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 (9 page)
The second mezzanine was more like an abandoned loft, filled with sealed cartons and rusty trunks and a collection of
dusty artifacts that didn’t seem to belong in a library. Its walls were uncovered brick, like the outside of the building. The slanted beams that formed the ceiling forced Derek to walk with his head hunched between his shoulders. I worried about dirt and snags in his expensive-looking suit, light brown, almost the color of his hair. I had no such problem with either my height or my washable cotton jacket.
dusty artifacts that didn’t seem to belong in a library. Its walls were uncovered brick, like the outside of the building. The slanted beams that formed the ceiling forced Derek to walk with his head hunched between his shoulders. I worried about dirt and snags in his expensive-looking suit, light brown, almost the color of his hair. I had no such problem with either my height or my washable cotton jacket.
“From the Historical Society,” Derek explained as we passed two spinning wheels and stacks of old photographs in elaborate frames.
A long glass-covered case contained antique knives and guns and what looked like the precursor to the modern crowbar. Handwritten labels with a temporary look identified a colonial musket, a Civil War cannonball, a wooden gavel made from the keel of the
U.S.S. Constitution
. I grimaced as I calculated the number of years since my fourth-grade field trip to
Old Ironsides
. A bigger number than Derek’s age, I was sure.
U.S.S. Constitution
. I grimaced as I calculated the number of years since my fourth-grade field trip to
Old Ironsides
. A bigger number than Derek’s age, I was sure.
“I’m impressed,” I said, checking out a thank you letter sent to a Revere resident by Jackie Kennedy a few weeks after the assassination of her husband.
“We’re storing all this while they complete a new history wing in the City Hall.”
Derek seemed proud to show me a special bookcase with original editions of stories by Horatio Alger, a Revere native. “Alger wrote more than a hundred books with ‘rags-to-riches, onward and upward’ themes right after the Civil War. Very inspiring message—if you do your best and always try to do the right thing, you’ll succeed.”
I let Derek go on about Alger, the poet, journalist, and eventually a minister on Cape Cod. I couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d never read him and if I were on a quiz show, I would have guessed he was a spy during World War II.
A strange-looking contraption next to a musty dressmaker’s dummy caught my eye.
“That’s part of a still,” Derek said, apparently noticing the direction of my gaze.
“From Prohibition days. When they made wood alcohol in backyards.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Moonshine. It gets its name from being made and transported at night, by moonlight. It was also called bathtub gin, because it was often stored in bathtubs so the user could just pull the plug if a raid was imminent.”
Derek’s tone was neutral, as if he were lecturing fifth-graders on a tour of the library. I remembered Rose’s account and wondered how much he knew about how wood alcohol/moonshine /bathtub gin had ruined his grandparents’ lives.
“Fascinating,” I said.
My trip to the library was proving more interesting than boron.
Could that be?
WHEN I LEFT Derek Byrne, it was still too early for a one o’clock appointment I’d made with Matt. Since it was hot and muggy outside, I sat in my comfortable car and made some notes about my interaction with Derek.
A dispute over sacred burial grounds, the history of Revere, Horatio Alger lore, the etymology of “moonshine” liquor. I felt I’d learned a great deal, even if none of it seemed relevant to my investigation of Yolanda Fiore’s murder. Maybe that’s what libraries were all about—a collection of data and facts, with the responsibility for synthesis on the shoulders of the cardholder.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized it had been Derek’s agenda, not mine, that we’d followed. Could he really have been simply exercising good PR skills, unaware that I was engaging him in an unofficial police interview? Had he skillfully steered me past anything that would help my inquiry? Or was Derek what he seemed—a nice guy distracted by the loss of his girlfriend and his involvement in a conflict with his father and the Catholic Church?
He hadn’t offered to include the basement area on our tour, where the computer center was, and where Yolanda’s body had been found, and I hadn’t had the heart to ask. I figured it would be too difficult for him. Either because he missed his girlfriend, or because he killed her.
Although I didn’t think it was pertinent to the murder case, I jotted down the salient points about the “war” over the library expansion project.
