Read Online The Boric Acid Murder by Camille Minichino - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Police Procedural, Massachusetts, Detective and Mystery Stories; American, Boston (Mass.), Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious Character), Women Physicists, Revere Beach (Mass.), Boric acid
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figured Matt was used to more abusive treatment than Rose would ever mete out, but I felt sorry for him nonetheless.
“I think Matt needs time alone with John, and maybe Nicky and Mike,” Frank said. “I’m going back to my office for a while. How about you, dear?”
Rose responded to Frank’s pleasant tone with a weak nod, while he rubbed a spot high on her back, as if he were giving a secret marriage code. I’d always admired their great trust and affection for each other and hoped it would carry them through what must be very painful for them.
In spite of the mood, I smiled to myself. It occurred to me that I was building a similar relationship with Matt. Unless I’d thrown it away last night. I realized I’d been avoiding Matt’s eyes since he’d arrived, and we hadn’t exchanged a greeting.
I hadn’t had romance in my life since my engagement at twenty-one. That had ended with the death of my fiancé three months before the wedding. I’d handled the tragedy beautifully—I ran off to California and didn’t come back for more than thirty years. So much for mature responses.
“I’m going to take a walk,” Rose said. She looked at me, a plea written across her face. I was torn between wanting to stay for the interview and the desire to comfort my friend and renew our closeness. I plotted how to have the best of both worlds—go with Rose for now and grill Matt later for details. If we were still on speaking terms.
“Count me in,” I said to Rose, earning a smile from her that lit up the room.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, Matt showed up at my apartment with the beginnings of a feast—fresh basil from Rose’s garden. The aroma did wonders for the air in my flat since it had been closed up for ten summer days.
I noticed he didn’t have a change of clothes with him. I was still unclear about my feelings. One minute I wished he’d whisk me away to St. Anthony’s and make me his bride, the
next minute I wanted to run to California again. It seemed romance was no easier at fifty-something than at twenty-something.
While we prepared a large bowl of penne and tomatoes, I searched Matt’s face for signs of displeasure—or relief. Was he upset that I’d ignored his proposal to live together? Or was he happy I hadn’t taken him up on what he’d intended as a joke? I read nothing in his expression, and imagined he was calling upon years of practice in interview rooms to maintain a neutral demeanor.
I retreated from the personal issue and welcomed his briefing on the session with John and his lawyers.
“The bad news is John doesn’t have an alibi for the time after about eight-thirty Thursday evening, when he says he dropped Yolanda off at the library,” Matt told me.
He says . I understood Matt’s caveat. He used it out of habit, but I didn’t like the implication.
“He went straight to his apartment, did some reading, etc., etc. He says Yolanda told him Derek Byrne would let her in, which checks with Byrne’s statement. Byrne says he let her in around eight-thirty, stayed and worked a couple of hours himself, and left her a little before eleven.”
He flipped through his standard-issue notebook, as if this were an ordinary case. What did I expect? I wondered. A bigger pad since the chief suspect was our friend? A smaller one since he wasn’t guilty? A special color?
“What’s Derek’s alibi for after he left Yolanda in the building alone, allegedly?” I had a few caveats of my own.
Matt smiled. “Allegedly, Byrne went home to his place on Reservoir Avenue. His alibi’s not a lot better than John’s, but he doesn’t have a motive. Apparently Byrne and the victim were getting along fine. No problems noticed by anyone who was interviewed.”
“Maybe he saw John drop her off and got jealous, and …” I trailed off, embarrassed at the flimsy excuse for a motive.
Matt had the courtesy not to follow up. “Did you get anything from your trip to the lab?” he asked.
“Just a bad
“I think Matt needs time alone with John, and maybe Nicky and Mike,” Frank said. “I’m going back to my office for a while. How about you, dear?”
Rose responded to Frank’s pleasant tone with a weak nod, while he rubbed a spot high on her back, as if he were giving a secret marriage code. I’d always admired their great trust and affection for each other and hoped it would carry them through what must be very painful for them.
In spite of the mood, I smiled to myself. It occurred to me that I was building a similar relationship with Matt. Unless I’d thrown it away last night. I realized I’d been avoiding Matt’s eyes since he’d arrived, and we hadn’t exchanged a greeting.
I hadn’t had romance in my life since my engagement at twenty-one. That had ended with the death of my fiancé three months before the wedding. I’d handled the tragedy beautifully—I ran off to California and didn’t come back for more than thirty years. So much for mature responses.
“I’m going to take a walk,” Rose said. She looked at me, a plea written across her face. I was torn between wanting to stay for the interview and the desire to comfort my friend and renew our closeness. I plotted how to have the best of both worlds—go with Rose for now and grill Matt later for details. If we were still on speaking terms.
“Count me in,” I said to Rose, earning a smile from her that lit up the room.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, Matt showed up at my apartment with the beginnings of a feast—fresh basil from Rose’s garden. The aroma did wonders for the air in my flat since it had been closed up for ten summer days.
I noticed he didn’t have a change of clothes with him. I was still unclear about my feelings. One minute I wished he’d whisk me away to St. Anthony’s and make me his bride, the
next minute I wanted to run to California again. It seemed romance was no easier at fifty-something than at twenty-something.
While we prepared a large bowl of penne and tomatoes, I searched Matt’s face for signs of displeasure—or relief. Was he upset that I’d ignored his proposal to live together? Or was he happy I hadn’t taken him up on what he’d intended as a joke? I read nothing in his expression, and imagined he was calling upon years of practice in interview rooms to maintain a neutral demeanor.
I retreated from the personal issue and welcomed his briefing on the session with John and his lawyers.
“The bad news is John doesn’t have an alibi for the time after about eight-thirty Thursday evening, when he says he dropped Yolanda off at the library,” Matt told me.
He says . I understood Matt’s caveat. He used it out of habit, but I didn’t like the implication.
“He went straight to his apartment, did some reading, etc., etc. He says Yolanda told him Derek Byrne would let her in, which checks with Byrne’s statement. Byrne says he let her in around eight-thirty, stayed and worked a couple of hours himself, and left her a little before eleven.”
He flipped through his standard-issue notebook, as if this were an ordinary case. What did I expect? I wondered. A bigger pad since the chief suspect was our friend? A smaller one since he wasn’t guilty? A special color?
“What’s Derek’s alibi for after he left Yolanda in the building alone, allegedly?” I had a few caveats of my own.
Matt smiled. “Allegedly, Byrne went home to his place on Reservoir Avenue. His alibi’s not a lot better than John’s, but he doesn’t have a motive. Apparently Byrne and the victim were getting along fine. No problems noticed by anyone who was interviewed.”
“Maybe he saw John drop her off and got jealous, and …” I trailed off, embarrassed at the flimsy excuse for a motive.
Matt had the courtesy not to follow up. “Did you get anything from your trip to the lab?” he asked.
“Just a bad
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