The Boric Acid Murder (18 page)
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
Escaped to Italy. Yolanda Fiore’s grandfather escaped to Italy. If I’d been paying attention, I would have put it all together. I slapped my forehead. “Why don’t I listen to you, Rose?”
She smiled and rocked way back on the glider. “I’ll never know.”
I buckled down, sorting through the pieces. “Did you tell me the Scotto family moved to Chicago after Sabatino fled to Italy?”
Rose nodded vigorously. “Chicago. Or somewhere out west.”
“Could it have been Detroit?”
She stood up. “I see where you’re going with this, Gloria. Yes, it definitely could have been Detroit. And some Scotto or other could have married a Fiore.”
We looked at each other, our faces happier than they’d been in a long time.
It felt very good to have a hug from my best friend.
IT HAD BEEN a long time since I’d needed an excuse to call Matt, but at the moment I was happy to have one. I phoned him immediately after Rose left to pursue her genealogy research, but I didn’t reach him until nearly seven o’clock that evening.
“We might have a lead,” I told him when he finally answered the page.
“We …?”
I explained the workings of Rose’s mind and how we’d come up with a possible Scotto-Fiore-Byrne connection. “So either man had a strong motive to kill Yolanda,” I said, wrapping things up neatly. “The father or the son—Councilman Byrne or Derek Byrne.”
“Or both, I assume, using your logic.”
I didn’t like the way he said
logic
, as if there weren’t any to my argument. “Or both,” I said, holding my ground.
logic
, as if there weren’t any to my argument. “Or both,” I said, holding my ground.
“Just so I’m clear, even if it
was
her grandfather who wreaked havoc on the Byrne family, why would they take it out on Yolanda?”
was
her grandfather who wreaked havoc on the Byrne family, why would they take it out on Yolanda?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but
revenge
wasn’t unheard of in family lore. I said as much, citing as many movies as I could think of in the godfather genre.
revenge
wasn’t unheard of in family lore. I said as much, citing as many movies as I could think of in the godfather genre.
“I don’t mean to be hard on you and Rose, but that’s flimsy.” Hearing no comment on my part, Matt continued. “Or maybe we should discuss this further, in person.”
I hadn’t told Matt about the tire incident, and didn’t relish
the thought of exposing my vulnerability. I kept it simple. “My car is in the shop.”
the thought of exposing my vulnerability. I kept it simple. “My car is in the shop.”
“I know. Michelle Chan saw it in Florello’s lot. Anything you want to tell me about that?”
The city of Revere seemed to have shrunk since my school days, its multicultural network in high gear. “I assume Michelle or Ching-Liang filled you in.”
“Two slashed tires. Should I be worried?”
“It was just a prank.” I hoped my voice stayed at a normal pitch.
“Glad to hear it.”
“So, are you coming over?” I asked, part flirting, part challenging.
“I’m already over.”
For a moment, I was confused. Then I heard the blare of a car horn. I went to the window. Matt was leaning against his car, across Tuttle Street. It was still light enough for me to make out his crooked grin.
“HERE’S ANOTHER ANGLE,” I said when Matt refused to get enthused about Yolanda’s possibly being a Scotto on her mother’s side. Happily, he
had
been enthusiastic about seeing me, delaying our work session for more than an hour. “Dorothy Leonard claims to have documentation that the property behind the library is not consecrated ground, that it has always been city land, and never a cemetery.”
had
been enthusiastic about seeing me, delaying our work session for more than an hour. “Dorothy Leonard claims to have documentation that the property behind the library is not consecrated ground, that it has always been city land, and never a cemetery.”
“And?”
I sighed. “You’re making me do all the work. What if that’s what Yolanda was researching, not her family history? And what if she found out something that favored one side or the other in the controversy over the expansion? Leonard seems determined to get this project under way, probably in part because it was her late husband’s dream. Suppose Leonard forged the documents and Yolanda found out about it. That would give Leonard a motive to kill her. And Councilman Byrne is equally determined to stop the plan, so if Yolanda found the
documents were not forged … never mind, that doesn’t work as well.”
documents were not forged … never mind, that doesn’t work as well.”
“And why would Yolanda be interested in this?”
“It’s a reporter-thing.”
My phone rang, letting me off the hook before I had to justify John Galigani’s phrase.
“Is it too late?” Rose asked, sounding wide awake.
“Not at all. It’s not even nine o’clock.” And even if it were midnight, I wouldn’t have been able to curb Rose’s excitement. “And Matt’s here.”
