Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

suspected that Lydia was crying. “Me, too,” she said, and walked down the street toward the river.

Thirty-One
     
    I sent Queen back to the house armed with the big bag of muffins that Greg had given me. She and Lydia had a plan whereby she would stay in Lydia’s guesthouse on the magnificent acreage of the Wilmott estate until they could find a suitable apartment for her. Hooters was in White Plains and John Jay was in the city, so Queen residing on Lydia’s property was the perfect in-between point.
    I took a spot on the opposite side of the street from Beans, Beans and waited for Greg to finish closing up. I had watched Lydia walk all the way to the river, and suspected that she had gone to the boat; her house was in the opposite direction, and I could still see her car, a silver Volvo station wagon, parked a few spots up from Greg’s shop. Although the sun had begun its descent over the Palisades across the river, it was still muggy enough to cause my blouse to stick to my back, quite uncomfortably. I was under the awning of a boutique and, hopefully, not in sight of Greg from his vantage point in Beans, Beans.
    Although I had played along with the “aren’t we having fun?” conversation in which I basically accused Greg of trying to get rid of Carter by blowing him up and he denied it, I was still thinking about it. Because who better than someone who liked to blow things up blowing up their archenemy, aka Blogenstein, as Max liked to refer to him? But was it so obvious as to not hold any water? I decided that I wanted to see where this led, and although spending a little time shadowing Greg might not tell me anything, it also wouldn’t make me late for dinner, so I had nothing to lose.
    Greg was a townie and lived in the direction of Lydia’s house, that is, away from the river. So I was shocked when he left the shop with a small bag under his arm and started for the river, just as Lydia had a few minutes earlier. I waited until he was almost out of sight before getting up from the bench and starting after him, staying on my side of the street. There was no way I was going to lose him unless he jumped in a cab, but cabs meandering down sleepy village streets on warm summer nights are fortunately in short supply.
    Things got a bit more complicated when he started for the bridge that arched over the train tracks. I would have to follow directly behind him rather than from a safe distance across the street and I wondered how this was going to work out. I decided that if he saw me, I would lay blame on the beautiful night and my desire to spend some time at the river. It wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility, yet in case it hasn’t been established thus far, I am a terrible liar. Which is why I try not to do it with any regularity.
    We continued across the bridge, me a safe distance behind Greg. It was a little after six and there was still plenty of sunlight left in the day and dusk was at least two hours off. He finished his journey across the bridge and took a seat on one of the benches on the train station platform. I decided then and there that I wasn’t going to follow him into New York City or up north toward Poughkeepsie, depending on which train he was waiting for. I stole into the ticket office and looked at the schedule, deciding that he was waiting for a New York City–bound train, one of which was on its way into the station in less than a minute. I watched him from the ticket window office, a man deep in reverie on a balmy night with seemingly not a care in the world.
    The train screeched into the station and several rush-hour passengers disembarked, while a few got on to head south into New York City. Greg was not one of them. When the train had left the station, he was still sitting on the park bench, enjoying the view, the plastic bag in his hand.
    I observed this curious behavior for another hour, while trains came and went, and when the sun had finally set completely over the mountains on the other side of the river, he got up. I left the ticket office and followed behind him, glad that it was dark and that he probably wouldn’t be able to tell that I had been tailing him for the better part of two hours. He made his way down toward the river and the boat slips; I was close enough now to hear him whistling what sounded like “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” by Simon and Garfunkel. He walked along the dock and finally arrived at his destination, which was