Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

beds was a deep chest on top of which sat an alarm clock and some sailing magazines. I pulled open the drawer on the front of the chest and riffled around in it for something to keep me afloat in the unlikely event that we capsized. My terror at being on the water was unmatched by anything else; not being able to swim had put me in many a precarious position, not limited to an almost drowning at the Jersey Shore when I was sixteen. Although I had managed to get myself out of the river when Ginny had pushed me in, I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to save myself if I happened to fall in the middle of the river, where the depths were far greater. I dug around in the cabinet, coming up with a few packages of M&M’s—which I promptly stuck in my pocket for later—and an envelope out of which fell the most disturbing pictures of the relationship between Ginny Miller and Carter Wilmott that I could possibly see.
    “What are you doing down there?” I heard Greg bellow from above me.
    “Nothing!” I bellowed back, throwing the envelope across the room as if it were a hot iron that I had picked up in error. The pictures flew from the envelope and scattered across every flat surface. I sat on the bed and put my head between my legs. Between my panic at being brought out to the middle of the river and seeing what could only be described as extremely unpleasant amateur shots of a sexual nature, I was feeling queasy. The boat continued its steady path toward the deeper part of the river, a competent Greg at the helm.
    If Ginny Miller had thought that the photos that Carter had posted on his Web site were incriminating and unflattering, they had nothing on this set of prints. Seems that The Lydia did more than sail; the boat also provided the trysting spot for Carter and Ginny, whose naked body was prominently featured in every single photo.
    I don’t know how long I sat but at some point during that time, I realized that there was only one reason that Ginny Miller had been on The Lydia and it was to find those pictures, something that she was unable to accomplish before her death. She had lied to me about her original intent but that didn’t matter. She had found the arsenic … or had she? Had the arsenic already been in her possession? One thing I did know was that George Miller was never going to see those pictures if I had anything to say about it. I picked them all up and shoved them in the back of my waistband, thinking that we would have a bonfire later this evening when I was home and in the pleasant company of Kevin and Queen.
    Greg appeared in the doorway of the cabin just as I had finished shoving the pictures into my underwear. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m looking for a life preserver,” I said. And that was the truth. I just hadn’t been successful in my quest and I had come across a set of photographs that would require me to gouge my eyes out when I returned home.
    He opened a door in the floor that I hadn’t noticed and pulled out a bright orange flotation device. He tossed it to me. “Why do you want a life preserver? Planning on going for a swim?”
    I grabbed the life preserver and held it in my hand. “I can’t swim.”
    “Dude! Really?”
    Why does this shock everyone so much? So I can’t swim. It’s not a skill that’s required on a regular basis and it certainly is one that you can avoid having to do if you’re smart and prepare ahead. I got a little indignant. “No. I can’t swim,” I said, starting for the stairs. I pulled the life preserver over my head. “You got a problem with that?”
    Greg followed me back up to the main deck. “No. It’s just surprising. You look like someone who’d be able to swim.”
    “And what does someone who’d be able to swim look like?”
    “Like you. Tall. In pretty good shape.” He walked back up to the steering wheel. “Broad shoulders.”
    “Let’s end this conversation before I have to kill you,” I said. “Can we go back now? I don’t want to go for a ride.”
    “This is really freaking you out?”
    “Yes. It’s really freaking me out. Please, can we go back?”
    He fiddled with some dials on the dashboard and turned around. “You got it.” He smiled, something that he had done a lot since I had boarded the boat and which had put me at ease. “Sheesh—you see a guy die of arsenic poisoning in my shop and you don’t freak out, but we go for a little boat ride and you become a complete mental case.”
    “Wait,” I