Not bad, though I would have added a mention of the neutrons released, which are the actual bombarding particles that sustain the chain reaction.
“So fission is just an elaborate way to boil water,” Matt said. My best pupil, I thought, as the rest of us nodded.
“Right,” Andrea said. “In other plants you’re burning coal, oil, or natural gas to make the steam, and the rest of the process is the same.” She waved her chubby arms. “More or less.”
My mind was as busy as the intricate layers of pipes, valves, wires, and pumps in the PWR model. How was I going to segue from nuclear reactor mechanisms to Yolanda Fiore? I needed to know if she and Taruffi had had an affair, for one thing, and if our waste pools ever suffered from insufficient boron, for another. Matt’s presence made the task even more daunting. I found it difficult to be fraudulent or overbearing in his presence, one of the few inconveniences our relationship posed.
A plan took shape in my head, but I’d need Andrea’s cooperation, on the level of extrasensory perception. I looked at her and rolled my eyes toward Matt. He’d become engaged in a conversation with Taruffi and Allen about the lab director whose daughter was on the police force. After several blinks, winks, and facial contortions on my part, Andrea picked up my message.
“Excuse me,” she said to the group of three men. “Matt, I’d like to show you where I spend a lot of my time, out in the machine shop.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here,” I said. “I’m doing a project with the high school science club, and I’d like to discuss it with Tony and Garth.”
Matt looked at me, screwed up his mouth to his most crooked grin, and shook his head slightly. It wasn’t a “don’t do it” message, I told myself, just an “I know what you’re doing” one.
“I’m constructing a model waste pool,” I told Tony and Garth when Andrea and Matt left the lobby.
“Interesting,” they said, one after the other.
I explained my connection to Erin Wong at Revere High. “I want to lead the students through a project with more than just technical ramifications. And nuclear power has many issues surrounding it—social, economic, environmental, safety.”
“Of course, there’s where we’re number one,” Garth said.
Taruffi looked like he’d rather be grilled by the real police, who’d left the area.
“I remember your description,” I said, not wanting a repeat of Garth’s speech on the many redundant systems used for spent fuel safety at U.S. reactor sites. I scratched my head just beyond my eyebrows. “Did we discuss Yolanda’s concern about the amount of boron in the pool?”
“We did.” He raised his index finger, pointed it at me. “And I have some additional information. Put it together for you after our last discussion. If you’re going to be here another five minutes, I’ll run back to my office and get it.”
“I’ll be here. I have some things I need to talk to Tony about, anyway.”
Tony rolled his eyes, only slightly, but enough to convey his annoyance to all of us just before Garth left.
I started off with a request I knew Tony would be happy to honor. I opened my arms to encompass the model PWR. “I’d love to borrow this for my class.”
Tony’s face brightened, his posture relaxed. This was his forte—spreading goodwill to the community. Even better, the community schools. “By all means. We have a little-known lending program that I wish more teachers would take advantage of.” So you can keep the funds coming for outreach activities, and keep your job, I thought, ungenerously. “We’ll send it to the school, and even set it all up for you. All you have to do is pay for return shipping.”
“Perfect.” I guessed my own budget could handle the charges if the science budget at Revere High could not.
“We also offer a scientist or engineer for an hour or two to explain the physics, but I guess you’d be doing that yourself in this case.”
I nodded. We chatted about the importance of science education, how more technical staff should volunteer for such programs, and the wonderful teacher workshops sponsored by the American Nuclear Society. Tony and I were on such good terms at that moment—he must have thought the only “things” I wanted to discuss had to do with borrowing his little reactor—I almost hated to disrupt the atmosphere.
Almost.
“By the way, was I the last person to hear about your close relationship to Yolanda Fiore?” I asked him. I did my best to make close relationship sound like affair, at the same time attempting a coy smile. Not my best talent.