Pro: Dorothy Leonard and Byrne the younger.
Con: the Church (Attorney Frances Worthen) and Byrne the elder.
Unknown position: Yolanda Fiore, John Galigani.
I tapped my pen on the pad. Skimpy information, but I didn’t rule anything out.
When you have nothing, everything matters.
AT ONE O’CLOCK, a smiling and efficient Michelle Chan walked me to Matt’s office in the Revere Police Station. I estimated her weight at about the same as mine when I was eleven years old. I was more than usually aware of the cramped quarters, walls badly in need of paint, torn-up furniture, out-of-date office equipment, water stains on the ceiling. I was sorry for every time I’d declined to buy tickets for policemen’s balls. I wondered if the police station staff was envious of the state grant to upgrade the library facility.
“Matt’s always excited to see you,” Michelle told me. I gave her a nervous smile. Was that before or after I refused his invitation to …to what? I wondered. “Finally get some sleep last night?” she asked.
“Yes. I hope you did, too.”
“Not yet, but I’m leaving soon.” She looked at her watch and smiled. “Hot date.” She took off her hat and loosened her thick black hair, shiny as new filament wire.
“I have things to read while I wait,” I told Michelle when we found Matt’s office empty. “Don’t be late for your date.”
Michelle winked and left.
The last time I’d visited the office Matt shared with George Berger there had been only one picture on Matt’s side of the room—a photo of his parents at their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, surrounded by him and his sister Jean and her family.
I was glad Matt wasn’t present to see my double take when I glanced at his credenza today. He’d added a new photo.
Me
,
in a blond wood frame, windblown and smiling for the camera, wearing a red fleece jacket Rose had pressed on me. I recognized the background as Jean’s home at the Cape. I was thrilled to see the photo, though the event it recalled hadn’t been as pleasant as I’d hoped.
Me
,
in a blond wood frame, windblown and smiling for the camera, wearing a red fleece jacket Rose had pressed on me. I recognized the background as Jean’s home at the Cape. I was thrilled to see the photo, though the event it recalled hadn’t been as pleasant as I’d hoped.
When I began my dating life with Matt a year ago, in my mid fifties, I’d expected to be able to skip a lot of the usual problems—zits on prom night, grounding for a missed curfew, begging for an advance in allowance to buy a new dress.
Matt’s sister, Jean Gennaro Mottolo, a real-estate agent ten years younger than Matt, proved an unexpected stumbling block, substituting for a strict mom and dad. The one time I’d been at her home in Falmouth was the previous Christmas. She was cordial, but not overly welcoming. I’d run through a list of possible ways I’d offended her—my mother, Josephine Lamerino, had trained me to blame myself first if anyone didn’t take to me immediately.
Perhaps I’d chosen inappropriate gifts for her children. I’d given a valuable old biography of Marie Curie to her fifteen-year-old daughter, and one of Einstein to her thirteen-year-old son. I’d wrapped colorful posters of the periodic table for both of them.
Or maybe she was cherishing the memory of Matt’s wife, Teresa, who’d died of heart disease ten years ago. Jean’s husband had been killed in a boating accident a year later. I recognized she’d not had an easy life, raising two small children by herself. On the other hand, she was doing it in a beautiful beachfront home on Cape Cod.
I’d written Jean a note after the holidays, thanking her for the wonderful dinner and pink silk scarf. I hadn’t heard from her since. Maybe she knew I never wore scarves, except for warmth. No need for more layers on my already ample chest. And I never wore pink anything.
A gentle hand ran across my shoulders. “That wasn’t your favorite afternoon, I know,” Matt said. “But it’s the only decent picture I have of you.” Matt kissed my cheek in between sentences—I was back in his good graces. Had I ever left them?
He squeezed past me to sit on his desk, crossed his arms, and smiled, seeming pleased with himself for having caught me in a daydream, staring at the photo.
He squeezed past me to sit on his desk, crossed his arms, and smiled, seeming pleased with himself for having caught me in a daydream, staring at the photo.
