Boric Acid Murder, The

by Camille Minichino

  I wasn’t worried about a dress code for my early morning meeting with Garth Allen, who’d be in his government-employee “uniform” of neutral suit and well-worn tie. And I was free to wear a pin since Rose wasn’t monitoring my lab appearance. My choice was a stylized copper enamel replica of a nuclear plant. I’d picked it up at the Visitor Center of the Trojan nuclear facility in Oregon while I was living on the West Coast. The part I liked best was the tiny solar-system model atom sitting on top of the cooling tower.

  Allen greeted me at the door of Taruffi’s office, surrounded by the smell of hot-plate coffee—weak, burned, and bitter.

  “Tony doesn’t come in this early, but I know where he keeps the coffee.” Allen smiled as if this were the key to a pleasure-filled experience.

  “None for me, thanks.”

  “Too much already, huh?”

  I nodded, keeping the real reason to myself—I didn’t like coffee in large glass pots, especially when you could see through the brew. I grew up with rich, dark espresso. Before I was allowed to drink it myself, I’d watched my father, Marco Lamerino, begin and end each day with a small cup, sometimes spiked with a shot of whiskey. I thought often how staples in my house had become specialty items in the gourmet markets of today. Espresso, olive oil, ricotta, mascarpone. And macaroni—now called pasta in trendy restaurants. It was as if the whole country had gone low-income Italian.

  Taruffi’s posters also took away my appetite. Mountains, rapids, sunsets, seascapes, each with its own motivational phrases. ESTABLISH GOALS. MAKE AN EFFORT. BUILD A TEAM. In one, a human being foolishly challenged the law of gravity. He or she—I couldn’t tell which from the silhouette—hung from a cliff that jutted out at an obtuse angle, with the top of the rock projecting out farther than the bottom. A single rope between life and death by impalement on granite. A different idea of inspiration. More inspiring to me would be a chart of the fundamental particles of the universe, or an attractive display of Maxwell’s equations for the electromagnetic field, or the laws of thermodynamics.

  “Clever pin.” Allen leaned close enough to my collar for me to get a whiff of his aftershave, which didn’t smell much better than the coffee. “I can get you a tie tack from the Harris plant in North Carolina if you’re interested. It has the containment building, with the cooling tower in back.”

  I gave him credit for knowing how to win my heart. “I’d love it. Thanks.”

  “So, how did you happen to get into physics?”

  My favorite question. Over the years I’d built up a reservoir of smart-aleck answers. I fell off the kitchen stool and when I got up I was a physics major. Or, I started life as a boy, and before I knew it …

  Not wanting to begin on the wrong foot, I used a polite, generic response about how I enjoyed math and wanted to learn more about the universe.

  “And Tony tells me now you work with the police. Fascinating. I assume that’s why you’re here.”

  I nodded. I was surprisingly free of guilt about not having a contract at the moment. “Just a few questions if you don’t mind.”

  “Happy to oblige. Of course, I was in Washington, D.C., testifying at a Senate hearing both Thursday and Friday of last week. Up nearly all night Thursday going over white papers with my committee.” A solid alibi if there ever was one—no wonder Allen was the most cheerful interviewee I’d encountered in all of my cases. I smiled and scribbled in my notebook, as if crossing him off my list. “And, of course,” Allen continued, “I didn’t see her on a daily basis. I’m just a work-forothers. Tony walked her through the projects, so I really only saw the deliverables.”

  Work for others, walking through talking points, deliverables. I was out of practice speaking lab talk. I remembered my first government contract in the seventies—I’d met fewer new terms in my quantum mechanics textbook.

  Allen looked at his watch and put his feet on Tony’s desk, which was remarkably clear of papers of any kind. A large picture frame dominated the area to the right of the blotter. The frame was at just the right angle for me to observe “happy family” snapshots—a child in a party hat, another looking with adoration at a soccer ball, even a portrait with Mom, Dad, kids, and dog.