“Oh. Then should I wait till tomorrow? I have this chart to show you. The family trees.”
“Already? Bring it over, by all means.” I assumed she wasn’t calling from below my window.
“They’re connected, Gloria. Yolanda was a Scotto. I’ll be right over. For once I’m glad I’m not interrupting anything.”
IT HADN’T TAKEN LONG for Rose to reconstruct the genealogy of the Fiore and Scotto families, as far back as we needed them. She arrived at my apartment, chart in hand.
“How did you do this so quickly?” Matt asked her.
“As I always tell Gloria—”
“I know, you’ve lived here all your life,” I said. “You know everyone. And everyone’s grandfather. What a memory.”
She shrugged. “A good enough memory. Plus, Frank helped. Plus, plus, I made a few calls.”
Though it weighed on my mind, I didn’t ask why John still hadn’t participated. Evidently he’d suspended his reporter-thing persona, not applying it on his own behalf. No one else brought it up either.
The three of us bent over Rose’s trees. She’d used paper from a newsprint pad and thick markers to generate the histories of two families.
The couple at the top left were Sabatino Scotto and Celia Pallavo, both born in Italy, and married there in the late 1920s. The couple then came to the United States, traveling directly
from Ellis Island to Revere, under the sponsorship of relatives who had preceded them. They had four children: Vincent, Michael, Mary, and Clara. Rose had followed the convention of genealogy charts to put rectangles around males, and ellipses around females.
from Ellis Island to Revere, under the sponsorship of relatives who had preceded them. They had four children: Vincent, Michael, Mary, and Clara. Rose had followed the convention of genealogy charts to put rectangles around males, and ellipses around females.
At the top right, a new tree started with Corrado Fiore and ? Miliotti—Rose apologized for not being able to determine Signorina Miliotti’s first name—bom in Italy, married in Detroit, Michigan, around 1930. This couple had three or four children, one of them named Luigi. Rose explained that she didn’t have as many sources for the Detroit family.
After Sabatino Scotto escaped to Italy, the remaining Scottos moved away from Revere, to Detroit, where their youngest daughter, Clara, met and married Luigi Fiore.
Rose had drawn a red line connecting Clara Scotto and Luigi Fiore. Under them were two large ellipses: Yolanda Fiore, and her sister Gabriella.
“This is nice work, Rose,” Matt said. “I’m going to have to get you a police consultant contract.”
She laughed. “For genealogy-related cases?”
I shook my head. “And all this without the benefit of the Internet,” I said.
I heard a
humph
from both Matt and Rose.
humph
from both Matt and Rose.
We took off from the chart. Sabatino Scotto, his family settled in Revere, goes into the moonshine business. Like many, he continues the operation long after the end of Prohibition. The councilman’s parents, who are among his customers, drink from a bad batch. One is blinded, the other dies.
Sabatino would have been a man in his thirties at the time of his trial, Councilman Byrne a teenager. Old enough to want to do something to avenge his family.
“And then, all these years later, he gets his chance. The granddaughter of the man he’d always wanted to kill comes into town.” Rose was into this saga.
“Very Italian,” Matt said.
Rose and I growled, and gave him looks that told him it was a good thing he was Italian himself.
“We could have figured this out a long time ago, if only I’d been more careful about which city the Scottos had moved to,” Rose said.
“Don’t blame yourself. All the cities out west look alike,” I said. “Chicago, Detroit, Des Moines, San Francisco—”
Rose nodded, oblivious to my attempted joke. “So, what’s next? I’m starting to see why Gloria likes police work.” She looked at Matt. “Besides you, of course.”
Blushes all around.
“All I can do is give this to Parker and Berger,” Matt said, picking up the newsprint. “See if they want to requestion Derek Byrne, find out if he knew Yolanda was a Scotto, or if he even knew what the Scottos did to his family fifty years ago. As for the councilman—” Matt shook his head. “It’ll be up to the department whether to talk to him, too.”
“You mean he might be exempt, just because he’s a city official?” I asked.
Rose sat back, appearing to know the answer.
Matt shook his head, but only slightly. “I’m not saying that, exactly. Just that it takes more than this to question someone like that, officially.”
I had “unofficially” in mind, as soon as I had my car back.
