The Hydrogen Murder (19 page)

I knew my assignment was almost over—technically, the only
thing left for me to do was figure out what if anything the strange characters
on the printout meant. I stretched a dripping arm over to the stool, picked up
the pencil and wrote the symbols on my notepad. I stared at it for a while,
then closed my eyes as the watery shapes became blurry and illegible.

As I dressed, I tried to shift my thoughts from Matt to
Peter. My black knit dress had come back to life after its morning steam bath.
I looked in the bathroom mirror and felt I was as presentable as I could hope
to be, after adding a long strand of faux pearls, drop pearl earrings and the
highest heels I owned, two inches, in black patent leather. No pin for this
outfit.

Peter knocked on my door at exactly five-thirty, wearing the
brightest smile and the most sharply pressed suit I'd ever seen. His black wing
tips were as polished as many a lens I'd seen on an optical bench. He took my
hand and stepped back to arm's length.

"Gloria," he said, slipping a corsage with tiny
red tea roses on my wrist. He gave me a hug like the ones I've seen baseball
players give a batter as he crosses home plate. I wondered if he was
congratulating me on my outfit or himself on talking me into this date.

I offered him wine left over from the stock Leder had
supplied, but he refused.

"I'm driving," he said. "And we need to pick
up Rose and Frank in fifteen minutes."

When Peter said fifteen minutes, he meant exactly fifteen
minutes. I expected him to have worked out the evening's schedule for a smooth
operation, leaving nothing to chance. My suspicions were confirmed as I entered
his dark blue Buick and smelled the unmistakable odor of a brand new cedar air
freshener tree.

The Galigani home was across town and up a hill on Adams
Street. In the old days Revere Memorial Hospital was around the corner from
them, on Proctor Avenue. Josephine had spent the last twenty-four hours of her
life in that hospital, and my father had spent his last days there many years
later. Rose had told me that in the late seventies the hospital was converted
to a multi-level nursing home. I looked at the tall, imposing building, visible
from Rose and Frank's driveway, and was glad I didn't have time to dwell on
memories of my parents' deaths.

As I guessed, except for being nearly a foot shorter, Frank
met the standard Peter had set for sharpness. And Rose's outfit was
smashing—a calf-length electric blue chiffon, with matching high-heeled
sandals. I felt dowdy in their company, but that was nothing new.

"How's the investigation coming?" Frank asked,
earning himself disgusted looks from his wife and Peter.

"Thanks for asking," I said, smiling at Frank.
"I'll tell you later."

~~~~

We drove together to the Wonderland Ballroom, a one story
yellow concrete building with a red tile roof reminiscent of California architecture.
Saint Anthony's dance was only one of many going on at the same time. With its
three large rooms, Wonderland had a heavy schedule of city functions and
private celebrations—fund-raising dinners, awards ceremonies, and golden
anniversary parties.

Another long-standing structure in Revere was directly
across the street from the ballroom—Wonderland Dog Track, thirty acres of
land dedicated to the sport of greyhound racing and the largest employer in the
city. No matter how tight money was, my parents always had a little place in
their budget for the activities at the dog track or Suffolk Downs Horse Track,
the other recreational landmark in Revere. I remembered the evening of their
seventeenth anniversary when they won fifty dollars by betting on seventeen in
the daily double.

Saint Anthony's dinner dances hadn't changed much in three
decades. As we walked to our places in the ornate dining room, I saw the parish
priests wearing their Roman collars going from table to table, mingling and
schmoozing. Now and then one of the priests would beam at a proffered envelope,
presumably contributions for the never-ending building fund drive. I could have
sworn I saw many of the same people who'd been at The Fenway for pizza earlier
in the week.

The music was designed for people like the four of us, who
stopped learning new dances right before the twist. The orchestra played
"things you can hum later," as Frank said. I began to suspect a
conspiracy among my three friends to keep the conversation far from both hydrogen
and murder. The closest we came to hitting on science was Peter's flattering
remark.

"Gloria gave a wonderful talk on Enrico Fermi," he
said.

"Tell us all about it," Frank said, rolling his
eyes toward the ceiling, and we all laughed.

Strangely, the highlight of my evening came during a trip to
the women's room with Rose. As we stood before the mirrored wall in the
vestibule of the lounge, Rose stopped in the middle of applying lipstick to her
already perfect make-up suite.

"I almost forgot to tell you two things," she
said, using the long jeweled tube of Shades of Blue to emphasize her points.
"See, I'm getting like you, Gloria, making mental lists."

"It comes in handy, doesn't it?"

"Well, I guess. So, here are the two things. First,
Janice Bensen came to my office after the funeral this morning. She wanted me
to identify who sent one of the larger baskets of flowers. The card was from
Petrillo's Flower Shop and it just said, 'cherished friend.' I don't know if
that's interesting or not."

"Very interesting," I said. "What did you
tell her?"

Having finished a meager repair job on my hair, I turned and
sat on the counter, my back to the mirror, to face Rose while she was talking.
We'd both checked out the population of the lounge and although no one was
close enough to hear, we kept our voices to a near whisper. It was unusual for
Rose to reveal anything about the conduct of her clients, living or dead, and I
knew she didn't violate that policy easily.

"You know I won't say anything about this," I said,
to reassure her.

"I know that, Gloria. I'm comfortable telling you this.
I think of you as the police now."

"Thanks, I think. So what did you tell her?"

"Just that I didn't know. The flowers and cards come in
and Martha accepts them at the door usually. I told Janice she'd have to call
the florist."

"So you can't tell even if they were sent by someone
out of state, for example?"

"No, only Jeannie at Petrillo's would know how the
order came in."

"Did Janice seem satisfied with your answer? Do you
think she called Petrillo's?"

"My guess is yes. She was pretty upset. I think she
thought I was holding out on her."

"Would the florist tell her or is that considered
confidential?"

"It depends. Probably not if she went in there raving.
But if she presented herself as a grieving widow who wanted to send thank you
notes to her late husband's friends, they might."

"Would they tell any one else?"

"They told me," Rose said, turning to me with a
wide, smug smile.

"You mean you already checked? Why didn't you tell
me?" My excitement was all the reward Rose needed, and the smile never
left her face as she told me how she and Jeannie did a lot of business
together.

"The flowers were ordered by an A. Lee from Berkeley,
California."

I gave Rose a smile and sideways tilt of my head that to us
always meant, "thank you so much and I owe you."

"Next?" I asked, settling farther back on the cold
marble countertop.

"Next what?"

Rose had continued to work on her face while she talked. I
marveled at the equipment she could stuff into a tiny evening bag. Her blue
sequined purse, not more than six inches across, held a set of creams, powders,
and tools that would put an undergraduate physics supply room to shame.

"You said you had two things to tell me."

"Oh, right. See how the number thing doesn't work for
me?" she said. I winced as she moved a sinister-looking pair of curved
tongs towards her eyes. "The second thing is that Jim, the tall young guy
who was saying the rosary at the wake? He was in with Eric's body really late last
night."

"You mean after he left my apartment?"

Rose nodded.

"Sal, Robert's number one man was doing some work in
the prep room. He came back through the foyer to get his jacket and saw a man
kneeling in front of the casket. It was around midnight and Sal was a little
nervous but he said the guy looked harmless so he went up to him and told him
it was time to lock up. They walked out together and that was that. It's
probably nothing, but I decided to tell you any little thing that's
different."

"You did really well for someone who doesn't like to
count," I said.

Rose beamed, showing me at once her pride of accomplishment
and her new face.

