The Helium Murder (6 page)

I’d hardly gotten started on my assignments when I found myself in the middle of a meeting in my living room.

“That’s why we hired Martha, and Tony, and Sal,” Rose said. “To help out at times like this. So we don’t have to use our friends.”

“She just wants to be near the action,” Frank said.

“I know that, and that’s what I don’t want,” Rose answered, folding her arms across her chest and shifting her body away from Frank. The two of them managed to look uncomfortable on my soft, wide-wale corduroy couch, while I sat across from them on my glide rocker.

The only thing that could make this worse
, I thought,
would be if Peter Mastrone were here also
.
Peter had expressed great displeasure at my new career. At least Rose’s nagging was from her genuine concern for me. Peter’s, I felt, stemmed from his desire to control me, as if our thirty-odd-year separation was but a long weekend.

“What’s the big deal?” Robert asked, from the matching rocker on my right. Knowing that his parents were in my apartment, Robert had made an innocent trip upstairs to visit. He probably wanted a cup of coffee and a simple chat, I thought, and not this imbroglio over my volunteerism.

I’d been watching them and listening to the three of them discuss me as if I were an employee applicant, sitting miles away. I decided to enter the debate, with only a slight exaggeration of the truth.

“Matt didn’t think it was a problem,” I said. “I’ll just wander around, checking on things, and be as inconspicuous as possible.”

“What things?” Rose asked. “You’ll be cross-examining and asking for alibis.”

“Cool,” Robert said, sounding like his fourteen-year-old son, and the Galigani’s only grandchild. Rose shot him a look that would have sent him to his room in his preteen years.

“And what were you looking for in the
Journal’s
morgue anyway?” Rose asked me.

So that’s it
, I thought.
John squealed
.

“Are you looking into Al’s crash?” Frank asked. I was grateful that he tried to sound matter-of-fact, as if it were normal for someone to split town when her
fiancé dies, then come back three decades later to investigate.

I lifted my chin in an act of self-confidence and caught a glimpse of my San Francisco poster on the wall opposite my rockers. The cable car in the print appeared to wobble around its perch at the top of a steep hill.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” I said, turning away from the image of the gravity-defying trolley. “I’m working on this case now, and I need to get to know the people involved.”

Frank slapped his knees and stood up.

“Why don’t we have some coffee and make a little plan that makes everyone happy? Luberto’s can have cannoli here in fifteen minutes.”

Frank picked up the phone and pushed Luberto’s number, apparently from memory.
He doesn’t go to seminars for nothing
, I thought. And, trim and fit as he was, Frank used the time-tested method of easing tension—food and drink.

“I’ll grind some fresh Vienna roast,” I said, “and I even stopped at Happy Farms today. There’s fruit here, and cheese and crackers.” I recited the list of food, thinking of Josephine, whose refrigerator and kitchen shelves always overflowed with tasty leftovers and deli cold cuts and cheeses. Having enough to feed friends and family at a moment’s notice was a lifetime commitment for my mother, but a landmark event for me.

An hour later, the four of us had reached reasonable agreement. I tried to assure Rose that I wouldn’t take
any risks. For all we knew, I reminded her, Congress-woman Hurley’s death was a random hit-and-run and no one attending the wake would be the least bit dangerous.

Robert and Frank came up with some chores for me. My life was turning into a series of limited duties, I thought. I’d wear a small black ribbon with
STAFF
in silver letters, like the other Galigani employees, and help people find their way around the rooms. I’d watch for Father Tucci and take care of his hospitality. This would free up Martha to stay in the second-floor office and take phone calls. And—this was my major victory—I would make sure the immediate family had water or tissues or whatever they needed.

I promised Rose I’d always stay within sight of Tony or Sal, the two largest men I’d ever seen, who were called in whenever crowd control might be needed.

Alone in my apartment, I rubbed my hands together in satisfaction and checked the time—5
P
.
M
. I cleared the remains of our meal, simultaneously snacking on cannoli crumbs, and went to my closet to assemble an outfit befitting a staff member of a funeral home.
Black
, I thought, in a burst of brilliance, although Rose seldom wore black on these occasions. One-hundred-and-five-pound Rose, I reasoned, could pull off any look in any color, but I needed all the help I could get.