BEFORE ROSE LEFT, Matt volunteered to dig into the old police files on the Scotto case. This cheered her up a bit, but she left considerably less thrilled than when she arrived. Still, it was clear that Rose was happy to be part of the investigation—much more appropriate to her personality than sitting around waiting for others to clear her son’s name. And if any case was especially suited to her skills and experience, it was one involving the history of Revere.
“I THINK IT’S TIME,” Matt said when we were alone again.
A nervous wave went through my body, so strong that I was amazed I stayed firmly seated.
“You’re right,” I said in a weak voice, resigned to a conversation
about our future living arrangements. Matt stood, and I expected him to join me on the couch. Instead, he walked past me, to my computer.
about our future living arrangements. Matt stood, and I expected him to join me on the couch. Instead, he walked past me, to my computer.
“It’s about time I learned how to use this thing. Let’s see if the Internet is all it’s cracked up to be. Shall we start with Prohibition?”
“The Internet! You want to learn the Internet.” I hoped my exuberance didn’t give me away. No confrontation about our relationship. No ultimatums. Just an Internet lesson. I let out a deep breath and smiled.
“What did you think I meant?”
“Let’s go on-line,” I said.
I pulled up a second chair and sat to the side of the computer, placing Matt directly in front of the monitor, a new fifteen-inch flat-screen model that I’d bought with my last check from the RPD.
I led him through the steps to access a search engine, where he typed in PROHIBITION. “Whoa,” he said, jerking his head back when he got more than half a million hits. “What’s this? The prohibition of chemical weapons, homosexuality, and marijuana, and the home page of the National Prohibition Party.” Matt’s first lesson in narrowing a search.
EIGHTEENTH AMENDMENT got better results. Ratified on January 16, 1919, effective one year later, and the law for thirteen years. Matt read from the screen. “The National Prohibition Act covered alcohol, brandy, whiskey, rum, gin, beer, ale, porter, and wine, plus spirituous, vinous, malt or fermented liquor, liquids and compounds, whether medicated, proprietary, patented or not, containing one-half of one percent or more of alcohol.”
“Thorough, if unenforceable.”
We scanned through a mountain of interesting information, Matt’s right hand gaining agility with every click and move across the mouse pad. We looked at lists of biographies—of rumrunner Bill “The Real” McCoy, Al Capone, Eliot Ness, Bugsy Moran, Carrie Nation, and “Machine Gun” Jack
McGurn. Matt paused over the details of the 1929 St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
McGurn. Matt paused over the details of the 1929 St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
“This is great stuff,” he said, still adjusting his head to find the best focal distance. “High drama.”
I was thrilled that he’d taken to one of my own interests. For me, the Internet provided fascinating reading, far beyond the attractions of the fiction section of a library.
“Listen to this,” he said, reading from a commentary by a local reporter. “The thirteen years of the noble experiment were seen by some as our greatest attempt at being a moral nation, and others as an enormous failure that only fueled organized crime, immoral behavior, and disrespect for the law.’”
“Interesting. You see why I love to surf.”
“Mmm.”
Not a ringing endorsement, but I had time to work on him.
We bounced from site to site, and although I knew Internet statistics were not the most reliable, I got hooked on the numbers the sites offered. In 1929 alone, it was estimated that Americans brewed nearly 700 million gallons of beer in their homes, and between 1925 and 1929, 678 million gallons of homemade wine were drunk.
“Why would anyone take a chance like that—drinking unregulated booze?” Matt asked.
“We’re not the ones to ask, I guess.”
Matt and I were both teetotalers. At so many social functions, I was asked if I had religious or moral objections to the consumption of alcohol, and I guessed some people didn’t believe me when I said I just didn’t like it. Not the smell, not the taste, not the texture of any drink I’d tried. On a regular basis, Matt and I heard, “You don’t know what you’re missing. You should try a good wine.”
We’d smile, and shake our heads, neither of us inclined to add another fattening, potentially unhealthy habit to our list. And even more expensive by the ounce than cappuccino.
We tried to think of an analogy to the bootleggers’ business. What if cannoli were outlawed?
“Would we find ourselves sneaking around with mascarpone
not approved by the FDA, baking shells in the middle of the night?” A silly moment, wonderful to share.
not approved by the FDA, baking shells in the middle of the night?” A silly moment, wonderful to share.
A reference to San Ramon, California, a city very close to Berkeley, where I’d lived, caught my eye. Inspectors from the DA’s office patrolling a canyon staged successful raids over the course of several months. They determined where the stills were by the absence of frost on barn roofs—heat generated by a gasoline-fired still would keep a roof frost-free.
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