Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

him.”
    It seemed curious to me that she was alone but it appeared that was the case; I didn’t see anyone else around who was a civilian. She asked one of the detectives in the shop if she could have Carter’s personal effects. A whispered exchange took place, but by the looks of it the detective was not supposed to give her Carter’s possessions. He finally relented and gave her his car keys. I heard him say that there was no use in the police taking the car but they would need everything else for the time being.
    Greg slid off the countertop and pulled out a chair beside me to get a better look at the action. He leaned in close, his “guns” resting on the table. “She gives them about twenty grand a year for their annual fund drive, so I’m not surprised that they’ll do exactly what she says.”
    “Why do they need to take all of his stuff, though?” I whispered back.
    “Don’t you watch CSI ?” Greg asked rhetorically.
    I don’t. I watch cooking shows and the shows where they kidnap people and make them throw out their wardrobes. Oh, and CNN. That’s it. And Brady Bunch repeats. But no CSI . CSI is definitely out. If I want to see a close-up of someone’s esophagus with something foreign stuck in it—also known as “cause of death”—I’ll just look in my dog’s mouth.
    Lydia spent a few more minutes talking with the rest of the police officers and crime scene officials, remarkably composed for someone whose husband was wrapped up like a mummy in a plastic bag on the floor. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and started down the street, presumably to find Carter’s car. I wasn’t sure how she was going to get it home given that she had arrived alone, but it seemed important to her that she drive it home herself and nobody involved was giving her any grief about that.
    Mac and his staff finished up. He started for the door, but before leaving for good, he turned back around and gave me a little wave. He and the rest of the ME staff boarded a windowless white van and headed back to the office, Carter’s bagged-up body in tow. I stood and tried to find the detective in charge to learn what my next steps in this process would be. I found Larry, one of the original cops on the scene, and touched his arm to get his attention. But before I could get the words out of my mouth, I was interrupted by a loud explosion somewhere outside of the restaurant. The remaining windows shook with the force, but didn’t break. Larry grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground, where I lay, facedown, for a few seconds, waiting for a second explosion that never came.
    Greg let out his fortieth or so “Dudes!” of the day. Seemed that that was his go-to expletive in tense situations.
    Once it seemed clear that the blast was a one-time event, Larry rushed outside to join his colleagues who had congregated on the street. Curiosity got the best of me and I followed them. Something had indeed exploded and it was Carter’s car, which by the looks of its flaming remains had been a very expensive Mercedes-Benz.
    Most of the inferno generated from under the hood. The blast had dislodged a parking meter from its home on the sidewalk and the front paned-glass window of the local gift shop was broken. Passersby seemed dazed but unhurt, surprisingly, with the exception of one lady who had a gash over her right eye that was bleeding profusely. One uniformed officer radioed for an ambulance as well as the fire department to respond. Traffic was snarled on the usually busy main thoroughfare and another officer went to dislodge the bottleneck.
    My eyes were fixed on Lydia Wilmott, a good twenty feet from the car, a few feet from me, Carter’s key fob jingling in her shaking hands, her arm still extended, her finger still on the unlock button.
    She turned and looked at me, the closest person to her. “That was a close call,” she said.
    And with that, she fainted.

Three
     
    I was acquainted with Detectives Hardin and Madden but knew they weren’t fans of what I considered my best comedic material so I decided to play it straight. I was in one of the interrogation rooms in the local police department, being one of the four who had witnessed the untimely demise of Carter Wilmott. Trixie didn’t count. She was sitting next to me, at the station, occasionally licking my hand when she felt that I was getting nervous, which was just about every ten seconds or so. I didn’t have anything to be nervous about—I hadn’t