The Helium Murder(13)

“I’m sure I’ll have it finished by the time I see you at the wake tomorrow evening,” I said.

“Do you attend the wake for everyone laid out at Galigani’s?” Matt asked.

“No, but this one is sure to draw a lot more people than usual,” I said. “Probably hundreds, from all over the district and beyond.”

“So?” Matt said.

“So, I told Rose and Frank I’d help them out.”

I focused my eyes downward, as if putting on my gloves required all my attention, and started to list things I might help with, like taking care of Father Tucci when he came to lead the rosary, and being sure the guest books were in place, but I didn’t get very far before Matt started his laugh.

I waited for the “whoa,” then joined him.





Chapter Six

I drove home with more-than-usual attention to the road, which was still icy from the last storm. As a result, I didn’t start making my mental list until I pulled into the mortuary garage and parked alongside the hearse. Its neat white chintz curtains on the back and side windows gave it the look of a Harvard Square café, but I knew better.

My list began with my assignment from Matt, then my class for Peter, and, least interesting of all, Christmas shopping. The only purchases I’d made while shopping with Rose were some ornaments and Christmas linens that I hadn’t even removed from the bags yet.

No one on my Christmas list was easy to buy for. Thinking of Rose and Frank’s beautiful home on the other side of town, and their magnificent wardrobes, I was stuck before I started. Elaine Cody had a closet full of equally elegant clothing, and a lovely old house in Berkeley, furnished with heirlooms and antiques.

I’ll buy everyone books, I thought, just like every other year.

I entered the main foyer of the building from the garage, which put me under the stairway to the upper floors.

Even before I reached the first step, I heard voices from the main parlor, where Margaret Hurley was to be waked. I couldn’t resist the temptation to investigate, and wondered when I’d become so nosy.

Fortunately for my reputation, should anyone care, I had the excuse that I was looking for mail on the table by the door. No one had to know that Martha, Rose’s assistant, took my mail up to my apartment every day, and left it in front of my door. What I was looking through were flyers about the services offered by Galigani’s Mortuary.

I sneaked a glance into the main parlor and saw Robert Galigani talking to a tall man with red hair and clenched fists. He was wearing a serious winter jacket, the kind Californians used only for ski trips.

“I’m her fiancé,” I heard him say, relaxing his fingers long enough to point a finger at Robert.

I hadn’t seen Robert in action before, and I was impressed that he’d adopted his father’s easy, calm style.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gallagher,” Robert said, “but I’m sure you know that Mrs. Whitestone is Ms. Hurley’s executor, and in charge of the arrangements. And according to her, you two have been estranged for some time. Mrs. Whitestone has asked that you not be included in the special visitations. I’m afraid we’re bound to follow Mrs. Whitestone’s directives.”

“So I can’t even see her?”

“You’ll be very welcome here, during regular visiting hours, I can assure you of that. For now, I can offer you a cup of coffee back in my office.”

“That will be the day I’ll come when the old lady’s here. She never liked me. She was worse than a mother-in-law would have been.”

He turned to leave, and I caught a glimpse of his very red face before I turned and left myself. As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I had no trouble picturing Mr. Gallagher ramming his car into his ex-fiancé.

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.