Boric Acid Murder, The

by Camille Minichino

  Men in high places, I thought. I wonder what else he could get away with.

  “You’re doing fine so far, Brendan. You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you.” The perfect script for flirting—if it weren’t for the difference in our ages and the seriousness of the topic.

  Byrne pulled my chair out, a gesture that seemed to come naturally to him, but not to me. I stumbled onto the seat and struggled to slide into place, hampered by too much friction between the seat cover and the fabric of my new skirt.

  Byrne turned his seat to face me, one elbow on the table. He raised his hand as if to shield our conversation, though there was no one near enough to overhear us. His voice was low. “I may be able to help you.”

  No truly useful information ever comes easy, I’d learned, in research or in police work. But I allowed myself a surge of excitement—this could be the one time in a million.

  “I don’t know how deeply you’ve looked into Yolanda’s personal life.”

  “I know she was dating your son.”

  Byrne frowned and swayed a bit in his seat, as if he’d been knocked off balance. Surely he was aware the relationship was common knowledge. My guess—he wasn’t prepared to give up control of the conversation.

  Feeling the need for a little more power myself, I moved again before he recovered completely. “Wasn’t Derek the last person to see her alive?”

  He smiled. Back on track. “Except for the murderer.”

  “Of course.”

  “Before Derek, there was her boss,” he said, out of the side of his mouth. “Her ex-boss, that is.”

  “Anthony Taruffi? Yolanda dated him?”

  “‘Dated’ would be a euphemism. He has a wife and children.” I remembered the nuclear family photographs in Taruffi’s office. “Don’t get me wrong. I like Taruffi. We’ve worked together on some projects—community relations between the lab and the city, you know. It’s to our mutual advantage to keep things amicable.”

  “So this …affair …would have been after Yolanda was with John Galigani?”

  “Correct. I don’t necessarily want to reveal my sources, but let’s say very few people were aware of it. I don’t think Claire, Taruffi’s wife, ever found out. She’s a businesswoman and I know her through the Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Have you told this to the police?”

  Byrne shook his head. “It’s not a good idea for a man in my position.” The councilman leaned into me. “Of course when I heard about your worthy pursuits, I sensed a perfect opportunity to get the information out without …” Byrne trailed off and looked past me at the newcomers to our table. To my disappointment, guests were filling the room, and I didn’t have time to ask what equation linked his “position” to talking to the RPD. I also wondered about this alleged affair that no one else seemed to know about—a perfect ruse for the councilman to steer me away from his son.

  The last person to arrive at our table was Dorothy Leonard, who took the chair to my right. In my doddering attempts to seat myself gracefully, I hadn’t noticed her place card. Dorothy’s black outfit, a dress and short bolero with a subtle trim, rivaled any in the room for elegance. I delighted in the good fortune of being plunked down among the principals in a murder investigation. And for once, it wasn’t at a Galigani Mortuary wake.

  We sat quietly during the business announcements from the Civic Club luncheon committee, each preparing his or her own topics of conversation, I guessed. I struggled, not only with my slippery drumstick-thigh combo, but with words that would provoke a useful conversation without alienating my luncheon partners before I garnered information.

  I started with a lie. “I remember meeting you both at the fund-raiser last year. I was so impressed by the expansion plans for the library.” Two lies.

  Since I already knew Byrne’s feelings about the proposal from my eavesdropping the day before, I focused on Dorothy Leonard. She brushed back her hair in the same elegant gesture I’d seen when I first met her.

  “It’s the best thing to happen in this city for many years. State grants are not easy to come by, and we should be very, very grateful.” Leonard’s slight overbite did nothing to detract from her forceful presence.

  Councilman Byrne groaned. He clenched his jaw and stretched his upper torso. He might have been in agony. I was sure we were disrupting what he hoped would be a peaceful lunch, once he’d given me the scoop on the Taruffi-Fiore affair, but a peaceful lunch was the last thing I’d hoped for while John Galigani was about to be charged with murder. My job, as I saw it, was to encourage conflict. My strategy was to segue from the library expansion to the library slaying.

  “I hear that some people are against the expansion?” I said, spreading cold, hard butter on a cold, stiff roll.

  Byrne bit off a large chunk of his own dinner roll. Leonard put down her knife and fork.

  “Amazingly, yes,” she said. “There’s a squabble over rights to the ground and some possible historical significance. But even the Revere Historical Society is in favor of the expansion, so I’m not concerned about the little protest.”

  This time, Byrne’s response was a snort. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard the magisterium of the Holy Roman Catholic Church referred to as ‘little’ anything.”

  I dabbed my lips with the nonabsorbent white napkin. “Excuse my ignorance, but I don’t know much about city politics yet. How will this issue be resolved?” I wondered about my position between two very tall, powerful people. I decided if they came to blows, the fists would fly over my head anyway. None of the other seven people at the table, all twenty-something I guessed, seemed the least bit interested in our drama.

  “By documentation,” Leonard announced. “As we speak, Amy Tung, the Historical Society’s research director, is vetting papers that will show not only our proper ownership of the land, but the implausibility of its being sacred ground.”

  “As if someone named Tung would know anything about the history of Revere,” Byrne said, not masking his sneer. Not only stubborn, but racist. “And who says the Historical Society is objective on this? Isn’t your cousin married to their president?”

  “That’s just like you, Brendan,” Leonard said. “When all else fails, make an ad hominem argument.”

  Magisterium. Ad hominem. Besides my wardrobe, my Latin also needed renewal. Who said Revere wasn’t a classy city?

  The luncheon seemed to be coming to a close and I hadn’t made any progress in my unofficial investigation. I gave up my plan for a smooth transition.

  “Any word yet on the Yolanda Fiore case?” I asked, swinging my head from Byrne to Leonard and back.

  “Shouldn’t we be asking you that?” Byrne asked. His tone seemed to carry a jeer, but maybe I was influenced by his recent Asian slur.

  I stalled with a cough that required a sip of water. “We’re looking into all angles.” Nice generalization. “Did either of you know Yolanda personally?” Another swing of my head.

  The “not very well” from Dorothy Leonard came out simultaneously with the “barely” from Congressman Byrne.

  Evidently the murdered woman hadn’t made much of an impression on either her boyfriend’s father or his boss. Or the father and the boss were holding out on me.

  FOURTEEN

  I ARRIVED HOME to a telephone message from Peter Mastrone, irritating, as usual. This time he expressed concern about Andrea—she’d have to be fingerprinted if there were no prints already on file for her, since she’d be dealing with minors. I thought I detected an aha in his voice, as if Andrea Cabrini probably had a criminal record that would preclude her appearing in his classroom. I was surprised Peter didn’t realize all lab employees were fully vetted by the Department of Energy before being hired.

  Eager as I was to tell him the news—Andrea Cabrini was cleaner than his own immaculate oxford shirts—I called Rose first.

  “Did you arrange the seating at the Civic Club?” I asked her. “I sat between Brendan Byrne and Doro
thy Leonard.”

  She laughed. “I’m not that influential, Gloria.”

  “I disagree. But in spite of your efforts and my excellent position at the table, I didn’t get as much information as I’d hoped. I picked up a souvenir program for you, however. There’s a fine silhouette of Paul Revere and his horse on the front.”

  “Thanks,” she said with another laugh. I was grateful for each one.

  Unsatisfied by the congealed molecules masquerading as mashed potatoes at the luncheon, I’d started to pick on the leftover bread on my counter, Matt’s dinner contribution last night from the bakery near his home. The home he’d invited me to live in. Or possibly he had. An image of my clothes and furniture at his Fernwood Avenue address was so distracting, I wished I could confide this new development, and my mixed feelings, to Rose. Ordinarily I would, and she’d be ecstatic at the idea of helping me in a romantic situation.

