“For the community aspect, Gloria,” she’d tell me every time she tried a new group of worshipers.
“You mean for a dating pool?”
“That, too.”
On this Sunday afternoon, with a cooling breeze coming off San Francisco Bay, I should have been relaxed and comfortable. Instead, the storefronts along Euclid Avenue seemed older and more run-down than I remembered, the sidewalks more cracked and littered, the bicyclists more rude.
Or maybe I was feeling the weight of my deception. I’d researched Elaine’s fiance using her own computer, in her own home, less than two weeks before I’d stand beside her at her Rose Garden wedding. Guilt poured down my back like a stale, flat champagne toast.
Not that it influenced my behavior.
“When do you think I can talk to Phil?” I asked her.
“Oh, I already made a date. We’re meeting him for lunch tomorrow.” Elaine whipped off her lightweight sweater, which perfectly matched her olive green slacks, as if the thought warmed her. “You two really have a lot to talk about. You know, Phil reads lots of scientific biography, just like you. He has books on Newton’s Laws, Boyle’s Laws, Bernoulli’s Laws, Einstein’s Laws, Everyone’s Laws.”
“Have I taught you nothing, Elaine? Science is not about laws—”
“I know, I know, just kidding.”
“You just don’t want my speech about the sciences as philosophical models of the universe—”
“Anchovies,” Elaine said, snapping her fingers.
“What about them?”
“Phil hates anchovies, just as you do. There’s something else in common.”
We laughed together, the way we used to before I suspected her fiance of evil deeds.
I told myself I wasn’t snooping. Wasn’t it the duty of an official witness to a marriage to ensure there were no objections to the union? Once satisfied, I’d forever hold my peace.
Before Matt and I left Revere for this so-called vacation, Rose Galigani gave me two phone cards, each with five hundred minutes prepaid.
“That’s almost seventeen hours, Rose,” I’d told her. Now I thought it might take that long to finish our first cross-country conversation. We both missed our daily contact.
“There’s some drama here, Gloria, even without you,” Rose said. “Not a murder, though, so don’t worry” I wasn’t sure when, or if, I’d reveal that I’d dragged the murder MacGuffin with me to Berkeley Not now, I decided, and settled back on the easy chair in Elaine’s guest room.
“It’s boring here without you, Rose,” I said. “Tell me something dramatic.”
She plunged right in. “Remember how Sandy Caputo died before you left last week?”
“You mean two days ago? Sure.” I didn’t remind Rose that I didn’t know Sandy Caputo and even now couldn’t remember whether Sandy was male or female. Rose, on the other hand, had lived in Revere all her life and was her own one-woman historical society.
“Well, he was scheduled for this afternoon, Parlor B, the closest to the stairway.”
That I wouldn’t forget—the layout of the Galigani Mortuary building where I’d lived before moving in with Matt, daily breathing in the aroma of funeral flowers, passing Parlors A and B, and sometimes a makeshift C, on the way up to my third-floor apartment.
“You won’t believe what happened,” Rose continued. “The Caputo family’s in an uproar. They were trying to reach Frank, but he was setting up a nun from Holy Names downstairs, and since it’s Sunday, no one was in the office, and Robert was picking up the Higgins boy, who should have gone to O’Neal’s in Chelsea, really, and I guess I had my cell phone off—” Rose took a breath. “Are you still there, Gloria?”
I smiled to myself. “I’m here, waiting for the punch line.” I was used to Rose’s story-building and had learned to follow the plotline in spite of the extraneous threads.
“They’re saying Sandy’s in the wrong suit.” Rose’s voice registered extreme stress and incredulity “Sandy’s wife says he’d never wear a yellow shirt and the jacket is way too small and not his.”
“The body’s in the wrong clothes? How did that happen?”
I’d made a clothing run for the Galiganis more than once, picking up an outfit from a dry cleaners or from the family of the deceased. I’d mark the bag or valise carefully before stepping out of my car with it and, holding my nose against the odors of death, would deliver it to the Galigani prep room.
