin and Queen were still picking at their food. “We’ve got a plan,” I said to Queen, and told her that come hell or high water, we were going to Beans, Beans tomorrow at five, her shift at Hooters or her filming of Dicks with Tits be damned.
    She gave it a moment’s thought. “Fortunately, I’m free,” she said.
    “Good,” I said. “We’ll get together tomorrow and work this whole thing out.” I pointed my fork at her to get her full attention. “But listen to me. Executing this plan requires that you follow my directions. Do that and everything will be just fine.” She blanched, knowing that that meant leaving her old life behind. “I’m not kidding, Queen. If Jake is as ‘stressed out’ as you claim, he’s not going to be happy that you’ve left. But you need to get out. And get up again,” I said, reciting WIMP’s credo. Kevin looked at me as if I were crazy and I guess I was. “Now, who wants some more wine?”

Thirty
     
    I had reminded Queen about our meeting before I left for work in the morning just to be clear that this was an appointment she shouldn’t miss. I also instructed her to leave the drag queen look at home but I wasn’t sure she was going to follow my instructions. So I was pleasantly surprised when she walked through the door of Beans, Beans dressed in a denim skirt and a peasant top, small gold hoops in her ears. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had the freshly scrubbed look of a college coed rather than the slutty appearance of a waitress who exposed her cleavage for money. Apparently, some of her Hooters colleagues had gone to her apartment when Jake wasn’t home and packed a few things for her, knowing that she wasn’t returning there any time soon. Greg was happy to see us both, whispering to me that business had not been great since the incident of more than a week before, a fact that came as no surprise to me. He gave me a huge hug and offered me anything I wanted, on the house.
    “That’s not necessary, Greg,” I said, pulling out a wrought-iron café chair and taking a seat across from Greg. I gave him our order: a black coffee for me and a café au lait for Queen. “And two muffins,” I said. I was not immune to the siren song of predinner hunger pangs.
    “Haven’t seen you in a couple of days,” Greg said, giving me a mirthless smile. He