Authors: Camille Minichino

Tags: #Revere Beach (Mass.), #Police Procedural, #Mystery & Detective, #Boric acid, #General, #Boston (Mass.), #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious character), #Women Sleuths, #Fiction, #Women physicists, #Detective and mystery stories; American, #Massachusetts

The Boric Acid Murder (16 page)

BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder

5.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads

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 her 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.”

“So the delivery people left the lions in the middle of the lobby at ten o’clock?” I was sure Derek wondered why I wanted these details, but I had John on my mind …John and his alleged timeline.

Derek nodded. “Yolanda was here when they arrived. She heard the truck pull up and called me on the interoffice phone.”

“And this was on the night she was …?”

Another nod. “I was working upstairs while Yolanda was in the basement using the computer. After the delivery guys drove off, I hung around awhile longer, and left myself about eleven.”

“Did anyone else come, in between the delivery of the lions and the time you left the building?”

“No. We were closed of course. Why all this interest in the lions? Do they have something to do with Yolanda’s murder?”

“No, no. Just curious. It has nothing to do with the case.”

I hoped I was right.

BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder

5.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads