I didn’t want Martha to think I was the funeral worker police, so I told her my reason for asking, almost.
“I received a note yesterday from a friend, and I wonder if you saw him deliver it.”
“Yes, I did, just before I left. The place was still open and I saw him go upstairs. Very handsome.”
Martha’s eyebrows went up at “handsome,” and I felt obliged to clarify.
“Not that kind of friend, Martha. Did he say anything to you?”
“No, just nodded, polite, seemed in a hurry. I’m glad the sergeant doesn’t have any competition. I like him.”
“I do, too. Thanks, Martha. I hope you have an easy day today.”
Back in my apartment, I made a list of all the men in the Hurley case who I thought Martha would think were handsome, and came up with one: Vincent Cavallo. Now, if Vincent Cavallo drives a rental car, I thought, the case is solved. It seemed clear to me that Cavallo delivered the letter from his “silent partner.” It was time to call Matt.
Fortified by more coffee and scrambled eggs, I called Matt’s office, where I pictured him with his customary breakfast bagel.
I gave him the details of my Avogadro breakthrough and he seemed to take it seriously, which pleased me.
“I’ll put some people on it,” he said. “It beats anything else we’ve got.”
I almost told him about my threatening letter, sitting on my dresser next to the red velvet box Rocky had brought, but in the clear morning light, it didn’t seem as threatening, and I didn’t want to worry him. Or lose my job.
“No more on Rocky?” I asked.
“We do know he was expecting a large infusion of money. That’s about all.”
“So, will you let me know how it goes with the license plate?”
“You can read about it in the Journal.”
“Matt,” I said, with a mock-whiny voice.
“You know I appreciate your insights, Gloria. As long as you keep your body out of the way. Well, you know what I mean.”
We both laughed, and I felt another milestone had been reached. First, a playful shoulder gesture, then a body joke. What progress, I thought, and we’re only fifty-five years old. It’s a good thing the propagation of the human race didn’t depend on us.
I decided that Frances Whitestone didn’t count as a danger to my body, and placed my next call to her. I figured I would get her secretary, and had rehearsed my opening lines.
“This is Dr. Gloria Lamerino,” I said. “I’m working with the police and I wonder if I might have a few minutes of Mrs. Whitestone’s time, at her convenience.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Whitestone is preparing to leave this afternoon for an indefinite period of time. This is her assistant, Mrs. Crawford. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I need only ten or fifteen minutes of her time. Is there any possibility that I can see her this morning?”
“One moment, please.”
Mrs. Crawford sounded strangely like someone in an old movie I’d seen, about a deadly housekeeper in an old mansion on a hill. Or maybe it was her name that called up the image.
“Mrs. Whitestone can spare twenty minutes, beginning at nine-thirty.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll see you then.”
I raced around to get ready, checking my closet for an elegant morning look. I put on a dark green paisley skirt, green knit top, and black wool blazer. I chose a long string of onyx beads and opted for once to forego a lapel pin. Mrs. Whitestone hadn’t seemed the type to appreciate my collection. I added the several pounds of wool—coat, gloves, scarf, hat—that it would take to keep me comfortable on the walk to Oxford Park, three blocks away.
The inside of the Whitestone house was even more imposing than the outside, with a beautiful carved wood banister on the stairs from the foyer, not unlike the one in the funeral parlor. I guessed they were built around the same time, in the early 1940s.
The artwork in the study, where I waited for Frances Whitestone, was a tribute to Ireland, reminding me of the recent Globe piece that profiled her own family—she’d been born Frances Mulrooney. An Irish blessing was embroidered on a banner that hung on one wall, a framed poster of Irish family shields on another. Maps of old and new Ireland lined the walls above built-in bookcases. It was the kind of decor that wouldn’t have been out of place in a pub, except that it looked tasteful and expensive, in rich fabrics and inlaid wood.
As Mrs. Whitestone entered the study, her tall, imposing frame seemed to fill the doorway. She wore matching knits, shoes, and scarf in a rich taupe with dull gold accents, and when she greeted me I found myself standing straighter and adjusting the shoulders of my jacket. I wished I’d consulted Rose before coming.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said, almost adding “Your Holiness.”
Mrs. Whitestone motioned for me to sit on a museumlike chair with a straight back and a stiff satiny cushion on its seat. No wonder she has such good posture, I thought. There’s no sinking into this furniture.
“I saw you at the mortuary, didn’t I?” she said to me, giving me the same once-over I’d gotten from her when she’d fretted over the dearth of candles. She seemed very tired, but not about to relinquish the tremendous control she had of her emotions.
“Yes, I’m associated with the Galiganis,” I said, becoming quite glib about the many hats I wore lately.
“And with the police? You are versatile for a scientist.”
I looked up sharply, catching Mrs. Whitestone’s cold green eyes. She gave me a thin smile, and I felt a slight wave of fear. Did all the principals in the Hurley case know more about me than I knew about them, I wondered, and how did Mrs. Whitestone come to be in charge of this interview? I’d almost forgotten the line of questioning I’d prepared for.
For support, I took out my notebook.
