The Helium Murder (15 page)

I heard Elaine’s voice first.

“I missed you today,” she said. “We went to Bobby’s for the department party this afternoon. At least it’s December.”

Elaine and I joked about how the Christmas parties at our lab started earlier and earlier every year, sometimes barely clearing Thanksgiving.

“I’ll be home all evening, so call me.”

“I’ll be happy to,” I told her machine voice, and waited for the second message, which turned out to be not so welcome.

Peter, from my own time zone, had also called while I was out. Since it was nearly ten o’clock it would have made more sense to call him first, but I needed warmth and friendliness more than bickering, so I punched in Elaine’s number.

“I think I have a breakthrough,” I told her, walking her through my Avogadro’s number theory.

“Wow,” she said, “you’re good, Gloria,” and I knew why I’d called Elaine first. I told her my dilemma about the Massachusetts system of three digits, three letters.

“Maybe rental cars have different sets of characters. I know they do in some states. I think it was in Virginia where I was once, and all the rentals started with R.”

“Good idea, Elaine, you should come here and be my partner.”

The image of William Carey, the out-of-towner, came to my mind, and I found it easy to picture him behind the wheel of the car that killed Margaret Hurley. I added the rental car idea to my list for Matt. It felt good to think that I might be earning my stipend.

I kept Elaine talking as long as I could, hoping it would be too late to call Peter, and the strategy worked. It was nearly eleven when we wrapped up our stories, and if Peter held to the same schedule he’d had as a young man, he’d be in bed by now.

Before I went to my bedroom, I looked at my unwelcome letter of warning again. It didn’t sound like William Carey, nor the somewhat scattered receptionist I’d met at his Chelsea plant. Maybe the Texas drawl was a cover, I thought.

Reviewing my hate mail wasn’t conducive to restful sleep, and for a long time I tossed around my bed, trying to insert a picture of Matt Gennaro where now there was only an angry Peter Mastrone, a murderous William Carey, and a dead Rocky Busso.

Chapter Seventeen

A
fter another night of fitful sleep, during which I dreamed I was run over by a mail truck, I rated my week on the Hurley case twice as stressful as the week before my doctoral exams.

I brought a mug of coffee into bed around seven o’clock and started my day by punching in Peter’s number. He was always more cheerful in the morning, I remembered, even if I wasn’t.

“I’m sorry it was too late to return your call last night,” I said.

“Out with the cop?” Peter asked, shooting holes in my theory about his morning mood.

“Peter, I’m sorry about yesterday morning. I know it was very awkward for you.”

“It was. But it’s not as though Gallagher and I were thick, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks,” I said, almost disappointed at Peter’s
civil response. It gave me no excuse to tell him I didn’t want to see him for another thirty years.

“I called last night to see if you were free for dinner, but obviously you weren’t.”

“I walked to the beach, on the spur of the moment,” I told him, feeling that, as such a good sport for once, he deserved the truth.

“In this weather? Gloria, you’re not in California anymore.”

And what a shame, I thought, but not because of the weather. So far, Peter was the only one who could provoke me to regret returning to Revere.

“Peter, I’m sure you have to run. I’ll see you Monday. The class is coming along fine.”

“Oh, I also wanted to tell you that one of the girls in my class built a radio for a science project, using crystals or something, and she wants to bring it on Monday to show you. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“How exciting,” I said, noting Peter’s emphasis on “girl.” “I’ll work it into my talk.”

“How about a little Christmas lunch on Saturday?”

“I thought we were doing that on Monday.”

“Monday’s rushed now. I found out I have a faculty meeting in the afternoon.”

Before I realized it, I’d agreed to lunch with Peter on Saturday, thus booking myself a two-date day.

Sitting in bed with my phone on my lap, I wished I’d been brave enough to get Frances Whitestone’s telephone number the night before. Eventually, I faced reality, with a heavy sigh, and exchanged my nightgown
for the jeans and sweatshirt I’d worn to the beach. I hoped to sneak downstairs before any of the staff arrived, and copy the number from Rose’s file.

I made it safely to Rose’s desk, an antique from her grandparents’ home. Although few clients ever saw Rose’s office, it was appointed like the elegant person she was, with heirloom furniture and a beautiful Aubusson carpet. I took her Mont Blanc pen from its mahogany cradle, handling it as if it were expensive labware, and copied the Whitestone number.

I turned to leave and ran head-on into Martha. I was more frightened than I should have been, and poor Martha was full of apologies. She was also wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and was just as surprised as I was to meet someone on the second floor of the mortuary at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Oh, am I glad it’s you,” Martha said, echoing my sentiments. “We’re all technically off today. I’m on my way to drop the kids off at school, and thought I’d come in and pick up some work to take home. It was such a hectic week.”

“It certainly was,” I said. “Martha, what time did you leave yesterday?”

“Thursday,” she said, frowning and clutching her chin. “I picked up the kids at four-thirty, so I left around four-fifteen. I was supposed to stay till five, but I was exhausted. That’s why I came back this morning.”

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 but 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.”