Third Degree (19 page)

I puzzled over the little details that I had gleaned from the blog as I shut my computer and put it on my nightstand. I looked down at Trixie, whose eyes were peering out from under golden eyebrows. “Cocktails?” I asked, and she jumped off the bed and raced downstairs. I heard her hit the hardwood floor of the hallway and skid all the way into the kitchen. She knows that when I say “cocktails,” what I really mean is a walk followed by a martini. Everybody wins.

We set out for our journey, a gorgeous end of day in which much had transpired. I didn’t know how I was going to navigate the new liturgical rule that was being instituted at St. Thomas; I was a heathen at best, a heretic at worst. That was going to make things difficult, particularly if Father Dwyer and his flying monkeys made all of the faculty attend every holy day of obligation mass or become daily communicants or—gasp—become Eucharistic ministers. If that was the case, Etheridge better get some more insurance, because me in charge of the Holy Eucharist? That for sure meant that the building would cleave in two from the force of the bolt of lightning that would surely strike.

Trixie and I wandered up and down my street until a black cloud that had been hanging low overhead decided to burst open and drench us with big, fat raindrops that soaked us within seconds. Trixie didn’t need any encouragement; she dragged me down the street, my arm straight out in front of me, the leash between us. We were home in less than a minute, but drenched nonetheless. I went in through the back door, which I hadn’t bothered locking, flustered and anxious to get inside. Trixie and I did a simultaneous shake-off not noticing that we had company.

Max came out of the attached powder room and screamed, not expecting to see us. A young black woman at the kitchen table used her hands to shield herself from the droplets of water flying off my wet dog and me. Trixie yelped at the sight of Max and scurried off to hide under the dining room table, her “safe place.” And I nearly collapsed from the sheer terror that accompanies seeing someone in your house when you’re sure it’s unoccupied. I had been so focused on getting home—not to mention nearly blinded by the wall of water that had fallen on me—that I hadn’t even noticed Max’s car outside.

Max, of course, found my screaming to be a serious affront to her delicate auditory function. “Shut up!”

I sat at the table and put my hand over my heart. “Good God, Max. Have you ever heard of calling first?” I looked over at the young lady across from me and held out my hand. I recognized her as the woman who had taken down the seemingly staid businessman in front of the apartment building a few nights earlier. “Alison Bergeron. This is my house.”

“Queen Martinez.” She looked at Max. “Friend of Max, I guess?”

“She’s a Hooters waitress,” Max said, as if that explained everything.

“The Hooters tank top was a dead giveaway,” I said, taking in Queen’s interesting ensemble: the aforementioned Hooters tank top; a long-sleeved sweatshirt with a hood; Daisy Duke shorts that rode up so high in the sitting position that I could only imagine what they looked like when she stood up; and red platform shoes with a cork bottom. “You waitress in those?” I asked, pointing at the shoes. I didn’t remember her wearing them the night of the confrontation with the cheating husband but there had been so much more to focus on that I hadn’t really noticed her shoes.

“They’re surprisingly comfortable,” she said, bending one ankle to admire the shoe’s construction.

“Max, a word please?” I asked, dragging Max by the collar into the hallway. Once we were out of earshot, and I observed Queen playing with the dog, I tore into Max. “What is going on?”

She pulled her collar back and adjusted it. “Sheesh. You didn’t have to get so rough.”

“Yes I did. What is happening here?” I could only imagine given my history with my best friend. “And why have you brought RuPaul to my house?” I looked over again and watched while Queen adjusted her very long, and very full, blond wig, which had come loose while she played tug-of-war with Trixie. She was on her knees, and half of her butt cheeks were hanging out. I needed to get this girl some pants.

Max took a deep breath, signifying that there was a long story to be told. “Well, here’s the thing. Queen has run into a little trouble and needs a place to stay.”

I pulled Max close so that there would be no misunderstanding what I was about to say. “She. Cannot. Stay. Here.”

