Rose adjusted the lamp shades as she made her way to the kitchen, where she’d prepare dinner for ten, though she was expecting only five. Matt and I would join MC and her parents. Like my own mother, Rose claimed you never knew who might drop in, and God forbid there wasn’t enough food.
MC moved to the chair her mother had used, and pulled her legs up under her—a position my always-chubby body would have had trouble with even in kindergarten.
Alone at last. But start slowly, I told myself.
“How did you like teaching?” I asked MC.
“I liked it enough to want to do more, but maybe something more advanced. These students were all …”
“Poets,” I said, and she laughed. “I taught a class called ‘Physics for Poets’ for several years. It’s frustrating, because you know most of the students don’t want to be there.”
She nodded. “On the other hand, there’s this great opportunity to change someone’s view of science. So you try to make it fun.”
“Did you do the banana trick?” I asked.
MC rolled back in laughter. “How did you know?”
Together we mimicked immersing a banana into a vessel of liquid nitrogen, pulling it out, stiff as a board, then cracking it in half by slamming in onto a desk or chair in the classroom.
“I used a hammer,” MC said, seeming embarrassed that she’d succumbed to the gimmick.
I’d always wondered if students learned anything from the tricks science teachers came up with to make the subject seem more fun than the amusements that used to line Revere Beach Boulevard. If nothing else, I figured, it showed we had a playful side.
Sharing science teaching anecdotes with MC was fun, but I needed to talk about the recently deceased Nina Martin.
“Had you been in touch with Nina at all since you came back to Revere?” I asked.
She shrugged, apparently not surprised that I’d changed the topic. “Just an email or two. I glanced at them when I went through the list the other night for the first time, but I haven’t read hers closely. They seemed to be about her Incomplete, and could wait. I have till the end of the year to post the grades.” She threw her hands up. “Not that she’ll be getting a grade.” MC paused to catch her breath. “I’m sure I would have noticed, Hey, Ms. Galigani, I’m coming up to Revere to visit.”
“Well, Nina obviously had some intention of contacting you, MC, or she wouldn’t have been carrying the Galigani card. Do you even remember giving it to her?”
She nodded. “Vaguely. She said something about keeping a file on all her teachers, for potential casework when she was in law school, and she’d like to be able to contact me after I left Houston.” MC banged her fists together. I saw sadness mixed with frustration. “She sure fooled everyone.”
Except for her killer, I thought.
“Have you had a chance to look at all your emails, MC?” My way of asking if she had any clue what Wayne Gallen had been warning her about, and whether Nina’s murder might be connected to it.
MC nodded. “I went through them all. I didn’t find anything in Alex Simpson’s emails that would explain what Wayne was talking about, if that’s what you mean.”
That’s what I meant. “I was thinking—”
“Would you be willing to look at them yourself, Aunt G?”
“My, what a good idea,” I said, feigning surprise.
I loved it when MC smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The most entertaining dinner table stories always came from Frank Galigani, professional mortician, Rose’s high school sweetheart, and husband of many decades. As usual, the contrast between Rose’s elegant place settings and Frank’s work environment was striking. A soft, cloth runner in autumn hues on the one hand, and the bare, steel-gray embalming table on the other. Cheerful flower arrangements on mahogany surfaces in their home on Prospect Avenue, somber gladioli in stately baskets down on Tuttle Street.
Frank had the same all-Italian look as Matt, only thinner. And neater. Matt’s body did not accommodate “dapper” any more than mine did, but Frank always looked perfectly groomed and ready to represent families in mourning, to stand as a confident sentinel in a shadowy parlor, to console the grieving with style and grace.
You knew Frank would take care of you and your deceased in the most dignified manner. You knew Matt would be willing to walk through garbage and murky marsh waters to find evidence that would solve a crime perpetrated on you or your family. I loved them both.
This evening’s story came as soon as we’d all sat down to Rose’s idea of casual dining for a rainy fall evening. Matching place mats and napkins, and a cornucopia centerpiece that seemed designed for Thanksgiving, but, in fact, would be dwarfed by what she had in mind for that day.