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Physical Education (Murder 101 Series #6)

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Overview

College English professor and sometime amateur sleuth Alison Bergeron would’ve been thrilled to hear that her husband, NYPD Detective Bobby Crawford, was leaving Homicide if that were the whole story, but it turns out that Bobby’s next assignment is even worse—-undercover. As if worrying about his involvement in a case he won’t talk about at all wasn’t bad enough, Alison is forced to take over the women’s basketball team at St. Thomas after the coach dies of a heart attack during a game. She may not know much ...

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Physical Education (Murder 101 Series #6)

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Overview

College English professor and sometime amateur sleuth Alison Bergeron would’ve been thrilled to hear that her husband, NYPD Detective Bobby Crawford, was leaving Homicide if that were the whole story, but it turns out that Bobby’s next assignment is even worse—-undercover. As if worrying about his involvement in a case he won’t talk about at all wasn’t bad enough, Alison is forced to take over the women’s basketball team at St. Thomas after the coach dies of a heart attack during a game. She may not know much about basketball, but she’s no stranger to sleuthing, and it isn’t long before she suspects that the coach’s death may be more than unexpected but premeditated as well.

With Bobby deep undercover and Alison always on her way to deep trouble, it’s only a matter of time before they run smack into each other in Physical Education, the latest in Maggie Barbieri’s charming Murder 101 mystery series.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Barbieri adroitly mixes campus politics, mob wars, and religious scandals in her sixth mystery featuring English professor Alison Bergeron (after 2010’s Third Degree). When Paul, the new mail carrier at St. Thomas, the small Catholic university in New York City where Alison teaches, turns up dead in the trunk of Alison’s car, her new husband, Det. Robert Crawford, warns her off the case. Paul, it turns out, is really Vito Passella, a member of a local crime family. Meanwhile, Alison is deeply involved in temporarily coaching the school’s basketball team—a true test of her tact in dealing with incompetent players as well as their pushy parents. What little remains of her time is spent trying to exonerate her friend Fr. Kevin McManus, forced to take leave as school chaplain after anonymous accusations of impropriety. That Crawford becomes evasive and reclusive adds to her stress, but Alison remains irreverent, cynical, and totally engaging throughout. (Dec.)
From the Publisher
Praise for Maggie Barbieri’s Murder 101 Mysteries

“Barbieri's fizzy fifth mystery featuring English professor Alison Bergeron rates well more than a passing grade. . . . Some punchy plot twists catapult the action to a satisfying reveal.”

—-Publishers Weekly on Third Degree

“Cute and cozy . . . Barbieri, the daughter of an NYC cop, has a nice, light touch with a procedural.”

—-Daily News (New York) on Final Exam

“The secret to a good mystery series is an appealing character. . . . Maggie Barbieri came up with a winner in her first book, and her amateur sleuth, Alison Bergeron, is still provoking laughs. . . . What follows is a romp, a serious situation, and a study of what it’s like to be young and stupid.  Barbieri aces this exam.”

—-Richmond Times-Dispatch on Final Exam

“Mystery, romance, and humor blend seamlessly. . . . Reminiscent of the Plum series, this one is not to be missed.”

—-RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!) on Quick Study

“Bergeron’s romantic trials and fashion sense are comparable to Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski. . . . Extracurricular Activities will find a home with readers of chick lit and cozy mysteries alike.”

