The Hydrogen Murder (16 page)

I walked her to the door, keeping my eyes and jaw busy telling
Rose what I thought of her behavior. Matt was standing in the living room, his
hands in his jacket pockets. He had abandoned his pleasant look for a more
serious one. I offered him more cider.

"No, thanks," he said. "If you don't mind,
I'm going to look around."

"You want a tour?" I asked, not quite ready for
this request.

"You can call it that," he said, smiling in a way
that made me feel foolish. Evidently I was missing some obvious point.

"You've just had the prime suspects in a murder
investigation in your home," he said. "Not a good idea. I couldn't
believe it when Rose told me you were entertaining them up here. I waited
downstairs to give you some time, but that doesn't mean I approve."

"It wasn't my idea," I said, "Leder suggested
it. And I thought you agreed it would be good if I could have a conversation
with them tonight."

I heard my feelings of anger and dismay coming through as I
stood with my arms straight down by my side and my voice came out high and
whiny. I came within seconds of giving in to my desire to stamp my feet.

"At a restaurant," he said, still with the tone of
a parent displeased with his daughter's choice of friends. "Even a bar. In
a public place. Not in your home."

He had moved to the kitchen and was looking at my cabinets,
on top of my refrigerator, under the sink. He picked up my phone receiver, then
replaced it when he heard a dial tone. He walked toward my bedroom, looked in
the closet and under the bed, out the window and down at the street. I could
hear cars starting up and pulling away, but they didn't distract me from trying
to figure out what Matt was doing.

"What are you looking for?" I asked. My voice was
small and weak as I followed him around my apartment.

"I'm doing a sweep," he said, "making sure
you have no surprises tonight. What's in here?"

Matt had walked through my bedroom, past my exercise bicycle
to the small hallway. He looked up at the trap door with a questioning look.

"Isn't that funny," I said, trying to restore
normalcy to this strange turn of events. "This corridor seems to have no
purpose except to lead to the attic."

Matt didn't respond. He pulled the ladder to the trap door,
hooked it to the edge, and started climbing.

"No one went up there," I said. "No one left
the kitchen and living room area. And even if they did..."

"No one that you saw."

"Do you think someone planted a bomb or
something?"

"It's not my job to guess, just to cover all
bases."

His voice was cold and patronizing, and I felt like a
whipped child. I stood in the hallway, my arms across my chest, and listened to
Matt's footsteps across the length of the attic floor. When he came down a few
minutes later I saw small piles of dust on his shoes and on the shoulders of
his dark jacket. This can't get much worse, I thought.

He brushed himself off.

"I'm sorry," I said, and reached out to help him.
I pulled my hand back half way to his shoulder when I saw his gaze. I felt the
way I did when I was little and didn't understand why Josephine was screaming
at me. I thought I'd built up resistance over the years to the feeling of
helplessness when someone expressed disapproval of me, but at that moment in
the presence of Matt's displeasure, my adult resources failed me.
 

We walked back through the bedroom and living room toward
the door without speaking.

Matt took a business card from his inside pocket, wrote on
it, and handed it to me. He checked the lock on the door.

"If you see or hear or so much as feel anything
strange, call me at that number," he said, and walked out.

CHAPTER
15

Eric's murder was not good for my health, I decided. In the
past week, I'd been through more emotional upheavals and sleepless nights than
my average year since Al's fatal car crash.

I'd worked hard all my adult life to overcome feelings of
inadequacy instilled in me from birth. When you grow up afraid of your mother,
there's not much hope of facing the world with confidence. You end up willing
to do anything to please people, even bus drivers or waiters you'll never see
again.

Not that Josephine ever laid a hand on me. She kept control
through intimidation and verbal abuse, making it clear that my birth was an
accident she wasn't happy about. It was a long time before I realized that I
wasn't the cause of her miserable life—the villain was the utter lack of
opportunity for an intelligent but poor immigrant woman at the beginning of the
twentieth century.

I kept reminding myself of all the good that came from her
threats. I got all A's in high school because I sincerely thought she'd kill me
if I didn't. I went to college for the same reason. Josephine was convinced
that education was the way out of the kind of life she had. How she'd become
enlightened about that, I'd never know.

I often had arguments with myself about the consequences of
Josephine's domination. Would I rather be a self-confident housewife who never
left her kitchen or a professional scientist afraid of her own shadow?

I made a different choice each time, depending on my mood.
Once in a while I made a resolution to be a professional scientist not afraid
of her own shadow. On that Saturday morning after Matt's scolding, I was just
about to make a new decision when the phone rang.

It was nine A. M. and Peter was calling for one last check
on my schedule for the evening. He'd bought tickets for the Wonderland dinner
dance anyway, since it was for charity, and wondered if I'd be able to fit it
in.

"Rose and Frank are going," he said, throwing in a
carrot. "And there's room at their table."

Here was Peter offering me an easy way out. I didn't have to
work very hard to please him—he already liked me. No fear of rejection to
worry about. Just a nice pleasant relationship with clear rules. I could hardly
remember why it hadn't worked with Peter during our first lifetime together.

"What time?" I asked.

"Cocktails at six," he said. "I'll pick you
up at five-thirty. But if that's too early for you, we can go later. Dinner's
at seven-thirty."

I heard the surprise and pleasure in Peter's voice and
mentally pictured him tearing up the other nine points he'd written out to
convince me to go with him. It felt good to please someone.

