Read The Boric Acid Murder Online
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 (4 page)
One quick look at the U.S. mail, a call to Rose, then I’d take a nap. It was only six o’clock California time, but I felt I’d already lived those extra three hours. I sifted through flyers,
magazines, and bills, filtering out the first-class letters. A few letters from former professional colleagues, sure to be part business, part personal. A bright pink envelope from my cousin Mary Ann in Worcester, probably a late-arriving bon voyage card. A thick letter from the youngest Galigani child, Mary Catherine, a chemical engineer living in Houston. I wondered if she’d been told yet about her brother’s arrest.
magazines, and bills, filtering out the first-class letters. A few letters from former professional colleagues, sure to be part business, part personal. A bright pink envelope from my cousin Mary Ann in Worcester, probably a late-arriving bon voyage card. A thick letter from the youngest Galigani child, Mary Catherine, a chemical engineer living in Houston. I wondered if she’d been told yet about her brother’s arrest.
The last piece of first-class mail had no return address. A small off-white envelope of good quality, postmarked REVERE. I slit it open and pulled out a plain sheet of matching paper.
My throat tightened as I scanned the neatly typed lines, then reread every word.
KEEP OUT OF POLICE WORK. TAKE UP SEWING. END YOUR NEW POLICE CAREER, OR I WILL.
My fingers gripped the note. I looked around quickly, as if the author might be standing over me with a coat rack, ready to push me out the door and down my own staircase.
IT MEANS NOTHING, I told myself as I chained my door and set the intrusion alarm. I carried the letter, stuffed back into its envelope, to one of my pale blue glide rockers—the only furniture that survived my cross-country move—and put it on my lap. Was I hoping it might have a different message when I pulled it out again?
I’d looked forward to returning to my neat apartment—simple furnishings, framed prints of San Francisco and the Bay Area. I hoped for a little breeze to carry the smell of salt air to my window onto Tuttle Street and St. Anthony’s Church. A threatening note was not part of my welcome home plan.
I read the letter again, and annoyance replaced my initial reflexive panic.
Sewing
indeed. I thought of astronomer Maria Mitchell and her complaints about needlework. When she was a young woman, she’d been forced to learn to sew although she wanted to study astronomy, her father’s profession. As a treat to counteract the nasty note, I made an espresso and took a copy of her diary from my bookcase. I found my favorite passage, from an entry in 1853.
Sewing
indeed. I thought of astronomer Maria Mitchell and her complaints about needlework. When she was a young woman, she’d been forced to learn to sew although she wanted to study astronomy, her father’s profession. As a treat to counteract the nasty note, I made an espresso and took a copy of her diary from my bookcase. I found my favorite passage, from an entry in 1853.
The needle is the chain of woman
,
and has fettered her more than the laws of the country
.
I would as soon put a girl alone into the closet to meditate as give her only the society of her needle
.
,
and has fettered her more than the laws of the country
.
I would as soon put a girl alone into the closet to meditate as give her only the society of her needle
.
Too bad I don’t have a return address on my threatening note, I thought. I’d send him—or her—this quote.
I’d received intimidating notes and phone calls working on other cases with the Revere Police Department, but not so early in the game. The only person I’d met so far in connection with Yolanda Fiore’s murder was Dorothy Leonard, whom I’d left less than an hour ago. Certainly not enough time for a posted letter to reach me.
I studied the cancellation mark, but couldn’t make out a date. While I was in California, Rose, whose office was one floor below my apartment in the mortuary building, had piled my mail into a basket on the floor of my small foyer. I decided against asking if she remembered which day this letter had arrived—no need to worry her over what would probably be useless information.
It had been less than forty-eight hours since Yolanda had been killed. Not much time, unless the killer had dispatched Yolanda down the library stairway with one hand and mailed the letter with the other. It was even more curious to think the note could have been written before the murder. Curious. And not a little frightening.
I abandoned the idea of a nap and took out a notebook. I headed the first page SEWING LETTER, to remind me of the perseverance of Maria Mitchell, who eventually discovered a comet and became the first female member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. The impact of the rude note was softened by the title I’d given it, and I was able to analyze it with a level head.
I made a list of potential meanings.
Possibility number one—the note had nothing to do with the current case. Perhaps the writer thought I’d receive it before my trip to California. He could have been warning me off the now-completed Berkeley murder investigation.
Number two—the revenge of an unhappy relative of someone I’d helped put behind bars. I scribbled the names of the key people in earlier cases. No one stood out as the likely author.
I briefly considered a misdelivery, but since there wasn’t
another Dr. Gloria Lamerino in Revere, or in the state as far as I knew, I didn’t bother to write it down.
another Dr. Gloria Lamerino in Revere, or in the state as far as I knew, I didn’t bother to write it down.