Tony’s expression turned sour. He clenched his fists, which he then immediately stuffed into the pockets of his pale blue summer jacket. I imagined he’d learned that control device in a class with a title like “How to Deal with Difficult People.” His bushy eyebrows seemed closer together than ever.
“I assume you don’t expect an answer to that question?”
“Too much to hope for?”
A heavy sigh, through gritted teeth. “I don’t appreciate where you’re headed with this.”
I didn’t hear a no. I ran through the responses I’d expect if my suggestion had been way off—a laugh, a quizzical look, an unequivocal denial. Gloria, the relationship expert, became convinced on the spot that Tony and Yolanda had indeed had an affair, in spite of John Galigani’s inability to believe it.
“And where is it you think I’m headed?” I asked.
Tony glared at me. “Get another hobby,” he said. In the next second, Garth Allen rejoined us, and I was spared more venom from Tony, except for one parting shot. He picked up a diminutive hard-hatted figure holding a miniature clipboard. Taruffi’s eyes had narrowed, and were trained on me. “Do you want to borrow a little plastic inspector also?” he asked.
I was surprised he hadn’t aimed the tiny yellow bulldozer at me. It was hard not to turn away, but I kept my gaze and my voice steady. “No, I’ll take care of that myself.”
EIGHTEEN
IF ONLY THE Revere Public Library would have an Open House, I thought. Or if only I’d paid more attention to the people Rose introduced me to at the holiday fund-raiser.
On Monday morning I climbed the library steps, black leather briefcase at my side, ready to spend the whole morning if that’s what it took to meet the suspects on my list. I couldn’t imagine what the library had to do with Yolanda’s murder, but it was the crime scene, its assistant director was the victim’s boyfriend, and there was a controversy over its next incarnation. Not to mention a similar death in the same spot ten years earlier. Four strikes. Worth looking into.
I’d taken my own reading material—my boron notes and the articles Garth Allen had given me. I expected the RPL’s nuclear physics holdings to be slim, and wondered if I could use that as an excuse to talk to the director or her assistant. I imagined myself whining about the city library’s not owning enough nuclear reactor material, when a mile or so away the Charger Street lab held a premier collection.
Whenever I thought of my discourse with Tony Taruffi, his parting phrase, “get another hobby,” rang in my ears. Very close to “take up sewing,” which the threatening note to me had advised. Not the exact words, but the same idea. The same author?
I remembered how certain John had been that Yolanda would not have had an affair with her boss. Now I had to ponder whether he’d known all along, and lied to me. And what if the Yolanda-Tony affair had occurred while she was with John? In spite of his brother Robert’s remark—that “everyone and John used to date”—John was a one-womanat-a-time guy, bound to be unhappy if his partner was unfaithful. I felt reasonably certain of this, because John had written to me frequently, more than either Mary Catherine or Robert. Maybe because writers in general write more letters, too.
I shook away the thought that John denied knowing about the affair to cover up his motive to kill her. The only other explanation was that he didn’t know Yolanda very well. For now, I’d go with that.
I’d hoped to bump into Dorothy Leonard at the library, but instead
I ran into the Catholic Church. This time their attorney, Frances Worthen, looked anything but a lawyer. No power suit, no briefcase, just a large manila envelope in her hand. She wore a long sundress, a flowery yellow and pink design with spaghetti straps, the kind of outfit meant to be worn only by women as young, tall, and slender as she. As if she needed the extra height, her shiny brown sandals had three-inch-high square heels that reminded me of the blocks my mechanic used to hoist my Cadillac.
I wondered briefly about her nationality, a habit I seemed to have reverted to once I returned to Revere and my ethnic roots. Her name sounded WASPish, but she had long dark hair, thick and curly, and olive skin. Surely such a new-millennium-looking woman wouldn’t have adopted her husband’s family name?
She was on her way out of the building. As we shuffled back and forth—who should pass through the door first?—I tried an old trick.
