Third Degree

by Maggie Barbieri

  I went with option B.

  Twenty-One

  I typed “WIMP” into my search engine and waited for the list to load.

  I hadn’t had the time, or the inclination, to read up on my captors prior to this moment, so in shock was I that I had been kidnapped and stuffed in a basement with a wine cellar to rival the best that many New York City restaurants had to offer. But now, back from school—AWOL, so to speak—and still steaming about Father Dwyer and his program of liturgical female alienation at St. Thomas, I decided to turn my attention to finding out just what Lydia Wilmott, creepy Elaine, and no-balls Clark had up their sleeves. And why.

  I was sitting outside under the shade of my patio umbrella, my computer on my lap. I thought WIMP was so subversive that it didn’t even occur to me to type in www.wimp.org but that was their Web site address, believe it or not. That was easy, I thought. The WIMP site’s serene and lavender-screened home page belied the group’s ugly tactics. Music began playing as a beautiful hyacinth filled the page, lulling me into a dream state for a second. There were several headers that you could click on, including one that said “Who We Are,” which I scrolled over to. Who are you? is exactly what I wanted to know. But the page was disappointingly devoid of any concrete information.

  Who we are is a group of concerned citizens, some of us victims of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse ourselves. Others of us are reformed abusers …

  … and now I knew who Clark was and which category he fell into …

  … who have chosen to live our lives on a path of repentance to atone for the things we’ve done. Still others are just concerned bystanders, hoping that nobody abuses anyone. EVER. AGAIN.

  … Pick yourself up. Get up again. Let WIMP help.

  Nowhere on the site was there mention of Lydia, Elaine, or Clark, not that I really expected they would publish their names. It was all very generic and very soothing and very reassuring. Nowhere did it mention that if they even suspected you were a victim, they would bind your hands and feet, put duct tape over your mouth and a hood over your head. It all seemed very … voluntary. “If you wanted help …” and “If you had had enough …” They didn’t list a location at which to seek help, which didn’t surprise me. What were they going to write? “To donate, visit Lydia’s basement”?

  In order to get help, interested parties could send an e-mail to the site and would receive contact from a WIMP volunteer. I wondered if that meant the same treatment I had received.

  I closed the computer. The whole thing was extremely shady and I wondered how many women actually availed themselves of WIMP’s services, which included boarding at a local safe house (once again, Lydia’s basement?), counseling services, and loans to relocate and “start anew.” I put my computer under my arm and started off for Jane’s house, deciding that I needed more information.

  Jane and her partner, Kathy, were both home, enjoying a glass of wine by the pool in their backyard. Jane offered me a chair and a glass of wine. I accepted both gladly.

  “I’m glad you came over,” Jane said in her usual gracious way.

  “Thanks for letting me drop in,” I said, clinking glasses with both of them before taking a drink.

  “We decided not to do anything this weekend,” Kathy said. According to Jane, Kathy was a master of home improvement and spent every weekend doing some kind of major renovation. “God knows, we need it. I taught summer school this year. Ugh.” Kathy taught physics at a high school in a neighboring town.

  “Amen,” I said. Jane asked me again why I was home so early. I gave her the Reader’s Digest version.

  Kathy shook her head. “And that is why I haven’t been to church in years.”

  Jane laughed. “No, the reason you haven’t been to church in years is that you don’t get up before noon on Sundays.”

  Kathy shrugged. “Touché.”

  Jane pushed a plate of cheese and crackers my way. “I’m glad you came to visit.” She looked at my laptop, sitting on the glass-topped table. “But why did you bring your computer?”

  I cut to the chase. “What do you know about WIMP?”

  Both Jane and Kathy did double takes. “WIMP?” they both said simultaneously. Neither of them seemed to have any idea about the organization, or they were extremely good liars.