  I’m sure Allen thought he was helping me out by turning the frame to face me. “Nice family, huh? Tony’s wife’s a doll. Has her own business as a wedding coordinator—everything from engagement announcements to cutting the cake. Takes care of the kids, great cook …”

  “How nice.” I looked down at my notepad as if I had an organized set of queries for the interview. In truth, I’d had time to scribble only a few key words. “Yolanda seemed preoccupied with boron,” I said, attempting a neutral tone. “In several articles she mentioned insufficient amounts of boron in reactor cooling water and spent fuel pools. Any reason you can think of?”

  Allen looked past me, pursed his lips, and took a sip of coffee. I tried to ignore the slurping sound. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “I read about the problems the Japanese had. The political fallout could hold up their test program.”

  Allen snapped his fingers. “Oh, right. I do remember something about that. But as I recall there was no actual radiation leak. The casks met all the safety standards. You know how it is with politics. The truth doesn’t matter. It’s the appearance of truth they go by.” I nodded, partly out of civility, and partly out of agreement. “Do the police think Yolanda’s death had something to do with what happened in Japan?”

  I wasn’t sure whether Allen was leading me on or was really as dumb as he seemed, but I played it straight. “Not necessarily. But perhaps she suspected a similar problem with our systems?”

  He shook his head, adding a frown for emphasis. “Not a chance. As I’m sure you know, Gloria, boron is only a backup for us.” By us, I knew Allen meant the U.S. of A. I could almost hear the strains of the national anthem. He held up his left hand and ticked off points with his right. “First, there’s the integrity of the cladding and the inner cask shell. Second, there’s shielding—six to ten inches of heavy metal. Third, we keep the cask subcritical by controlling the amount in each load. Then, finally, we use a poison like boron.” Allen spread his palms at the end of the list. His look and gestures asked, What more does the public expect?

  I raised my eyes to Tony’s posters and took my inspiration from the wheat field. DARE TO DREAM, it said.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d have a reason to kill Yolanda?” I asked Allen.

  He threw up his hands. “I’d like to help you, but all I can say is she was the kind of person who made enemies easily.” He said this without rancor or judgment, as if he were reporting on a waste transportation schedule.

  I lifted my eyebrows. “For example?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “She was on the warpath about everything. But her views didn’t provoke murder, and no one I know personally is capable of murder. In my opinion.” Allen stood up, buttoning his jacket. “Anything else I can help you with? Before I head home to D.C., I have to check in with some folks over in engineering.”

  Folks. I thought I’d left that term behind in California. It always evoked images of men and women in red and yellow costumes dancing to accordion music.

  I resorted to police procedure as I knew it and handed him my card. “If you think of anything, give me a call.”

  Allen ushered me out of Tony’s office and walked me to the hallway, briefing me the whole time. I imagined bulleted items on transparencies, framed in cardboard holders, placed one by one on an overhead projector.

  “For decades spent fuel has been safely carried by truck and rail in this country and abroad. Do you know every year the French move about one thousand metric tons of spent fuel to a reprocessing plant in The Hague? With nary an accident.” Who said nary anymore? “And our own American ships have extensive safety features.” I felt a long list coming on, and I was right. I pictured the bullets as he spoke.

  • Special Propellers and Electrical Supply Systems.
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  • State-of-the-art Cooling Systems.

  • Satellite Navigation.

  • Automatic Reports of Position, Heading, and Speed.

  • Control Center Manned Twenty-four Hours a Day.

  “Sounds like a perfect setup,” I said.

  “You bet.”

  ON THE WAY HOME, I stopped at Russo’s take-out annex and ordered a grande cappuccino. I talked to myself at great length, wishing I’d had the presence of mind to voice my opinions to Garth Allen.

  I’d always been a proponent of nuclear power, but even the biggest fan had to admit there were potential risks. No wonder people like Yolanda Fiore get angry, I thought.

