The Helium Murder(29)

I reviewed what I knew about each suspect—William Carey, Patrick Gallagher, Buddy Hurley, and Vincent Cavallo had all made my list, in that order. I’d moved Carey into first place after meeting him—realizing that assigning guilt by familiarity probably wouldn’t make it in the annals of detective work.

Buddy’s alibi was the most solid, witnessed by a large crowd in a public place, but I didn’t think it meant much, since it wouldn’t have been hard for him to hire someone to do the deed. I flashed on an image of Buddy Hurley handing over a thick envelope to Rocky Busso, both nodding knowingly. And I didn’t doubt that Carey had access to a large pool of very strong cowboys.

Since alibis were a dispensable variable in my theory of the case, I moved on to clues, which were as scarce as women in physics. The only real clue in my mind was Margaret Hurley’s last word, or syllable, before she died.

I made a list of all the possible meanings of “mo” or “mole.” I ruled out a license plate since I couldn’t imagine anyone’s using a car with vanity plates as a murder weapon. I doubted that Hurley meant mole/spy, since there was no national security issue that I was aware of with the helium reserves. Did the murderer have a mole on his body? I deemed it impossible that Hurley would have been able to see a mole on the driver of a vehicle coming at her full speed, in the dark. Or that a gopherlike, furry underground animal was behind the wheel.

Leaving alibis and clues for a while, I focused on motive. Although Buddy had been written out of his father’s will, I was sure that more options opened up to him with Margaret out of the way. Maybe the courts would look more kindly on a sole heir. On the “not so nice” side of the ledger for his sister was renewed gossip that it was Margaret who had instigated the change of will not long before both parents died in a plane crash.

I was neither proud nor completely trusting of my sources for these tidbits—TV coverage, news magazines, and hearsay from Rose the Eavesdropper—but not much was forthcoming from Matt the Detective on nontechnical matters.

The motive I’d assigned to Cavallo was different from the others. It didn’t have to do with either love or money, but professional reputation and frustration. Weak, I concluded, so he was my last choice. The only strange thing was why Margaret Hurley had put Cavallo’s letters in her personal file. From what I’d read, everything he’d said in the letters was already in his public reports, the ones I’d found on the Internet.

Matt had invited me to Cavallo’s interview the next afternoon, Thursday, but not to Gallagher’s or Buddy’s in the morning. They had no apparent link to the helium program, so there was no technical reason for me to be there. Maybe on our Saturday date I’ll speak to Matt about this handicap he’s giving me, I thought, and also find out what he’s done about Al’s notebook; but I doubted it. I knew I’d be concentrating on not tripping on Boston’s cobblestone streets.

I’d had only a brief glimpse of Gallagher, plus copies of two letters he’d written to Hurley, plus Rose’s account of his drunken apology to the victim; so far, not exactly winning behavior. I’d had even less direct contact with Buddy, if you didn’t count the intensity of the moment I did have with him.

I wanted to talk to Gallagher and Buddy so badly that I reconsidered going downstairs to the wake, and probably would have, if I hadn’t changed out of my professional mortuary clothing and misplaced the staff ribbon that provided a modicum of armor.

I took another glance at the piece about Gallagher in the newspaper and let out a tiny gasp when I read that he worked for the school district and had an office at Revere High School. How did I miss that before? I wondered, with mounting excitement. And what’s the protocol for asking one’s ex-boyfriend to introduce her to a murder suspect?

Before I could change my mind, I picked up the phone and called Peter. I owed him a call, anyway, I reasoned, and maybe I could trade Christmas lunch for an introduction. Or maybe Peter knew Gallagher well and we could all go to lunch, I thought, pushing positive thinking way over the limit.

Peter answered, with the voice of one who has just swallowed a bite of dinner.

“I’m sorry to call you at dinnertime,” I told him.

“Not at all. I’m delighted, Gloria. I was wondering if you got my message the other night.”

“I did. I’ve been busy, working on your class, too, of course.” I was disgusted with my fawning, but I did need his help to carry out my limited duties for the RPD.

“I’m looking forward to Monday,” Peter said. “All I ever wanted to know about Marconi, right? And I’m hoping you’re free for lunch afterward. We need to do Christmas.”