—-The Tampa Tribune on Extracurricular Activities

Library Journal
In her fifth outing, professor Alison Bergeron (Third Degree), suspecting the college's basketball coach didn't die naturally, can't resist investigating. Thankfully, her NYPD cop husband, Bobby, is never too far away.
Kirkus Reviews
English Professor Alison Bergeron (Third Degree, 2010, etc.) gets stuck with another crap assignment when St. Thomas' basketball coach buys it during a game. Already in her boss's crosshairs for embarrassing the university by repeatedly stumbling across dead bodies, Alison is St. Thomas' go-to gal for jobs nobody wants. In addition to teaching a bazillion sections of freshman composition, she's served time at a local soup kitchen (Quick Study, 2008) and as interim residence hall director (Final Exam, 2009). Now Sister Mary is seeing red just because Paul, the campus mailman, has been found dead in the trunk of Alison's car. So when Michael Kovacs, coach of the women's basketball team, dies of a heart attack during a particularly dismal game, who better to take the helm of the Blue Jays than five-foot-ten Alison, who played for St. Thomas as an undergrad? The silver lining is that coaching brings Alison closer to her stepdaughter Meaghan, the taller and gentler of her detective husband Crawford's twins. (A good thing, since petite, prickly Erin hates her dad's new wife.) The cloud is that the Blue Jays suck. Even with the help of best friend Max Rayfield's husband, former All-City star Fred Wyatt, Alison can't buy a win. Not even high scorer Kristy Bianco can propel her team to victory, especially after her father is beaten senseless in an apparent robbery. But Alison suspects that the attack on Lou Bianco wasn't a random act of violence, and worse, that it may have something to do with her friend Father Kevin McManus' banishment as St. Thomas' chaplain. Connecting the dots is made harder by the double distractions of her coaching duties and Crawford's strange new remoteness. But Alison doesn't leave the job half done—no matter how many extra jobs she picks up.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312593292
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 11/22/2011
  • Series: Murder 101 Series , #6
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 1,442,331
  • Product dimensions: 5.78 (w) x 8.54 (h) x 1.18 (d)

Meet the Author

Maggie Barbieri is a freelance editor as well as a mystery novelist. Her father was a member of the NYPD, and his stories provide much of the background for her novels. This is her sixth Murder 101 mystery. She lives in Westchester County, NY.

 

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Read an Excerpt

One

 

Every women’s magazine I had ever read, every married friend I had ever had, and every romantic comedy I had ever seen had led me to conclude that married sex was a big, giant snore.

Fortunately for me, I have a pretty boring job and unlimited access to the Internet.

Problem solved.

I knew from experience that things settle down after a few months—or in the case of my first marriage, a few days—so I thought I was prepared for anything. What I didn’t realize was marrying the right man helped, as did being in love with the man you had married, neither of which had been the case the first go-round. Oh, and did I mention that husband number one was an inveterate liar, cheat, and general all-around scoundrel?

As a result of all of this past unpleasantness, I was pleasantly surprised by my betrothal to one Robert Edward Crawford, also known as Detective Hot Pants—or so he was dubbed by my best friend, Max Rayfield, who knows from her hot pants. That guy, a retired altar boy, was true-blue, and I was lucky to have found him, even if the circumstances of our first meeting, during a murder investigation no less, weren’t exactly a “meet cute.”

Crawford and I have been married for a few months, and while I thought he might tire of my pillow talk and limited sexual repertoire, the opposite has been true. Guy can’t get enough of me. Maybe it’s because he spends most of his time around dead people and the people who lie about killing them, but he continues to find me endlessly fascinating, both in and out of our Sealy Posturepedic. This is a good thing because I am a terrible cook, and as Max always likes to say, “You’re either good in bed or good in the kitchen. I, myself, happen to make a fantastic chicken français.” In that regard, she’s really not doing herself justice because if there is one thing that woman is good at, it’s getting men to do what she wants. And that has nothing to do with breaded chicken cutlets fried in vegetable oil.

I think she might be selling herself short.

I am a professor at a small Catholic university located at the northernmost tip of New York City. I was in my office and in the midst of one of my many bouts of illicit daydreaming when I was interrupted by a knock at the door. Paul, the new mail guy on my floor, was a pleasant, middle-aged man who had lost his job, bad economy and all, and joined us the week before. That’s what I had gotten from the thriving St. Thomas rumor mill anyway. I enjoyed him much more as a delivery person than our previous mail guy, who had no inner censor when it came to his comments on my sartorial choices and who often left me shaking my head in disbelief. If he had been anywhere but at St. Thomas, he would have been fired. Here, though, he had gotten promoted and was overseeing many of the men and women who delivered mail around campus. That’s the way we roll around here at our Catholic university. Paul poked his head in and asked if he was disturbing me.

