“That congresswoman?”
“Yes.”
And once again, Peter’s tone changed my mood in a matter of seconds. I no longer wanted to sound disappointed that I was busy, or even vaguely interested in a visit from him.
“I read that the police are considering foul play. Don’t tell me you’re involved in the investigation.”
“I won’t if you don’t want me to, Peter.”
“Why are you like that, Gloria? I’m just worried, after what happened last time.”
“Last time worked out fine,” I said, glad there was no video link to show Peter that I had automatically rubbed my wounded arm at the mention of “last time.”
“Well, are you at least able to have lunch with me on Monday? I won’t see you before Christmas otherwise. I’m going on the senior trip to Washington.”
“How nice,” I said. “I love Washington. The National Gallery, the Smithsonian.”
“It’s not the same with a hotel full of eighteen-year-olds that you’re responsible for.”
“I guess not.” I removed the receiver from my ear and looked at it momentarily, as if to ask it why it was bothering me with these petty issues. I wasn’t proud of my reaction to Peter, but the alternative of leading him to think I was still his girlfriend was out of the question. The fact that I’d been engaged to another man and then lived three thousand miles away since our last date didn’t seem to faze him.
“So, lunch on Monday?”
“I’ll let you know,” I said. “I’m pretty busy with this case.”
“Good night, Gloria. I can tell you’re distracted right now.”
“Good night, Peter.” The growling sound I made came after I’d hung up.
I let out a big sigh and walked to my window to calm down. I could always count on a snowy street scene to soothe my nerves. Later, I decided, I’d have to think of a more permanent way to resolve my relationship with Peter.
I searched through my CDs for some technical-reading music. I still hadn’t gone through Vincent Cavallo’s report and hoped it would contain some physics that I could enjoy. Just picturing the helium atom, with its two lovely electrons, relaxed me.
To the tune of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, I read another person’s view of the helium operation. Since Cavallo was a physicist, I wasn’t surprised to find that he took the strong position of the American Physical Society. “Profoundly concerned about the potential loss of the nation’s accumulated helium reserves,” were the words they used.
The body of the report listed several actions that Cavallo felt would improve the helium program. Among his recommendations were the elimination of smaller activities, like testing, that weren’t cost effective, and charging higher fees to private industry for services. Cavallo estimated that the program would see an increase in income of four to eight million dollars, with a loss of only thirty jobs if his plan were followed.
I couldn’t see anything suspicious in Cavallo’s report. Even though his view was very biased in favor of upgrading instead of discontinuing the operation, it was hardly a motive for murder. Or maybe I was still suffering under the illusion that people dedicated to science were incapable of violence, especially murder.
The thought of murder brought me up short again, and I realized I hadn’t taken any time to grieve over the death of a young woman. Is this how homicide detectives get through their careers, I wondered, thinking of murder as a puzzle to be solved as opposed to a human death to be mourned?
Whatever uncivil behavior she may have exhibited toward her family and friends, whatever her political leanings, Congresswoman Hurley didn’t deserve to be murdered.
I cringed at the idea that my only concern about the comings and goings of the Galigani hearse might be whether it would wake me in the middle of the night. A dead woman had been brought to a basement laboratory three floors below me, and it had taken me all this time to feel sorry for her and her family.
I packed up my notes and lay down on the couch as the “Song of Joy” came to an end.
Chapter Seven
My solemn mood persisted as I left my apartment and walked down Galigani’s main stairway to the parlor where Congresswoman Margaret Hurley lay in her brown walnut casket. I remembered a line from a Jane Austen novel that had particular significance for me since I’d been dwelling in a funeral home—“The living ever feel unease, when the dead are in residence.”
The fragrance of gladioli and mums, and the slow organ music piped through the rooms, didn’t help my spirits. I loved cut flowers, but much to Frank’s chagrin, I swore that they smelled different when arranged around a dead body.