The Boric Acid Murder by Camille Minichino Page B

Yolanda’s murder.
    What had I possibly hoped to find here? I wondered. A gun or a knife? The weapon was a coat rack. A blood-streaked carpet? The crime was committed in a building two miles away. The murderer lurking in the hallway?
    “Can I help you?”
    The voice echoed loudly in the cavernous building. Andrea and I jumped as high as our respective masses would allow.
    “Hi, Tony,” Andrea said. I was impressed at the tone she’d managed—as if she’d shown up on time for a Sunday afternoon meeting and he was late. Tony Taruffi was a large man, taller than a coat rack, I guessed, with a wide neck. Andrea kept up her cheery front, though I detected a nervous pitch to her voice. “This is Dr. Gloria Lamerino. She’s a retired physicist from Berkeley, California.”
    Taruffi grinned broadly and extended his hand. “Yes, I’ve heard about you. A police consultant now, aren’t you?” I looked up and down his long face, from his smile to his eyes. Both seemed cold.
    “At times, yes.” I presented my most pleasant countenance.
    Taruffi had moved his body so he was between us and his office door. His brown hair, graying at the temples, was carefully groomed and his clothes were casual, but crisp enough in case a TV van pulled up unexpectedly. I placed him at about fifty, but I was getting poorer at such estimates as my own age crept toward a new decade.
    “Is there something I can do for you?”
    “Oh, no,” Andrea said. “We’re just on our way to the Visitor Center.”
    I nodded, happy to have Andrea directing the fiction. Taruffi looked dubious, but played along.
    “Well, let me show you some of our latest publications,” Taruffi said, leading us away from his office to a metal rack
near the elevator. He pulled brochures and flyers from rows of vertical slots and held up a colorful pamphlet on the lab’s laser fusion program. “Andrea helped us with this one. Very bright, this little lady.”
    I grimaced at the first-grade characterization of a competent adult woman in a highly technical field, but I’d heard it before. On the other hand, I’d never heard a professional man referred to as a bright little gentleman.
    “Tony got us permission to do it in color,” Andrea said. She pointed to dramatic photos of enormous round lenses and imploding targets.
    “The government guidelines specify black and white only. But I found a way around it,” Taruffi said, stopping short of beating his chest. He walked us through double doors, to the Visitor Center, an annex east of the Public Affairs Office, boasting the whole time. When the president of the United States visited the laboratory in ’91, Taruffi himself showed his entourage around the property. Taruffi’s latest plan for expanding the lab’s education program had received accolades from the Department of Energy. Taruffi’s portfolio of public information materials was nominated for a special award by the Society of Technical Communicators. Lucky for the lab, Taruffi had rejected many offers to head outreach programs for private institutions.
    When I finally tired of his monologue, I tried a new direction.
    “I suppose you heard about Yolanda Fiore’s murder?”
    As if on cue, Taruffi nodded. He threw back his broad shoulders and drew his face into a serious expression. “Very sad.”
    “I understand she used to work for you?”
    Taruffi put his arm around my shoulder, and laughed. I felt a shiver up my back. “Dr. Lamerino, why didn’t you tell me you were here as a police representative?”
    “I’m not. Not today anyway.” I made an attempt to match his frivolous manner, and came out with a small laugh of my own. “But I’ll be back.”
    I heard Andrea’s nervous cough and hoped I wasn’t putting
her career—or her life—in jeopardy. It’s Taruffi who should be tense, I thought—at least, I would be if a woman I’d fired was found murdered a week later.
    When he left us, I turned around and caught a glimpse of him standing, legs