Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

wiped his hands repeatedly on the long apron that was tied at his waist.
    “I know. I’ve been busy with school. We’re working seven days a week to get ready for the first day of classes,” I explained. I looked around the store and saw that Queen and I were the only customers, an interesting fact given that Beans, Beans was the go-to place in town for the after-school crowd. I knew that Greg was right; business was down and Carter’s death had everything to do with that. I introduced Queen to Greg. “Hey, did you hear the latest?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Depends what ‘latest’ you’re talking about.”
    I lowered my voice even though there was nobody else in the coffee shop. “Carter Wilmott. Poisoned.”
    He didn’t look surprised. “Yeah, I read that in the paper. What a shame.”
    “It was,” I said. “But between that, and the exploding car, and the fight with George Miller, I’m starting to wonder exactly how many ways that guy was supposed to die.”
    “Good point.” Greg shifted from one foot to the other. “Sounds like he was going to go that day one way or another.”
    “Heard anything new about the explosion or who might have caused it?” I asked.
    Greg looked away quickly. “Not a word. You’re right, though. He was destined to die that day.”
    I nodded. I kept the information about the ALS to myself. That was for public consumption when Mac and his cohorts decided that it was.
    “I should warn you that the other person we’re meeting is Lydia Wilmott,” I said. I held my hands up. “Not my fault. She wanted to meet here.”
    Greg walked back to the counter area and prepared our drinks. After he came back and served me my coffee, he turned and gingerly placed Queen’s café au lait in front of her. “Anything else?” he asked.
    Queen reached out and grabbed Greg’s arm and turned the wrist toward her. I leaned over and saw what she was looking at: a tattoo that said “USMC” and had a ring of stars surrounding what looked like a bird carrying an anchor. I didn’t know where he had had it done, but I thought that the artist must have been loaded when he took the tattoo needle to the inside of Greg’s wrist. It was possibly the worst tattoo I had ever seen, and working on a college campus, I see a lot of ink. “Are you in the marines, sir?”
    Greg smiled. “I was.”
    “My dad, too,” Queen said. “He’s doing another eighteen months in the Middle East right now.”
    “God bless him,” Greg said. “May he come home safe.” He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer, presumably to his homeboy, Jesus.
    “Thank you.” She blew on her coffee. “My mother ships out from Camp LeJeune in another week, too.”
    Greg looked chagrined. “That’s a lot for a young girl like you to handle.”
    Queen shrugged. “It’s okay. I grew up in the military so I’m used to it. They’ll be back,” she said brightly.
    There was a lot more to Queen’s story than met the eye. I looked toward the front door to see if I could spot Lydia, but the sidewalk in front of the store was empty. Queen and Greg were still talking about the “Corps” and the lives they had led, he as a member and she as a child of marines. Before Greg walked back to the counter, Queen asked him what his favorite thing about the Corps was.
    “Blowing things up,” he said, laughing as he sauntered back to the counter to wait on the sole customer who had walked through the doors since we had arrived.
    I froze in my chair, staring down into my coffee cup. But I didn’t have time to work through all of the possibilities in my mind, now that I knew Greg was a marine in addition to a guy who liked to blow things up, before Lydia strolled in, the scent of some overpowering perfume announcing her arrival. She threw herself into a chair at our table as if she had lost control of her legs prior to her sitting down; she placed her giant, suitcaselike handbag on top of the table. I pushed the patent leather bag aside to make room for our muffins, which Greg deposited while giving Lydia a polite nod.
    Lydia didn’t take off her sunglasses, even after I made the introductions, so I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, if anything. However, if I had to guess, Lydia knew exactly what I wanted and when, and my presence at this conversation wasn’t needed. I had given her just enough information on the phone to make clear what her role in this process was. I decided that I was on a “need to know”