  Instead, I told her about the alleged Fiore-Taruffi affair—as expected, she jumped on that as the likely motive for Yolanda’s murder—and what little else I had to report from the luncheon. Eventually I had to broach the main reason for my call.

  “Is John with you?” My fingers gripped the cord. I hoped there’d be no relapse into a strained conversation.

  “Yes, he’s staying here. I know you need to talk to him, Gloria. Anytime.”

  No sign of displeasure. I relaxed my fingers.

  “Maybe I’ll come over now.” Before you have another negative reaction to me, I thought, but didn’t say.

  “HE’S ALL YOURS,” Rose told me, leaving us on her air-conditioned porch, surrounded by white wicker furniture and floral cushions in pinks and reds. A pallid John Galigani in gray sweats sat across from me, a tray of iced tea and lemon squares between us.

  I was relieved Rose didn’t consider this occasion a version of a parent-teacher conference where the mother hovered over her recalcitrant fifth-grader. It was an added bonus that neither of the attorneys, Nick Ciccolo and Mike Canty, was present. It was awkward enough questioning a man I’d known all his life, about a murder. I felt close to John, and regretted every year of his life that I’d lived far away, as if his near-arrest were a reminder of my own poor choices.

  We spent a few uncoordinated moments pouring tea, arranging napkins and straws, stalling. It took a great deal of energy for me to pull back and achieve a measure of objectivity, but I was finally able to get us started.

  “I know this is hard, John, but I need to ask you some questions.”

  He nodded and waved his hand in a gesture of resignation, his head lowered. Although he’d greeted me with a hug, his expression was serious, and he still hadn’t said a word. I noticed his hair was shorter than usual and wondered if his lawyers were responsible for the more conservative look.

  I went on. “You know this is completely off the record, since your lawyers aren’t present, and, anyway—” I paused for a laugh. “I’m not exactly an officer of the court, am I?”

  Another nod and hand wave, but no smile.

  “Is there anything you remember about the last time you saw Yolanda? Any strange behavior?”

  John shook his head, ran his hands across his face, working his way up from his small round chin to his forehead. “We had dinner, is all. I never saw her after about eight-thirty.”

  It was a start. “You’re sure of the time?”

  He nodded. “I kept checking my watch because I had a deadline to meet at nine. Arnie was holding a spot for me on the sports page. He wanted to include the play-off results for the big bowling trophy. I was filling in for the guy who usually covers sports.”

  “Was it usual for you and Yolanda to have dinner together? Did you see her regularly even though you’d broken up?”

  “No, just once in a while, mostly if business brought us together. I still did a feature on the lab now and then and she was my contact.”

  “So why dinner?”

  John stood up abruptly. His knee banged against the table, sending our drinks into vibratory motion. “Why not?” His voice was too loud for the small quarters, and I glanced anxiously back into the house. I didn’t need Rose worrying about my abusing her son.

  I sighed, exasperated. “John, this is your friend, your Auntie Gloria, remember?” I spoke as if I didn’t share his ambiguity over my current role in his life.

  He sat back down, tears forming in his eyes. I walked around the table and leaned over to embrace him, my own eyes smarting. His hands were cold in spite of what I considered a minimum level of cooling on the porch. The outside temperature was over ninety degrees, presenting a big challenge to the small AC unit.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, while I rubbed his back. “This is crazy. Let’s just start again. I’ll tell you anything you think will help get me cleared of this.”

  I took my first full breath in a while, and gave him a big smile that was supposed to say, Remember, I’m on your side. “I don’t know much about Yolanda at all,” I said. “Did she have family, for example? Hobbies? Close friends?” I decided against telling John I’d seen the “Auntie Yo” drawings in Yolanda’s apartment. I wondered if he’d ever been to her current residence—and if so, how recently.

