The Nitrogen Murder(3)

“What I want to say is ‘You idiot, you’re not working for Disneyland.’”

We had another laugh at BUL engineers’ expense as Elaine refilled our espresso cups.

“It’s so wonderful to have you here, Gloria. I know Phil’s sorry he couldn’t come to dinner tonight.”

“It was nice of him to make the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Poor guy slashed his hand in the process.” Elaine pointed to the tiny, delicious shrimp wraps that had been the culprits in a kitchen accident. “He was working here and isn’t used to my new knives. He had to go to the ER in the middle of the project, but still he came back to finish the tray.” Elaine smiled, a proud fiancee. “And then back to work until late tonight.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him profusely But maybe it’s just as well that he couldn’t make it this evening. Matt’s probably better off early to bed.”

Elaine looked at her watch. “Early by Pacific time, anyway. Phil’s set to meet us at Bette’s for breakfast in the morning. And Dana—well, who knows. Being an EMT, she has a crazy schedule. I love her, though, and we get along really well. She’s the one responsible for all the flowers around here tonight. She insisted they be right off the truck at the farmers’ market and took care of it while I was at work.”

I skipped over mention of the fresh California blooms and zeroed in on Dana’s career. This was a new fascination of mine—high-risk vocations—traceable to my first dates with a cop. “Phil’s daughter’s an emergency medical technician? That sounds exciting. I don’t remember your telling me that.”

Since my return to my Massachusetts roots, Elaine and I had stayed in close touch, with daily e-mails and at least weekly telephone conversations. She’d met her latest fiancé less than a year ago at their health club Christmas party. Still, about all I knew was that he was handsome, that his job was extremely important and highly confidential, and that Elaine and he were “very much in love.”

“Not really that exciting,” Elaine said. It took a moment to realize she was referring to Dana’s EMT job, not Phil himself, or their relationship. “Dana works for an ambulance transport company They’re not the ones who answer 911 calls; they just take patients from one hospital to another. Or from a convalescent home to an ER, and so on. Seems more like taxi service.”

“A taxi with a gurney, I’m sure,” I said.

Elaine’s phone rang. She placed her cup next to a ceramic angel playing an accordion and went to the hallway to answer.

I settled back on one of the paisley pillows I’d sent her at Christmas. I was glad to see they fit nicely with the new color scheme. Sent by me, but not chosen by me. I’d left that job to my Revere friend Rose, whose elegant taste was a match for Elaine’s; mine ran more to what the high-diving pony Aida’s stall decor might have been.

I riffled through a large illustrated book on Elaine’s coffee table, Our Wedding. The title alone gave me a headache. I’d successfully deferred all Gloria Lamerino/Matt Gennaro wedding talk until after our California trip, though Rose was chafing at the bit.

My coffee table books displayed the wonders of science and technology. I’d just acquired a large album of Harold Edgerton’s pioneering high-speed, stop-motion photography: now-famous photos such as the milk drop coronet, a .30-caliber bullet passing through an apple, and the swinging arcs of golfers and tennis players. Elaine’s photography books used to have exotic flower arrangements or black-and-white classics of New York City in the rain. Now she was displaying close-ups of wedding paraphernalia. I flipped past a lacy garter, a cake cutter decorated like a ballerina, glittery white slippers filled with candy Tsk-tsk, I said mentally.

I looked at my bare ring finger. I hadn’t wanted an engagement ring. “I’ll wear one if you will,” I’d told Matt.

Elaine also had chosen not to have an engagement ring, leading me to believe her wedding would be for mature audiences. Surely she wasn’t about to offer stale almonds wrapped in netting to her wedding guests?

“How awful,” I heard her say Had she overheard my mutterings about pink tulle? “She’s … she’s dead?”

Uh-oh. I hoped I’d heard incorrectly, but I sensed a cloud forming over Elaine’s wedding, not to say someone’s life, someone’s family and friends.

Elaine came back to the living room, a look of consternation on her face.

“That was Dana, Phil’s daughter. Her partner’s been shot. Dead.” Elaine’s speech was slow, as if she were weighing each word for credibility. Her voice was high-pitched, as usual when she was upset. She rubbed her bare arms as if a sudden chill had overtaken the warm room.