“I’d like to ask you about Margaret’s brother, Brendan, Mrs. Whitestone,” I said. “I didn’t have a chance to talk with him during the wake.”
I waited, but Mrs. Whitestone remained virtually motionless, her hands on her lap, except that I could almost see the workings of her busy head. I hadn’t actually asked a question, I realized, and she had no comment. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her directly what she thought of Buddy’s chances of inheriting his father’s money now that Margaret was dead. Facing her, I lost all courage to ask any bold question, and I heard myself imitate television detectives.
“Did you see anything unusual on your street last Sunday?”
“No.”
“How many people knew Margaret’s schedule and when she might be arriving on Oxford Park?”
“I knew it, and probably some of my acquaintances, and anyone whom Margaret herself told.”
“I’m trying to track down a license plate,” I said, aware that my so-called interview had no focus. I gave her the number I was interested in, eliminating mention of how I arrived at it.
This time she chose to answer a question with a question.
“Aren’t the police handling all this?”
“I’d hoped to be of some help, Mrs. Whitestone. We’re all as anxious as you are to find Margaret’s murderer.”
“I have put my confidence in the police department, Dr. Lamerino, and I suggest you do the same.”
“I understand you’re not happy with how they’re handling Margaret’s personal effects.”
“That’s true. I can’t understand what the police can possibly get from a garment bag and a few Christmas presents.”
At that, Mrs. Whitestone stood up, and at the same time, Mrs. Crawford entered the study with my coat. I checked my watch—nine-fifty. My audience was over.
On the walk home I reviewed my progress, which I graded harshly. I’d flunked interview techniques with Patrick Gallagher and Frances Whitestone, got nothing significant from William Carey, feared Rocky Busso unnecessarily, and been frightened into captivity by Vincent Cavallo.
It seemed that there was nothing for me to do b
ut wait for the results of the license-plate trace. Having failed at police work, I was ready to take on shopping again, so as soon as I’d shed my outer clothes, I called Rose.
“Are you awake?” I asked her.
“I was just going to call you. I’m ready to stop being lazy. What have you been doing?”
“I just dropped in on Frances Whitestone,” I said.
“Already?”
“She’s going out of town today, so I got in just in time.”
“Actually, I’m surprised she’s still around, with bad memories right at her doorstep,” Rose said. “Margaret was the closest thing Frances had to a granddaughter. If something like that happened to me, I’d split for another state immediately. And she’s the one who can do it—the Whitestones have houses all over New England. For that matter, so do the Hurleys—what’s left of them.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Do you think they have cars all over New England, too?”
Chapter Eighteen
It was too awful a thought to entertain for very long—Buddy murdering his own sister. I still had no firsthand knowledge of him and it was hard not to be swayed by his media image, a gambler from a rich and powerful family, with gangster buddies. I resolved to try to sweet-talk Matt into telling me at least the status of the Hurley estate with Margaret out of the picture.
But, for the moment, I had serious shopping to do, and Rose cooperated by picking me up and driving us into Boston. Her reasoning was that we’d be carrying home too many packages to make a subway trip feasible.
With only about two weeks until Christmas, I had to make a big dent in my shopping list, at least for the people in California. I’d already called for rates for overnight delivery, and hoped I didn’t have to use the service. Rose helped me choose a silk scarf with a beige print, and a gold circle pin from the Museum of Fine Arts Design School, both for Elaine. I picked up sweatshirts with “Boston” and “Quincy Market” logos for several other Berkeley friends, and bought odds and ends of decorations for my apartment.
“Now for the hard part,” I said, looking at the window display in a men’s store on Tremont Street.
“Matt?”
“Matt and Peter.”
To my surprise, I found it as difficult to choose a present for someone I didn’t care about as for one I liked a lot. I didn’t want to give either man the wrong impression, and in Matt’s case, I wasn’t even sure what the right impression was.
Rose cleared her throat in a way that I recognized as the signal for a revelation or confession of some sort.
“Peter called me,” she said.
“And?”
“He wanted my advice on a present for you.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not anymore. I talked him out of a heart-shaped locket. I told him I didn’t think it was you, and that he should consider a gift certificate to Borders Books and Music.”
I breathed a sigh of relief into the cold air and watched it fill the space between us.
“Thank you, thank you,” I said, hugging my friend as we walked along the edge of Boston Common.
The temperature had been rising one or two degrees every day throughout the week, and the warmer weather had created a patchwork design on the Common. Rose and I left our footprints in the interlocking squares of dirty snow and brown grass in front of the State House.
We stopped for coffee and talked about what we’d wear on our double date the next night, and for a while we were young girlfriends at Revere High School again, the reality of an unsolved murder drifting very far way.
“We need to find you something in red or green,” Rose said. “You can’t wear black all the time.”
“I have some clothes that aren’t black.”
“Even the ones that aren’t black might as well be.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s go to Copley Place and I’ll show you what I mean.”
We laughed and put on our coats, ready for the next round.
