The Helium Murder(46)

I got home about two o’clock and did something rare for me—I started to lay out my clothes for the evening. Rose would be proud of me, I thought; I’m practicing dating behavior. I was smoothing out the folds of my new dress when I stopped to answer my telephone, hoping it wasn’t Peter.

I heard a muffled voice against a background of traffic.

“This is Vincent Cavallo,” he said. “I have some information you might want on the Hurley murder investigation.”

“What is it?” I asked, clutching the phone, as if that would keep my informant on the line.

“Not now. I’m calling from a pay phone near City Hall. Can you meet me somewhere?”

I didn’t relish the thought of going all the way back down Broadway again, but I couldn’t pass up a chance for information. And I certainly would be safe out in public, even if Cavallo were setting me up. I looked at the clock. Matt was to pick me up at six. As long as I was back by five-fifteen, I’d have plenty of time to get into my new dress and shoes.

“I’ll meet you at Luberto’s in twenty minutes,” I said, seeing nothing wrong with combining a Deep Throat meeting with a pastry run. I’d wanted to have something to go with coffee after the concert anyway.

I drove to Luberto’s, arriving about three o’clock, and took a seat at a small table near the back of the shop. I ordered a cappuccino and gave the clerk a list of sweets to package for me.

More than an hour later, I was still waiting for Cavallo. It had already turned dark, and I’d finished my Scientific American. I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. The worst thing I could think of was that he was the third victim in the Hurley case.

I picked up my box of pastry and left the shop. As I unlocked my car, something in the window of a store near where I was parked caught my eye. Luggage sale, the sign said, and under it was a garment bag.

How could I have been so dumb? I asked myself. As I drove home, I saw how the clues added up. Number one, Mrs. Whitestone had complained to me that the police still had Margaret’s garment bag, but the police had told no one about the luggage. She couldn’t have known about the bag unless she drove the car herself, or learned about it later from Rocky, probably while she was forcing him to write his confession to the murder.

Number two, I finally realized, was that Margaret had not been calling for Mrs. Whitestone, as the paramedic thought. She had been naming her killer, since she recognized the license plate. No wonder Mrs. Whitestone insisted on talking to everyone who had access to Margaret before she died.

Number three, Mrs. Whitestone had the money to be Cavallo’s “partner,” and therefore also the motive to kill to protect her interests.

I planned to report to Matt as soon as I got to my apartment, skipping the part where I went on a wild goose chase to meet Cavallo.

My only question was whether Mrs. Whitestone was so ruthless that she would have her friend and protégé murdered for the sake of her investments.

I pulled into the mortuary garage, entered the foyer, and came face-to-face with Frances Whitestone. One look at her, gun in hand, and I had my answer.





Chapter Nineteen

I stood in my foyer, holding my box of Italian desserts. Mrs. Whitestone seemed to tower over me more than ever.

“How did you get in?” I asked, as if logistics were all that mattered. She was wearing a long, dark brown coat with a high fur collar, and for a moment I convinced myself that the gun in her hand was merely an extension of her tasteful brown leather gloves.

“It’s astounding what people will do for a helpless old lady,” she said, standing straight as ever, not a hair out of place. “A man in overalls let me in earlier so I could pick up more of my dear departed friend’s holy cards. For all he knows, I left the building before he did.”

Guido, I said to myself. E dove sta? Where are you now?

“Cavallo set me up,” I said, to myself and my intruder, unable to turn off my brain and face the danger my body was in.

“You went out to do an errand and were unfortunate enough to meet a prowler in the foyer.”

“You can’t do this,” I heard myself say, as if I were talking to the schoolyard bully. “I have a date with a homicide detective. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Your detective has been called out unexpectedly, to trace a lead he can’t refuse. On the Hurley case,” she said, with a thin smile.

“The police know about your out-of-state license plate.” True to form, I told myself, you think you can argue your way through life.

“Poor Margaret loved that license plate. She noticed the significance right away and was so proud of herself. Anyway, that’s already been taken care of. How difficult do you think it was to wipe out one little record—especially since I own that little New Hampshire town?”