  However, in spite of my sweeping remark to Andrea, about suspecting everyone, I’d never seriously considered Garth Allen a candidate. Unlike with Taruffi, I thought of him as a harmless bureaucrat, and my meeting with him didn’t change that perception. I detected no personal animosity toward Yolanda or any of the “radicals” that made his life more difficult than it would be.

  And, I tended to believe Garth’s assessment of waste pools, thus eliminating the boron angle as a motive for Yolanda’s murder. Usually I’d be elated. I never wanted to keep scientists on my evil person roster very long. But even a Nobel Prize physicist might be preferable to John Galigani as a defendant.

  I decided to reserve judgment on Taruffi. He had fired Yolanda, after all. Besides, he wasn’t a technical person, just an administrator. I wondered what his stationery looked like.

  I RUSHED INTO my apartment to answer the ringing phone—Elaine Cody. I hadn’t talked to her since my quick call on Saturday to assure her I’d arrived home safely.

  “Dare I ask what’s new?”

  “I just got back from a meeting to check on that boron problem I told you about. No leads.”

  “What a coincidence. There was a big accident in Boron over the weekend. I don’t suppose it made the papers in Boston.”

  “Is boron a place?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember? It’s a town off Highway 58, between Bakersfield and Barstow.” I thought Elaine was about to give me all the cities in California beginning with B. “Anyway, these huge concrete pipes fell from a big rig and crushed a car.”

  “That’s awful.” I walked around opening windows as I talked, taking advantage of the cool morning air. No end in sight to the ninety-degree days. A school bus pulled up in front of a house across the street, alerting me to the hour. “It’s not even six o’clock there, Elaine. What’s wrong?”

  “I broke up with Jose.” Elaine’s voice was suddenly low, her cheeriness gone. I’d met Elaine’s boyfriend Jose Martinez the week before. “Too much baggage. That stuff with his son, and all.”

  “I’m sorry, Elaine.”

  “We’re definitely still friends, so that part’s fine.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really, I need a distraction.”

  I thought of Elaine’s ability to attract men and maintain a social life any teenager would envy. “I’m sure one will be along in no time.”

  She laughed, and I knew she hadn’t lost her sense of humor over one more breakup.

  MY CONVERSATION WITH Elaine was cut short when Rose arrived. She’d made herself at home, sipping espresso and reading the Globe while I finished the call, but I wasn’t eager to talk about my Matt problem, as I called it, in her presence. Already thin, Rose seemed to have lost weight in the two days since John’s detainment. I hoped it was the loose-fitting sundress she wore. Her eyes, normally sharp and clear, were drawn and puffy.

  I regretted I had nothing to make her life brighter except my willingness to let her plan my Civic Club luncheon outfit.

  “It’s only a little after nine. I’m glad you’re here,” I told her, “but I hope it’s not going to take three hours to dress me.”

  “I’m not optimistic about the choices in your closet.”

  I grimaced, knowing she was right. I’d told Rose one of my favorite Marie Curie stories often enough not to repeat it to her. When Marie’s sister offered to send her a dress for her wedding to Pierre, the scientist replied, “Send a dark one, so I can wear it to my lab the next day.” I had no such excuse for the predominance of black apparel in my wardrobe.

  Rose stood back from the rod that held my best clothes— those that needed to be on hangers, and one or two outfits that required dry cleaning. I pointed out the too-small-at-the-moment group on the right, and the too-big-but-I’d-betterhang-on-to-them set on the left.

  Rose groaned. My stomach tightened. It’s only your clothing she disapproves of, I told myself. I pulled out my first choice, a black knit with short sleeves and a matching vest with a jacquard pattern.

  Another groan. “Just what I thought. You don’t have a thing to wear.”

  “There must be something here.”

  Rose shook her head. A smile broke out, transforming her face, and suddenly I knew why she’d come so early.

  “What time do the stores in the mall open?” I asked her.

  Her grin widened. “Nine-thirty.”

  The things I do to make my friends happy.

