Read Online The Carbon Murder by Camille Minichino - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Camille Minichino
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mean.”
That’s what I meant. “I was thinking—”
“Would you be willing to look at them yourself, Aunt G?”
“My, what a good idea,” I said, feigning surprise.
I loved it when MC smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he most entertaining dinner table stories always came from Frank Galigani, professional mortician, Rose’s high school sweetheart, and husband of many decades. As usual, the contrast between Rose’s elegant place settings and Frank’s work environment was striking. A soft, cloth runner in autumn hues on the one hand, and the bare, steel-gray embalming table on the other. Cheerful flower arrangements on mahogany surfaces in their home on Prospect Avenue, somber gladioli in stately baskets down on Tuttle Street.
Frank had the same all-Italian look as Matt, only thinner. And neater. Matt’s body did not accommodate “dapper” any more than mine did, but Frank always looked perfectly groomed and ready to represent families in mourning, to stand as a confident sentinel in a shadowy parlor, to console the grieving with style and grace.
You knew Frank would take care of you and your deceased in the most dignified manner. You knew Matt would be willing to walk through garbage and murky marsh waters to find evidence that would solve a crime perpetrated on you or your family. I loved them both.
This evening’s story came as soon as we’d all sat down to Rose’s idea of casual dining for a rainy fall evening. Matching place mats and napkins, and a cornucopia centerpiece that seemed designed for Thanksgiving, but, in fact, would be dwarfed by what she had in mind for that day.
Frank served from one end of the table, placing a small, stuffed
Cornish hen on each platter. We helped ourselves to gravy, biscuits, green beans, and yellow squash for color, Rose said. We’d already enjoyed small china cups of split pea soup.
“There I am, in the prep room, ready to dress Sonny Lucca’s boy.” Frank had started his story, with no break in his meticulous serving technique.
“A shame, really, a young boy; he died in that eight-car pileup on One-A.” An interruption from Rose, and we knew that Frank wouldn’t mind. He waited a respectful amount of time before continuing.
“I push the casket up close to the table, so I can move him after he’s dressed. I hate those hydraulic lifts; I like to move my clients myself. I pick up the jacket from the side chair, and I make a slit up the back as usual, and I arrange the arms, and the jacket’s way too big.” A grin made its way across Frank’s face; he could hardly keep from laughing before the punch line. MC, sitting next to her father, put her elbows on the table, on either side of her plate. I thought I saw a grin on her face, too, before she buried her head in her hands. It seemed we had all guessed where the story was headed, but we let Frank have his moment.
“The sleeves are so long, they cover the kid’s hands.” By now, Frank had dropped the serving tools and used his hands to illustrate various points. “I figure maybe Sonny sent one of his own jackets by mistake. But the next thing I know, Mikey comes down—you know Mikey Vitale, who helps me out sometimes. He was upstairs in the office, on his way to some fancy shindig in his new suit.” Frank had a wide smile, ready to erupt in laughter. “‘Where’s my jacket?’ Mikey asks me.”
“Oh, no,” Rose said, leading a chorus of such exclamations. “You cut up Mikey’s jacket!”
“Well, at least this story’s not a gross-out,” MC said.
“As if you never had your own messy stories, sweetheart,” Frank said. He patted her arm, and earned the same adoring glance MC had given her mother a while before.
Our Fernwood Avenue home looked a bit dismal after the festive dinner at Rose’s, but neither Matt nor I was willing to put the time into making it anything more than extremely comfortable for us. I remembered a quote attributed to Buckminster Fuller, something like, “Homes
That’s what I meant. “I was thinking—”
“Would you be willing to look at them yourself, Aunt G?”
“My, what a good idea,” I said, feigning surprise.
I loved it when MC smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he most entertaining dinner table stories always came from Frank Galigani, professional mortician, Rose’s high school sweetheart, and husband of many decades. As usual, the contrast between Rose’s elegant place settings and Frank’s work environment was striking. A soft, cloth runner in autumn hues on the one hand, and the bare, steel-gray embalming table on the other. Cheerful flower arrangements on mahogany surfaces in their home on Prospect Avenue, somber gladioli in stately baskets down on Tuttle Street.
Frank had the same all-Italian look as Matt, only thinner. And neater. Matt’s body did not accommodate “dapper” any more than mine did, but Frank always looked perfectly groomed and ready to represent families in mourning, to stand as a confident sentinel in a shadowy parlor, to console the grieving with style and grace.
You knew Frank would take care of you and your deceased in the most dignified manner. You knew Matt would be willing to walk through garbage and murky marsh waters to find evidence that would solve a crime perpetrated on you or your family. I loved them both.
This evening’s story came as soon as we’d all sat down to Rose’s idea of casual dining for a rainy fall evening. Matching place mats and napkins, and a cornucopia centerpiece that seemed designed for Thanksgiving, but, in fact, would be dwarfed by what she had in mind for that day.
Frank served from one end of the table, placing a small, stuffed
Cornish hen on each platter. We helped ourselves to gravy, biscuits, green beans, and yellow squash for color, Rose said. We’d already enjoyed small china cups of split pea soup.
“There I am, in the prep room, ready to dress Sonny Lucca’s boy.” Frank had started his story, with no break in his meticulous serving technique.
“A shame, really, a young boy; he died in that eight-car pileup on One-A.” An interruption from Rose, and we knew that Frank wouldn’t mind. He waited a respectful amount of time before continuing.
“I push the casket up close to the table, so I can move him after he’s dressed. I hate those hydraulic lifts; I like to move my clients myself. I pick up the jacket from the side chair, and I make a slit up the back as usual, and I arrange the arms, and the jacket’s way too big.” A grin made its way across Frank’s face; he could hardly keep from laughing before the punch line. MC, sitting next to her father, put her elbows on the table, on either side of her plate. I thought I saw a grin on her face, too, before she buried her head in her hands. It seemed we had all guessed where the story was headed, but we let Frank have his moment.
“The sleeves are so long, they cover the kid’s hands.” By now, Frank had dropped the serving tools and used his hands to illustrate various points. “I figure maybe Sonny sent one of his own jackets by mistake. But the next thing I know, Mikey comes down—you know Mikey Vitale, who helps me out sometimes. He was upstairs in the office, on his way to some fancy shindig in his new suit.” Frank had a wide smile, ready to erupt in laughter. “‘Where’s my jacket?’ Mikey asks me.”
“Oh, no,” Rose said, leading a chorus of such exclamations. “You cut up Mikey’s jacket!”
“Well, at least this story’s not a gross-out,” MC said.
“As if you never had your own messy stories, sweetheart,” Frank said. He patted her arm, and earned the same adoring glance MC had given her mother a while before.
Our Fernwood Avenue home looked a bit dismal after the festive dinner at Rose’s, but neither Matt nor I was willing to put the time into making it anything more than extremely comfortable for us. I remembered a quote attributed to Buckminster Fuller, something like, “Homes
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