Murder 101 Read Free Page B

sentence.
    Despite my best efforts, a sob slipped out, sounding like a hiccup. “If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be suspended by now,” I said, and continued stuffing papers into my briefcase frantically. Tears ran down my face and dropped onto my desk.
    “We all know that Etheridge is a bas . . . nasty, nasty man,” she said, her face flushing at the thought of using the word “bastard.” “I know you had nothing to do with this. So does everyone else. Etheridge just likes to make decisions that he thinks will make him look strong to the outside world.”
    I stopped pushing papers into my bag and looked at her, my face tear-stained and wet. “What did you have to promise him?”
    She looked back at me.
    “To keep me around? What did you have to promise him?”
    She ignored the question. “Let’s just make sure we cooperate fully with the investigation and tell the detectives anything that we think is germane to the case.” She stood. “Why don’t you go home for the day? There won’t be any classes until Wednesday, the earliest.”
    I nodded. “Are you sure you won’t need me?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “As long as Father McManus is here, and the grief center is open, I don’t see any reason why you should have to stay on campus until classes start again.” She reached out and took my hand. “Go home,” she whispered, and gave my fingers a little squeeze.
    I gave her a resigned shrug. “Sister, please know that . . .”
    “I know, Alison. This is just a terribly tragic situation. There’s nobody to blame,” she said, and put her hand on the knob of the door. “Yet.”
    I waited until she left to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. I took out the small mirror that I kept in my top drawer and looked at my face. Terribly tragic indeed. I used a tissue to wipe away the black under my eyes and the smeared lipstick around my mouth. I took my sweater from the back of my chair, slipped it on, and grabbed my briefcase, making a hasty exit from my office and the building.
    I made my way off campus and onto the avenue, walking unsteadily on my too-high heels and twisted ankle. It was after two o’clock, but after what I had been through in my short time at school, I felt like it was time for bed. I passed the doorway for the Avenue Steak House and got a whiff of that old, familiar bar smell: a mixture of smoke, peanuts, and fried food. I stood for a moment, deciding what to do. After a few minutes, I turned around and went in.
    I didn’t think the instruction “drink martini” was on the form entitled “What to do if you sustain a concussion” which I was given when I left the hospital, but I didn’t have any aspirin in my briefcase. A martini seemed to be the next best thing. I’m not usually a middle-of-the-day drinker, but the extra-strength Midol in my purse just wasn’t going to cut it, in terms of stress relief. I went up to the horseshoe-shaped bar, which was empty of customers, and took a seat on one of the mahogany barstools. A television hung over the bar and was tuned to one of the cable news networks.
    The bartender, a young guy with red hair and a pudgy face, put a cocktail napkin down in front of me and gave me a smile. I had been in here a few times, and, while I couldn’t be considered a regular, he obviously remembered me. “What can I get you?” He closed his eyes for a minute and put one hand to his forehead. “Wait,” he said, holding up his other hand. “Ketel One martini, extra dry, three olives.”
    I whistled. “You’re good. I don’t think I’ve been in here since before Christmas.”
    “I always remember the pretty ones,” he schmoozed, leaning on the bar and giving me a winning smile.
    I sat up a little straighter in my stool. I had about ten years on him, but after what I had been through in the past few days, I thought a little flirting might help take the edge off.
    “And you look like my older sister.” He turned and took a martini glass off