The Helium Murder(6)

“How are your classes, Gloria?” Matt asked. He knew about my series for Peter as well as a science education project I was finishing up for a school in San Francisco, and always acted interested—something else I liked about him.

“I’m ready for Marconi,” I said, picking up a napkin. “Shall I draw you a picture?”

“Oh, no,” said Rose as she snatched the cloth from my hand and told Matt how that was my trademark—using restaurant napkins as a chalkboard for unsolicited science lessons.

“Just kidding,” I said, placing the linen across my lap. “I’d never deface a cloth napkin.”

I wondered how long it would be before Matt and I had our own stories. We’d only been seeing each other socially for a few weeks, five to be exact. Two jazz concerts, one movie, and four dinners, two of them alone, to be even more exact. Each event had ended with affectionate, huglike contact, such as I exchanged with my cousin Mary Ann in Worcester at the beginning and end of our infrequent visits. So far, that was enough for me. I hadn’t experienced more physical intimacy than that since my late fiancé, Al, and I practiced “safe necking” many years ago.

By the time my three present-day companions and I had finished an antipasto and four orders of Anzoni’s special, eggplant parmigiana, we’d covered all the neutral topics—holiday shopping, the stock market, and the doings of the three Galigani children. Rose was especially proud that their middle child, John, who was the editor of the Revere Journal, had just won an award for best regional reporting in Suffolk County.

Frank told us about his week at a convention in Houston, sponsored by funeral home suppliers. He described the exhibits, but it didn’t take long to exhaust the subject of caskets and vaults, at least at the level appropriate for dinner conversation.

Finally, I plunged in.

“How about that Hurley case,” I said to no one and everyone, including the young waiter in a short white jacket who was setting down our cappuccinos, as if the question couldn’t be more casual. My voice had risen in pitch, however, like the whistle of an oncoming train, and I knew I was fooling no one.

Each of my dinner companions turned to me, heads slightly tilted, looking like a poorly orchestrated puppet show. Even I tilted my head, as if the mouth that uttered those words didn’t really belong to me.

“It certainly is a great loss,” said Frank, the first to recover. He was, after all, trained as a bereavement counselor. “Margaret Hurley was doing an excellent job for us.”

Usually I could tell when Frank was in his funeral director mode, but this time I couldn’t guess whether he actually knew how Hurley was performing in Congress or if he pulled the line from his undertaker script. I was a little off-balance from Anzoni’s low-level lighting and the tightness in my throat as I tried to read Matt’s expression.

“A great loss,” Matt said, and put down his cup. “As a matter of fact, Gloria, I’d like to talk to you about working with us on a limited basis. The congresswoman’s briefcase was full of technical papers and notes and we’d like to understand a little more what they are. Not that we think the material had anything to do with the incident; it’s just for completeness.”

It was hard to hear myself over the sighs of Rose and Frank, but I managed a weak, “I could come by tomorrow morning?”

My brain was swimming with messages. From Matt I sifted out “limited basis,” as opposed to “whole hog,” which more aptly described my involvement in the last case I’d worked on. Rose’s deep intake of breath carried the worry that I’d be in danger again, and Frank’s outtake expressed relief that no protocol had been breached.

What I wasn’t prepared for was Matt’s next comment.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I have to be going. About ten tomorrow morning, Gloria?” He’d already taken out his wallet and slid several bills over to Frank.

So much for Rose’s plan, I thought.

“Ten is fine,” I said.

The ride back to Galigani’s Mortuary and my home seemed as long as the wait for a calculation from the computer I’d used in graduate school in the 1960s. Rose chattered about how well their older son Robert managed the business on his own while Frank was in Houston, and how Mary Catherine, their youngest and my godchild, was getting used to her new job as a chemical engineer for an oil company.

I mentioned that I had a lot of reading to do for Peter’s class next week. I stressed the time-consuming tasks of preparing student handouts and transparencies, and compiling virtually tons of reference material, as if I didn’t have a minute to spare for the likes of Matt Gennaro.