And then Max did something I had rarely seen her do: she started to cry. Loudly. And wetly. Queen rushed from her place under the dining room table and put her arms around my terribly misguided friend. Trixie, who we have established loathes Max, also came running. The dog herded us together, me, the tall, unkempt college professor; Max, the tiny, well-dressed cable television executive; and Queen … well, she defied description. We stood in a tight group, the dog circling us to keep us together. I looked down at Max and then up at Queen, who up close was stunning once you weren’t distracted by the hair, the tank top/sweatshirt combo, and the short shorts. “What’s your story?” I asked.

Before she could answer, the doorbell rang. As if this day couldn’t get any weirder—or truly, any worse—there stood Ginny Miller.

She looked at me sheepishly, while tugging at the seat of her spandex exercise pants. There was no greeting, nor a preamble. She just stated her business. “Hey. I need your help.”

“Guilt.”

Max snorted. “That’s a good reason.”

I kicked her under the table.

“And I love George.”

“Yeah, but not enough to not sleep with Blogenstein,” Max added. Her excessive use of double negatives left even her mildly confused and she shook her head to regain her equilibrium. Another kick under the table was intended to silence her but she kept going. “It’s something I don’t understand. How could you do that to your husband and another woman? Don’t you believe in the sisterhood?”

I put my hand on Max’s shoulder; the threat of physical harm wasn’t stopping her so I thought I’d try the gentle approach. “Max, we’re not here to judge. Let’s listen to what Ginny needs.”

Queen nodded vigorously, her blond ringlets bouncing up and down. I still didn’t know why she was here but figured we’d get to that later.

Ginny rested her head on her arms that were crossed on the dining room table. After a few seconds, she picked her head up and addressed us. “Listen, I know it was wrong, but I was flattered.” She waved a hand to indicate herself. “Look at me. I’m a frumpy, middle-aged woman who’s married to a frumpy, middle-aged man. I’ve had three children and look like it. The fact that someone like Carter Wilmott was even interested in me in the least was … well, flattering.”

You’d think that I would have been more judgmental, given my history with cheating spouses, but all I felt for her was sorrow. She was a mess. Probably an extremely competent nurse based on some of the chutzpah and clinical knowledge of the healing powers of pineapple she had previously displayed with me, but an emotional wreck nonetheless.

“Carter Wilmott was a troll,” Max said. The kicks didn’t work nor did the hands on the shoulder so I just shot her a death gaze that said “shut your freaking piehole.” “I’m just saying,” she added quietly.

“What do you need from me, Ginny?” I asked finally. Cut to the chase, sister.

“I don’t think Carter died from the blow to the head,” she said.

Now I was getting impatient. “We know,” I said. “We’ve been through this, Ginny.”

“No,” she said. “Wait.”

Queen sighed. Even she was getting tired of this nonsense and she had only been here less than half an hour.

“I think Carter was poisoned.”

“At Greg’s?” That statement left me incredulous. His coffee was bad but it couldn’t kill you. Could it? I started to worry.

“No, not at Greg’s,” she said. She looked at me intently. “At home. By Lydia.”

Queen leaned over to Max and whispered, “Who’s Lydia?” Max just shushed her loudly, so intent on hearing the resolution to this tawdry story. In reality, she had no idea who Lydia was, either.

“Ginny, you’re crazy,” I said before I had time to think of an appropriate response. “Even if you’re right about him being poisoned, he still died from your husband’s pummeling.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“No, not maybe. Definitely,” I said. “I was there. I heard what the ME had to say. It’s all there in black-and-white. Hit to the head? Die.” I stood up. “Who wants coffee?”

Ginny stood, as well. “No. You’re wrong. I’m telling you, he was being poisoned. Slowly.”

I started for the kitchen but turned back around. “Ginny, I don’t know which one of you I like better: angry, hostile Ginny or completely deluded Ginny. Right now, it’s a tie.” I went into the kitchen and pulled the filter basket out of the coffee maker. “It’s not like you have proof or anything.”