I was more dismayed that he’d picked up the tension between his sister and me. “Has Jean complained to you?”
He shook his head. “I notice these things. It’s …”
“I know. It’s what you do.”
“We can talk about it if you want.”
“Maybe later. Let’s get to work.”
WE TOOK A QUICK lunch detour to Kelly’s Roast Beef on Revere Beach Boulevard, sharing a sandwich and a look at the ocean from inside Matt’s car. The beach and benches were crowded with bathers, diners, joggers, dog-walkers, Frisbee players. I wondered how so many people of all ages could be free in the middle of a Monday afternoon.
The drive to Yolanda’s apartment on Bellevue Street, in the shadow of St. Theresa’s Church, took only a few minutes, hardly long enough to cool our coffees.
“You haven’t told me how it is that you can do this—go into a victim’s dwelling, when you’re not on the case?”
“It’s all cleared from the top. Yolanda lived alone, so there’s no one to disturb, and Parker’s guys have been here already, so it’s not as though I’m acting as part of the team. In fact, I’m sure they’ve taken anything interesting, but I still want a look around for myself.” Matt unlocked the door to a flat on the ground floor of a white wooden two-family house. “See if anything strikes you.”
I nodded, picturing a notebook titled “Incriminating Boron Evidence.”
I wondered if I’d ever get used to riffling through the belongings of a murder victim. Seeing things Yolanda might have wanted to keep from a stranger’s eyes. Rummaging around messy bookshelves, which she might have straightened if she expected company. All worth it, if there was a clue here to lead us to her murderer.
Yolanda’s computer area was predictably busy, with the
usual overflowing disk holders and yellow sticky notes—and a large rectangular border of dust indicating where the lab computer had sat. What distinguished the environment were a child’s drawings, “to Auntie Yo.” Berger had mentioned Yolanda had a sister in Detroit, and no family in Revere. My eyes fell on a jumble of photographs, many of her with Derek Byrne. I picked up a framed snapshot of the two of them in bulky, bright orange vests, foamy white water surging around them. Rafting.
usual overflowing disk holders and yellow sticky notes—and a large rectangular border of dust indicating where the lab computer had sat. What distinguished the environment were a child’s drawings, “to Auntie Yo.” Berger had mentioned Yolanda had a sister in Detroit, and no family in Revere. My eyes fell on a jumble of photographs, many of her with Derek Byrne. I picked up a framed snapshot of the two of them in bulky, bright orange vests, foamy white water surging around them. Rafting.
Why would anyone do that?
And they were smiling. Whenever possible I kept away from amusements that called for protective gear or activities requiring safety precautions, except, of course, for a lab coat and safety glasses. In all the years I’d sold cotton candy under the Cyclone roller-coaster on Revere Beach, I’d never stepped into a car. The only ride I’d ever ventured to try were the bumper cars, but as soon as I thought someone was serious about slamming into me, I’d head for the sidelines and buy myself a frozen custard.
And they were smiling. Whenever possible I kept away from amusements that called for protective gear or activities requiring safety precautions, except, of course, for a lab coat and safety glasses. In all the years I’d sold cotton candy under the Cyclone roller-coaster on Revere Beach, I’d never stepped into a car. The only ride I’d ever ventured to try were the bumper cars, but as soon as I thought someone was serious about slamming into me, I’d head for the sidelines and buy myself a frozen custard.
I looked at the photographs, piecing together a person. Yolanda’s tiny waist and large bright eyes, fine threads of hair surrounding her round face. Yolanda at the center of a protest group outside the Charger Street lab, in a news story framed and mounted on the wall over her desk. Yolanda with a little girl under a Christmas tree. Big smile, happy countenance, unlike many sullen activists I’d been familiar with in Berkeley during the sixties.
I addressed silent questions in the direction of her photographs—
Why did you dump John Galigani? He’s a writer
,
just like you. He likes rafting.
I stared at Yolanda’s sweet face.
