“I want a witness,” she said, her eyes glazed over. I knew she hadn’t heard a word I said. “My father had no witness when he did it, no one to share his burden.”
I knew what Robin meant by it—her father’s ignominious suicide. And I knew her plans for his gun.
I had one hand free. As it turned out, it was my right hand, the hand holding the corsage. And the long straight pin. I worked my fingers around and extricated the pin from the petals and leaves. I let the flowers fall to the ground and held on to the pin.
Robin raised the gun and trained it on her own head.
I closed my eyes as I always do when giving or receiving pain. I twisted my body and thrust the pin into Robin’s side, holding it close to the tip for leverage. The pin bent, too dull to penetrate the nylon jacket, but the movement rattled Robin enough for her to lose her grip on me, and on the gun.
By the time the wedding party reached us, Robin was in tears and the gun was in my hands. I had no clear memory of exactly how the weapon changed hands. Or whether the sound I’d heard had been a firecracker or a gunshot.
“I must be getting used to this,” I said to Matt. “I’m hardly shaking.”
Then I collapsed into the nearest bush.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
On Saturday, July third, Elaine Rita Cody and Philip Lawrence Chambers, both in cream-colored outfits, promised to share their lives and dreams, and one or two other parameters, in a nontraditional recitation of vows. I was happy not to hear anything about obedience on either side. Nor did I hear “forever,” but “for all my days.” I wondered if there was a difference.
I looked at my strong, beautiful friend and thought, If Elaine can pull this off, no bride should ever complain about the stressful two weeks before a wedding.
Firecrackers popped all over the neighborhood. Elaine had given me a flyer advertising a mammoth, all-day celebration at San Francisco’s Crissy Field in case Matt and I wanted to attend while she and Phil were honeymooning at an undisclosed vacation spot.
Looking at the events promised by the red-white-and-blue bulletin, I was ready to reevaluate my harsh criticism of the Bay Area’s patriotic spirit.
The Rose Garden was in full bloom; a poet might have said the roses were happy. No one seemed to notice a certain bush that was bent out of shape from an altercation the evening before. Even my fancy navy dress was reasonably comfortable.
Elaine’s shower guests were at the wedding, plus other BUL employees I recognized but couldn’t name. I estimated at least as many passersby attended as invited guests.
Dana and her EMT friends had decorated an ambulance and parked it in front of the entrance to the garden. “In case you and Elaine need a little hideaway, Dad,” Dana had said. For the first time in my acquaintance with her, Dana behaved like a normal twenty-four-year-old having a good time. She’d shed her lost, spaced-out look. Whether for this occasion only, I didn’t know, but I hoped not.
The buzz at the reception went from those in the know about the events of the week to those listening in rapt attention.
“I don’t blame that ambulance company owner,” said a young woman. “It must be hard for a woman to make it in a male-dominated industry.”
“Aren’t they all?” her female companion said.
I wondered where they got their data.
“So the Dorman Industries guy did it.” I heard this from someone in line behind me as I chose an eclair from a platter of pre-cake desserts.
“No! He was completely innocent,” said a man next to him.
Not completely, I thought. Though he hadn’t committed murder, Howard Christopher had known of and profited from Patel’s un-American activities and had been handed over to federal authorities. I didn’t respond, however, since I’d promised myself to engage only in happy wedding talk for the day.
“Did you catch the news this morning? It was all spearheaded by one of Dana’s roommates,” another eclair person said to her partner in line.
“Yeah, she had this grudge against America because her father couldn’t hack Vietnam.” (Not a Berkeley native, I decided.)
“She had a right to be ticked off. Her father never should have had to fight that war.”
“America, love it or leave it.”
I moved to a nonpolitical group.
“And she nearly attacked the maid of honor.”
Nearly, indeed.
“This was definitely the most beautiful of Elaine’s weddings,” I said to Matt. He was looking handsome in the one suit he reserved for nonprofessional occasions, a deep brown, almost black, to match his eyes. He’d loosened his collar, letting his gold-and-beige-striped tie slip to the side.
“How about the fall?” he asked.
“Whose fall?”
“For us. We could get married in the fall. Say, on Fermi’s birthday?”
September 29. I’d become so used to my fiance, I was hardly surprised that Matt remembered the birthday of Enrico Fermi, one of my favorite scientists, the first to demonstrate a nuclear chain reaction.
“That would be perfect,” I said, feeling a flush of contentment.
Just like that, we’d set a wedding date.
In the next few seconds, the country club ballroom went from a comfortable temperature to seriously overheated. I fanned my face with the wedding program. Fermi’s birthday was less than three months away.
“Need some air?” Matt asked.
At that moment the bridegroom and his EMT daughter danced close to our table and smiled at us. I thought I heard an ambulance siren pass by outside.
I smiled at Matt. “Air? I could use a tank of oxygen.”
GLORIA LAMERINO MYSTERIES BY CAMILLE MINICHINO
THE CARBON MURDER
THE BORIC ACID MURDER
THE BERYLLIUM MURDER
THE LITHIUM MURDER
THE HELIUM MURDER
THE HYDROGEN MURDER
THE NITROGEN MURDER. Copyright © 2005 by Camille Minichino. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
eISBN 9780312333836
First eBook Edition : October 2011
EAN 978-0312-33383-6
First Edition: May 2005
The Nitrogen Murder Page 26