“Here! Catch!” Ginny called, and I turned just as a huge chunk of rock was thrown at my head. I put a hand up and caught it.

I looked at the big hunk of rock in my hand.

“Now do you believe me?” she asked.

“I would if I knew what this was,” I said.

“It’s arsenic.” Max’s and Queen’s jaws dropped. “I found it on Carter’s boat the night that we were both there.”

“Arsenic?”

“Yeah, arsenic.” She stood. “If you shave a little bit of that rock into someone’s food or drink every day, it will slowly kill them. All you need is a cheese grater and a rock like this. It’s basically undetectable.”

I wish I had known that when I had been married. God, why do I learn about all of the cool stuff so late?

Queen stood as well. “This might not be the best place for me to stay,” she said, looking at Max regretfully. She tottered into the kitchen and stood next to me at the counter. “I’ll find somewhere else.”

“You stay right here,” I said to Queen, and then turned to Ginny. “Continue.”

“It’s odorless and tasteless and can kill you slowly, over time. Did you read Carter’s blog?” she asked.

I didn’t want to admit that I had, but I did. No sense lying about it now.

“Did you notice how he had changed in the photos?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“Well, there you go.”

I started the coffee. Seemed like it was going to be a long night. “Well, if you’re right, how come the ME didn’t mention this?”

Ginny spoke to me as if she were talking to a dumb student. “Because they don’t automatically test for poison in autopsies.”

“They don’t?” Max and Queen asked at the same time. I could practically see the wheels turning in both of their heads.

Ginny shook her head. “Nope. And they wanted this cleared quickly, so they went with the blunt force trauma cause of death. But Carter had called me a few weeks back and told me that he hadn’t been feeling well. He wondered what some of the signs and symptoms of various cancers were. I begged him to come in and get scanned, and he did.” She paused dramatically. “No cancer.”

“Well, what did they find?” I asked.

“Nothing. And since it wasn’t cancer, he blamed it on stress and didn’t go for any more tests.” Tears welled up in those long-lashed eyes of hers. “I should have made him go further. Maybe I could have saved him.” She sat back down and sobbed into her hands. “Now that I think about it, he showed all of the signs of arsenic poisoning, but I was just so concerned that it was cancer. I didn’t think it could be something more sinister.”

“How could Lydia have come up with this plan?” I asked.

“Are you dense?” Ginny asked. When I didn’t respond, she kept going. “First of all, you can find all kinds of stuff like this on the Internet. Ever heard of it? And secondly, her sister is a nurse. She knows a thing or two about toxicology.”

“It’s probably in your best interest not to insult the person you’re trying to get to help you, don’t you think, Ginny?” But even as I was taking umbrage at Ginny’s insult, I was thinking back to Elaine’s insistence that Carter had been “healthy as a horse” when I had gone to the Wilmotts’ on the day Carter died. Was she protesting too much and giving me a clue?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I leaned against the counter and watched coffee drip into the pot. She sure seemed concerned about this man, the same one who had published extremely unflattering photos of her on his blog. I didn’t know whether to believe this tale or not; she certainly relayed the details with a lot of conviction. But I had been there and I saw what happened and it was no accident that right after her husband landed a blow to Carter’s head, he was dead. But there was one other little matter and that concerned the explosive device in the engine. I asked Ginny who had put that there and asked if perhaps it had been George.

“I don’t know but I know that it wasn’t George.”

“How can you be so sure? He couldn’t have been too happy about you having an affair.”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t know.”

Now it was the three of us—Max, Queen, and me—who exclaimed in unison. “He doesn’t?”

“Not that I know of.”

Speaking from experience, I said, “He knows.” And I bet that’s why this whole thing started, I thought. And even if it wasn’t, that didn’t mean George Miller didn’t want Carter, the little weasel who took him to task day after day on his blog, dead.