  So it was more underground than I thought. If Jane, a good friend of Lydia’s, didn’t know about the organization, Lydia must have kept it very hush-hush. I opened my laptop and went back to the WIMP page. Jane’s blue eyes scanned the screen, reading some of the same things I had read just minutes before, her eyes growing wide as I recounted my tale from the night before. “What is this?”

  “This is one of the ‘volunteer activities’ that Lydia Wilmott is involved in,” I said, using finger quotes.

  Kathy sat back in her chair and looked at Jane. “I told you she was a whack job.”

  Jane shot Kathy a look. “I’ve known her a long time. Her intentions are good.”

  “So that’s why she goes around kidnapping women in distress?” Kathy said. “Give me a break.”

  Jane closed the computer. “Lydia had a very sad upbringing. She has a lot of issues that she’s still working out.”

  “Doesn’t give her the right to kidnap Alison,” Kathy said, her mouth full of cheese and cracker. I didn’t know Kathy well and my first impression had been tainted by the embarrassing discovery that Jane was gay and I didn’t know it. Kathy was taller than I was, and slightly imperious, amber-colored eyes peering out from behind tortoiseshell glasses. She signaled that she was not to be messed with by the way she carried herself. She was no-nonsense and sharp as a tack; at least I was sure about that. “And who doesn’t have issues?” Kathy added.

  I waited for Jane to continue, helping myself to some camembert and Triscuits, a combo that went delightfully with the wine they had served. I really needed to get out more. Apparently there was a whole big wide world out there that went beyond St. Thomas University and martinis. Too bad that being kidnapped was one of the reasons I was finding this out.

  Jane seemed conflicted. “I don’t know. I think she means well. And she’s a good friend.”

  Kathy coughed into her hand. “Fruitcake.” Obviously, this was a conversation that they had had more than once.

  “But back to WIMP,” I said. “Did Lydia ever mention it at all?”

  Jane gazed out at the pool. “A little. But I didn’t know it was called that and I didn’t know how they went about doing the work they did. I got the impression that what they did was very good ultimately. And Lydia funded everything with her own money. She was very passionate about helping the women. I’m not sure why.” Jane looked at Kathy. “But this does make sense. She always said that Carter didn’t appreciate how much time she spent volunteering. I just assumed that meant working on the silent auction for our church and the other things she did to help women. I didn’t realize that she was so deeply involved. I just figured she was overextended like the rest of us.”

  I mulled this over and decided that all of this information begged the question. “Did Carter abuse Lydia, Jane?”

  Jane shot a look at Kathy before answering. “I don’t think so.”

  “Not physically, anyway,” Kathy added. “You knew him, right?” she asked me.

  I shook my head. Even if you watch someone die, I don’t think that qualifies as “knowing” them. Call me crazy.

  “Well, he was an asshole, plain and simple. But she loved him. Did you ever read some of those ‘Ask Lydia’ posts that she wrote?” she asked. When I said that I had, she continued. “So you know what I mean. You could see how she adored the guy even though he didn’t give her the time of day. And then, the cheating …”

  I thought back to Jane’s revelation that Carter had had an affair with Ginny Miller, something I was still trying to wrap my brain around before going into complete “system failure.” Lots going on and not a lot of ways to process it. “More than Ginny Miller?”

  �
��Way more,” Kathy said, to the dismay of Jane, who reached out and put a hand on her leg to silence her. Kathy, on a roll, suddenly shut down. I think she realized that she had gone too far. She held her hands up in surrender. “I’m done.” She pushed her chair back and said good-bye to me before going into the house.

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” I said. “I didn’t mean to start an argument between you and Kathy.”

  Jane brushed it off. “It’s nothing that we haven’t discussed in the past. Kathy doesn’t like Lydia. She thinks the whole Wilmott scene is dysfunctional, and I can’t say I blame her. And she loves Tony’s so anyone who disparages him or his food is a creep, in her book.” She laughed softly and I got the impression she was only half joking.

  “I kind of feel the same way,” I said. I stood, picking up my computer. “Thanks for the wine and the information.” I stopped midway between the edge of the pool and the gate to the driveway. I turned back around, something occurring to me. “He didn’t…?” I started, but Jane had already gone into the house.