In fact, I knew more than the ordinary layperson about the process of prepping a client for presentation in a casket. Rose and Frank and I had been friends from grade school, never losing touch, even when I moved to California after college and didn’t return home, as Rose called it, for thirty years. Frank had been in the funeral service business forever, starting as an informal security guard for a Boston mortuary when he was a chemistry major at Boston College.
“I wish you and Matt were here to do a little investigating, Gloria.” No matter that I wasn’t a real detective, private or public, and that the rest of Matt’s Revere Police Department was still on duty in her city.
I didn’t bother to suggest that two clothing deliveries might have been switched accidentally by a Galigani employee. Frank and Rose, and their son Robert, ran a very tight ship.
“It wouldn’t be the first time a grieving family got a little confused,” I offered. “Or tried to take their anger out on the mortuary staff.”
Frank and Robert had told me stories of spouses and parents who turned their anger on the funeral directors, as if the person arranging for the burial of their loved one was responsible for his death. It usually happened, I learned, when the deceased met an especially tragic end or was “too young to die,” as we say. As if anyone were old enough to die.
“Want to know what I really think?” Rose asked, bringing me to the problem at hand. “I have an idea how it happened, but I can’t prove it. I think it was Bodner and Polk.”
“The mortuary chain in Boston?”
“Not just in Boston anymore. They’re branching out, literally, to take over all the independents they can. I told you they made an offer to O’Neal’s last month. They’re working their way to Revere.”
“How could they get into your prep room? Also, it’s hard to imagine a big business like that stooping to a childish prank like switching clothing.”
“They’ll do anything, Gloria. Ralphie over at O’Neal’s told me they had a similar screw-up a couple of weeks ago, right after they refused to sell.” She took a breath. I knew the extent of Rose’s agitation when she didn’t bother to apologize for using an expression that her grandson and everyone else in Revere might use, but not her. “Screw-up” was not in Rose’s normal working vocabulary. “O’Neal’s van went to the wrong hospital for the Myers girl’s removal, and now this? All of a sudden we’re all getting sloppy? I don’t think so.”
I knew Rose’s worries were real, and well founded. Like most other small businesses, family mortuaries were fast becoming a thing of the past. Chains were able to get bigger discounts on caskets, flower stands, votive lights, and all the fragrant chemicals that were necessary for business. Thus, they could offer better prices to clients. However, I decided to give Rose the upside of the issue.
“Cost isn’t everything, Rose. Galigani’s has a reputation for the kind of attention people want in a time of trial. The personal touch, run by a family, using local businesses for supporting services like florists and printers and—”
Rose’s laughter came over the lines, as clear as if we’d been eating biscotti on her front porch. “You sound like our brochure.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I miss you, Gloria. But I hope you’re having a good time. Don’t worry about your newspapers and your mail. I’m picking everything up, and I’ll let you know if anything looks urgent. Or interesting.” Another laugh, because we were both aware that Rose’s curiosity knew no bounds.
“Thanks, Rose. Bye for now.”
�
�Oh, wait—I haven’t even asked you what Elaine’s fiance is like.”
“We’ll go into that next time, okay?”
“Hmmm. I’ll call you.”
“Or you can e-mail me again,” I said, with a wink in my voice.
We hung up. I felt lucky my friends tolerated my impertinence.
CHAPTER SIX
Dana checked her wardrobe for something suitable for a day of interviews. First she’d have to report to Julia Strega, the owner of the company, then she’d be seeing a counselor, then the Berkeley police.
Not a fun day, but Elaine had arranged for her to have a massage this evening. A classy lady, always doing thoughtful little things. She’d even checked to be sure Dana was okay going ahead with the wedding plans. Totally, Dana had told her, but she was glad she’d been asked.
She’d have to move on the wedding shower, too, which was only about ten days away. She’d offered to host a party for the bride and groom at her house, forgetting that it would mean housecleaning and food planning. But a party might do everyone some good, Dana thought.
She clicked through the hangers in her half of the closet she shared with Jen. Crop-top tees and mohair scarves; a swishy, too-short black velvet skirt from the thrift shop; a wraparound top with beaded fringe everywhere. A pathetic selection except when she was dressing for a rave. The EMT uniform had spoiled her. She hadn’t needed to invest in anything vaguely adult or professional in more than a year.