  WORKING EFFICIENTLY, Rose and I finished shopping in time for coffee in my apartment. Under her direction, I’d bought a deep burgundy suit with matching shell top and a pair of flimsy sandals. I balked at wine-colored panty hose.

  “All one color is in,” Rose told me.

  “Black is a color.” Not in the electromagnetic sense, I added to myself, but certainly in the pigment sense.

  Rose rolled her eyes and acquiesced to flesh-colored hose. “I can’t wait to hear what Councilman Byrne is after,” she said, her fingers marching through my jewelry boxes.

  “What makes you think he wants something?”

  “Byrne isn’t the kind to waste time. He has an agenda, believe me.” She pulled out a necklace of garnet and pearls, a present from Matt after a milestone in our relationship. “This is perfect.”

  I smiled at Rose’s ability to multitask. I promised to call her immediately after lunch, happy for anything that distracted her from the sorry state of the Fiore murder investigation.

  THIRTEEN

  ONE LOOK AT the guests assembled for the Civic Club luncheon made me glad I’d taken advantage of a personal shopper. Men and women in different age ranges had dressed to match the elegant setting of the new Oceanside Hotel near the Revere/Winthrop border.

  I looked around for someone I knew, but couldn’t find a familiar face—not surprising since most of the friends I’d made tended to be pastry shop workers. Mingling was not my favorite pastime. Networking, I remembered to call it, not small talk.

  A dark-haired young woman in a short black dress approached me at the bar, where I waited for a glass of ginger ale. I made a note to tell Rose about the many black outfits in the room, though I had to admit the ones hanging in my closet were dowdier than anything here at the Oceanside.

  “Tina Ruggieri, Assistant Director of Communications for the Chamber of Commerce,” the young woman said, extending her hand. Her smooth, freckled skin made me wonder if she’d been dropped off by her mother, but her professional demeanor kept me in check.

  “Gloria Lamerino.” I smiled and resolved to construct a title for myself before the next handshake. Police department consultant? I didn’t have a contract at the moment. Retired Berkeley physicist? Irrelevant. Galigani Mortuary rep? Might be a put-off.

  “Are you new in town?” Tina asked.

  A deep voice answered for me. “Not exactly. She’s a native daughter finally returned home.” I turned to see Councilman Brendan Byrne. He’d picked up my ginger ale from the counter and handed it to me, smiling broadly. “Dr. Lamerino is a retired physicist working with the police, so be careful what you say,” he said to Tina. He had two of my three titles right. And since he’d talked to Rose Galigani about me, I assumed he also knew my mortuary connection. I wondered if he was aware I’d been a surreptitious participant in his encounter with his so
n in the library.

  Conversation was difficult in the densely populated room, its high ceilings echoing the chatter and the clinking of glasses. Only a minute or two after Byrne formalized introductions, Tina’s eyes took on a glazed look, whether from the prospect of talking to a physicist or because she had outstanding warrants I wasn’t sure. Perhaps she drifted off simply to find her peers.

  The result was that Councilman Byrne and I were left alone to size each other up. The task was harder for me, given the councilman’s height. I stepped back for a good view of his penetrating blue eyes and shock of white hair. I thought of his son and convinced myself there was a resemblance, though Derek’s look was more somber, his eyes a darker blue. Both men dressed in fine style, except that Byrne had a dark spot at the bottom of his beige jacket. A bump from a martini-carrying networker, I decided.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Gloria.” He paused and put his hand on my shoulder. “May I call you Gloria?”

  “Please do, uh …”

  “Brendan. I know you’re looking into Yolanda Fiore’s murder. And I realize you’re very close to the chief suspect and would naturally like to exonerate him.”

  Rose was right—the councilman didn’t waste any time. He’d steered me away from the busy bar area, into the dining room where large round tables for ten were set up. At eleven forty-five, only a few people had made it this far, most still in the lounge. When we stopped walking, I looked down to find a place card with my name in fancy letters. Dr. Lamerino. The card to the left of it read Councilman Byrne.