The Helium Murder(48)

I pulled myself together. Redundancy, that was it. Years of lab work taught me the importance of backup systems and plan B arrangements: Call the elevator, I decided, pushing the button at that very moment, and also be prepared for attack if Mrs. Whitestone arrives in the basement.

Keeping my eye on the arrow, making its way slowly to the first floor, I looked around the prep room, more impressed than ever at its cleanliness and neatness. I wished I’d paid more attention to Frank when he showed me around. Where were the knives, scissors, and saws when I needed them?

I opened the drawers under the counters, two at a time. Nothing sharp, nothing heavy, certainly no gun. Was everything in the shop for repairs? I wondered. I looked up at the wall above the elevator; the arrow had stopped at 1.

Moving as quickly as I could, feeling my rapid heart beat in the vicinity of my throat, I pulled open the cabinets and found one filled with clear bottles of liquid. I invoked the memory of my high-school chemistry teacher and chose one labeled DRYENE. It had the biggest skull-and-crossbones symbol of them all, and a special orange wrapper that read For Cauterizing Wounds.

I carried the bottle back to the elevator, unscrewing the black plastic top. The arrow was rotating slowly clockwise, coming close to its rest position, B. I pressed myself against the wall, flush with the elevator doors, so that I’d be on Mrs. Whitestone’s right when she exited the car. I’d figured that would give her the least effective angle for shooting with her right hand.

I heard the car hit bottom. An old lady or an empty car? I wondered, as I practiced flicking my wrist, hoping I could manage exactly the angle for Mrs. Whitestone’s face. Except that I couldn’t think of it as Mrs. Whitestone’s face. I couldn’t think at all; I just had to do it.

The elevator doors opened and I smelled Mrs. Whitestone’s expensive perfume. If you’re on a mission to kill someone, I thought, shouldn’t you be fragrance-free? Either because I was lucky, or because I wasn’t wearing any telltale scent, Mrs. Whitestone turned first to her left as she entered the prep room.

I had my arm in position for a wide swing. I gave the bottle of acid a large rotational momentum upward, allowing for Mrs. Whitestone’s height, then tipped it so that a stream of clear, caustic liquid hit her forehead and streamed down her face. I was nearly sick at the sight of it, and at the idea of it.

She screamed, dropping the gun and pressing the palms of her hands to her face. I kicked the gun as far across the room as I could, then ran out the door to the stairs and outside.

I ran along Tuttle Street, not looking back. There were no phone booths in my immediate neighborhood and I didn’t think of stopping at any of the homes on the street. I didn’t think of stopping at all, not knowing where Mrs. Whitestone was, and not wanting to find out. I ran for several blocks, a personal best.

In one of the universe’s marvelous displays of symmetry, a cruiser was parked at the edge of Oxford Park. I ran to it, cheered by the red, white, and blue of Revere’s Pride.

“I just attacked someone,” I said, falling onto the hood of the police car as if I’d been busted and told to spread my legs.

Later I remembered seeing Matt, not knowing how either of us got there, to the corner of Revere Street and Oxford Park, not understanding why he was so dressed up. I didn’t recognize the suit he was wearing, a striking navy blue, nor the scarf, which was a dazzling blue-and-beige paisley.

When it came to me that this was my date for the evening, who’d come to pick me up, I sobbed.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Are we missing the concert?”

“We’ll catch it next year,” Matt said, cradling my head as we sat in the back of the cruiser, “and the next, and the next after that.”





Chapter Twenty

We were at the end of the first and very successful party in my apartment—Christmas brunch for the extended Galigani family, Matt, and me. I’d accepted help all around, remaining responsible only for decorations and one main dish—a frittata—in spite of Josephine’s reproachful voice. I couldn’t remember any guests ever bringing food or drink into Josephine’s house.

The present exchange between Matt and me went much better than I’d hoped for. We were on the same wavelength, each giving the other a gift of time. I’d found a roundabout way, through a California friend, to get coveted tickets for a January concert in Harvard Square by one of Matt’s favorite jazz artists. He presented me with tickets for a series of four all-Beethoven concerts at Symphony Hall. I’d folded his tickets inside a new blue scarf, to replace the one I’d been slightly sick on two weeks before. He’d tucked mine into a small black satin evening purse with a note that said Not for use as a weapon.