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 (7 page)

BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder
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AT FOUR O’CLOCK on Sunday afternoon, approximately seven hours and thirteen minutes after Rose had hung up on me, I stood on the lawn-green welcome mat of the Galigani home. I’d struggled over what to bring as a peace offering. Rose hardly ever ate candy, and as a nondrinker, I was hopeless at choosing wine. Flowers were out, since she had her own garden full of colorful blooms—we’d expect nothing less from the daughter of the late Mike Zarelli, at one time the owner of Revere’s biggest nursery.
To put another damper on my spirits and my opportunity to bear gifts, our favorite bakery was closed on Sunday.
I settled for a supermarket selection of bread, cheese, and fruit. I bought a basket and a bright yellow kitchen towel and did my best to arrange an attractive package. It looked as artistic as the graphics in my Ph.D. thesis, which I’d also designed.
I rang the bell, half of me hoping there was no one home, the other half wishing the moment were over. I surveyed the prize rosebushes, the beginnings of a lattice Frank was building, the new light fixture Robert and his fourteen-year-old son Billy had installed at the edge of the driveway.
After what seemed like hours, Frank opened the door. His smile cheered me. Rose was right behind him, her eyes puffy and without makeup. She held out her arms and I knew there’d be no need to discuss our first falling out in more than forty years.
“Gloria, we’ve been trying to reach you. John is home.”
I let out a long breath. “I’m so glad.”
I meant it in many ways.
JOHN SAT ON the sofa in navy-blue sweats I recognized as Frank’s. His longish hair was wet, and I imagined he’d gone straight to the shower when he’d arrived at his parents’ home after a night in jail. He’d agreed to stay as long as it took to answer their questions.
On the chairs across from John were the Galiganis’ lawyer, Nick Ciccolo, and a freckled young man introduced to me as criminal attorney Mike Canty. Both lawyers wore casual slacks and shirts and somber expressions. I’d experienced lighter moods at Frank’s wakes.
When John stood and gave me a silent hug, I felt I was bearing all his weight. From reflex, I patted his back as I’d done when he was a child.
Rose had resumed her role as hostess, serving iced tea and beer. She’d turned my haphazard fruit basket into an attractive tray of hors d’oeuvres, adding tiny hot meatballs with barbecue sauce. I figured she’d channeled her nervous energy into food preparation. But, unlike me, she didn’t eat everything she cooked.
“Matt called,” Rose said. “He’ll be here any minute. Robert and Karla went home to get Billy. They’ll be back. And Mary Catherine offered to fly in from Houston, but we told her she didn’t need to do that right now.” Rose waved her hand. “She can come when we’re all happier, when …”
She drifted off. We were all accounted for. Rose was keeping track of everyone close to her, as she usually did.
“Any news?” I asked.
Heads shook all around the room. “Matt said he’d tell us whatever he could when he got here,” Frank said.
Rose beat a path from the living room to the kitchen, refilling drinks and picking up crumbs. When the doorbell rang, she jumped.
Matt stood on the threshold carrying a large watermelon and I wondered if he’d also aggravated Rose today. “It’s hot out
there. Couldn’t pass this up.” He pretended to toss the heavy ellipsoid to John. I was happy for his cheerfulness, hoping it meant good, or at least neutral, news.
Rose brought Matt, a teetotaler like me, a bottle of mineral water. All eyes were on him as he addressed the lawyers. “I’m here as a friend.”
They nodded and gave identical waves of their hands, indicating they understood. I imagined the gesture had a Latin name, something with
mano
in it, something they learned in law school.
“They found a box of stuff in your closet, John,” Matt said, his voice soft and caring, but with an unmistakable note of worry. I noted how he appeared to distance himself from
them
.
“What kind of stuff?” Rose asked. I saw frustration take over her face, and hoped she wouldn’t turn it on Matt.
“How did they get a search warrant?” Frank asked. He’d moved toward Rose and put his arm around her.