By the time we were finished for the day, I’d bought myself a Messiah outfit—a calf-length green velvet dress with three-quarter sleeves, and black patent flats with a sling back. I’d rejected the same style in three-inch heels. As we piled ourselves and our bundles into Rose’s station wagon, I tried to ignore the neatly folded white curtains she kept in the trunk in case the car was pressed into service to pick up a client.
I’d bought a coffee-table book on the wonders of Italy for Peter, an electronic address book that dialed a telephone, for Frank, and all my California gifts. Rose had bags of stocking stuffers for her children and grandson, since, as usual, she had bought and wrapped most of her major gifts before Thanksgiving. I still had nothing for Matt.
We drove home to Frank, who’d used his rare day off to prepare a meal for the three of us—a dish he called eggplant Galigani, with polenta and eggplant and roasted peppers. He seemed pleased with his efforts, and we gave him enough praise to ensure a repeat performance. Until I met Matt, I’d never cared about being “the odd person,” even when visiting couples in California, but lately I’d found myself wanting to share moments like eggplant Galigani with him.
I left the Galigani home early, hoping to get my first reasonable night’s sleep in almost a week. I wasn’t sure whether it was Frank’s culinary talent or the shopping bags piled around my bedroom that gave me comfort, but I managed to fall asleep quickly, with no nightmares that I could remember the next morning.
My Saturday seemed out of my hands—I’d have to wrap presents before and after lunch with Peter, and get ready for dinner and the Messiah concert. With no decisions to make, and the mindless task of stretching jolly paper and ribbon around boxes, my brain was free to draw up lists and make connections among all the fuzzy bits of data on the Hurley case.
I still considered the most promising line the one from Vincent Cavallo to his “partner” and the partner’s out-of-state car. My best guess was that Buddy Hurley was the partner—he could have hired Busso to kill Margaret, then killed Busso to cover himself—but I had nothing concrete to back it up.
I tried to push the whole case out of my head as I sang along with Barbra Streisand, wondering who had talked a Jewish woman into making a Christmas album.
I dressed casually for lunch with Peter, partly because it was Saturday and partly to diminish the importance of the event. As I pulled on my black wool pants, I admitted to myself another reason—I knew Peter still preferred dresses and skirts on women.
Once again fully wrapped in my new winter clothes, I went to the garage, coming upon Guido, the sweet young student from Italy who cleaned the building on Saturday mornings. Whenever we met, Guido and I had a routine exchange of Italian, during which I practiced the language I was once fluent in.
“Buon giorno,” I said.
“Che porta?” Guido asked, pointing to the large, gaily wrapped book I had for Peter.
“Una cosa per natale,” I said, using the ridiculous phrase, “a thing for Christmas,” since I didn’t know the word for “present.”
Guido always gave me a thumbs-up anyway, no matter how poorly I responded.
Peter had chosen Russo’s café, near the center of town, where the police station, Revere City Hall, the main post office, and the Journal office all sat within not more than a hundred yards of each other.
The first thing that worried me when I saw Peter, already sipping a mocha, was the tiny box near his napkin. It looked more the right size for a locket than for a gift certificate. Not off to a great start, I thought, and so much for Rose’s powers of persuasion.
“I’ve ordered an antipasto, and the pasta primavera for both of us,” Peter said, and even that annoyed me, as just another sign of his male chauvinist attitudes. And I was going to have to choose between Russo’s delicious, delicately fried zucchini and making a feminist statement by fasting.
I barely focused on our conversation during the meal, distilling phrases like “more of each other in the new year” and �
��so much to catch up on.” I concentrated on my pasta, glancing now and then at the tiramisu in the pastry case.
“Present time!” Peter announced, with a big smile.
I took a deep breath and handed Peter’s package across the table.
He put the short edge on his lap, leaned on it, and handed me the small box.
“You first,” I said, hoping Peter would see the trend, take back the box, and pull a gift certificate out of his pocket.
Peter opened his package carefully, as if he intended to use the paper and the cellophane tape again.
“You can exchange it for something else if you already have it,” I said as he was lifting the book from its wrapper. What I meant was, “this gift has no personal significance, and is interchangeable with all the other gifts in the world.”
He seemed pleased with the wonders of Italy and assured me that he didn’t already have a copy and that he’d been wanting one.
There was no more stalling; it was my turn. I tore the paper off the small box. I had a strange recollection of opening the box Rocky Busso had handed me not so long ago.
On a bed of white silk I saw a gold heart-shaped pendant, about two centimeters down the middle. At least it wasn’t a locket with his photo in it, I thought, trying to smile at the same time.
“This is beautiful, Peter. Thank you.”
“I wanted to get you something special.”
“Peter ...”
“Don’t say anything, Gloria. I know you’ve been busy and haven’t had time for socializing, but as I said a few minutes ago, I hope that’ll change in the new year.”
“I don’t—”
“Why don’t we wait till all this holiday rush is over and spend some time together. I’ll be gone for two weeks, and when I come back—”
It was my turn to interrupt, and it took a giant effort for me not to scream.
“Peter, I can’t see us ever spending a lot of time together,” I said. “I hope we can be friends without complicating things.”
Peter’s jaw stiffened as he pinched his eyes closed and breathed in deeply.
The Helium Murder Page 12