She shrugged. “Just an extra precaution. I was hoping to impress the Catholic Church.”
We smiled, co-conspirators, sharing an in-joke at the expense of Bernard Cardinal Law.
“Does Derek know about this?” I asked her. Interesting as all this was, I still had a killer to find. Maybe Derek took this pseudo-crime more seriously, I thought.
She shook her head. “Derek doesn’t know anything about this. He’s sweet, and naive. He really thinks these papers fell into our hands at just the right time.”
“And he still doesn’t know?”
“Not unless you’ve told him. And I think we’ll win this anyway. Fortunately for us, the Church is not a great keeper of secular records. About all they have is obituaries from old newspapers and parish bulletins with a vague reference to burial in that general vicinity. But the announcements could just as easily have been directing the faithful to the old Rumney Marsh cemetery.”
“You’re the one who really wants this project to go through aren’t you?”
Dorothy’s eyes misted over, as she nodded slowly. “I couldn’t stand the idea that this would fail again. It was Irving’s dream.”
“What made it fail when he was director? Surely Councilman Byrne couldn’t have stopped it by himself.”
“Byrne wields a lot of power. He convinced the rest of the Council that the money should be used for a new cultural center. Which, by the way, has never been built.”
“It almost sounds like he had a personal vendetta against your husband. As if he wanted to stop the expansion just to be nasty to Mr. Leonard. Who was appointed when he died?”
Dorothy raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Joe Reilly, the councilman’s friend, wouldn’t you know. Someone who had no interest in expanding the library. Actually no interest in the library.” Dorothy smiled. “But if Byrne’s intention was to foil the Leonards’ careers, he got an even bigger surprise when I was appointed last year.”
Revere politics were coming together for me. “You were promoted over his son. That must have been hard for him.”
A vigorous nod. “Indeed, although I do like Derek. I think another factor in the councilman’s contrariness here is that he’d rather have this undertaking come later and be credited to his son. In spite of the political haggling, the people of Revere want this project to succeed. And, not only did his son not get this job, but a woman did. Dear old Brendan has a problem with females in authority, as you may have noticed.” Dorothy sat back in her chair and swiveled a few degrees. A broad smile took over her face. “Poor old man. He had the nerve to tell me to join a sewing circle.”
I gulped. “What an interesting metaphor.” I smiled, to match Dorothy’s expression, hoping my distress—to me it seemed visible—would come across as amusement at the councilman’s choice of words.
The image of the note I’d received, on formal, off-white stationery, floated between us. TAKE UP SEWING. First the note, then Tony Taruffi’s comment to me, now Councilman Byrne’s advice to Dorothy Leonard.
Dorothy seemed not to notice my discomfort as I tried to figure out whether Taruffi or Byrne had sent me the note, or whether all the men in Revere had suddenly gone macho. In line with her talkative mood, Dorothy gave me an account of her husband’s vision for the library, and of his untimely death at forty-six. Or perhaps she simply allowed me to be there while she reminisced.
“Irving was working late—it was a Friday night. He was often here late on Friday so he could take the rest of the weekend off. The custodian found him early Saturday morning, at the foot of the stairs.”
“So you weren’t here at the time?”
She trained her eyes on me, giving me a soft, amused look. “I wondered when you were going to get around to that. I was in East Hartford, Connecticut, visiting our daughter, Sarah, at her school. But what you really want to know is my alibi for the night Yolanda was murdered. Coincidentally, I was also at Sarah’s that night, ten years later. Sarah now lives in Malden, with her family. I was baby-sitting my young grandson.”
I felt my face flush, embarrassed at my awkward probing. “I—”
“No, no, it’s all right, I know you’re close to John Galigani’s parents, and it’s always hard when one’s child is in trouble. I remember how it was when Irving died. His father was a doctor, you know, to make it even worse. Medical people always expect to be able to save their loved ones from death of any kind, of course. My father-in-law was devastated.”