On to possibility number three. I was being warned off investigating Yolanda Fiore’s murder.
The implications were clear and chilling: the murder was committed by someone who knew me, or knew about me. I shuddered at the idea that I was specifically sought out by a cold-blooded killer. More probably, I decided, the person was aware of my contracts with the police department or my connection to the Galiganis, and figured I’d get involved.
At the bottom of the page I wrote my view of the case so far:
1.
Possible motive: controversy over boron? Suspects: nuclear scientists at the Charger Street lab.
Possible motive: controversy over boron? Suspects: nuclear scientists at the Charger Street lab.
2.
Possible motive: unrelated to boron? Suspects: everyone else.
Possible motive: unrelated to boron? Suspects: everyone else.
3.
Killer’s strategy: frame John Galigani. Dissuade Lamerino from investigating.
Killer’s strategy: frame John Galigani. Dissuade Lamerino from investigating.
Under ACTION, I wrote
1.
Visit Charger Street lab.
Visit Charger Street lab.
2.
Get library card.
Get library card.
My work on the Fiore case was under way.
THE TELEPHONE woke me from an unintentional nap in the rocker. My notebook had slid to the floor, my espresso cup was perilously close to the edge of the end table.
“You were asleep,” Rose said, her own voice far from upbeat.
I groaned when I realized I’d forgotten to call her. “I didn’t mean to be. I took a couple of pain pills.”
“Are your feet still bothering you?”
“A little.” I paused. I had so many questions for Rose, but I wasn’t sure how to phrase them and I was worried about the answers. I settled for the simplest one first. “How’s John?”
Rose sighed. I heard a pain beyond the reach of little white pills. “They’re keeping him overnight, Gloria. I didn’t think they could do that.”
“I didn’t either.” Rose sounded so fragile, I hesitated to ask even the most basic questions, like whether they’d retained a lawyer for John.
“Frank called Judge Sciacchitano,” she told me. I waited for Rose to give me the stats on Sciacchitano—parish, number of children, recent deceased loved one laid to rest with Frank’s help. But this was not a normal conversation, and even the judge’s gender remained undisclosed to me.
“So John might be home soon?” I asked in a hopeful tone.
“Yes. He told us there was no reason John shouldn’t be allowed to come home, and he’s going to look into it.”
Neither of us wanted to articulate the worst—that John might be detained. Surely a judge who knew the Galiganis well enough to talk to them on a weekend would work hard to get John home. I carried the phone to my window and stared across Revere Street to the gray brick tower of St. Anthony’s Church. The prayers of my youth came back to me, as if it hadn’t been decades since I’d knelt at Tuesday night novena services. Saint
Anthony, our patron and our advocate, grant us what we ask of thee
.
Anthony, our patron and our advocate, grant us what we ask of thee
.
I knew the Galiganis had no financial problems, but I made the offer anyway.
“Thanks, Gloria. I’m sure we’ll be able to take care of it. We need you to …” Rose’s voice broke.
“I’m already on it.”
SATURDAY NIGHT was not a handy time to begin an investigation. Both the lab and the library would be closed until Monday morning. I wandered around my apartment, halfheartedly unpacking, uninterested in reading or television. I wondered where Matt was, and how I was going to acquire necessary
information without his formal participation. I knew he wouldn’t cross the line drawn by department canons.
information without his formal participation. I knew he wouldn’t cross the line drawn by department canons.
I blamed my impasse on how pitifully few friends I’d made during my year back in my hometown, leaving me no resources, no contacts. When John was cleared, I decided, I’d be more responsive to Rose’s attempts to draw me into Revere society. As if I hadn’t made that resolution before.
If Rose and Frank could command the services of a judge on a weekend, I should be able to do some small thing off-hours. My friends are a small group, but of high quality, I told myself. I picked up the telephone and pushed Andrea Cabrini’s number.
“Hi, Gloria. It’s great to hear from you. I knew you were coming back from California today.”
“I got in a little while ago. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Oh, no, I’m a night person. I hope you had a good time.”
I’d met Andrea, a technician at the lab, on my first case with Matt. A friend of hers—a hydrogen researcher—had been murdered. Since then she’d attached herself to me as a kind of disciple for my work on homicide cases. She’d introduced me to scientists and engineers I needed to interview, taken me to seminars, given me the scoop on the latest in laboratory politics. Andrea was what plus-size clothing ads called a big, beautiful woman. She had fewer friends than I did, and I’d convinced myself that she really enjoyed helping me.
I thought I’d spare Andrea the details of my harrowing ten days and wounded feet. “I have a souvenir for you,” I told her instead.
