“Maybe rental cars have different sets of characters. I know they do in some states. I think it was in Virginia where I was once, and all the rentals started with R.”
“Good idea, Elaine, you should come here and be my partner.”
The image of William Carey, the out-of-towner, came to my mind, and I found it easy to picture him behind the wheel of the car that killed Margaret Hurley. I added the rental car idea to my list for Matt. It felt good to think that I might be earning my stipend.
I kept Elaine talking as long as I could, hoping it would be too late to call Peter, and the strategy worked. It was nearly eleven when we wrapped up our stories, and if Peter held to the same schedule he’d had as a young man, he’d be in bed by now.
Before I went to my bedroom, I looked at my unwelcome letter of warning again. It didn’t sound like William Carey, nor the somewhat scattered receptionist I’d met at his Chelsea plant. Maybe the Texas drawl was a cover, I thought.
Reviewing my hate mail wasn’t conducive to restful sleep, and for a long time I tossed around my bed, trying to insert a picture of Matt Gennaro where now there was only an angry Peter Mastrone, a murderous William Carey, and a dead Rocky Busso.
Chapter Seventeen
After another night of fitful sleep, during which I dreamed I was run over by a mail truck, I rated my week on the Hurley case twice as stressful as the week before my doctoral exams.
I brought a mug of coffee into bed around seven o’clock and started my day by punching in Peter’s number. He was always more cheerful in the morning, I remembered, even if I wasn’t.
“I’m sorry it was too late to return your call last night,” I said.
“Out with the cop?” Peter asked, shooting holes in my theory about his morning mood.
“Peter, I’m sorry about yesterday morning. I know it was very awkward for you.”
“It was. But it’s not as though Gallagher and I were thick, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks,” I said, almost disappointed at Peter’s civil response. It gave me no excuse to tell him I didn’t want to see him for another thirty years.
“I called last night to see if you were free for dinner, but obviously you weren’t.”
“I walked to the beach, on the spur of the moment,” I told him, feeling that, as such a good sport for once, he deserved the truth.
“In this weather? Gloria, you’re not in California anymore.”
And what a shame, I thought, but not because of the weather. So far, Peter was the only one who could provoke me to regret returning to Revere.
“Peter, I’m sure you have to run. I’ll see you Monday. The class is coming along fine.”
“Oh, I also wanted to tell you that one of the girls in my class built a radio for a science project, using crystals or something, and she wants to bring it on Monday to show you. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“How exciting,” I said, noting Peter’s emphasis on “girl.” “I’ll work it into my talk.”
“How about a little Christmas lunch on Saturday?”
“I thought we were doing that on Monday.”
“Monday’s rushed now. I found out I have a faculty meeting in the afternoon.”
Before I realized it, I’d agreed to lunch with Peter on Saturday, thus booking myself a two-date day.
Sitting in bed with my phone on my lap, I wished I’d been brave enough to get Frances Whitestone’s telephone number the night before. Eventually, I faced reality, with a heavy sigh, and exchanged my nightgown for the jeans and sweatshirt I’d worn to the beach. I hoped to sneak downstairs before any of the staff arrived, and copy the number from Rose’s file.
I made it safely to Rose’s desk, an antique from her grandparents’ home. Although few clients ever saw Rose’s office, it was appointed like the elegant person she was, with heirloom furniture and a beautiful Aubusson carpet. I took her Mont Blanc pen from its mahogany cradle, handling it as if it were expensive labware, and copied the Whitestone number.
I turned to leave and ran head-on into Martha. I was more frightened than I should have been, and poor Martha was full of apologies. She was also wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and was just as surprised as I was to meet someone on the second floor of the mortuary at seven-thirty in the morning.
“Oh, am I glad it’s you,” Martha said, echoing my sentiments. “We’re all technically off today. I’m on my way to drop the kids off at school, and thought I’d come in and pick up some work to take home. It was such a hectic week.”
“It certainly was,” I said. “Martha, what time did you leave yesterday?”