Dorothy’s eyes drifted off again. I felt like an eavesdropper on a discussion she’d had with herself many times in the last ten years.
“Apparently Irving had been carrying a large crate of folders and lost his footing at the top of the stairs. The crate and all the contents were strewn over the bottom landing. It was very strange, since I remember the folders were an odd collection of files he wouldn’t ordinarily be concerned with. Files I thought his staff would handle. And Mrs. Tremel who worked for him back then said the same thing. She said Irving had marked the crate for long-term storage.” Dorothy frowned and wagged her head, as if to scold Irving Leonard for the foolish error that cost him his life and denied her many more happy years with him.
She turned back to me and to the present. “Yes, I want this project to succeed, Gloria, for Irving. I want it badly enough to tell a fib here and there, but I would never kill another human being.”
In spite of her perfect figure and elegant presence—what other grandmother could wear a linen dress in the summer and end up with only the most discreet set of wrinkles?—I believed her.
ONLY MY MOTHER’S TOUGH training about keeping commitments prevented me from canceling dinner with Andrea. I had serious mental reorganizing to do, charts to create, notes to update, not to mention tracking John Galigani. I’d hoped for a message from him, his parents, or Matt, but no new information had entered my apartment electronically while I’d been gone. And no more threatening messages, either, I was happy to say.
I had barely enough time to set out the lasagna pan when the doorbell rang at six o’clock.
“I brought the salad, and some bread, and a few cookies,” Andrea said, though I’d agreed only to the salad.
Andrea was always excited to be in my flat, looking through my books and admiring the California prints on the walls. This evening she brought unprecedented energy and enthusiasm, thanks to her scheduled appearances in Peter Mastrone’s classroom.
“I’ve been driving by the high school during my lunch hour,” she told me. “I wanted to see what the kids were like these days. I parked along Mountain Avenue yesterday, and School Street today, so no one would think I was a pedophile or anything.”
It was just like Andrea Cabrini to raise the concept of teacher preparation to a new high. “That was a good idea. What did you learn?”
“There were so many Asian students. I was surprised. I went to high school in West Adams and we didn’t have much variety out there. So, I changed the plan for my first subject.”
“Not Jenny Bramley?”
She shook her head. “What do you think of my using C. S. Wu instead?”
I nodded and smiled at her. “The woman who did the experiments at Columbia. One of my favorites.”
“Yeah, I’ve been reading up on it. Two men, Lee and Yang, were the theorists and they got the Nobel Prize in 1957, the first scientists of Chinese birth to win it. But Wu should have been acknowledged, too.” Andrea shook her pudgy finger at me, as if I were the Nobel committee, skipping over a female whose experimental results were crucial to the milestone—the overthrow of parity that changed the way physicists looked at symmetry in the universe.
“I think Wu is an excellent choice, Andrea. And I agree she’s gotten too little credit and recognition. You’ve done a lot of work very quickly.”
She sighed. “My evenings are pretty free. I’m really grateful to you for giving me this assignment.”
“It works out well for me, too,” I said. I didn’t bother sharing with her h
ow relieved I was not to have a regular commitment to Peter. “What else did you pick up on your stakeout at the high school?”
“Well, this is going to sound crazy to you, but not all the kids are skinny, you know. I was worried about that. I—”
My own chubby heart went out to her. “You don’t have to apologize, Andrea. I understand that feeling.”
“I was wondering if you could help me choose something to wear. I know you hate to shop, but maybe if I bought a nice outfit, I’d feel a little more …qualified.”
I pictured myself spending precious time at the mall, picking through dresses and suits and fancy shoes. Then, in a matter of seconds I edited the scene, and Rose Galigani stepped in to take my place.
“You need a personal shopper, Andrea, and I know just the person.”
AFTER DINNER and a run-through of Andrea’s transparencies—I talked her into cutting the number in half, to ten instead of twenty—I walked out with her.
“I have to pull my car into the garage,” I explained. “When I came home earlier, a delivery truck was blocking my driveway.” I smiled at the notion that the bottled water phenomenon had arrived on Tuttle Street.
