Third Degree by Maggie Barbieri Page B

loss for words. Surely Fred could have found a better way to gain entrance to the house.
    Max and Fred stared at me; it’s the rare occasion that I call them out on their venial sins, but today was one of those times. My meeting with Lydia Wilmott, while seemingly uneventful, had left me rattled. I was mad at myself for having insinuated myself in her life under the pretense of compassion. It was just plain wrong. And I was going to make myself, and everyone around me, pay.
    Even the sight of Crawford coming through the front door earlier than I had expected him did nothing to dampen my feelings of shame and self-loathing. He sauntered down the hallway toward the kitchen, took in the faces on the three of us, and whistled through his teeth. “What am I walking into here?”
    “What do you want for lunch?” I asked. “These two have gone dumb,” I added, hooking a thumb in Max and Fred’s direction.
    Crawford leaned down and let Trixie nuzzle his neck. “Turkey. Ham. Tuna. Whatever.”
    “That’s not helpful,” I said. “And what are you doing here so early?”
    He gave me a steely look; Crawford does not enjoy crankiness, particularly mine. He turned and walked back down the hall toward the front door. “Let’s start over.” He let himself out, and then back in, calling, “Honey! I’m home!”
    I couldn’t help but smile. When he came back into the kitchen, I put my arms around him and buried my head in his chest. “They broke my screen.” I didn’t have to mention that I had seen a man die and subsequently, his dead body, and that was the reason for my sullenness; telling Crawford that would be a little ridiculous. He had probably seen a dozen dead bodies in as many days in the past month.
    He looked over my head and saw the damage. “Have I taught you nothing?” he asked Fred. “You’ve got better skills than that.”
    “I was hungry,” Fred said. Oh, that explains it.
    I asked Crawford to come with me to the grocery store. Before we left, I asked Max to walk the dog. When I saw that she was going to object, citing her hatred of anything on four legs, I shot her a look and pointed at her. “Not a word. The leash is hanging right there,” I said, pointing to the hook that Crawford had installed by the back door.
    We went outside and I heard someone call my name. Across the street, my neighbor and friend, Jane Farnsworth, was jogging across her lawn and making her way toward mine. “Alison!” she called, waving as she ran. She joined us on the driveway and caught her breath. “Did you hear what happened?” she asked and then, taking in my appearance, revised her question. “What happened to you?”
    “Long story,” I said.
    She stared at the black eye for a few seconds and that reminded me of just how bad I looked. I needed a big pair of sunglasses. “Did you hear about Carter Wilmott?” she asked, starting to cry.
    “I did,” I said. “Did you know him?”
    She nodded. “Lydia is a friend of mine,” she said. “We met in playgroup when Brendan and her son, Tyler, were two.”
    Small town, I thought. Everyone knows everyone. Except for me. I don’t know anyone except for Jane, her two sons, and her partner, Kathy. I had never laid eyes on Carter or Lydia before the past two days. “I just saw Lydia,” I said, and could sense Crawford’s surprise; I knew there would be questions to answer on that front. “I was there when he died.”
    Jane grabbed her chest and gasped. “You were?”
    “I was. He died quickly,” I assured her, this becoming my mantra. I suspected it wouldn’t be the last time I recited that fact about Carter’s death.
    “Lydia is devastated.” She wiped her hands across her eyes. “She hasn’t made arrangements yet. There’s going to be an autopsy. He was as healthy as a horse.” Clearly, Jane didn’t know the exact details of what had happened, the blow to the head, or the fact that Carter was in distress before that happened. She also didn’t