  I started down the driveway. The Wilmotts were certainly a complicated bunch. But just what was it about them that made Kathy see red at the mention of their names?

  Twenty-Two

  George Miller was out on bail.

  At least that was the information I got from the latest story in the local paper. So I assumed Ginny was in a better place, mentally, or so I hoped, and that would make her leave me alone. Although things had been quiet on that front ever since the Stop & Shop incident, I never knew when the two of us might run into each other again and have an unpleasant encounter.

  I was back at the house and in bed with Trixie, she and I having reached détente. She was lying at the bottom of my bed, nuzzling my feet with her wet snout while I spent some more time reading Carter Wilmott’s blog, something I hadn’t done since the night he had died. The home page looked exactly as it had when I first logged on; nothing had changed. I wondered if someone would take over the site or if it would eventually be taken down. Since Carter was no longer at the helm, it was hard to say what would happen. I scrolled through and looked for any mention of WIMP but there was none.

  Carter included pictures of himself, particularly if he was reviewing a restaurant. In his restaurant review posts, he was always shown in front of the establishment, holding up a notebook and a pen as if to indicate that he was going to be reviewing the place. I wondered who took the picture and if it was Lydia. I also wondered what kind of service he got at these places, most of them knowing in advance that he would review them unfavorably, because, after all, that’s what he did every time. It didn’t take a genius to know that when Carter Wilmott was eating at your restaurant, you were going down.

  I went back to his very first review and it happened to be the same local waterfront restaurant where Crawford and I had dined a few nights before. When Carter had reviewed it, it had been a popular chain restaurant that specialized in seafood and spectacular views. Carter had given the place one star, and only because they prepared an “excellent dry martini.” My kind of restaurant. In the picture that ran beside the post was a robust and hale-looking Carter, not the winded, pale, and thin man that I had encountered. I remembered having the same reaction when I had looked at the blog the night after he had died. I clicked through the various restaurant review posts, starting with the oldest and going all the way to the newest. Indeed, the man had lost a ton of weight. And it didn’t suit him. He looked far healthier in the earlier posts, despite the small roll of fat resting on top of the waistband of his belted jeans. A few extra pounds actually looked pretty good on him; his face was far too pale and droopy in later photos.

  I wondered which version of Carter Ginny Miller had gotten: slightly chubby but kind of cute Carter or thin and bedraggled Carter? Because even as he dropped the weight and seemingly would have more options in the clothing department, he continued to wear his old clothes, cinching his pants at the waist until the last posted photo—dated two weeks earlier—had them buckling in the back (there was one side shot where this was noticeable) and bunched up in the front. Not a great look on anyone, particularly a middle-aged man.

  I read through a couple of the reviews and decided that Carter Wilmott would have been well advised to invest in a thesaurus. Because there were just so many ways to say “disgusting,” “awful,” and “dirty” without running out of words. Which he had.

  I revisited the few slings and arrows he had aimed at Greg and Beans, Beans, a place he confessed he frequented daily. He implored Greg to get better coffee beans and to not burn his brew. Carter struck me as a guy who loved to pick a fight, even if it wasn’t a fight worth picking. I scrolled down and read the comments that accompanied the post. Coffee Lover, in particular, was quite visceral in his or her reaction to Carter’s ramblings. I settled on the most interesting and threatening of the commenter’s responses to the post:

  Coffee Lover: You’re a moron, Wilmott. If it wasn’t for Greg and his willingness to try a new business in this one-horse town, Main Street would be desolate.

  Not true. Main Street was a thriving strip of commerce with boutiques and cafés dotting both sides of the street.

  Coffee Lover: You’d better shut up. If you know what’s good for you. And you don’t.

  Okay, not the best grammar, but the intent was clear: Coffee Lover wanted Carter to shut up and shut up quick. This guy had more enemies than I could count, but from the number of listings on the blog, he kept right on posting and right on pissing everyone off. What kind of personality disorder did Carter Wilmott actually have?

