The Helium Murder(14)

“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.