I chose a black three-piece ensemble, of the kind I favored—a skirt and long-sleeved blouse, with a
coordinated vest trimmed in a silver print along the edges. I had long considered that vests were originally invented with me in mind, since I firmly believed that they hid all the unflattering bumps in my torso.

Before I finished dressing, the phone rang, and my earlier nightmare came true. Peter was calling, “to check on me.”

“I thought I might come over this evening, if you happen to be free.”

“I’m not, Peter,” I said, trying to sound a bit disappointed. “I’m getting ready to attend a wake.” I’d made a split-second decision to spare Peter the fact that I was actually preparing to work at a wake.

“That congresswoman?”

“Yes.”

And once again, Peter’s tone changed my mood in a matter of seconds. I no longer wanted to sound disappointed that I was busy, or even vaguely interested in a visit from him.

“I read that the police are considering foul play. Don’t tell me you’re involved in the investigation.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to, Peter.”

“Why are you like that, Gloria? I’m just worried, after what happened last time.”

“Last time worked out fine,” I said, glad there was no video link to show Peter that I had automatically rubbed my wounded arm at the mention of “last time.”

“Well, are you at least able to have lunch with me on Monday? I won’t see you before Christmas otherwise. I’m going on the senior trip to Washington.”

“How nice,” I said. “I love Washington. The National Gallery, the Smithsonian.”

“It’s not the same with a hotel full of eighteen-year-olds that you’re responsible for.”

“I guess not.” I removed the receiver from my ear and looked at it momentarily, as if to ask it why it was bothering me with these petty issues. I wasn’t proud of my reaction to Peter, but the alternative of leading him to think I was still his girlfriend was out of the question. The fact that I’d been engaged to another man and then lived three thousand miles away since our last date didn’t seem to faze him.

“So, lunch on Monday?”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. “I’m pretty busy with this case.”

“Good night, Gloria. I can tell you’re distracted right now.”

“Good night, Peter.” The growling sound I made came after I’d hung up.

I let out a big sigh and walked to my window to calm down. I could always count on a snowy street scene to soothe my nerves. Later, I decided, I’d have to think of a more permanent way to resolve my relationship with Peter.

I searched through my CDs for some technical-reading music. I still hadn’t gone through Vincent Cavallo’s report and hoped it would contain some physics that I could enjoy. Just picturing the helium atom, with its two lovely electrons, relaxed me.

To the tune of Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony
, I read another person’s view of the helium operation. Since
Cavallo was a physicist, I wasn’t surprised to find that he took the strong position of the American Physical Society.
“Profoundly concerned about the potential loss of the nation’s accumulated helium reserves,”
were the words they used.

The body of the report listed several actions that Cavallo felt would improve the helium program. Among his recommendations were the elimination of smaller activities, like testing, that weren’t cost effective, and charging higher fees to private industry for services. Cavallo estimated that the program would see an increase in income of four to eight million dollars, with a loss of only thirty jobs if his plan were followed.

I couldn’t see anything suspicious in Cavallo’s report. Even though his view was very biased in favor of upgrading instead of discontinuing the operation, it was hardly a motive for murder. Or maybe I was still suffering under the illusion that people dedicated to science were incapable of violence, especially murder.

The thought of murder brought me up short again, and I realized I hadn’t taken any time to grieve over the death of a young woman.
Is this how homicide detectives get through their careers
, I wondered,
thinking of murder as a puzzle to be solved as opposed to a human death to be mourned?

Whatever uncivil behavior she may have exhibited toward her family and friends, whatever her political leanings, Congresswoman Hurley didn’t deserve to be murdered.

I cringed at the idea that my only concern about the
comings and goings of the Galigani hearse might be whether it would wake me in the middle of the night. A dead woman had been brought to a basement laboratory three floors below me, and it had taken me all this time to feel sorry for her and her family.

