But, for the moment, I had serious shopping to do, and Rose cooperated by picking me up and driving us into Boston. Her reasoning was that we’d be carrying home too many packages to make a subway trip feasible.
With only about two weeks until Christmas, I had to make a big dent in my shopping list, at least for the people in California. I’d already called for rates for overnight delivery, and hoped I didn’t have to use the service. Rose helped me choose a silk scarf with a beige print, and a gold circle pin from the Museum of Fine Arts Design School, both for Elaine. I picked up sweatshirts with “Boston” and “Quincy Market” logos for several other Berkeley friends, and bought odds and ends of decorations for my apartment.
“Now for the hard part,” I said, looking at the window display in a men’s store on Tremont Street.
“Matt?”
“Matt and Peter.”
To my surprise, I found it as difficult to choose a present for someone I didn’t care about as for one I liked a lot. I didn’t want to give either man the wrong impression, and in Matt’s case, I wasn’t even sure what the right impression was.
Rose cleared her throat in a way that I recognized as the signal for a revelation or confession of some sort.
“Peter called me,” she said.
“And?”
“He wanted my advice on a present for you.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not anymore. I talked him out of a heart-shaped locket. I told him I didn’t think it was you, and that he should consider a gift certificate to Borders Books and Music.”
I breathed a sigh of relief into the cold air and watched it fill the space between us.
“Thank you, thank you,” I said, hugging my friend as we walked along the edge of Boston Common.
The temperature had been rising one or two degrees every day throughout the week, and the warmer weather had created a patchwork design on the Common. Rose and I left our footprints in the interlocking squares of dirty snow and brown grass in front of the State House.
We stopped for coffee and talked about what we’d wear on our double date the next night, and for a while we were young girlfriends at Revere High School again, the reality of an unsolved murder drifting very far way.
“We need to find you something in red or green,” Rose said. “You can’t wear black all the time.”
“I have some clothes that aren’t black.”
“Even the ones that aren’t black might as well be.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s go to Copley Place and I’ll show you what I mean.”
We laughed and put on our coats, ready for the next round.
By the time we were finished for the day, I’d bought myself a Messiah outfit—a calf-length green velvet dress with three-quarter sleeves, and black patent flats with a sling back. I’d rejected the same style in three-inch heels. As we piled ourselves and our bundles into Rose’s station wagon, I tried to ignore the neatly folded white curtains she kept in the trunk in case the car was pressed into service to pick up a client.
I’d bought a coffee-table book on the wonders of Italy for Peter, an electronic address book that dialed a telephone, for Frank, and all my California gifts. Rose had bags of stocking stuffers for her children and grandson, since, as usual, she had bought and wrapped most of her major gifts before Thanksgiving. I still had nothing for Matt.
We drove home to Frank, who’d used his rare day off to prepare a meal for the three of us—a dish he called eggplant Galigani, with polenta and eggplant and roasted peppers. He seemed pleased with his efforts, and we gave him enough praise to ensure a repeat performance. Until I met Matt, I’d never cared about being “the odd person,” even when visiting couples in California, but lately I’d found myself wanting to share moments like eggplant Galigani with him.
I left the Galigani home early, hoping to get my first reasonable night’s sleep in almost a week. I wasn’t sure whether it was Frank’s culinary talent or the shopping bags piled around my bedroom that gave me comfort, but I managed to fall asleep quickly, with no nightmares that I could remember the next morning.
My Saturday seemed out of my hands—I’d have to wrap presents before and after lunch with Peter, and get ready for dinner and the Messiah concert. With no decisions to make, and the mindless task of stretching jolly paper and ribbon around boxes, my brain was free to draw up lists and make connections among all the fuzzy bits of data on the Hurley case.
I still considered the most promising line the one from Vincent Cavallo to his “partner” and the partner’s out-of-state car. My best guess was that Buddy Hurley was the partner—he could have hired Busso to kill Margaret, then killed Busso to cover himself—but I had nothing concrete to back it up.