“Not at all, Paul,” I said, taking in his perfectly pressed blue slacks and white polo shirt with the Blue Jays logo on the left breast. It took a secure man to wear a shirt with an angry-looking Blue Jay on the front of it. He only delivered mail directly to my office if the mail slot by the floor receptionist’s desk was too small to hold the bulk, so I wasn’t surprised when he produced a large, flat envelope and a box of books that I had requested from a publisher. Along with my full-time teaching load, I had been charged by my boss, the venerable Sister Mary McLaughlin, with picking a new literature textbook, a task in which I was not remotely interested. I did find that the college textbooks reps were more than happy to take me to lunch every week to secure the three-hundred-copy adoption of the book, and that was a nice side effect. But analyzing how many Renaissance poets there were to, say, medieval ones was just not in my bailiwick. Deciding whether two or three olives made the perfect martini was more in my bailiwick. As to the other stuff, I just didn’t care.

Paul came in and handed me the flat, rigid envelope, which looked as if it contained contents that were not to be bent, as well as the box of books. I groaned. The box was heavy and contained another four or five books for review, I suspected. He put the box of books on the floor, and I flung the envelope onto the top of my filing cabinet. “Thanks, Paul. Did you have a good Christmas?”

He seemed surprised that someone had taken the time to ask. “Why, yes, I did. Thank you for asking.”

“Did you cook?” I asked, settling back in behind my desk.

“Yes, I did,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. “It’s just me and my mother, so not too much cooking to do.”

I don’t know if his intent was to make me feel sorry for him, but he did. The thought of him cooking for his presumably elderly mother and sharing the holiday meal with her alone made me a little sad. The thought crossed my mind that if he stayed on at St. Thomas, and by his amazing work ethic and the speed at which the mail got delivered, it seemed that he would, I would invite him and his mother to Easter dinner.

He hooked a thumb in the direction of the main office area. “I’d better go,” he said, and moved his cart along to the next doorway.

I figured Paul for single. No ring, probably lived with the aforementioned mother. This would be good news to one of my colleagues, a newly divorced, forty-year-old physics professor named Liz Jenkins, who sat in one of the other offices on the floor. To say that she was on the prowl was not doing the prowl, or those who prowled, justice. I was sure that she had already checked out Paul’s unadorned ring finger and was wondering what it would take to wrangle a date from the fit, swarthy, and not-that-bad-looking mail carrier. Okay, so he was a Meet the Fockers Robert De Niro and not a Raging Bull De Niro, but she was desperate and, I had found, not very discriminating. She had once dated one of the cafeteria workers for three months before she discovered that the man who visited him weekly to have lunch with him wasn’t his brother, as he claimed, but his parole officer. That didn’t stop her from having one more “breakup” date with him.

She was in my office before Paul had even vacated the floor. Her expertly highlighted blond tresses fell below her shoulders in a messy, yet assembled, kind of hairdo that would have looked like a rat’s nest on my head. “He’s cute,” she whispered, loud enough for me and everybody else on the floor to hear.

“I think he’s single,” I said, but not really paying attention. In my more than a decade of teaching at this school, I think I had uttered that sentence at least twenty times to Liz, even when it was clear that her intended paramours were playing for the other team. After her relationship with Parole Pete, as he was known around these parts, I figured that her dating a possible homosexual was a step up on the dating ladder.

“He’s kind of cute.” She swiveled around, something that couldn’t have been easy given the way her pants hugged her heart-shaped butt.

I’m not one to judge. My husband is the cream of the crop; everyone else pales by comparison.

She fluttered about in my office for a few more minutes, the color rising in her cheeks, the plan to ambush Paul, the mail carrier, growing in drama with every passing moment. Should she bring him coffee? Write him a note? Just ask him out directly? She talked herself into, and then out of, going out with him. Then she talked herself back into it again. She even went so far as to get mad at him for not calling her back after their first imaginary date. I took the opportunity to clear out my e-mail in-box, pack up my books and papers, and turn off my desk lamp. It was only when I exited my office that she got the hint and retreated to the safety of her lavender-scented office.

My phone rang right as I was locking up my office door, bleating out Crawford’s special ring: Hall and Oates’s “Private Eyes.” There aren’t too many songs written about cops, so this was as close as it was going to get. He hates it, and sometimes, just to annoy him, I’ll call my phone from his, just so the song will play and make him crazy. I’m special that way.

“Hey, Crawford.”

“Are you on your way home?” he asked.

I had to admit, I was a little tired. I wasn’t sure that a night of sexual gymnastics was on the docket and told him so.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’ll get the Chinese food,” he said. “But thanks for letting me know your plans for the next several hours. I was just thinking about dinner and wanted to save you a trip to Happy Garden.”