I packed up my notes and lay down on the couch as the “Song of Joy” came to an end.

Chapter Seven

M
y solemn mood persisted as I left my apartment and walked down Galigani’s main stairway to the parlor where Congresswoman Margaret Hurley lay in her brown walnut casket. I remembered a line from a Jane Austen novel that had particular significance for me since I’d been dwelling in a funeral home—
“The living ever feel unease, when the dead are in residence.”

The fragrance of gladioli and mums, and the slow organ music piped through the rooms, didn’t help my spirits. I loved cut flowers, but much to Frank’s chagrin, I swore that they smelled different when arranged around a dead body.

I’d fallen asleep on my couch, and had to iron the telltale wrinkles from my skirt, thus missing my self-imposed starting time of six-thirty.
Great first impression if this were a real job
, I thought.

It was close to seven and several dozen people were
already in the parlor when I made my entrance. For the tenth time, I checked my little black Galigani ribbon, as if I’d just won first prize at a morbid science fair.

Rose’s assistant, Martha, greeted me and pointed out Frances Whitestone.

“As long as you’re here, I’ll get back upstairs,” Martha said in a normal tone. And then, in a whisper, “I know you’re on this case. Good luck.”

Martha had always overestimated my police involvement, once introducing me to her eight-year-old twin boys as “a policeperson.” Usually I corrected her, but this time I simply thanked her, and gave her a smile and a wink that said “I’m on it.”

Frances Whitestone would have been hard to pick out of a lineup as a senior citizen. Standing tall and straight, with her hair more red than gray, she wore her money well, from her simple sheath dress in dark green silk, to her rich-looking purse and shoes.

I had to adjust my old-woman image to accommodate this perfect picture of a wealthy widow of one of Boston’s financial geniuses. My previous images came from my grandmother and older aunts—hair all gray, their short, wide bodies ensheathed in flowered housedresses and terry-cloth slippers.

A quick calculation told me that Frances Whitestone had to be close to eighty, given the number of years she and her late husband had dominated local politics from behind the scenes, funding winners almost every time. I sighed as I walked over to her, trying to formulate a word of sympathy that wouldn’t sound hollow.
I resolved to listen more closely to Frank in a situation like this, the next time I had the opportunity.

“Good evening, Mrs. Whitestone,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how close you were to Margaret.”

“Thank you,” she said. She gave me an appraising look, up and down quickly, without moving her head, and then trained her eyes on my ribbon. “Are you aware that there are only two boxes of votive candles in this room?” she said. “Hardly enough. Can you see to it?”

“Right away,” I said, feeling like I’d flunked a blood test, and guessing that I wouldn’t be delivering any tissues to her chair.

Not that I was judging her grief. People mourn in different ways, I knew, and I had the feeling that all of Frances Whitestone’s would be done in the privacy of her boudoir. My own relatives had preferred to express their suffering by throwing themselves, wailing, onto the casket of the departed loved one.

I desperately wanted to ask Mrs. Whitestone some questions, and had to clench my jaws and fists to keep from reading her my mental list. Had she heard the hit-and-run car drive away? Had she seen any suspicious-looking cars in the neighborhood that day? Who else knew what time Margaret would be arriving? How soon had she gone out to investigate the noise? I was aggravated that Matt hadn’t even told me the basics yet, like who found the body.

The sight of Robert Galigani across the room reminded me that I was supposed to be working. I tried
to figure out who was responsible for the votive lights and decided to take it to the top, or next to the top, to Robert himself. In the precomputer days, when people knew what carbon copies were, that’s what we would have called Robert, so like his father in manner and looks. Unlike his journalist brother, Robert wore his hair in a neat, short cut, and except for minor glitches in vocabulary, like “cool,” had a professional manner at all times.

I noted with dismay that Robert was already starting to bald, and I had a moment of regret that I’d missed the childhood of Rose and Frank’s children. I’d managed to keep a special connection with Mary Catherine, my godchild, but mostly through presents and phone calls. The longest time I’d ever spent with her was one summer when she stayed with me in California, during her antimother teen years.