The lawyers stood by, not participating in the conversation. I figured they knew what they were doing and that their silence had some legal significance. I imagined them later, in a courtroom, denying they had knowledge of the search warrant or of this conversation.
“The judge gave it to them, on the basis of some letters found in Yolanda’s apartment, and also on the fact that Yolanda’s briefcase, which she had at dinner with John, was missing.”
“But what about Derek Byrne?” I asked him. “Didn’t he let Yolanda into the library? Did she have it then?” I knew there were too many questions facing Matt at once, but I wasn’t moved to make it easy for him. The messenger.
Matt nodded. “Derek says she had the briefcase when he let her in.”
“So how could John have taken it?”
“They think he went back later, and—”
“Why would he want her briefcase?” I asked, aware that ordinarily Matt wouldn’t answer questions that threw him off track. But he was here as a friend, I reminded myself.
“Well, there might have been more threatening letters. Maybe Yolanda brought them to dinner in an attempt to extract something from John. Maybe she made her own threats, to go to the police with them.” He held up his hands, as if to stem the tide of upset he expected to come his way. “I’m giving you potentials, here, because you asked.”
Matt turned to John, regaining control of the unsolicited question and answer period. “The good news: no briefcase in your apartment. However, they did find the crate on the floor of your closet. The one with photos of you and Yolanda. Plus, programs that look like they might be from dates. Tickets from concerts, plays. Letters and cards.”
“So he saves souvenirs. That doesn’t mean he killed her.” Rose crossed the room and stood behind John, putting her hands on his shoulders.
Matt took a sip of his water and let out a long breath. I realized I’d been holding mine in. This time he kept his eyes on John.
“There was a stack of clippings from newspapers. Back several years. All with Yolanda Fiore’s byline.”
“So he keeps clippings. He’s a journalist.” Although Rose moved her hands to her hips in a defiant posture, her voice was pleading. I hoped she wouldn’t lose control.
“John?” Matt addressed him quietly, and I supposed he wished he had the suspect to himself. I was pleased and surprised that the lawyers still hadn’t interfered, except through body language. Nick Ciccolo rubbed his fists together as he paced in front of the fireplace. Mike Canty bit his knuckles, a gesture that made me wonder if he was half Italian. In another situation, Rose would have filled me in on his ethnicity on the spot.
John raised bloodshot eyes to Matt. “I cared about Yolanda. I never wanted to break up. I know it was silly to keep that stuff, but I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.”
“How did he know someone was going to kill her? Maybe I should go upstairs right now and see what I’ve kept, just in case someday …” Rose turned away, clearly making a great effort to
stay calm and rational. Every time she addressed Matt I worried that she’d lash out at him, or dismiss him, as she’d done to me. I figured Matt was used to more abusive treatment than Rose would ever mete out, but I felt sorry for him nonetheless.
“I think Matt needs time alone with John, and maybe Nicky and Mike,” Frank said. “I’m going back to my office for a while. How about you, dear?”
Rose responded to Frank’s pleasant tone with a weak nod, while he rubbed a spot high on her back, as if he were giving a secret marriage code. I’d always admired their great trust and affection for each other and hoped it would carry them through what must be very painful for them.
In spite of the mood, I smiled to myself. It occurred to me that I was building a similar relationship with Matt. Unless I’d thrown it away last night. I realized I’d been avoiding Matt’s eyes since he’d arrived, and we hadn’t exchanged a greeting.
I hadn’t had romance in my life since my engagement at twenty-one. That had ended with the death of my fiancé three months before the wedding. I’d handled the tragedy beautifully—I ran off to California and didn’t come back for more than thirty years. So much for mature responses.
“I’m going to take a walk,” Rose said. She looked at me, a plea written across her face. I was torn between wanting to stay for the interview and the desire to comfort my friend and renew our closeness. I plotted how to have the best of both worlds—go with Rose for now and grill Matt later for details. If we were still on speaking terms.
