Authors: Camille Minichino

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths

The Carbon Murder (27 page)

BOOK: The Carbon Murder

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“It
is
important. This probably means Lorna’s telling the truth and Alex is the one behind the murders.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry. I know what you mean.”

“Let’s work with this. MC wouldn’t go anyplace that would be obviously too private or hidden.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She’d want to be in a public place.” I tried not to be influenced by the fact that MC had done a number of not-so-sensible things in her life, like letting a man push her around. She was over that phase, I told myself.

“A public place, like a restaurant.”

“Yes,” I said, getting into the rhythm. The man who’d been having trouble staying conscious lately was helping me calm down. “But her message came just before ten o’clock. Too early for lunch, so a coffee shop. In fact her message said they were going for coffee. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. What would be her favorite coffee shop, where she’d feel comfortable? Someplace you would know also, so she wouldn’t have to give you directions or anything like that.”

“You mean if she remembered to tell me where.”

“Right.”

In my mind I ran up and down the streets of Revere looking for a coffee shop. Then it came to me. “Tomasso’s Coffee Annex. We had coffee there last week. It’s not that far from where I am.”

“Stay where you are, Gloria.” I’d never heard his voice so firm. “I’m hanging up. If you want to do anything, try Berger’s cell phone while I track the nearest cruiser.”

I sat in my Cadillac and looked ahead of me. My eyes soared over the roofs of the cars in the parking lot, toward the roof of Tomasso’s Coffee Annex, about a mile away, through city streets. I tasted blood from where I’d been chewing my lips.

The connection was broken, but I heard Matt’s voice again.
Stay where you are.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

M
C chose a large arrangement of asters, mums, and some tiny purple stems only her mother and a florist would be able to name. She wrote out a thank-you message to Gloria and Matt on a small card and filled out forms to have the basket delivered to Fernwood Avenue.

The whole process took longer than MC thought it would—it must have been the pimply young clerk’s first day, the way he kept going to the back of the shop for answers to questions. MC bounced from one foot to the other.

Not that she was eager to see Wayne Gallen, just anxious to get it over with.

She was, in fact, having second thoughts about the whole idea. What if she just didn’t show up? Any normal guy would take it as a lost cause and head home, but Wayne wasn’t your normal guy. She wouldn’t put it past him to tear up his ticket until he had his last look at her. She pulled at her hair, wishing she hadn’t washed it after her run. Maybe if she looked scraggly he’d bug off.

The kid clerk was in the back, probably getting a lesson in addition. MC was the only customer in the tiny shop, which smelled just like the parlors she passed every day on her way to and from her apartment. A light rainfall had started up again outside, perfect for her dreary meeting.

She rolled her shoulders back. Okay, this was a good time to practice the mind/body breathing technique Rick at the health club had taught her. She stood still, focused on her stomach, and imagined
a small balloon in that space. She breathed in, inflating the balloon, counting off ten seconds. She heard Rick’s voice.
Hold for ten seconds. Now gently deflate the balloon, exhaling through your mouth.

Good thing there’s no one else in here,
she thought.
This could look weird.

MC left the store and got in her Nissan, silently cursing Wayne Gallen as she turned the key in the ignition. She looked at the empty cup holder and wished she could look forward to the upcoming espresso at Tomasso’s. She felt like calling Matt, finding out if you could have people deported to their home states.

There I go, relying on someone else to solve my problems,
she thought.

A little girl in lavender pants and pink sneakers crossed in front of her while MC was stopped at a light. A woman old enough to be the girl’s mother held her hand until they reached the opposite sidewalk. Tears came to MC’s eyes, matching the light mist on her windshield.
What’s this all about? Don’t tell me I wish I had a kid? Or that I were six years old again?

When the light turned green, MC pulled over to the curb. A new decision came to her. She clenched her jaws and nodded, as if she were agreeing with herself. She flipped through the CD holder on the passenger seat and found an upbeat jazz disk Matt had given her. She shoved it into her player and turned the volume up. She moved forward, got into the left lane, and made a U-turn, heading toward Revere Beach. She imagined herself standing under one of the pavilion rooftops, her breathing slowing to the sound of the surf.

