Instead he took a deep breath, turned away from me, and nodded at Peter.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, not as an apology, but as a loud parting statement as he left the room.
I was sure my face was red. Not only had I brought stress to someone who might not deserve it, but I’d given Peter an excellent demonstration of how poor a detective I really was. And maybe I’d also spoiled his relationship with Patrick Gallagher, with whom he had to work. I couldn’t bear to look up from my biscotti crumbs.
“Peter,” I said, “I’m sorry I put you through this.”
“I am, too.”
“I’ll understand if you prefer to cancel Monday’s class or lunch or both.”
“I have a class at nine,” he said, and left the lounge.
I left the building and drove directly home, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. Fortunately, that was unlikely—I hadn’t made many friends since moving back to Revere. It was one skill I’d never developed, and I couldn’t help thinking I’d be better at it if Josephine had taken me to a coffee shop once in a while when I was a little girl, and colored and giggled with me.
Just before I turned down Tuttle Street, I saw the long line of funeral cars coming from St. Anthony’s parking lot. One flower car after another made its way down the street, with more floral arrangements than the biggest shows I’d been to at Horticultural Hall with Al.
Although I couldn’t see her, I envisioned a stoic Frances Whitestone in the first car, suffering in silence, keeping her shoulders back and refusing offers of assistance. I pulled over as the procession passed, and bowed my head, clutching the steering wheel of my luxury car as if it were the top of a prie-dieu.
I felt worse than ever about my inability to accomplish anything positive in the course of the investigation into Margaret Hurley’s death. I dismissed the idea that there was some connection between my failed interview with Gallagher and missing mass on a Holy Day of Obligation.
By the time I reached my apartment, I was in a mood that only food and work could help, so I dived into both. Rejecting my first inclination, ice cream at nine-thirty in the morning, I settled for a grilled cheese and coffee.
With Cavallo’s reports and letters spread out on my table, I ate my brunch and looked for a clue as to why the two letters were in Hurley’s personal file. And, I admitted to myself, for some way to redeem my poor performance thus far.
After an hour of staring at Cavallo’s list of proposals for improving the operations of the helium facility, I practically knew them from memory. I was about to give up, except for one tiny idea left in the back of my mind.
I went to my computer and called up the home page for the helium facility. After waiting several minutes for the elaborate graphics to download, I was able to click on a link to the operation’s contractors. Sure enough, in the fine print, I saw the name, Vincent Cavallo, private consultant.
“Aha,” I said to my empty flat, and felt I deserved a nap.
Two hours later, I sat outside Matt’s office, refreshed and ready with my Internet scoop—yet another conflict of interest in the Hurley case. A young woman in a starched white shirt with an RPD patch on her sleeve had told me that Matt was at lunch. She offered me coffee, but I’d chosen to keep my private vow never to drink office brew.
I was looking through my notes when Matt appeared, about ten minutes before one.
“Did you sleep all right?” he asked, looking like he hadn’t had the luxury of a nap.
“Revisiting 1962 wasn’t exactly conducive to rest,” I said, “but I’ve made up for it. I guess I wasn’t very good company last night.”
“You’re always good company,” he said, in keeping with our backdoor way of flirting with each other. I didn’t deliberately plan these entries into compliments, and I don’t think Matt did either; it seemed just the natural course of awkward, middle-aged courtship. I wondered when we’d be comfortable and confident enough to address our feelings directly—assuming he had any feelings for me, Josephine’s voice reminded me.
I wasn’t sure what time Cavallo was due, so I got to business quickly, telling Matt about the new conflict of interest I’d discovered.
I thought it was about time for a verbal pat on the back, when we were interrupted by a ringing phone. Matt picked up the receiver and gave only brief responses to the party on the other end, writing in his notebook all the while.
“When?” I heard him say, and then “where,” and “how,” and “what,” until I thought I was listening in on a journalism class. When he hung up, his expression was serious, his tone very low.