“Count me in,” I said to Rose, earning a smile from her that lit up the room.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, Matt showed up at my apartment with the beginnings of a feast—fresh basil from Rose’s garden. The aroma did wonders for the air in my flat since it had been closed up for ten summer days.
I noticed he didn’t have a change of clothes with him. I was still unclear about my feelings. One minute I wished he’d whisk me away to St. Anthony’s and make me his bride, the
next minute I wanted to run to California again. It seemed romance was no easier at fifty-something than at twenty-something.
While we prepared a large bowl of penne and tomatoes, I searched Matt’s face for signs of displeasure—or relief. Was he upset that I’d ignored his proposal to live together? Or was he happy I hadn’t taken him up on what he’d intended as a joke? I read nothing in his expression, and imagined he was calling upon years of practice in interview rooms to maintain a neutral demeanor.
I retreated from the personal issue and welcomed his briefing on the session with John and his lawyers.
“The bad news is John doesn’t have an alibi for the time after about eight-thirty Thursday evening, when he says he dropped Yolanda off at the library,” Matt told me.
He says
. I understood Matt’s caveat. He used it out of habit, but I didn’t like the implication.
“He went straight to his apartment, did some reading, etc., etc. He says Yolanda told him Derek Byrne would let her in, which checks with Byrne’s statement. Byrne says he let her in around eight-thirty, stayed and worked a couple of hours himself, and left her a little before eleven.”
He flipped through his standard-issue notebook, as if this were an ordinary case. What did I expect? I wondered. A bigger pad since the chief suspect was our friend? A smaller one since he wasn’t guilty? A special color?
“What’s Derek’s alibi for after he left Yolanda in the building alone, allegedly?” I had a few caveats of my own.
Matt smiled. “Allegedly, Byrne went home to his place on Reservoir Avenue. His alibi’s not a lot better than John’s, but he doesn’t have a motive. Apparently Byrne and the victim were getting along fine. No problems noticed by anyone who was interviewed.”
“Maybe he saw John drop her off and got jealous, and …” I trailed off, embarrassed at the flimsy excuse for a motive.
Matt had the courtesy not to follow up. “Did you get anything from your trip to the lab?” he asked.
“Just a bad feeling from a public affairs officer. No surprise there. I still have Yolanda’s boron articles to read.”
“Was that boring articles?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.” I wondered if I should tell him about element number one hundred and seven, called bohrium, after nuclear physicist Niels Bohr.
“That was too easy a shot, I guess.”
I nodded. For the first time since we’d started dating, I felt strained around Matt. In spite of the distraction of Yolanda Fiore’s murder and John Galigani’s predicament, it was clear that we were stepping around another important topic.
Us
.
Matt’s pager went off just as we’d run out of excuses to discuss our future together. A wave of relief flowed through me.
“Another case,” he told me after responding to the call.
I suspected he was equally relieved.
IN MATT’S ABSENCE, I took Yolanda’s reports to bed with me, a scenario much more typical of my adult life than the last few months with a steady boyfriend.
One report was a treasury of data on the radioactive waste that’s been gathering for the last fifty years, mostly in large pools right next to the nuclear reactors that generated it. Like lethal swimming holes all around the country.
In another of her articles, Yolanda had created an accident scenario: suppose a steam line in a power plant breaks, causing a rapid temperature change in the cooling system. Immediately, the control-room staff would need to inject a solution that would safely shut down the plant—a solution containing boron. What if the plant didn’t have enough boron on hand? Yolanda asked. A meltdown on the horizon, she answered.
All of Yolanda’s articles had a definite antinuke slant—in one she managed to bring up the hazardous presence of weapons-grade material on lab property—but hard as I tried, I couldn’t see anything worth killing her for. No individual would likely feel threatened by her pseudo-exposes. Ordinarily I’d be happy to find no scientific motive in a murder investigation,
but this time I was ready to sacrifice one of my own species, a professional scientist, for the sake of exonerating John Galigani.
BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder
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