She made a firm resolution never again to have coffee with anyone unless she wanted to.

The best thing was she’d forgotten to say where she was meeting Wayne, so she didn’t have to worry about Aunt G getting stuck with him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

S
tay where you are,
Matt had said, surely the most sensible advice.

I started the car and rolled out of the parking lot. A right onto the street would take me to the hospital, a left to Tomasso’s.
There’s still time to be sensible
. I turned left, my windshield wipers going more slowly than my heartbeat.

I punched in Berger’s cell phone number. When it rang through to his voice mail, I clicked off, not bothering to leave a message.

I made it to Tomasso’s in record time, in spite of a new downpour, ignoring the speed limit as if I had a siren and flashing lights attached to my Caddie. I’d hoped to see six or seven cruisers crisscrossed in front of the restaurant, but the street was quiet. I didn’t see MC’s Nissan, either, but realized it didn’t mean anything, since she might have walked.

I pulled up across the street from Tomasso’s and studied the exterior of the squat yellowish building. The right side, the main dining room, was dark, but the Coffee Annex on the left seemed busy as usual. Through the long narrow window onto the street I could make out a few people at the drink counter, several occupied tables and chairs, and the long handles of baby strollers.

Once again I was on a kind of stakeout without a description of the person I was there for. I let out a loud sigh.
With any luck,
I thought,
Alex Simpson doesn’t know what I look like, either.

I checked my watch. Eleven-ten. MC had said she’d be here
about eleven, but she tended to run late. Or, MC was across town in another coffee shop. That thought was too frightening to pursue.

I reviewed my options.

I could go into the restaurant and look for a Texan. I wondered what the chances were that Alex too had a handlebar mustache. I figured MC would have mentioned that at some point.

Be more specific,
I told myself,
look for a man—did I know his age? He’d be old enough to run a major science program, and he’d be sitting alone. Looking like a killer.

I got out of my car to the sound of
ding ding ding.
My keys. Not that I was nervous.

At the last minute I decided not to enter through the front door. What if Alex had a gun pointed and ready as soon as MC gave a sign that she recognized me? What if he was shooting everyone coming through the door? That theory was happily blown when an old man with a cane entered and I heard no shots or sounds of struggle.

There was a small alley around the side of the restaurant, along the left wall of the building, on the Coffee Annex side. In the old days of the bakery, I remembered, there was a delivery door there.

I got back in my car and drove up the block and around so that I was now one half a building past the restaurant, on the same side of the street. From this position, I could exit my car and walk around the front of it, and then down the alley without being seen by the people in the shop.

I got out again, this time remembering to take my keys.

Thanks to unpredictable weather the last few days, I was wearing my flat, black boots, comfortable and rubber-soled. Quiet, as the shoes of a scout should be. There was no window along the wall, no opening except the old delivery door with a new-looking storm door in front of it. A narrow overhang prevented me from getting soaked. I made my way down the alley, keeping my back against the wall.
Another jacket lost to the job,
I thought, as I heard the scraping of the rayon against the rough wood.

In front of me was the yard to the next house, raised off the sidewalk and surrounded by a chain-link fence. If anyone were looking out the top window, what would they think? The senior-citizen branch of the CIA let loose on the street? An inmate from the nearest asylum? I picked my way through orange peels and halfcrushed soda cups and straws. And Styrofoam to-go containers, to remind me of Matt waiting for me at the hospital. I took the reminder as a signal to turn off my cell phone, in case he tried to call me. Wouldn’t that make an amusing headline on the police blotter—RESCUE ATTEMPT FOILED WHEN CELL PHONE RINGS.

I could hear crowd noises from inside the shop, but not too loud, with background music that could have been classical jazz or some other instrumental strains. I pictured the interior of the restaurant just behind the door. I’d been inside enough times and had a clear memory of the rest rooms at the back, beyond the door, between the main dining room and the coffee shop. When I entered the door, I’d be not quite that far back, but in front of the kitchen area and directly behind the famous, enormous copper vat.