The laundry basket in the back hall gave up only a bad smell. So much for Plan B. Plan C would have to be called up—borrow from her roommates.
Jen’s clothes were way too small, but she could manage with Robin’s longish, straight black skirt and her own Moulin Rouge shirt.
She hadn’t seen Robin since Saturday morning. Overnight with Jeff again, Dana figured. She might as well move in with him and save on rent. Robin was studying for a certificate in international business at some online university. She was in the intern phase at a San Francisco financial institution. Robin loved to call herself a consultant. Though it didn’t pay much, she constantly reminded them that one day it would all pay off. Big time.
Her roommates couldn’t be more different, Dana thought. Jen was Wisconsin fresh, blonde, and wholesome, from the kind of family that baked cookies together on Saturday afternoons and held hands walking to church on Sunday morning. Jen wanted to be a history teacher. Robin didn’t talk much about her family, which had fallen apart when her father, a Vietnam vet who never recovered, had committed suicide. Robin had been only nine years old. Poor kid.
Being an only child, Dana didn’t have much experience with kids, but she knew Tanisha’s little Rachel, and she’d done a couple of career-day talks at local schools and she knew how vulnerable kids could be. One time Dana had four junior high students on a tour of the back of an ambulance, each wearing a sticker: I’M A JUNIOR EMT. She remembered being surprised at how impressionable they’d been, in spite of their I’m-cool demeanor.
Dana supposed her family life was somewhere in the middle, between Jen’s and Robin’s. Not your Hallmark family, but not devastated by such a catastrophe as suicide, either. Of course, her parents’ divorce had been hugely traumatic, but she always knew they both loved her. She figured she came out of it all reasonably healthy.
Back to the wardrobe search. Dana checked the door to Robin’s room. Unlocked. Great. She must have come home sometime last night. Robin was fussier than Jen about sharing clothes and about privacy in general. She’d insisted on having the bedroom with its own door and often locked it; Dana and Jen didn’t mind having a common bathroom between their bedrooms and never locked their doors.
“I hope you don’t freak out that I’m in here, Robin,” Dana whispered to the empty room.
Dana tiptoed past Robin’s twin bed and newly painted white dresser. She always thought the photo Robin kept of her father was a little creepy. An eight-by-ten (who had those anymore?) in his military uniform, with a look so somber you almost knew he was going to kill himself soon. Jen’s centerpiece photo, on the other hand, was of a Bradley family reunion, with her father wearing a chef’s hat, standing at an outdoor grill.
Dana put her hand on the knob of the accordion-style closet door and paused. She looked over her shoulder and listened for a sound. She laughed at herself. She was alone in the house, and anyway, she wasn’t a thief. Only a borrower, and Robin had lent Dana clothes before. Dana had never just walked in and taken something, but she felt sure Robin would cut her some slack, especially this week.
She opened the closet door and stepped back. At least a dozen new items, tags still on them, had been squeezed into the middle section of the rod. Dana flipped through them, careful not to wrinkle anything. Skirts, pants, sweaters, at least four dresses, and all looking very expensive. She scratched her forehead. None of the women could afford shopping sprees like this, and neither could Jeff, TA-ing his way through a graduate program in English lit. Dana grinned. Well, none of her business if Robin wanted to max out her credit cards.
Robin didn’t hide the fact that her goal in life was to be as rich as the people she read about in all her money magazines. She’d spent about six months’ pay to join a fancy tennis club.
“Volleyball is for kids,” she’d said when Dana asked if she wanted to join the city league. “If you want to meet rich people, you have to take up their sports.”