~~~~

Back at our table, Rose covered for me, helping me keep on
track with the small talk, knowing that my mind was processing the two pieces
of information she'd given me.

My mind was drifting for more reasons than Rose's detective
work. Through the evening my feelings oscillated between comfort and
familiarity with my old friends, and excitement at the prospect of a new friend
and new experiences. As the four of us talked about the winter opera season and
how we'd need to get tickets soon for the Messiah concerts by the Handel-Hayden
Society of Boston, it was Matt's face I saw, not Peter's in my mental vision.

I felt like a hypocrite enjoying ravioli and roast chicken
that Peter had paid for while plotting how to tell him that this was probably
our last date. Hard as it was, for a while I forgot about the long-term future
and allowed myself to get caught up in the festive atmosphere of Wonderland,
doing my share of dancing, eating, and humming.

~~~~

When Peter and I arrived at Galigani's Mortuary after
dropping Rose and Frank off at their home, I couldn't talk him out of walking
me upstairs. It turned out to be a great blessing that he did.

My door stood slightly open, shreds of wood hanging around
the brass lock plate. My apartment had been trashed.

CHAPTER
18

I looked at my overturned rocker and my books and papers
strewn about and studied the scene as if I were examining a photograph at a
museum exhibit. From the doorway I could see my three sofa cushions on the
floor, forming a line to the kitchen, looking like a stepping stone pathway to
the stove.

I started to enter my living room, but Peter pulled me back
and ushered me down the stairs to his car. We drove two blocks to a pay phone
and called the police. Peter hadn't even let me run over to my coffee table to
get my cordless phone.

I was in a daze as I followed his instructions, finally
realizing that he was acting out of sensible caution—we couldn't be sure
the burglar had left the apartment. I'd never been burgled before and I didn't
know the protocol.

Twenty minutes later Peter and I sat in my kitchen with long
faces, as if we were mourning a mutual friend. A uniformed policeman spread
fine black powder over every flat surface in my apartment and a few curved
ones. Peter had called Rose and Frank and made a pot of coffee. I'd done my
best to answer the questions of a second officer. It disturbed me that I
couldn't remember whether I'd set the alarm before we left for the dance. Peter
was almost sure I hadn't.

"Did you have any cash around?" the officer asked.

"No, I don't usually keep any, outside of what's in my
wallet."

"Have you seen anyone strange hanging around lately?
Someone who shouldn't be here?"

"This is a funeral home," Peter said, in an
aggravated tone. He apologized to the officer so quickly that it came out
almost as one sentence. "I'm sorry," he said. "She shouldn't be
living here in the first place. You're just doing your job."

Although I was too distraught to respond to his comment, I
was alert enough to register it as one more reason the Gloria and Peter team
would be history very soon.

"Can you tell us if anything's missing?" the
officer asked. I guessed he'd seen enough domestic squabbling over the years to
know he should ignore it.

"Nothing big," I said, glancing at my
entertainment center, as the home decorating catalog called it. My television
set, VCR, CD player were still there, in an upright position. My computer
station, wedged into a corner between the living room and kitchen was also
undisturbed, except that my file drawers had been rifled through.

"I'll have to take a closer look," I said, walking
toward my bedroom.

I stepped around dresser drawers that had been pulled out to
the end of their track or tipped onto the floor, struggling to ignore the knot
in my stomach. My mirrored closet door was open; my shoeboxes had been emptied
and transparent storage bags with sweaters and blankets were in a heap. Dresses
and shirts still on hangers had been draped over the handles of my exercise
bicycle as if they were part of a window display in progress. Compared to this
scene, moving-in day was neat and orderly.