Only after I pulled the storm door toward me and felt the old wooden door give way at my gentle push did I realize I’d had no backup plan in case the doors were locked.
Better lucky than smart,
my father, Marco Lamerino, had often said.

I listened for police sirens, but heard none. I couldn’t imagine what was taking them so long.

I slipped into the back of the restaurant. A couple of young men in kitchen-help outfits saw me and smiled, as if this were an everyday occurrence. I smiled back. I was prepared with an “I’m looking for the ladies’ room” or “I just want to check the bulletin-board photos” defense, if questioned.

I smelled Tomasso’s wonderful, strong coffee and realized I’d had nothing to eat or drink since a fingerful of brownie batter at two in the morning. Pretty soon I’d be back as a regular customer in the front of the shop, I told myself.

I positioned myself behind the copper vat. At my height, I was mostly hidden by the vat, and I could look through the space
between the center urn and one of the smaller sections, over the largest spout. The eagle at the very top of the center section hovered over me.

I scanned the area.

The ORDER HERE and PICK-UP HERE counters on my left had no one in line at the moment. Several tables along the right were occupied by women and children in strollers or booster seats. The new daycare environment. A row of tables down the middle of the room held an old couple that included the man with the cane, a young Asian woman writing in a notebook with a textbook to her side, and … a man by himself, his back to me, on a black wrought-iron chair not more than four feet away. Average age, average size.

It was Alex Simpson. I knew because of his posture, his tight black jeans, his pointy maroon boots sticking out into the aisle. Nothing, really. Just that he was the only single man and I didn’t like the looks of him, even from the back. The good news was MC was nowhere in sight.

The next moments rolled into one. Two RPD cruisers pulled up in front of Tomasso’s. Through the front window, I could see four uniforms swagger toward the door, two abreast. As they entered the shop, the man in front of me, who I was convinced was Alex Simpson, stood up, reached his right arm back, and lifted his plaid jacket.

The silver butt of a gun stuck out from his belt.

I felt part of a naturally flowing drama and let my mind and body respond freely. I grabbed hold of the thin strap that secured the vat against a floor-to-ceiling beam. I slipped the strap from its loose knot and did a quick calculation. If the vat’s center of mass was where I thought it should be from its external proportions, the vat would topple straight ahead, its towering center section hitting only the man and no one to either side of him.

I placed my hands squarely on the shiny vat, side by side, and pushed it over with all my might.

When the first section hit Alex’s right shoulder he was bent slightly, his hand on the handle of his gun. He turned a few more
degrees and I caught his expression. His tanned face was pinched, first in surprise, then in pain as the eagle landed on his head.

My calculation had been correct.

The RPD rushed toward Alex Simpson, trapped under Tomasso’s vat, and arrested him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

I
t’s always like this, I thought. A stormy week or so, and then a peaceful gathering of everyone I love. Matt was more than halfway through his radiation regime and was doing fine, better than in his pre-therapy stage, in fact.

Rose was pleased that Matt and I accepted her offer to throw an engagement party at the Galiganis’ residence. Our only stipulation was no presents. As a result we got a variety of amusing items, including an enormous “police badge” for me, made of plaster of Paris, and an oversized blue ribbon with BEST COUPLE in gold letters.

I lingered for a while in a corner of the living room with Jean and her children—my in-laws to-be. Alysse had a large red mark on her cheek. At first I thought it was a teenage rash, but on closer look I saw that it was a giant letter S.

“It’s for Stevie, my boyfriend,” Alysse said.

Jean rolled her eyes. “It’s what they do these days. Thank God it’s not permanent ink. I’m sure Stevie isn’t permanent.”

Alysse’s turn to roll her eyes.

I roamed the room listening to the spectrum of conversations, joining one now and then, but mostly thrilled to belong to this gathering.