“I don’t know how you manage that big car,” Andrea said, unlocking the door of her normal-size sedan.
“I’ve had practice,” I told her.
I’d left my Cadillac at the curb at the end of the dead-end street. I stepped carefully in the dark, along the crumbling sidewalk, where the roots of large, old elms had shattered the cement. Smells of various ethnic dinners hung in the still, humid air. I detected the aroma of at least one Asian dish, and another that was close to my own lasagna.
Ten o’clock—still a good two hours before I’d run out of energy.
My feet were healing surprisingly well, considering how neglectful I’d been of the California doctor’s instructions—soak for fifteen minutes twice a day, sprinkle with medicated powder, rest. I wondered who had time to bother. My list of things to do was long enough without adding pamper feet. I reviewed the list as I passed neat old houses and tiny front lawns: check the Internet white pages for Fiores in Detroit, tell Matt—fi—nally—about the note in my desk, since the subject of sewing kept coming up, do a little boron review before meeting with Erin Wong’s students again.
The next item had to do with Tony Taruffi’s alibi, and the next thing I saw was Tony Taruffi appearing before me, coming from behind the last tree on Tuttle Street.
TWENTY-SIX
I FUMBLED WITH my key chain, stuck in the pocket of my knit pants, trying to locate the little red panic button that had served me well during another Tuttle Street ambush. I chided myself for not having it ready ahead of time, before heading down a dark, quiet, dead-end street. The shadow of St. Anthony’s Church, behind me on Revere Street, was doing nothing to protect me.
“Time to chat, Gloria,” Tony said, grabbing my arm. He felt as strong as he looked, with his upper arm muscles straining the ribbing on his short-sleeved shirt.
Chat, I thought, taking a breath against the painful pounding in my chest. At least he hadn’t said, the jig’s up, or something else with a ring of finality. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but his voice was relatively calm, and his hold on my arm was lighter than I’d expected, given the method he’d chosen to initiate a conversation.
I opened my mouth, probably to scream, although I wasn’t responding logically. Tony put his hand up. He’d walked me a few steps to a spot illuminated by a streetlight and I could see his look was one of panic, not aggression.
“Look, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He glanced down at where he held my arm, and frowned. “Sorry,” he said.
He let go, and I briefly considered running away. I knew I could never outrun him, however, even in my most athletic shoes.
“I suppose this is about your alibi.” Brilliant, I told myself. Not only do I not attempt to escape, but I remind a maybekiller why he should attack me.
Tony nodded, a sheepish look taking over his face, making me slightly more comfortable about my safety. “I’m a married man,” he told me. “I have a family, and I have a responsible job. I’m in the public eye. I have to be careful.”
“You mean you have to be careful you don’t get caught?”
Tony screwed up his mouth. “This is not really your business, Gloria. But yes, I was with a woman, not my wife, and I’d rather not have to tell the police.”
Although we both whispered, our voices seemed loud, as if they were being amplified, the stagnant air acting as an efficient transistor. A few lights glowed from the windows, mostly moving TV images.
“So you want me to convey your innocence to the RPD?”
“Something like that.”
I shook my head. Not that I’d had any direct experience with adultery, but I remembered reading that men who cheat on their wives do it often. “So you did have an affair with Yolanda Fiore,” I said, hoping to get something useful from this unpleasantness.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Did she dump you? Is that why you fired her?”
I took a moment to congratulate myself on good police procedure. My linear, one-track training in science had been hard to overcome, but I’d finally learned to not answer a question, and proceed instead with my own agenda. Tony was born to that kind of rhetoric, however, and proved a tough opponent.
“I was with another woman the night Yolanda was murdered,” he said.
The broken-record technique. I tried to stay focused. “I see, so you dumped Yolanda for this other woman—what was her name?”
“Nice try.”
I grinned. “And then you fired her.”
“You’re making this very hard for me.”