“Ms. Worthen. How nice to see you again,” I said, slipping easily into the deception. I was counting on a lawyer’s likely resistance to admitting a lapse of memory. As I hoped, she pretended to remember me, probably excusing herself mentally. Easy to forget this nondescript senior citizen who covered her arms even in the New England summer weather. “Dr. Lamerino,” I added, in a tone that implied she already knew that. The title, which I seldom used professionally, often came in handy at times like this, when it was irrelevant.
Worthen shifted the envelope to her left hand and extended her right. “Yes, of course. How are you?” she asked, a broad, vacant smile taking over her thin face.
I shook her hand and rushed to capitalize on the moment. “I’ve been meaning to call you. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?” She looked at her watch. Bad sign. “Or maybe we could chat inside for a moment. I promise I won’t take long.”
Her smile was replaced by a confused look. Still, I could tell she wouldn’t risk brushing me off, no matter how unimportant I might look. Who knew? I did call myself Doctor. I might be a potential client, or politically well connected, the friend of a VIP. It seemed I’d spent six years in graduate school for the privilege of misrepresenting myself.
“Sure,” she said, an enormous question mark in her voice.
I led her to seats at a table near the circulation desk, in front of the science bookshelves. Not nearly a big enough collection, I noted. I’d chosen deliberately, to take advantage of a large metal fan—a temporary replacement for the failed air-conditioning system—for both its cooling and its background noise, in case something exciting and confidential came up.
Between the front door and the reading room, I’d reinvented myself and was ready with my opening. “Since I’ve just moved back to Revere, I’m very interested in picking up pieces of history I’ve missed.” I pointed to the model of the library-to-be, in the center of the entryway. “For example, I’d like to know more about this expansion project.”
Worthen breathed heavily, the beginning of an annoyed look crossing her fine features. Maybe I hadn’t chosen wisely. Maybe I should have assumed my other disguise as a police representative.
“They have a proposed six-million-dollar budget. They’ve chosen the architect. It will take a year and a half to complete,” she said, in a bored, singsong voice ticking off points on her fingers. “During that time the inventory would be moved to temporary quarters. Probably the old Immaculate Conception rectory. I’m sure Mrs. Leonard has some brochure you can look at.” Worthen waved her hand, as if to dismiss the discussion as unworthy of her position in life, and stood to leave.
I couldn’t let her get away. I stood up next to her. “Why is the project controversial?”
Worthen stiffened, her rich dark hair lifting with the breeze from the fan. “You must know I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing negotiation.”
“Of course, I do understand. I’m just curious. I can’t imagine why the Catholic Church would spend its time and money on what seems like a spurious cause.” I glanced at the manila folder she clasped to her breast. “Unless there’s some documentation for the alleged burial site?”
The next voice I heard came from behind us. I hadn’t seen Derek Byrne descend the stairs from his office.
“As a matter of fact, that’s our documentation, confirming there’s no sacred ground out there.” Derek tilted his head in the direction of the back of the building. “These papers have just come to light, and are not even filed yet with the city. Frances is taking them away to have her own experts look at them.”
Worthen frowned. “Why are you—”
“Every citizen has a right to know. It will eventually be public record, Fran.”
In spite of his combative words, Derek’s tone was light. When he put his hand on Worthen’s shoulder, I couldn’t decide whether it was a flirtatious or a condescending gesture. But when his eyes met hers, I settled on flirting. Bordering on intimacy.
I wondered if there were a romantic relationship here, but realized how unqualified I was to judge. I could hardly evaluate my own love life. I remembered overhearing their argument the week before. I’d noticed no sign of affection between Derek and “Fran” at that time. Yolanda with her boss. Derek with the opposing attorney. Maybe the Yolanda-Derek connection was a very open relationship, a contemporary brand of commitment.
I latched on to the possibility that the two people in front of me were lovers—it gave me another motive to assign to Derek Byrne. The scenario: Derek and Frances Worthen are an item, behind Yolanda’s back. Yolanda finds out and puts up a fuss, deciding goose and gander should have different standards. They argue, and Derek accidentally hits her on the head with the coat rack.
