Free Murder 101 by Maggie Barbieri

platonic sense.”
    He looked disappointed again.
    He motioned to the chair across from him at the kitchen table like he, not I, lived there. I pulled the chair out and sat down. He spread his hands out on the table and let out a choked sob. “I’m sorry, Alison.” He pulled a big square of cotton out of his pocket and blew his nose noisily. “This has been very hard for us.”
    “I can imagine,” I said.
    Tears poured from his eyes, and he shuddered. “I’m going to find who did this,” he said, his teeth clenched.
    I had no doubt that that was the case. Then it occurred to me that perhaps he thought I was the one “who did this.” I felt all the blood in my veins drain and my skin go icy.
    He saw my reaction and quickly amended. “I don’t think you had anything to do with this, Alison. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. Kathy always told us how nice you were to her. I’ll always remember that.” He sniffled loudly. He pointed a short, stubby finger at me. “I owe you,” he said, dramatically.
    I really wasn’t in the market for possible Mob favors, but if Ray continued to act like an asshole and didn’t get his crap out of my guest room, knowing that I could make him disappear was mildly comforting.
    “How’s Gianna?” I asked.
    He shook his head sadly. “Not good. She’ll feel better when we find out who did this.”
    I repeated my question. “Peter, what do you want?”
    He cried some more. He finally shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He stood. “I guess I just wanted to see if you knew anything.”
    “I don’t know a thing, Peter.” I stood, too. “Leave it to the police, Peter. They’ll handle this.”
    He leaned on the table and let out another heart-wrenching sob. I felt a tremendous amount of pity for him, despite the suspicions I had about him. He was still a father, and he loved his daughter. “She was a good girl . . .”he said, trailing off.
    Peter stood suddenly and grabbed me in a bear hug—he was a few inches shorter than me, but barrel-chested and powerfully built—and squeezed me. The air was pushed out of my lungs as I was pressed against his prodigious belly. After a hug that went on longer than it should have, he finally let go and kissed me on the forehead. He grabbed my face in his fat hands and looked into my eyes. I stared back at him until he broke my gaze and walked out of the kitchen and into my backyard. A few seconds later, I heard the Mercedes start and pull away from the front of my house.
    I resisted the urge to vomit and instead went for the always popular dead faint.

Seven
    You would think that if I were going to have a somewhat erotic, somewhat sexy dream, I would be wearing something better than black Dansko clogs and a raincoat. In my dream, in my clogs, black pants, white shirt, and Lands’ End raincoat I looked like a cross between a Swedish chef and a Westchester soccer mom. It had been so long since I had had sex, I couldn’t even have a sexy dream without wearing sensible shoes.
    In my dream, it was a few days after the funeral and the day that I had talked with the detectives. I left school and began the half-mile trek to the train station at around dusk. With their rubber soles, my clogs didn’t make noise on the wet street. I realized that I was clad all in black—not a good idea for walking along a dark street on a rainy night. I shifted my leather briefcase from one shoulder to the other, cursing myself for deciding to read all of my students’ Shakespeare research papers that night. The bag weighed heavily on my shoulder so I pulled the strap diagonally across my chest, hoping to redistribute the weight.
    I heard a car driving slowly behind me, the lights shining on my back. The car pulled up alongside me, and I stopped in my tracks. The passenger-side door opened and two muscular arms pulled me into the front seat. I noticed the glint of a badge as the driver planted a deep, slow kiss on my mouth . . .
    The train’s brakes squealed a