  “She had a sister in Michigan. Yolanda came here from Detroit about five years ago. Her family was from Revere originally, and she wanted to return to her roots, I guess. She had a little niece, about eight years old, I think, that she wrote to all the time. Cara was her name. And her grandmother is still alive. Her parents are both dead.”

  Would the sister come to the funeral? I wondered. I assumed Yolanda’s body would not be waked in the Galigani Mortuary since John was involved in the case. A disadvantage for me—except for the absence of two-way mirrors, the Galigani parlors had been perfect as my own personal interview room when I worked on a case. For all I knew, Yolanda’s body might be on its way to Michigan. I’d have to ask Frank, who was aware of the arrangements of all the dearly departed of Revere, whether his clients or not.

  “Friends? Hobbies?”

  “Not much of either, really. In spite of her public affairs role at the lab, she wasn’t much for social life. She was a journalist at heart and loved to investigate. I guess you could call that her hobby—looking into things.”

  “Like safety problems and employee grievances?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not all.” John smiled and I could tell he’d come up with a happy memory of his deceased friend. “One time she solved a mystery before the cops did—a series of thefts from the local schools. She compared the cafeteria food delivery schedules with the robberies and came up with a correlation. Cops picked up the delivery guy on his next try.”

  A woman after my own heart, I thought. I gave John a minute to enjoy his recollection, then went for a big question.

  “Do you mind telling me why you broke up with her?”

  John laughed, slightly, an uncomfortable snicker. “Incompatible philosophies, if you can believe that. We were always arguing over how we could make a difference in the world, which one of us was selling out, which one was maintaining the ideals that led us to journalism in the first place, instead of some profession that was locked into the establishment.”

  This was where I would usually step up to the lectern and deliver my speech about “how to make a difference.” I’d always resented the idea that certain occupations were in themselves more noble than others. Didn’t we all make a difference depending on how we did our jobs, the way we lived our lives? Did Walter Cronkite contribute more to the enrichment of humanity than Marconi, who gave us the ability to communicate with each other across continents? If it weren’t for the technology, there wouldn’t be a Walter Cronkite. And we’d never be able to see and correct human abuses on the scale that we do now.

  I didn’t share these feelings with John—even I could tell my musings were no more insightful than a better-things-through-chemistry commercial. Besides, I was sure there was a more recent example than Cronkite to make my argument, but I
couldn’t name one.

  I cleared my throat of my opinions, swallowed my urge to preach. “Is that why you argued with Yolanda at the end of Thursday evening—incompatible philosophies?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact. It was the same old story. She accused me of compromising my integrity by working for a mainstream newspaper, instead of some throwaway independent. And there she was working for the fr …for the government, for God’s sake.” I watched his face turn red, his temples throb. I told myself this outburst meant nothing in terms of whether John Galigani was capable of murder. He calmed down quickly, and sounded contrite. “I guess I said some pretty nasty things to her—like she was basically working for people who created weapons of mass destruction, and so was Derek for that matter, a yes-man at a government institution.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard John’s passionate anti-lab sentiment. Now it seemed he was also anti-library, though I was sure that wasn’t how he meant it. Probably out of deference for my relationship with his parents, John had never confronted me directly on my own role as a thirty-year veteran of a similar lab on the West Coast. It didn’t hurt that we were separated by an entire continent for most of his life.

  Time to switch topics.

  “Were you aware that Yolanda and Anthony Taruffi … dated?”

  John looked at me as if I’d told him a supermarket tabloid had won a Pulitzer Prize.

  “Yolanda and Tony? I don’t think so,” he said. “Not in a million years.”

  I made no comment. I’d decide later whether to believe Councilman Brendan Byrne or John Galigani. In the meantime, John had come up with another recollection.

  He grinned—a rare sight these days among the Galiganis. “We actually parted on a joke that night. There were these two huge lions in the lobby of the library, in crates.”

  I nodded, remembering the crates, parked against the wall, the evening Matt and I dropped in on the late-working Director Leonard. “We named them Patience and Fortitude.”