And who murdered you? A stranger? A friend? You know it wasn’t John
. I resented that she wasn’t present to answer, as if she’d invited me to a party in her living room and failed to show up. Then I realized my own selfishness, how little attention I’d paid to the violent death of a young woman. I was more caught up in proving the innocence of my friend, treating Yolanda’s murder as an inconvenience to me and the Galigani family.
Why did you dump John Galigani? He’s a writer
,
just like you. He likes rafting.
I stared at Yolanda’s sweet face.
And who murdered you? A stranger? A friend? You know it wasn’t John
. I resented that she wasn’t present to answer, as if she’d invited me to a party in her living room and failed to show up. Then I realized my own selfishness, how little attention I’d paid to the violent death of a young woman. I was more caught up in proving the innocence of my friend, treating Yolanda’s murder as an inconvenience to me and the Galigani family.
Old as I was, I was still learning a lot about myself, not all
of it pleasant. I took a moment to consider that before continuing to browse the victim’s disheveled rooms.
of it pleasant. I took a moment to consider that before continuing to browse the victim’s disheveled rooms.
What might have been a dining-room table was strewn with wire baskets, binders, newspaper clippings, and flyers. I walked among floor-to-ceiling books and papers, some in bookcases, others stacked on the scatter rugs and kitchen linoleum. I looked through the piles, not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that Yolanda hadn’t kept mementos of John—no shoe boxes or crates full of ticket stubs like the material police confiscated from his apartment. Unless Parker and Berger had already taken them away.
I watched Matt scribble in his notebook. He’d picked up a disk, a book or two, and a mug from the counter, but apparently nothing struck him as worth taking. I remembered reading how police on the West Coast had solved the case of the Hillside Strangler—actually two cousins, who’d committed twelve murders—from a sprig of heather, a carpet fiber, and some scratches on a rock.
How did crime-scene technicians know what’s important? What’s a clue and what’s just lint? I thought I should be doing something useful and looked down into Yolanda’s wastebasket, almost as a private joke.
I felt my throat constrict, my knees weaken. I blinked and bent over the short black metal basket.
An envelope, off-white, of fine quality. I reached in and picked it out of the trash, shaking pencil shavings and cracker crumbs from its folds. I was sure the envelope was identical to one I had in my desk, still enclosing the note that threatened me if I didn’t take up sewing.
I rummaged further, but there was no matching notepaper in the basket. I smoothed out the envelope and strained to read the postmark.
I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you might want to look through this.” Matt handed me an accordion folder, marked BORON.
“Thanks. This is just what I was looking for.” I cleared my
throat in an attempt to cover my nervousness. Matt’s glance went to the envelope I hadn’t had time to hide. “Just trash,” I said, dropping it back into the wastebasket.
throat in an attempt to cover my nervousness. Matt’s glance went to the envelope I hadn’t had time to hide. “Just trash,” I said, dropping it back into the wastebasket.
I tried to sound more interested in the boron file than in a piece of rubbish, which I planned to retrieve later.
We drove away from Yolanda’s home in silence. I assumed Matt’s brain was processing what he’d seen in the apartment, folding it into the rest of his case notes. For my part, I thought I could feel the envelope heating up the side of my briefcase. I didn’t know for sure whether Matt had noticed that I’d taken it, but I felt he probably did. I appreciated his trust in me and hoped it was well placed. A year ago he would have reminded me of the limitations of my involvement in police investigations, and probably would have told me to “be careful.” It was a sign of my growing self-confidence that I took his new attitude to mean he cared more about me, not less.
I rubbed the soft leather of my briefcase, as if to absorb a coded message from the envelope. Had Yolanda been threatened also? Were we on a bulk mailing list? In a way, I felt better thinking perhaps everyone in Revere got the same letter. I couldn’t remember if my note included my name anywhere but on the envelope. I could hardly wait to go home and make the comparison.
Matt dropped me off at my car in front of the police station on Pleasant Street. I’d planned to go from there to the lab to meet Andrea.
“See you tonight?”
I nodded and smiled. “Dinner at seven.”
Matt cast a deliberate glance at my briefcase, slung over my right shoulder. I felt it before I heard it.
“Be careful,” he said.
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