“Thank you.” I indulged myself in a fantasy, where Sergeant Matt Gennaro was standing in the shadows, one elm tree over, watching my performance and applauding. This image was preferable to reality, in which I knew he’d be upset at my careless disregard for my own safety.
“I fired Yolanda because she was using the lab computer system for personal research. I admit I was looking for an excuse. She was not what you would call a company person. But you can check the employment records. Her termination papers are there. I’m sure you can use your pseudo-police status.”
I ignored the sarcasm. “Do you know what the research was about?”
“Genealogy. It’s a big thing now, you know. Everyone is writing memoirs. They find a great-great-grandfather who was the first man in Suffolk County to make gloves with five fingers and they think it’s some exciting, groundbreaking, big deal.”
“Did you ever see evidence of that—a chart on the screen or something?”
“I sure did. It wasn’t hard to sneak up on her—she only had a cubicle, you know.” Unlike me, a supervisor, was the unspoken boast. Recalling the fishbowl that was Tony’s office, I was amazed he clung to status symbols. “She even E-mailed Italy, for God’s sake.”
“It doesn’t cost any more to E-mail Italy,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, well, it’s just the idea.”
“I assume you knew all this through the lab’s computer security program?”
Tony nodded. “Right. They have software now that can intercept every keystroke. I had a hunch, since every time I approached her at her computer, she’d zip over to the desktop or a lab file. As if I were an idiot. So I had her targeted. Had her E-mail and Web use intercepted. Once they confirmed my suspicions, I fired her.” Tony snapped his fingers, snuffing out a career.
“You fired her, then you killed her.” This last attempt was only halfhearted, more to aggravate him than because I believed the accusation. I hated Tony’s smug expression, but I was losing my confidence in him as a murderer.
He made an unpleasant snorting noise, and I had a peek into what his snoring might be like. “Give me a break here, Gloria. Firing is one thing, killing is another.”
A good point. With that, Tony sprinted away. I had the d
isturbing realization that my suspects were dropping off, like extruded metal dripping from a precision-engineered needle.
MY OUTDOOR INTERVIEW with Tony Taruffi had taken less than a half hour, but a lot had been going on in my apartment. I opened my door to a ringing phone and a message on my machine. I picked up the phone, with the awful thought that it might be time for another threat or prank. I prepared myself for heavy breathing, but heard instead an upbeat voice.
“Gloria, this is Brendan Byrne. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. In fact, I’m just arriving home.” More or less.
“I want to thank you and your dear friend for your excellent work in uncovering the document fraud.”
That was fast, I thought. Apparently Councilman Byrne was on someone’s short list for breaking news. “Thanks for your kind words. I had very little to do with it.”
“Now, don’t be modest. And, by the way, I’m sure you’ve been informed that my son was in no way connected with that devilish scheme.”
“Yes, Mrs. Leonard said as much. May I ask how you found out about our tests so quickly?”
He laughed. “There aren’t that many lawyers in Revere, Gloria. They’re all connected.” I remembered Dorothy Leonard’s comment about calling her lawyer immediately after she heard my message. She might as well have called the councilman directly.
“Well, I’m glad we could be of help.”
“Who knew to what depths Dorothy Leonard would stoop for that project of hers? Of course, I had my suspicions.”
I took a breath, annoyed. Perhaps it was the irritation, perhaps because he was keeping me from answering the message I hoped was from Matt—for whatever reason, I goaded the councilman. “Mrs. Leonard seems to think it won’t matter. She says they have enough documentation without the fraudulent property papers.”
“Not on her life.”
His voice had turned angry, the genial old man gone from the telephone connection. I counted three Brendan Byrnes. One, the young man, off to the side of the crowd at City Hall, seeking revenge for his parents’ cruel fate. Two, the doddering old Irishman who treated himself to pinochle with the boys, and a hangover once a week. And three, the crafty councilman, protecting his son at every turn, opposing him only on the library project.
Boric Acid Murder, The Page 20