“Thursday,” she said, frowning and clutching her chin. “I picked up the kids at four-thirty, so I left around four-fifteen. I was supposed to stay till five, but I was exhausted. That’s why I came back this morning.”
I didn’t want Martha to think I was the funeral worker police, so I told her my reason for asking, almost.
“I received a note yesterday from a friend, and I wonder if you saw him deliver it.”
“Yes, I did, just before I left. The place was still open and I saw him go upstairs. Very handsome.”
Martha’s eyebrows went up at “handsome,” and I felt obliged to clarify.
“Not that kind of friend, Martha. Did he say anything to you?”
“No, just nodded, polite, seemed in a hurry. I’m glad the sergeant doesn’t have any competition. I like him.”
“I do, too. Thanks, Martha. I hope you have an easy day today.”
Back in my apartment, I made a list of all the men in the Hurley case who I thought Martha would think were handsome, and came up with one: Vincent Cavallo. Now, if Vincent Cavallo drives a rental car, I thought, the case is solved. It seemed clear to me that Cavallo delivered the letter from his “silent partner.” It was time to call Matt.
Fortified by more coffee and scrambled eggs, I called Matt’s office, where I pictured him with his customary breakfast bagel.
I gave him the details of my Avogadro breakthrough and he seemed to take it seriously, which pleased me.
“I’ll put some people on it,” he said. “It beats anything else we’ve got.”
I almost told him about my threatening letter, sitting on my dresser next to the red velvet box Rocky had brought, but in the clear morning light, it didn’t seem as threatening, and I didn’t want to worry him. Or lose my job.
“No more on Rocky?” I asked.
“We do know he was expecting a large infusion of money. That’s about all.”
“So, will you let me know how it goes with the license plate?”
“You can read about it in the Journal.”
“Matt,” I said, with a mock-whiny voice.
“You know I appreciate your insights, Gloria. As long as you keep your body out of the way. Well, you know what I mean.”
We both laughed, and I felt another milestone had been reached. First, a playful shoulder gesture, then a body joke. What progress, I thought, and we’re only fifty-five years old. It’s a good thing the propagation of the human race didn’t depend on us.
I decided that Frances Whitestone didn’t count as a danger to my body, and placed my next call to her. I figured I would get her secretary, and had rehearsed my opening lines.
“This is Dr. Gloria Lamerino,” I said. “I’m working with the police and I wonder if I might have a few minutes of Mrs. Whitestone’s time, at her convenience.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Whitestone is preparing to leave this afternoon for an indefinite period of time. This is her assistant, Mrs. Crawford. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I need only ten or fifteen minutes of her time. Is there any possibility that I can see her this morning?”
“One moment, please.”
Mrs. Crawford sounded strangely like someone in an old movie I’d seen, about a deadly housekeeper in an old mansion on a hill. Or maybe it was her name that called up the image.
“Mrs. Whitestone can spare twenty minutes, beginning at nine-thirty.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll see you then.”
I raced around to get ready, checking my closet for an elegant morning look. I put on a dark green paisley skirt, green knit top, and black wool blazer. I chose a long string of onyx beads and opted for once to forego a lapel pin. Mrs. Whitestone hadn’t seemed the type to appreciate my collection. I added the several pounds of wool—coat, gloves, scarf, hat—that it would take to keep me comfortable on the walk to Oxford Park, three blocks away.
The inside of the Whitestone house was even more imposing than the outside, with a beautiful carved wood banister on the stairs from the foyer, not unlike the one in the funeral parlor. I guessed they were built around the same time, in the early 1940s.
The artwork in the study, where I waited for Frances Whitestone, was a tribute to Ireland, reminding me of the recent Globe piece that profiled her own family—she’d been born Frances Mulrooney. An Irish blessing was embroidered on a banner that hung on one wall, a framed poster of Irish family shields on another. Maps of old and new Ireland lined the walls above built-in bookcases. It was the kind of decor that wouldn’t have been out of place in a pub, except that it looked tasteful and expensive, in rich fabrics and inlaid wood.