The Boric Acid Murder Read Online Free

wife, unfolding an elaborate stroller, with enough pockets and shelves to rival a lab locker. I was thrilled to hear Matt’s next suggestion.
    “We probably should be going. I’m sure Gloria’s exhausted from her trip.”
    After a brief visit in the driveway with Roberta and Cynthia,
Matt and I waved good-bye to the family. The nuclear family, I mused.
    “Are you really going to recuse yourself from this case?” I asked as I buckled myself into Matt’s Camry.
    He nodded. “Department policy.”
    Good thing I’m not in the department, I thought.

THREE
    AS HE PULLED ONTO Broadway, Matt turned and gave me a wide smile. “Nice work, letting Berger in on the chemistry lesson,” he said, reminding me of his own attractive qualities.
    “I’m glad you’re not egotistical,” I told him.
    “You mean you’re happy I’m not sensitive about my ignorance?”
    I laughed. “Something like that. By the way, have you been to the library lately?” I used a nonchalant tone, as if I hadn’t been plotting a trip to the crime scene for the past hour.
    Matt reached over and rubbed my shoulder and upper arm, a proprietary gesture that I loved, although it had taken several amorous evenings for me to stop wishing I had leaner, firmer biceps for the occasion. His, after all, were in similar soft, cushiony shape.
    “You’re thinking there’ll be a uniform there and he’ll let us in,” he said.
    “Exactly.”
    “And since we’re not on the job, you must want to check out the New Releases shelf?”
    “Right again.”
    We took a slight detour down Pleasant Street, past the police department, and parked on Beach Street near the front of the Revere Public Library. Bereft as I was of any literary sense, I had always admired the building itself, which dated from 1902, according to the numerals on the new-looking sign—brick—red printing on white—that decorated the front lawn. In my day, Revere High had been next door to it, before being rebuilt in
another location a few years ago. I guessed I hadn’t visited this spot since Rose had dragged me to a fund-raiser around the holidays. I remembered hearing about plans for remodeling and expanding the library, and the importance of preserving the architectural lines and materials of the original Georgian structure. The Carnegie style, they’d called it, after philanthropist Andrew Carnegie.
    Now the beautiful building was a crime scene, but the only indication of that was the uniformed officer sitting on a brick ledge that protruded from the left front of the edifice. No yellow tape, no sign on the door. I didn’t even notice a cruiser in the vicinity. A coffee run in progress, I guessed.
    “The director probably wants to keep it low-key,” Matt said. “A highly publicized murder is not the best way to inspire donors.”
    “Is he planning to open on Monday?”
    “She,” Matt said. I slapped my forehead, figuratively. Matt’s grin told me he was pleased he’d caught me in a sexist assumption. “Dorothy Leonard’s had the job since the first of the year. She’s spearheading the plan for renovation and expansion.” I’d forgotten the name on the police report. Jet lag, not old age, I told myself. And lack of interest, I admitted. I’d never used public libraries on a routine basis since they couldn’t compete with a lab or university for the specialized books and periodicals I liked to read.
    In spite of thirty years of effort by my well-read friends, I’d never sustained an interest in fiction or any other nontechnical reading. The farthest I strayed from a book with numbers was to scientific biography.
    Once inside the building—a small wave of Matt’s hand was all it took to get us access—we were surprised to find we weren’t alone. The impeccably dressed Director Dorothy Leonard greeted us as Matt and I climbed the half flight of stairs from the entryway to the main floor.
    “Working late?” Matt’s smile said they were well acquainted.
    Professional