Read Online The Carbon Murder by Camille Minichino - Free Book Online
Authors: Camille Minichino
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into other relatives or—who knows. She was undercover, after all.” She pulled up the collar of her rust-colored coat-sweater—perfectly matching the highlights in her hair—whether because of a chill or as an illustration of clandestine work, I couldn’t tell.
More significant was Rose’s nonchalance about a dead Texan in her hometown, a few days after a live Texan had scared her daughter enough to make a 911 call.
Either Rose was avoiding an unpleasant possibility, or I was paranoid about MC’s safety.
“That’s the second time this week I’ve been in the police station,” MC said. She rolled her shoulders counterclockwise and back, and rotated her neck from side to side, as if to undo the stress of the meetings. She sat on the small wicker footstool at her mother’s feet, the one I was sure would crack under my weight, but seemed not
to be aware MC had landed. She looked very young, very vulnerable.
I remembered summer visits from MC, the first when she was just past her tenth birthday, her first solo plane trip. I loved taking her to the lab—she’d squealed in delight at the Berkeley University Lab cap I’d bought her, with B-U-L in bright yellow letters. We cooked macaroni and cheese for dinner, got take-out pizza, stayed up as long as she wanted to, and rode in my Jeep to San Francisco and Santa Cruz to do what I desperately hoped were “kid activities.”
“My daughter’s giving you competition, Gloria, with all the time she’s spending with the RPD.” Rose moved a few strands of MC’s short, deep brown hair from one side to the other. “I don’t understand the crooked parts girls wear these days,” she said, with a seriousness that made it sound like a metaphor for life.
“I kind of like hanging around the police station,” I said with a smile, then a sigh, as the remark led me straight to worrying about Matt’s test results. I’d almost stayed home, in case the doctor called, but I knew they’d get in touch with Matt directly, no matter where he was, and probably not before the weekend was over.
“So how did the interview go?” I asked MC.
In other words, I’m dying to hear everything. Rumney Marsh was on the same side of town as the Charger Street lab. Maybe scientists were involved. Maybe someone needed tutoring on buckyballs.
MC rubbed her arms, as if she were chilly, and in the next minute Rose left the porch and came back with a sweater, a tightknit beige one with tiny off-white flowers along the ribbing, thus preserving her daughter’s put-together chino-and-white look. MC gave her mother an adoring glance that warmed me more than my plum-colored wool vest did.
Finally, MC started in, letting out a rush of words. “I guess I wasn’t much help—they told me more than I could tell them. Nina was not a pre-law student, and she was not working nights as a waitress to pay for school, and she was not writing any paper on the geodesic dome. She’d asked me for an extension because her
mother was sick, who now I know was not in Mexico.” MC jerked her head to the side at each “not,” frowning as if she’d been betrayed, which in a way was true. “Nina’s family is middle-class; her mother and father are both dentists in San Diego. Not even her grandparents are in Mexico anymore. She’s about as Mexican as I am Italian.”
Rose looked at her, seeming uncertain whether that was good or bad.
We ran through the obvious questions, interspersed with tenuously related anecdotes or trivia tidbits from Rose. No, Nina had never mentioned having relatives in Boston that she might be visiting. (Robert and Frank were going to a conference in Boston; they might give a paper on independent funeral homes versus chains.) Yes, Nina would have told MC ahead of time if she were going to fly out to see her. (The Logan reconstruction project was behind schedule.) No, Nina gave no indication that she needed to talk to MC about schoolwork, or anything else. (William’s school band
More significant was Rose’s nonchalance about a dead Texan in her hometown, a few days after a live Texan had scared her daughter enough to make a 911 call.
Either Rose was avoiding an unpleasant possibility, or I was paranoid about MC’s safety.
“That’s the second time this week I’ve been in the police station,” MC said. She rolled her shoulders counterclockwise and back, and rotated her neck from side to side, as if to undo the stress of the meetings. She sat on the small wicker footstool at her mother’s feet, the one I was sure would crack under my weight, but seemed not
to be aware MC had landed. She looked very young, very vulnerable.
I remembered summer visits from MC, the first when she was just past her tenth birthday, her first solo plane trip. I loved taking her to the lab—she’d squealed in delight at the Berkeley University Lab cap I’d bought her, with B-U-L in bright yellow letters. We cooked macaroni and cheese for dinner, got take-out pizza, stayed up as long as she wanted to, and rode in my Jeep to San Francisco and Santa Cruz to do what I desperately hoped were “kid activities.”
“My daughter’s giving you competition, Gloria, with all the time she’s spending with the RPD.” Rose moved a few strands of MC’s short, deep brown hair from one side to the other. “I don’t understand the crooked parts girls wear these days,” she said, with a seriousness that made it sound like a metaphor for life.
“I kind of like hanging around the police station,” I said with a smile, then a sigh, as the remark led me straight to worrying about Matt’s test results. I’d almost stayed home, in case the doctor called, but I knew they’d get in touch with Matt directly, no matter where he was, and probably not before the weekend was over.
“So how did the interview go?” I asked MC.
In other words, I’m dying to hear everything. Rumney Marsh was on the same side of town as the Charger Street lab. Maybe scientists were involved. Maybe someone needed tutoring on buckyballs.
MC rubbed her arms, as if she were chilly, and in the next minute Rose left the porch and came back with a sweater, a tightknit beige one with tiny off-white flowers along the ribbing, thus preserving her daughter’s put-together chino-and-white look. MC gave her mother an adoring glance that warmed me more than my plum-colored wool vest did.
Finally, MC started in, letting out a rush of words. “I guess I wasn’t much help—they told me more than I could tell them. Nina was not a pre-law student, and she was not working nights as a waitress to pay for school, and she was not writing any paper on the geodesic dome. She’d asked me for an extension because her
mother was sick, who now I know was not in Mexico.” MC jerked her head to the side at each “not,” frowning as if she’d been betrayed, which in a way was true. “Nina’s family is middle-class; her mother and father are both dentists in San Diego. Not even her grandparents are in Mexico anymore. She’s about as Mexican as I am Italian.”
Rose looked at her, seeming uncertain whether that was good or bad.
We ran through the obvious questions, interspersed with tenuously related anecdotes or trivia tidbits from Rose. No, Nina had never mentioned having relatives in Boston that she might be visiting. (Robert and Frank were going to a conference in Boston; they might give a paper on independent funeral homes versus chains.) Yes, Nina would have told MC ahead of time if she were going to fly out to see her. (The Logan reconstruction project was behind schedule.) No, Nina gave no indication that she needed to talk to MC about schoolwork, or anything else. (William’s school band
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