I put it aside as a last-resort fantasy.
“Dr. Lamerino is investigating Yolanda’s murder,” Derek told Worthen. He’d lowered his voice, but his tone was surprisingly neutral, given that he was the boyfriend of record of a recent murder victim.
Worthen looked at me with new respect. “You’re with the police?”
If I had a bite-size biscotti for every time I’d been asked that question in the last year, I thought, I’d never be hungry again.
“I work with the department on science-related investigations.” My standard response, and not exactly a lie, even though I didn’t have a contract for this one and no science-related connection had developed.
“So they think Yolanda was killed by someone at the lab?” Worthen seemed relieved, as though she might otherwise have been a suspect. Which, in my book, she was. On the spot I created a subplot where Worthen fakes documentation of a burial site, to stop the expansion project. Yolanda finds out and … It had possibilities. I wondered how much Derek and Worthen knew about John Galigani’s alleged involvement. If Dorothy Leonard knew, they must also, I guessed.
“You must know I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation,” I said, with a winklike smile at Worthen. She relaxed her shoulders, grinned, and rewarded me with a touché blush. Mission accomplished. “But I can tell you that, at the moment, no one has been ruled out.” I pointed to the library expansion model. “For all we know, this could be the motive.”
I had no idea what I was saying, whether I might even be committing a crime—obstructing justice, fraud, what did I know?—but it furthered my agenda, so I pushed that kind of concern to the back of my mind.
“Well, I don’t see how our little business disagreement can have anything to do with a murder.” Worthen seemed to be genuinely considering the possibility as she said the words. “I personally hardly knew Yolanda, and she certainly wasn’t involved in our transactions.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Derek said. “And in fact, this argument about the property goes back many years, way before Yolanda moved to Revere.”
“It goes back at least to my husband,” Dorothy Leonard said, walking down the stairs from the mezzanine. Just what I wanted. A full house of library suspects. “Councilman Byrne successfully stonewalled the project ten years ago. My husband almost got it through. If he hadn’t died …well.” She threw up h
er hands in a resigned gesture, then turned to me. “We seem to be seeing a lot of each other, Dr. Lamerino.” I heard no pleasure in the tone.
“I came for a library card.”
That drew a laugh all around, and I hoped it wasn’t because my illiteracy was legendary.
“You seem determined to become involved in our negotiation.” It was impossible to tell Leonard’s true feelings about this as she addressed me. Annoyance? Resignation? Delight, as with a precocious child?
“This time my father’s bringing out the big guns,” Derek said. Another friendly smile at Worthen.
“And this time we have documentation,” Leonard said. Shoulders back, at full height, she was as tall as Derek.
Worthen shrugged. “It’s the councilman who’s driving this again,” she said. “We—the Church—weren’t that serious until he took up our cause and demanded we follow through. And he’s a big donor.”
Worthen looked at me and put her hand to her mouth, wishing, I was sure, that she hadn’t forgotten I was there. For me, I wished I could be present when the Holy Father became aware of a young female attorney who glibly used the papal We, including herself in a reference to the Archdiocese of Boston.
A few minutes later, Derek and I were alone, the two women having proceeded separately to whatever their destinations had been before I interrupted them.
“I see the lions are gone,” I said, noticing the clear area against the side wall.
Derek smiled and gestured toward the loft, the mezzanine opposite the one that housed the administrative offices. “They finally made it up where they belong—with the other material we’re keeping for the Historical Society. Can you believe delivery people these days? They pull up here, ten o’clock at night, and say that’s it. Their shift is over. No way are they going to carry the lions up one more flight of stairs.”
“They look pretty heavy.”
“Cast bronze, from Thailand. They weigh about three hundred pounds each, and I’m supposed to take care of them myself?” Derek looked as though he were reliving his annoying experience. “I finally got them to come back this morning, before we opened.”
Boric Acid Murder, The Page 14