He sounded uncharacteristically sour; is that what twenty-four hours without sex will do to a guy? Me, I’m kind of like a camel that way; I’d been in the desert for so long before I met him that I could live without it for long periods. “I’m just leaving now so I’ll see you in twenty-three minutes, no traffic.” I hoped that his mood would improve in the time allotted for the trip.

In the time between my exiting the office and his phone call, several e-mails had filled my box, a few with those little red exclamation points in front of their subject lines. Two were from my boss, Sister Mary, who never met an exclamation point she didn’t like, and one was from a student who was submitting an essay to a literary magazine and wanted my feedback. By the next morning. I hastily texted Crawford to let him know that I would be later than I thought and opened the essay, which at first glance looked fine. Not what I would have written, but fine nonetheless. I corrected a few grammatical errors and sent it back to the student. I decided, foolishly, that Mary could wait. It was after five, the sun had just about set, and I had some Chinese food to eat. I left before anyone else could get their claws into me.

The beauty of the St. Thomas campus never gets old. Look due west for the most incredible views of the majestic Hudson River, at almost its widest point here at the northern edge of New York City. Winter was here, and even though the giant oaks on my college campus were bare, they were still spectacular. The air on campus was fraught with a charged energy that I chalked up to sexual frustration, or maybe it was just my imagination. You see, this is a Catholic university and the administration does its best to make sure that the students are focused on studying, Jesus, and athletics, in that order. No sex allowed. The administration’s focus on all things nonsexual had thus far proven to be spectacularly unsuccessful. These days, though, St. Thomas University was boasting of a pretty good women’s basketball team—Crawford’s daughter being an extremely talented center on the St. Thomas Blue Jays, who had yet to win a game despite being favorably ranked—and a good men’s swim team, so the athletics take up a bit of the coeds’ time.

When I was a student at the school, there were no men, and the women’s basketball team had been coached by a septuagenarian nun named Sister Peregrine, who decided that I was “too short” at five-ten to be a center, a position that I had played since third grade on my CYO basketball team, and cut me from the team after one year of playing time. Fortunately, that same year, the school saw a rise in recently emigrated women from the Eastern Bloc who filled out the team in terms of size and, fortunately, skills. That landed Sister Peregrine in the consolation match of the East Coast Catholic Schools’ Basketball Conference, or ECCSBC as it is affectionately known, and she became something of a legend at school until her untimely demise three years ago under the wheels of a New York express bus, an event that made her legendary in a completely different way.

Meaghan Crawford had had her heart set on Stanford University, but unfortunately, her dad’s New York City cop’s salary couldn’t handle the tuition and the frequent cross-country flights. That, coupled with the fact that Meaghan is a twin and her sister needed an education, too, had tilted the scales in St. Thomas’s favor when they offered Meaghan a full academic ride to the school. This decision had the added bonus of allowing her to play Division III basketball, because if there was one thing that Meaghan did well, besides school, it was play basketball. Her playing on the team was a slam dunk, so to speak. Although Crawford would have preferred I had access to his other daughter, the ill-behaved Erin, I had the opportunity to spend time with Meaghan, who rarely, if ever, did anything wrong.

I was looking forward to getting back into Blue Jay basketball. Under the tutelage of a rumored maniac named Coach Kovaks, the St. Thomas Blue Jays were expected to have an excellent season, even if they hadn’t done much at all to date.

I made my way to my car and looked forward to a quiet night at home with me, my husband, two orders of General Tso’s chicken with extra MSG, and my dog, of whom Crawford had become co-owner upon our marriage. Trixie Bergeron-Crawford, as she is known, is a one-hundred-pound golden retriever of dubious retrieving skills, but with such a never-ending store of unconditional love that we forgive her for her spotty memory and inability to bring back a stick thrown for her pleasure. She’s beautiful and loving and far more forgiving than I, but does have a taste for black suede, which has resulted in more than one missing pair of shoes or boots.

How did I get so lucky? I had no idea. I put the key in the ignition and started for home. A great husband, wonderful friends, a job I could do in my sleep; did it get any better than this? I didn’t think so, I thought smugly as I wended my way off campus, pulling past the guard booth at the entrance to the school and rolling down my window to bid the night guard a good shift.

