The Boric Acid Murder Read Online Free Page A

associates, I assumed. Hoped .

    “I lost a lot of time yesterday and some things won’t wait,” she said, in the resigned tone of one who didn’t like working on a Saturday night. Several inches taller than Matt and me, Leonard wore smart slacks and a blazer, in taupe, and seemed the kind of woman who did the dishes in a similar outfit. I was conscious of being in my airplane clothes—green knit pants and top, now sticking to my body in disconcerting places. After ten days in the dry heat of California, I had to reacquaint myself with the humidity of Massachusetts in June. Even in Leonard’s imposing presence, however, Matt seemed perfectly comfortable in his casual pants and faded brown polo shirt. I figured he must have learned the attitude in detective school.
    “This is Dr. Gloria Lamerino,” he told her. “A science consultant for the department.”
    Leonard nodded in my direction. A polite gesture, with no warmth or accompanying greeting. I hoped her apparent lack of interest in me stemmed from the distraction of dealing with murder on her premises and not disgust at my appearance. I was glad I’d at least left my cane in Matt’s car.
    She invited us into her office, an ample room a half flight up from the main floor, on the mezzanine level. My eyes ran over the rich mahogany furniture, an art deco lamp, and a large bay window onto the back lot. The ugly orange carpet seemed out of place, as if it might be a temporary fix while the city government replenished its stock of the pleasant, light blue fabric that lay over the main floor.
    But it was the walls that captured my attention. They were covered with nearly a dozen art prints of the old Revere Beach Boulevard. Bluebeard’s Palace. The Virginia Reel. Carousel horses. Popcorn and cotton-candy stands. The Cyclone roller-coaster, seen from a car on its topmost hill. DO NOT STAND UP warned a cracked wooden sign. Several views of the ocean side included boxy old cars lining the street, dumping out bathers in cumbersome black suits. The colors were muted, as if they’d aged along with the people in the scenes.
    I wanted the prints, and it showed.

    “I can get you a set,” Matt said softly. He pointed to a chair and I guessed I’d missed an invitation to be seated.
    I made a note to request another detour before Matt took me home—to the real Revere Beach Boulevard, a mile from my apartment. The Atlantic Ocean would always be the ocean for me, even after thirty years by the Pacific.
    “I can’t stop thinking about what happened here,” Leonard said to Matt. “It’s too … bizarre.”
    It , I assumed, was finding Yolanda Fiore’s body in her establishment. I wondered at her choice of bizarre until Matt explained. “Mrs. Leonard’s husband was killed by a fall down the same staircase.” He turned to her. “About ten years ago, wasn’t it?” he asked.
    Leonard nodded, running a well-manicured hand through her short gray-blond hair. Unlike mine, the gray in Leonard’s hair seemed strategically placed, designed by a professional. “An accident that time, of course. And, fortunately, I wasn’t the one who discovered Irving’s …” She hunched her shoulders, as if to ward off a sudden chill, and swung her chair halfway around to look out the window onto the back property. I thought she left us for a moment to visit an earlier decade, and her husband’s death.
    I made a note to ask Matt for more details, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned the incident before. Two deaths in the same spot, ten years apart. In my mind, no coincidence was too small to investigate when John Galigani’s life was at stake. I looked at Dorothy Leonard’s tall, slender figure and constructed a variation on the black widow theme—she brushes back her stylish bangs and shoves first her husband, then Yolanda Fiore down the same narrow metal staircase. Why, I’d yet to figure out.
    Matt stood up, bringing me and Leonard back to the present.
    “Sorry,” she said, in a