Read Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery) for Free Online Page B

the sewer grate at the side of her house. Besides getting joy from posting extremely unflattering photos of the rather hefty Mrs. Miller, what purpose did dragging her into this serve? I had already decided that Carter Wilmott was a jaded, cynical, angry man with too much time on his hands. But last time I checked, besides being not good for the environment, you could still throw beer cans into the garbage and put anything you wanted down the sewer with the only punishment being a stern talking-to from the head of the DPW or a passing cop. And if you’re married to the guy who runs the garbage removal in town, you can basically do whatever you want.
    But now at least I had an idea of what had precipitated the fight that morning. I think if Wilmott had posted shots of me lugging out the garbage in spandex leggings and a too tight Syracuse University T-shirt, like he had of Mrs. Miller, I would have beaten the crap out of him myself.
    Before turning in for the night, I found something on the blog that piqued my interest: Lydia Wilmott’s advice column. Having met Lydia earlier and watched her identify the remains of her husband calmly and coolly, I was drawn to her column to see what might be in there that would give me insight into a woman who was extremely composed in the face of death. I read a couple of the “Ask Lydia” columns that appeared under the masthead. Lydia, it turned out, answered questions from the community on everything from getting your grout clean, to Botox, to setting up a book club, to marriage. It was the marriage postings that were of most interest to me, because from the sound of it, Lydia and Carter’s marriage was like Jean and Billy Graham’s crossed with Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. Solid, holy, steamy, and full of great sex. Lucky Lydia. A sampling to a poster with doubts about his or her upcoming nuptials: “The first time Carter kissed me, it was like the ground moved. My loins trembled. And that, ColdFeet, is what it should be like. No doubts. If you don’t feel overwhelming love for this person you’ll be marrying—if you wouldn’t DIE for this person—or them for you—don’t get married.” I groaned. That was way too much information. Especially for a town blog that focused on the irregular holiday schedule of the garbage department and the not-green ways of the DPW head’s wife.
    I, for one, had no idea where my loins were and if they trembled. I would have to ask Crawford. I bet he knew. He knows stuff like that.
    But I had to admit that it wasn’t bad advice, except for the dying part. Lydia was extremely descriptive about her love, but she was right about her counsel to ColdFeet. Where had Lydia Wilmott been when I was in the process of marrying Ray Stark, the man with the golden penis? Had I had the luxury of posting anonymously to a blog lo all those years ago and gotten Lydia’s sage advice, I might have avoided nine years of heartache and humiliation.
    One more thing crossed my mind, and although I was starting to feel the effects of the NyQuil, or was slowly dying from a NyQuil overdose, I searched for “bomb-making.” After getting hits for about three million pages on how to make a bomb—and I’m exaggerating only slightly—I concluded that one wouldn’t necessarily have to be a munitions expert to create a car bomb that one could attach to a car engine. It wouldn’t hurt, though. I’m the kind of person who gives up on preparing a dish if I don’t recognize an ingredient listed early in the recipe; same would be true for making a bomb. While it looked like most of the things you would need to create said bomb would be found in the hardware store, some wouldn’t. And that’s where I’d be out of the bomb-making business.
    I had read enough. I was just about to turn off the computer when the phone rang. And when the phone rings at two o’clock in the morning, it can only be one person.
    The music was loud and thumping and I had to strain to hear Max,