“Whatever,” she said, defeated. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead, my husband’s going to jail, and our lives have been ruined.”

I took some mugs out of the cabinet. “So what do you want from me, Ginny? Seems like you’ve got the whole thing figured out.”

“I do, but I don’t have proof. Besides a big arsenic rock, that is. I tried to talk to Detective Madden about it, but as far as she’s concerned, the arrest has been made. It’s an open-and-shut case. She doesn’t really care how Carter died, she just cares that she’s closed a homicide.” She stood and walked into the kitchen. She picked up the arsenic rock that I had hastily placed on the counter as far from me as I could. “I know you’ve got a reputation for being a bit of a busybody—” I took offense at that characterization and started to protest. She held up a hand to silence me. “But you find things out. And I know you know Lydia.”

Not in the way you’d think, I wanted to tell her, but I wisely kept my mouth shut.

“And your boyfriend is a cop. He can find things out, too.”

“Leave him out of this. He’s not going to help you, Ginny. He doesn’t know you from a hole in the wall.” I poured coffee into each mug and handed them to each of my guests—and I use that term loosely—now all clustered in the kitchen. I took a sip, burned my lip, and cursed a blue streak in my head. This day just keeps getting better and better, I thought.

Queen spoke up. “I’m a private investigator.”

“Yeah! She’s a private investigator!” Max agreed.

Ginny looked Queen up and down, a mild expression of disdain crossing her face. “Of course you are, honey.”

Queen shook her head. “No, really. I am.”

Max launched into her pitch about the show. I decided to keep to myself my name for it lest I incur the wrath of Max again and find myself stuck in a fetid-smelling van. Ginny looked at me. “They’re kidding, right?”

“I wish they were,” I said.

Ginny looked back at Queen. “How much do you charge?”

Queen seemed never to have considered this question and didn’t want to get the answer wrong. “One thousand dollars a day plus expenses.”

Ginny sighed. “I can’t afford you.”

“Okay, fifty dollars a day. No expenses.”

Max clapped her hands together as if she had just brokered a deal between Israel and Palestine. “It’s settled!”

I clanged my mug down on the counter to get their attention, coffee sloshing out onto the floor, my jeans, and Ginny, who was standing closest to me. “No it’s not. Queen, thank you for your generous offer of support, but Ginny needs to figure this out on her own. And Max, we still have some unfinished business, so if you’d both excuse us for a second …” I waved a hand toward the back door and motioned to Ginny that it was time to go.

“Help me,” Ginny said one last time, her hand on the doorknob. “My husband is a good man. He just let his temper get the best of him. He’s not a killer, either on purpose or accidentally. He’ll never make it in jail,” she added.

I felt for her but I really didn’t know what I could do and told her so. “Go before the rain starts again,” I said gently.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” she said. “More than anyone should ever make. And I have no excuses. I would just like to make some of this up to George. He’s a good man,” she repeated, and I was inclined to believe her. And then she played her hand completely. “You know, I knew your mother.”

My heart leaped into my mouth.

“She was a patient on my floor, wasn’t she?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Was she?” I said. This was a conversation I certainly didn’t want to have.

“I thought your name sounded familiar. And then I remembered. A beautiful lady, inside and out.” She looked up at the sky, as I did many a night, thinking that I could feel her presence from above. “We took good care of her, Alison. I’m sorry there wasn’t a better outcome.” When I didn’t respond, she stepped out into the backyard, just outside of the door. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said before pulling the door closed behind her.

Max waited until she saw Ginny pass by the kitchen window before offering her interpretation of events. She wisely skipped over the last part of the story because even Max, the least self-aware and perceptive person I have ever met, could tell that one push and the whole house of cards that were my emotions would come tumbling down. “Well, he might be a ‘good man’ but that dude is going to jail. Then, Mrs. Miller can carry on all she wants with whomever she wants.”