My first stop was with MC and Daniel Endicott, standing by the fireplace, each leaning an arm on the mantel.

Daniel to MC
: Maria Telkes’s heating system used black sheet metal collectors to capture solar energy; then it was stored in these bins by the phase-change of a sodium compound.

MC to Daniel
: I read about that. I think it was sodium sulphate decahydrate.

Daniel to MC
: So would you like to see the traps we use for the coyotes? I have some in my garage. Then maybe grab some dinner?

MC to Daniel
: Sure.

I smiled and wandered to the police conversation.

Matt on a chair, with Berger leaning over him
: I guess he [Alex Simpson] thought he’d walk MC out the door with a gun held subtly to her back and … who knows? Make an issue of the fact that he wasn’t going to surrender easily?

Berger to Matt
: Gallen was an even stranger guy. I saw him after the D and D stint. He told me he considered himself a failure because he never got to kill anyone. He wanted to kill Forman at the Beach Lodge that night, before Forman could get to MC, but when he got there Forman was already dead. Of course, now we know that Simpson killed Forman. Gallen said he wanted to kill Powers, but Simpson beat him to that, too.

Matt to Berger
: Can’t arrest anyone for talking. So it looks like Simpson was in Revere for a week or so, not on his dude ranch.

Matt to Berger
: Yeah, I guess he didn’t completely trust his errand boy.

Elaine and my cousin Mary Ann were at the buffet table together, filling lovely china plates with salads and calzone from Rose’s grandmother’s recipe, which called for both pepperoni and sausage.

Mary Ann to Elaine
: I’ll be glad when they’re married and not living … well, whatever they call it these days.

Elaine to Mary Ann
[scooping polenta onto her plate]: They call it fun!

At the other end of the room, the two morticians talked shop.

Frank Galigani to his son and partner, Robert
: The aspiration process has nothing to do with the flow, so I don’t know what they’re talking about.

Robert to Frank
: I know, Pa, but this guy at the conference said
aspirate for only five minutes unless the case is really bad, you know, if the bowels …

I left quickly.

Rose still had questions about MC’s near miss at Tomasso’s, and stopped at Matt’s chair to inquire about the efficiency of the RPD.

Rose to Matt
: Why did it take the police so long to get to the Coffee Annex? Gloria got there first and there must have been a police car closer, don’t you think?

Matt to Rose
: They were waiting for a fax from Houston PD with a photo of the guy they were looking for.

Matt sent a glance in my direction to remind me I was never one to let something like lack of description of a perp get in my way.

Andrea arrived early to help set the tables. Peter came later but behaved like her date, a pleasure to see.

Peter
: I’m so happy for you and Matt, Gloria. Things always work out well in the end, don’t they?

Me
: They certainly seem to.

Andrea
: [smiling hugely, sighing audibly, no words necessary].

Back to the funeral directors.

Robert to Frank
: They found the guy’s horse, you know. Farther up toward Saugus. I looked into what they do with them.

Frank to Robert
: With what?

Robert to Frank
: Dead horses.

Frank to Robert
: Oh yeah? What?

Robert to Frank
: They call it a tallow works factory. They process dead farm animals into byproducts.

Frank to Robert
: Like what?

I left again.

Robert’s wife, Karla, had picked up Mrs. Cataldo, who’d taught both MC and me chemistry, albeit in different decades. MC took pains to explain to Mrs. Cataldo that not all Texans were evil, that she’d made many wonderful friends there.

Mrs. Cataldo, on the couch, to MC and me, standing
: Do you ever use your chemistry, dears?

MC
: All the time, Mrs. Cataldo.

Me
: Now and then, and when I do I think of you.

Mrs. Cataldo
: Do you ever do that amazing trick with the banana and the liquid nitrogen?

Matt passed by just in time to hear Mrs. Cataldo’s question. He looked at me. “Don’t tell me. Nitrogen is after carbon on the periodic table.”

I nodded and gave him my best smile, fiancée to fiancé.

BOOK: The Carbon Murder

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