The guard was a recently retired police officer named John Dugan, who had put in his twenty and then gotten the hell out of Dodge. According to Crawford, who had worked with him, Dugan had ridden the desk at the Fiftieth for many years and hadn’t seen a lot of action, so he was perfect for a stint as a St. Thomas security guard. Crawford was never sure as to why he wanted off the force so bad; the gig he had afforded a steady shift, full benefits, and not a lot of danger. I wondered why myself, but because I’m married to a homicide junkie, or so it seemed, I didn’t think I’d ever find out.

“Have a good night, John,” I said.

“You, too.” As I started to pull away, he put his hand on the window frame. “Hold up. Your trunk isn’t latched.”

“It isn’t?” I looked in the rearview. From that vantage point, it appeared closed. I wondered why the car hadn’t alerted me to this issue; it practically lets me know when I have to change the lint filter in my dryer, but this? Nary a beep nor a warning.

He trotted around to the back of the car. “Nope!” he called.

“Huh.” I put the car in park. Dugan attempted to close it, pushing down with the palms of both hands. I watched as the trunk flew up, obscuring his face.

I got out to inspect. “Never had a problem with it before,” I said as I took in his expression. His face, usually ruddy and healthy looking, was paler than a fish belly. He stepped away from the car and attempted to say something to me, but all that came out of his mouth was some kind of sound that was a cross between a moan and a retch.

This wasn’t going to end well. I knew that before I saw the pissed-off-looking St. Thomas Blue Jay embroidered on the front of the white polo shirt glaring up at me, blood spattered across its beak. Paul, late of the St. Thomas mail room and life in general, didn’t look so happy either, consternation etched on his lifeless face.

 

Copyright © 2011 by Maggie Barbieri

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 11 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 11 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 14, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    entertaining academic cozy

    At the northern most tip of New York City is St. Thomas Catholic College. When the girl's basketball coach dies, English Lit professor Alison Bergeron is drafted to take over at a time when the daughter of her husband Homicide Detective Bobby Crawford is a star player. She is leaving for the day when security guard John Dugan notices her trunk is not locked, which surprises the instructor. When they cannot shut it, they open it to find the bloody corpse of the new mail room employee Paul, who just delivered a package to Alison. Two colleagues of Crawford, Montoya and Moran lead the inquiry.

    Crawford goes undercover, which bothers his wife who still has scars from her first cheating husband. He informs her that Paul was Vito Passella, a foot soldier in the Lucarelli mob. Alison begins a bit of uncovers sleuthing finding evidence which point to the former late coach of the Blue Jays being murdered instead of dying from a heart attack. Soon afterward an accusation of sexual misconduct shakes the school. Unable to remain on the bench, Alison's moral code has her making inquires into what is going on at St. Thomas.

    Physical Education, the latest Murder 101 amateur sleuth (see Third Degree, Final Exam and Quick Study), is an entertaining academic cozy. Crawford sums up the tale and series as he believes his wife has good instincts in terms of solving homicides, but poor instincts in terms of not being the next victim. With amusing asides from the protagonist, fans will enjoy stopping at St. Thomas Catholic College for its breathtaking view of the Hudson and academic homicides.

    Harriet Klausner

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 22, 2011

    I Also Recommend:

    A Must Read

    Once again, Alison finds herself involved in another murder and with her new husband being scarce; she wonders what he is hiding. Determined to uncover the truth behind her best friend's removal from the church, Alison embarks on a search for the truth. What a great read! This well-written and evenly-paced story was an enjoyable read. From the moment the dead body was found, we are taken on a journey of lies, secrets, betrayal and some fun as we watch a tenacious Alison seek out clues in an investigation that nobody wants her on. With a mystery that will keep you turning the pages, this is the author's best work ever in this heartwarming and charming series.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2014

    T

    Series is becoming stale.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 10, 2013

    Alison bounces into another good adventure

    This series is a delight to read. Clever, funny, romantic and mysterious. My thanks to the author for bringing Alison into the world.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 1, 2013

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 10, 2012

    Ss¿¿¿¿¿

    Epic son¿

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    Posted September 4, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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    Posted May 22, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

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    Posted November 22, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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    Posted January 28, 2012

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    Posted November 22, 2011

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