  I read through some of Lydia’s posts, as well, and while none overtly pointed to anonymous posters’ problems with violent partners, Lydia did seem to go there more often than not. I wondered how the poor woman who had written asking how to get her husband to stop leaving his dirty underwear on the floor had reacted to Lydia’s suggestion to “stop taking his abuse and leave immediately.” That was a little over the top, if you ask me. My initial reaction would have been to torch all of his underwear in full view of the neighbors, but that’s just me.

  I puzzled over the little details that I had gleaned from the blog as I shut my computer and put it on my nightstand. I looked down at Trixie, whose eyes were peering out from under golden eyebrows. “Cocktails?” I asked, and she jumped off the bed and raced downstairs. I heard her hit the hardwood floor of the hallway and skid all the way into the kitchen. She knows that when I say “cocktails,” what I really mean is a walk followed by a martini. Everybody wins.

  We set out for our journey, a gorgeous end of day in which much had transpired. I didn’t know how I was going to navigate the new liturgical rule that was being instituted at St. Thomas; I was a heathen at best, a heretic at worst. That was going to make things difficult, particularly if Father Dwyer and his flying monkeys made all of the faculty attend every holy day of obligation mass or become daily communicants or—gasp—become Eucharistic ministers. If that was the case, Etheridge better get some more insurance, because me in charge of the Holy Eucharist? That for sure meant that the building would cleave in two from the force of the bolt of lightning that would surely strike.

  Trixie and I wandered up and down my street until a black cloud that had been hanging low overhead decided to burst open and drench us with big, fat raindrops that soaked us within seconds. Trixie didn’t need any encouragement; she dragged me down the street, my arm straight out in front of me, the leash between us. We were home in less than a minute, but drenched nonetheless. I went in through the back door, which I hadn’t bothered locking, flustered and anxious to get inside. Trixie and I did a simultaneous shake-off not noticing that we had company.

  Max came out of the attached powder room and screamed, not expecting to see us. A young black woman at the kitchen table used her hands to shield herself from the droplets of water flying off my wet dog and me. Trixie yelped at the sight of Max and scurried off to hide under the dining room table, her “safe place.�
� And I nearly collapsed from the sheer terror that accompanies seeing someone in your house when you’re sure it’s unoccupied. I had been so focused on getting home—not to mention nearly blinded by the wall of water that had fallen on me—that I hadn’t even noticed Max’s car outside.

  Max, of course, found my screaming to be a serious affront to her delicate auditory function. “Shut up!”

  I sat at the table and put my hand over my heart. “Good God, Max. Have you ever heard of calling first?” I looked over at the young lady across from me and held out my hand. I recognized her as the woman who had taken down the seemingly staid businessman in front of the apartment building a few nights earlier. “Alison Bergeron. This is my house.”

  “Queen Martinez.” She looked at Max. “Friend of Max, I guess?”

  “She’s a Hooters waitress,” Max said, as if that explained everything.

  “The Hooters tank top was a dead giveaway,” I said, taking in Queen’s interesting ensemble: the aforementioned Hooters tank top; a long-sleeved sweatshirt with a hood; Daisy Duke shorts that rode up so high in the sitting position that I could only imagine what they looked like when she stood up; and red platform shoes with a cork bottom. “You waitress in those?” I asked, pointing at the shoes. I didn’t remember her wearing them the night of the confrontation with the cheating husband but there had been so much more to focus on that I hadn’t really noticed her shoes.

  “They’re surprisingly comfortable,” she said, bending one ankle to admire the shoe’s construction.

  “Max, a word please?” I asked, dragging Max by the collar into the hallway. Once we were out of earshot, and I observed Queen playing with the dog, I tore into Max. “What is going on?”

  She pulled her collar back and adjusted it. “Sheesh. You didn’t have to get so rough.”