Murder 101 Read Online Free PDF Page B

station.”
    “If you ever need a ride, just call me on my cell, and I’ll pick you up,” he said. Even I had to admit it was a nice offer. “You know I’m still here for you.”
    I had no idea what he was talking about. He was never there for me during our marriage, but now that we were apart, we were best friends? The man lived in an alternate universe where his logic actually made sense, but only to him.
    When I didn’t respond, he shrugged, resigned. He started for the stairs on the right side of the chapel. “Do you need a ride today?”
    “No, I don’t. But thanks for thinking of me,” I managed to say, and started down the stairs on the left side, picking up my pace as I descended each creaky riser. Because as hard as I had tried to hold on to him for all those years, now I couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Four
    I returned to my office and stopped by Dottie’s desk to look in my mailbox, which was in a row of boxes behind her. I saw that I had two phone messages from Max—one dated three days before—a late paper from a student with a Post-it note of apology on the front, and a business card from a publisher’s rep who wanted to sell me a new literature anthology for my intro class. Dottie swung around in her desk chair and looked at me pointedly, one of her tattooed-on eyebrows raised questioningly. I figured she wanted details of the funeral, which I would refuse to give. But she persisted in looking at me until I met her eye. She threw her head to the left as if she were having some kind of seizure. “Are you all right?” I asked. Normally, I like just about everyone I meet; Dottie is the one person with whom I have no patience. She’s nosy, lazy, and a crappy secretary. She tried to bond with me over my divorce, but I didn’t think Dottie could provide any solace during one of the worst stretches in my life. Right now, we had an uneasy alliance; she worked for everyone on the floor, including me. I had to be, at the very least, polite.
    I followed her gaze and thrusting head. Detectives Wyatt and Crawford were standing outside my office. Wyatt was looking at the Modern Language bulletin board, seemingly mulling over a junior year abroad in La Rochelle; Crawford spotted me and gave me the same wan smile that he had greeted me with in the chapel. So I had been spotted. I could try to run away, but slingbacks wouldn’t provide any traction. Running away could also get me arrested. I strode over to the door of my office and greeted them with a grimly resigned, “Come on in.”
    I put the key in the lock of my office door and opened it. Both refused to enter until I went in. I walked around to my desk and motioned to the two chairs. “Have a seat.”
    Wyatt had on a starched white oxford shirt that had at least an eighteen-inch neck. His jacket was a black-and-white-herringbone, and his pants a black lightweight flannel. I still couldn’t tell what nationality he was—slightly Asian, slightly African-American, kind of white . . . it was hard to tell. He was a bit of a dandy for a large, imposing behemoth of a man, but he obviously made an effort with his appearance. Crawford, with his chiseled Irish-American face, looked like every guy whom I had gone to college with, had had a crush on, and been too intimidated to talk to. He was in khakis, a white oxford, and a blue blazer. Wyatt’s look said “I have a wife, and she shops at Brooks Brothers,” while Crawford’s screamed “I’m single and I get the Lands’ End catalog.”
    Wyatt jumped right in with the questions. “Did you talk with Mrs. Miceli today?”
    “Why, hello, Detective. So nice to see you,” I said, trying to affect a nonchalant sarcasm that I was incapable of pulling off. When he continued to stare back at me, eyes narrowed and beady, I decided to answer his question. “Gianna? No.” I neatened a stack of papers on my desk. “I didn’t think today was the day to do that. I sent a Mass card to their