did.”
“And now he’s back and he wants us all to be together again.”
“You have a right to move on.”
“When both my sons are insisting I give your father another chance? Father Donnelly says it’s what a good wife should do.”
Oh great, thought Jane. Catholic guilt was the most powerful guilt of all.
Jane’s cell phone rang. She glanced down and saw it was Maura calling; she let it go to voice mail.
“And poor Vince,” said Angela. “I feel guilty about him, too. All the wedding plans we made.”
“It could still happen.”
“I don’t see how, not now.” Angela sagged back against the kitchen counter as the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed behind her. “Last night I finally told him. Janie, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.” And it showed on her face. The puffy eyes, the drooping mouth—was this the new and future Angela Rizzoli, sainted wife and mother?
There are already too many martyrs in the world, thought Jane. The idea that her mother would willingly join those legions made her angry.
“Ma, if this decision makes you miserable, you need to remember that it’s your decision. You’re choosing not to be happy. No one can make you do that.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. You’re the one in control, and you have to take the wheel.” Her phone pinged with a text message, and she saw it was Maura again. STARTING AUTOPSY. RU COMING?
“Go on, go to work.” Angela waved her away. “You don’t need to bother yourself with this.”
“I want you to be happy, Ma.” Jane turned to leave, then looked back at Angela. “But you have to want it, too.”
It was a relief for Jane to step outside, take a breath of fresh cold air, and purge the gloom of the house from her lungs. But she couldn’t shake off her annoyance at her dad, at her brothers, at Father Donnelly, at every man who presumed to tell a woman what her duty was.
When her phone rang again, she answered with an irritated: “Rizzoli!”
“Uh, it’s me,” said Frost.
“Yeah, I’m on my way to the morgue. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“You’re not there already?”
“I got held up at my mom’s. Why aren’t you there?”
“I thought it might be more efficient if I, uh, followed up on a few other things.”
“Instead of barfing into a sink all morning. Good choice.”
“I’m still waiting for the phone carrier to release Gott’s call log. Meantime, here’s something interesting I pulled off Google. Back in May, Gott was featured in Hub Magazine . Title of the article was: ‘The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.’ ”
“Yeah, I saw a framed copy of that interview hanging in his house.It’s all about his hunting adventures. Shooting elephants in Africa, elk in Montana.”
“Well, you should read the online comments about that article. They’re posted on the magazine’s website. Apparently, he got the lettuce eaters—that’s what Gott called the anti-hunting crowd—all pissed off. Here’s one comment, posted by Anonymous: ‘Leon Gott should be hung and gutted, like the fucking animal he is.’ ”
“ Hung and gutted? That sounds like a threat,” she said.
“Yeah. And maybe someone delivered.”
W HEN J ANE SAW WHAT was displayed on the morgue table, she almost turned and walked right back out again. Even the sharp odor of formalin could not mask the stench of the viscera splayed across the steel table. Maura wore no respiratory hood, only her usual mask and plastic face guard. She was so focused on the intellectual puzzle posed by the entrails that she seemed immune to the smell. Standing beside her was a tall man with silvery eyebrows whom Jane did not recognize, and like Maura he was eagerly probing the array of viscera.
“Let’s start with the large bowel here,” he said, gloved hands sliding across the intestine. “We have cecum, ascending colon, transverse, descending colon …”
“But
“And now he’s back and he wants us all to be together again.”
“You have a right to move on.”
“When both my sons are insisting I give your father another chance? Father Donnelly says it’s what a good wife should do.”
Oh great, thought Jane. Catholic guilt was the most powerful guilt of all.
Jane’s cell phone rang. She glanced down and saw it was Maura calling; she let it go to voice mail.
“And poor Vince,” said Angela. “I feel guilty about him, too. All the wedding plans we made.”
“It could still happen.”
“I don’t see how, not now.” Angela sagged back against the kitchen counter as the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed behind her. “Last night I finally told him. Janie, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.” And it showed on her face. The puffy eyes, the drooping mouth—was this the new and future Angela Rizzoli, sainted wife and mother?
There are already too many martyrs in the world, thought Jane. The idea that her mother would willingly join those legions made her angry.
“Ma, if this decision makes you miserable, you need to remember that it’s your decision. You’re choosing not to be happy. No one can make you do that.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. You’re the one in control, and you have to take the wheel.” Her phone pinged with a text message, and she saw it was Maura again. STARTING AUTOPSY. RU COMING?
“Go on, go to work.” Angela waved her away. “You don’t need to bother yourself with this.”
“I want you to be happy, Ma.” Jane turned to leave, then looked back at Angela. “But you have to want it, too.”
It was a relief for Jane to step outside, take a breath of fresh cold air, and purge the gloom of the house from her lungs. But she couldn’t shake off her annoyance at her dad, at her brothers, at Father Donnelly, at every man who presumed to tell a woman what her duty was.
When her phone rang again, she answered with an irritated: “Rizzoli!”
“Uh, it’s me,” said Frost.
“Yeah, I’m on my way to the morgue. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“You’re not there already?”
“I got held up at my mom’s. Why aren’t you there?”
“I thought it might be more efficient if I, uh, followed up on a few other things.”
“Instead of barfing into a sink all morning. Good choice.”
“I’m still waiting for the phone carrier to release Gott’s call log. Meantime, here’s something interesting I pulled off Google. Back in May, Gott was featured in Hub Magazine . Title of the article was: ‘The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.’ ”
“Yeah, I saw a framed copy of that interview hanging in his house.It’s all about his hunting adventures. Shooting elephants in Africa, elk in Montana.”
“Well, you should read the online comments about that article. They’re posted on the magazine’s website. Apparently, he got the lettuce eaters—that’s what Gott called the anti-hunting crowd—all pissed off. Here’s one comment, posted by Anonymous: ‘Leon Gott should be hung and gutted, like the fucking animal he is.’ ”
“ Hung and gutted? That sounds like a threat,” she said.
“Yeah. And maybe someone delivered.”
W HEN J ANE SAW WHAT was displayed on the morgue table, she almost turned and walked right back out again. Even the sharp odor of formalin could not mask the stench of the viscera splayed across the steel table. Maura wore no respiratory hood, only her usual mask and plastic face guard. She was so focused on the intellectual puzzle posed by the entrails that she seemed immune to the smell. Standing beside her was a tall man with silvery eyebrows whom Jane did not recognize, and like Maura he was eagerly probing the array of viscera.
“Let’s start with the large bowel here,” he said, gloved hands sliding across the intestine. “We have cecum, ascending colon, transverse, descending colon …”
“But
Similar Books