"Five-thirty's fine," I said.

"Are you awake?" Peter asked.

"Am I awake? Yes, why?"

"Well, I guess I'll call you at this time more
often."

"Don't press your luck," I said, and heard his
laugh trail away as we hung up.

Perfect, I thought, no time for any other decisions for a
while, except what to wear to a dinner dance.

~~~~

 
I was hanging my
black knit dress on the shower rod for a quick amateur steaming when I heard
the intercom buzzer and Rose's voice.

"So, I assume last night didn't go so well?" she
said.

"What do you mean?"

I couldn't believe Rose heard what had gone on after she
left. Matt hadn't actually screamed at me the way Josephine used to.

"Well, since Peter just called to say we're on for
tonight, I guess your evening with the prince of detectives was less than a
grand slam."

Rose never did well with metaphors, but I got her meaning.

"You don't know the half of it."

"I'm all ears."

"I'm still not dressed for church," I said.
"Later."

"I can hardly wait. See you."

What would I do without Rose, I wondered. There was no one
else like her in my life, maybe because we knew each other as young girls,
dressing alike and talking about our hair and every little thing that matters
when you're ten or eleven years old. I almost regretted the time away from her,
but it didn't seem to have affected our closeness.

I clicked on my weather radio and looked out the window at
the same time. The consensus seemed to be rain all day. I was still like a
newcomer to New England weather and enjoyed the sound and feel of rain. Years
of near-drought conditions can do that. Of course, I had to admit it had been
nice to plan outdoor events for any day between Easter and Thanksgiving and be
ninety percent sure it wouldn't rain.

For the funeral I settled on a long wide skirt and high
leather boots, both a deep gray, hoping I didn't look too much like a cowgirl.
To give the outfit a decidedly metropolitan slant I pinned a stylized silver
initial G in a modern setting to my sweater. I got my gray raincoat and
matching hat from the hall closet and headed for the church.

It had taken me a while to determine my mode of
transportation for the funeral. I didn't like either image of myself in Eric's
funeral procession—behind the wheel of an otherwise empty black Cadillac,
or high up on the seat of the burgundy four-wheel drive I still hadn't gotten
rid of. My compromise plan was to walk the short distance to Saint Anthony's
and then ride with someone else to the cemetery.

~~~~

Robert Galigani, looking like a younger version of Frank,
led Janice and Eric's parents past about fifty mourners, to the front row of
the church. After seeing the rosary in Eric's hand, I expected a full-blown
funeral mass but there was only a brief service, and I had the idle thought
that it was a waste of the great cathedral-like size and atmosphere of Saint
Anthony's not to have a high mass with all the trimmings.

In the lobby of the church I approached Jim Guffy and asked
if I could ride with him to Holy Family Burial Grounds.

"Sure," he said. "I get it."

I had no idea what he meant, but focused on the fact that I
had a ride to the cemetery. In the parking lot, Jim's vehicle was easy to spot,
a high-riding black mini-van with overlapping bumper stickers competing for
space. Fish-like symbols, and a half-dozen cartoon mascots for neighborhood
sports teams covered the back bumper and spare tire cover.

After clearing out duffel bags and balls of various sizes
and stitching patterns, and adding a yellow and black funeral sign to his
collection, Jim helped me up onto the passenger seat. I sat just below a
swinging Saint Christopher medal.

It wouldn't have occurred to me to interrogate Jim on the
long slow ride to the cemetery, but his opening remarks indicated that he had a
different idea.

"Are you going to ask me about Eric?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know you're working on the case with the police, so
I figure you're here to ask me some questions."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I really did just need a
ride, Jim. I didn't think my jeep would fit in with a funeral procession."

"I certainly had no respect for Eric, if that's what
you want to know," Jim said, apparently intent on treating me like an
investigating officer. "You have to love the sinner but not the sins. I'm
offering special prayers for his soul."

I straightened up on my seat and turned to look at Jim, as
far as my seat belt would allow. His face had a pinched look, his forehead
marked with frown lines, his chin thrust out towards the steering wheel. As Jim
talked on, using phrases that reminded me of catechism classes, like "mortal
sin," "state of grace," and "submission to the will of God,"
I was struck as much by his demeanor as his words. His attitude was angry and
self-righteous, markedly different from the low-key temperament he'd maintained
even during our dinnertime debates in California.

As I sat in Jim's van, I had no desire to enter into a
discussion of Eric's morals. The best I could think of was what I considered a
neutral statement.

"No one deserves to be murdered," I said, as we
pulled in behind the line of parked cars on the cemetery driveway.

Jim helped me out of the van and we stood next to each other
during the brief service around Eric's closed casket, displayed next to a mound
of dirt and flowers. Holy Family was on Washington Avenue, less than a mile
from Charger Street, and the three-story gas gun building where Eric was
murdered was visible through the heavy atmosphere.

Although the rain had dwindled to a light mist, we stood
under enormous black umbrellas provided by Galigani's. As I watched tiny black
sparrows take cover in the bushes and trees of the cemetery, I felt sad for
Eric's parents and sad that I hadn't done as much as I should have to find his
murderer.

I also couldn't get Jim's tirade out of my head and I
wondered if his anger was the kind that justified murder in his mind.

~~~~

Following a plan laid down by the group in my living room
the night before, we went from the cemetery to a coffee shop on Route 1. Jim
had been quiet on the second lap of our trip, possibly feeling that his
preaching was falling on deaf ears.