Dana found the black skirt she’d come for, looking old and faded next to the new threads. She took it off the hanger and pushed the new clothing back together, leaving the rod the way she thought she’d found it. A silky spaghetti-strap top slipped off its hanger, and Dana rushed to retrieve it from the closet floor. She gave the strap a little pull toward her. With it came another item. A card of some kind. The strap had fallen around it, making an inadvertent loop. Dana picked up the card. A laminated ID for Dorman Industries. The company of consultants her dad worked for. And the photo. A dark-skinned man, forty-ish, short-cropped dark hair—could it be … ? Dana frowned, concentrating, struggling to piece together the bits flying around her mind. The gunshot victim? Their patient when Tanisha was shot? How …?
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Robin’s voice was low and threatening.
Dana gasped and fell back on her butt. “Robin! I … I just came in to borrow …” She pointed to the black skirt, now on the floor next to her.
Robin, about the same height as Dana, loomed over her. Her face was red, way out of proportion to the offense, Dana thought. But not out of character. Robin had a temper and could easily blow up if she or Jen so much as dipped into her box of coffee filters. If she was going to meet her stated goal in life, to be a female Donald Trump, Robin would have to get a new attitude. Or not.
Dana hoisted herself from her position half in and half out of Robin’s closet and, for a reason she couldn’t explain, surreptitiously slid the ID card into the back pocket of her shorts.
Robin’s brown eyes narrowed to mean-looking slits; her arms were folded across her chest, partly obscuring the image of a dragon on her black T-shirt. She didn’t say anything further, as if she were deciding which to do battle with, her words or her fists.
“I’m sorry,” Dana said. Putting it lightly, she thought. She offered the skirt to Robin.
Robin relaxed a little, a very little. “No, it’s okay. Take it. But you know I don’t like anyone messing with my things.”
“I’m really sorry,” Dana said again. “I have all these interviews today, and”—she threw up her hands—“nothing to wear.” Risking a little humor.
Robin dropped her shoulders further and nearly smiled. “It’s okay, really. I know you’re stressed. I overreacted. Are you going to see that counselor?”
“Yeah, and the police after that. You didn’t happen to see that briefcase I had in the living room, by the way, did you?”
“I thought you already talked to the police.”
“They need a formal statement, plus I guess they have mo
re questions.”
Robin moved toward her closet, making room for Dana to walk past her, out the door.
“See you later,” Dana said. She heard Robin’s door click shut. She went into her own room, sat on the bed, and took a deep breath, the first one since Robin had walked in on her. She’d forgotten to return to the question of whether Robin had seen the briefcase, but no way was she going back to that room.
Dana felt the card in her pocket carve a huge question mark on her butt.
Dana sat on a broken rocker in Valley Med’s employee lounge waiting for her boss, Julia Strega, who’d sent word that she’d been delayed. She stared at the walls of the faux apartment, filled with schedule spreadsheets and posters. Her favorite was the staple of EMS rooms everywhere: WE DON’T WANT YOUR BUSINESS. A few hand-lettered notes around the coffeepot and the bathroom doors made futile pleas for cleanliness. The water-cooler, sink, and refrigerator that lined one side of the room, the couch and broken easy chairs, were all as familiar to her as the furniture in her own house, except this furniture made hers look like Ethan Allen. Dana was tempted to stretch out on a cot in one of the small bedrooms. More than occasionally a nap in this area was her only break in thirty-six hours.
“Hey, Dana.” Tom Stewart, not her favorite Alameda County EMT, and not just because of his pimply skin and ugly Adam’s apple. No chance for a nap now. Just as well, since she didn’t want to mess up Robin’s skirt.
“Hey, yourself,” Dana said. Go away was what she wanted to say.
“Nasty business with Tanisha, huh?”
Dana closed her eyes and ignored him, hoping he would get the hint or think she was napping.
Tom had been an EMT longer than anyone else at Valley Med—no one knew exactly how many years, but longer than anyone in history, Tanisha used to say. An EMT stint was not usually a permanent vocation unless you bought the company as Julia had done. The job was physically too demanding and paid too little for any but the very young; most EMTs were on their way to other careers in emergency services—paramedics, cops, ER doctors and nurses. Tanisha had applied for her Fire 1 exam. Dana’s chest constricted at the memory of her ambitious, hardworking friend. And here she was, procrastinating on her own alleged plans to apply to med school.
The Nitrogen Murder Page 5