Andrea’s delighted gasp sent a wave of guilt through me—first because I planned to exploit our friendship one more time, and second because I hadn’t even picked out her souvenir myself. At the end of my stay in Berkeley I’d taken advantage of my slight disability and talked Elaine into shopping for me, something I dreaded even with perfect soles.
“I read the awful news about Yolanda Fiore’s murder,” Andrea said. “She used to work here. I didn’t know her though.”
“But you knew I’d have some questions for you.”
“Yeah. About boron, right? I’ve already copied some material from our library. And I got you a pass in case you wanted to get on-site tomorrow.”
“Andrea, you’re a gem.”
“I love helping you. It’s the most fun thing I do.” She paused and I heard a small cough. “Not that I hope for more murders or anything.”
I pictured Andrea in one of her oversized tunics, her pudgy hands flying to her mouth in dismay at the thought of giving me the wrong impression.
“I know, Andrea. And I would love to get into the lab tomorrow. Why don’t I take you to lunch first? Say, Russo’s, at noon?”
“Yeah, I’m free for lunch. That would be perfect. Thanks, Gloria.”
After we hung up, I wondered why I hadn’t told Andrea how John Galigani’s near-arrest made this case different from the others we’d worked on. Could I be in denial about the serious trouble my friends’ son was in? I knew I would never believe John capable of murder.
During the years I’d lived in California, the Galiganis had visited often. At least once a year the whole family would fly west, crowding my condo, filling its small rooms and me with pleasure. Rose and I had seen each other more often, one highlight a week-long trip to Rome in our fortieth birthday year.
The Galigani children had also spent time with me separately. I loved each one equally, except for a slight bias toward Mary Catherine, the youngest and only girl. And the only one to enter a hard-science field, chemical engineering. Mary Catherine had been married to a lawyer for a short time. Her letter to me this week told of a new love, a petroleum chemist.
“I know you love him already, Aunt Glo,” MC had written.
Though only a year apart, Robert and John might as well have been separated by a generation. I remembered their college days—Robert, the conservative dresser, studying biology, headed for mortuary school; John, the sociology major with
long hair, wishing he’d been born early enough to join the protests of the sixties.
long hair, wishing he’d been born early enough to join the protests of the sixties.
Nostalgia was getting me nowhere.
I checked my watch. Ten after seven. Still on California time. I turned the hands three hours ahead—with older eyes, I found analog watch faces much easier to read than digital—as much to put an end to Saturday as to be in sync with the East Coast. On Sunday, John would be home, I was sure, and I’d be at the lab uncovering a boron motive.
For now I should go to bed early, and be ready for a full day. I looked at the summer linens on my bed, an inviting white cotton knit spread and a soft pillow.
I groaned and rubbed my eyes. Not yet.
I changed the bandages on my feet and grabbed my cane. I had no idea what I hoped to accomplish by a visit to a public building locked up for the night, but I knew it was more than I’d get done sitting in my apartment.
A half hour later, dressed in cotton pants and a new Cal Berkeley T-shirt with long sleeves, I parked my long black Cadillac—another perk from living in the Galigani Mortuary—in front of the Revere Public Library. The officer was gone. I assumed some time limit had been reached and there was no more to be gained from keeping the crime scene isolated.
I limped around the property. The old redbrick structure was so beautiful, I felt almost inspired to read something literary. Years ago, Elaine had talked me into a card for the Berkeley Public Library—also a good-looking brick building—and I remembered taking out classics under her direction. I’d tried Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, George Sands, George Eliot.
“They’re early feminists,” she’d told me. “You should love them.”
I shook my head. “It’s hard to read a book without equations.”
Eventually Elaine gave up her attempts to convert me to well-roundedness of the intellectual kind.
Lights were on up and down Beach Street as I took a lame walk along the side of the building. I pictured the model I’d
seen inside the library and found the area designated for the new extension, stretching about sixty feet in back.
seen inside the library and found the area designated for the new extension, stretching about sixty feet in back.
To the right of the building was the vacant lot where my old high school once stood, and just beyond that was the only cemetery in the city—the Rumney Marsh Burying Ground. I walked as far as the entrance and peered in through the wrought-iron gate.
The headstone closest to me had a date of 1809, but I remembered from civics classes that there were even older graves, some from the 1600s. Isolated from the activity on the main street, I faced the musty overgrown gravestones, dim forms in the darkness. I felt light-headed thinking how likely it was that the fence had been moved many times during the city’s four-hundred-year history. I could be standing on the remains of pilgrims, Minutemen, patriots. I imagined the bulldozers unearthing the bones of doughboys. Or ordinary churchgoers and grandfathers.
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