plan were followed.
I couldn’t see anything suspicious in Cavallo’s report. Even though his view was very biased in favor of upgrading instead of discontinuing the operation, it was hardly a motive for murder. Or maybe I was still suffering under the illusion that people dedicated to science were incapable of violence, especially murder.
The thought of murder brought me up short again, and I realized I hadn’t taken any time to grieve over the death of a young woman. Is this how homicide detectives get through their careers , I wondered, thinking of murder as a puzzle to be solved as opposed to a human death to be mourned?
Whatever uncivil behavior she may have exhibited toward her family and friends, whatever her political leanings, Congresswoman Hurley didn’t deserve to be murdered.
I cringed at the idea that my only concern about thecomings and goings of the Galigani hearse might be whether it would wake me in the middle of the night. A dead woman had been brought to a basement laboratory three floors below me, and it had taken me all this time to feel sorry for her and her family.
I packed up my notes and lay down on the couch as the “Song of Joy” came to an end.
Chapter Seven
M y solemn mood persisted as I left my apartment and walked down Galigani’s main stairway to the parlor where Congresswoman Margaret Hurley lay in her brown walnut casket. I remembered a line from a Jane Austen novel that had particular significance for me since I’d been dwelling in a funeral home— “The living ever feel unease, when the dead are in residence.”
The fragrance of gladioli and mums, and the slow organ music piped through the rooms, didn’t help my spirits. I loved cut flowers, but much to Frank’s chagrin, I swore that they smelled different when arranged around a dead body.
I’d fallen asleep on my couch, and had to iron the telltale wrinkles from my skirt, thus missing my self-imposed starting time of six-thirty. Great first impression if this were a real job , I thought.
It was close to seven and several dozen people werealready in the parlor when I made my entrance. For the tenth time, I checked my little black Galigani ribbon, as if I’d just won first prize at a morbid science fair.
Rose’s assistant, Martha, greeted me and pointed out Frances Whitestone.
“As long as you’re here, I’ll get back upstairs,” Martha said in a normal tone. And then, in a whisper, “I know you’re on this case. Good luck.”
Martha had always overestimated my police involvement, once introducing me to her eight-year-old twin boys as “a policeperson.” Usually I corrected her, but this time I simply thanked her, and gave her a smile and a wink that said “I’m on it.”
Frances Whitestone would have been hard to pick out of a lineup as a senior citizen. Standing tall and straight, with her hair more red than gray, she wore her money well, from her simple sheath dress in dark green silk, to her rich-looking purse and shoes.
I had to adjust my old-woman image to accommodate this perfect picture of a wealthy widow of one of Boston’s financial geniuses. My previous images came from my grandmother and older aunts—hair all gray, their short, wide bodies ensheathed in flowered housedresses and terry-cloth slippers.
A quick calculation told me that Frances Whitestone had to be close to eighty, given the number of years she and her late husband had dominated local politics from behind the scenes, funding winners almost every time. I sighed as I walked over to her, trying to formulate a word of sympathy that wouldn’t sound hollow.I resolved to listen more closely to Frank in a situation like this, the next time I had the opportunity.
“Good evening, Mrs. Whitestone,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how close you were to Margaret.”
“Thank you,” she said. She gave me an appraising look, up and down quickly, without moving her head, and then trained her eyes on
I couldn’t see anything suspicious in Cavallo’s report. Even though his view was very biased in favor of upgrading instead of discontinuing the operation, it was hardly a motive for murder. Or maybe I was still suffering under the illusion that people dedicated to science were incapable of violence, especially murder.
The thought of murder brought me up short again, and I realized I hadn’t taken any time to grieve over the death of a young woman. Is this how homicide detectives get through their careers , I wondered, thinking of murder as a puzzle to be solved as opposed to a human death to be mourned?
Whatever uncivil behavior she may have exhibited toward her family and friends, whatever her political leanings, Congresswoman Hurley didn’t deserve to be murdered.
I cringed at the idea that my only concern about thecomings and goings of the Galigani hearse might be whether it would wake me in the middle of the night. A dead woman had been brought to a basement laboratory three floors below me, and it had taken me all this time to feel sorry for her and her family.
I packed up my notes and lay down on the couch as the “Song of Joy” came to an end.
Chapter Seven
M y solemn mood persisted as I left my apartment and walked down Galigani’s main stairway to the parlor where Congresswoman Margaret Hurley lay in her brown walnut casket. I remembered a line from a Jane Austen novel that had particular significance for me since I’d been dwelling in a funeral home— “The living ever feel unease, when the dead are in residence.”
The fragrance of gladioli and mums, and the slow organ music piped through the rooms, didn’t help my spirits. I loved cut flowers, but much to Frank’s chagrin, I swore that they smelled different when arranged around a dead body.
I’d fallen asleep on my couch, and had to iron the telltale wrinkles from my skirt, thus missing my self-imposed starting time of six-thirty. Great first impression if this were a real job , I thought.
It was close to seven and several dozen people werealready in the parlor when I made my entrance. For the tenth time, I checked my little black Galigani ribbon, as if I’d just won first prize at a morbid science fair.
Rose’s assistant, Martha, greeted me and pointed out Frances Whitestone.
“As long as you’re here, I’ll get back upstairs,” Martha said in a normal tone. And then, in a whisper, “I know you’re on this case. Good luck.”
Martha had always overestimated my police involvement, once introducing me to her eight-year-old twin boys as “a policeperson.” Usually I corrected her, but this time I simply thanked her, and gave her a smile and a wink that said “I’m on it.”
Frances Whitestone would have been hard to pick out of a lineup as a senior citizen. Standing tall and straight, with her hair more red than gray, she wore her money well, from her simple sheath dress in dark green silk, to her rich-looking purse and shoes.
I had to adjust my old-woman image to accommodate this perfect picture of a wealthy widow of one of Boston’s financial geniuses. My previous images came from my grandmother and older aunts—hair all gray, their short, wide bodies ensheathed in flowered housedresses and terry-cloth slippers.
A quick calculation told me that Frances Whitestone had to be close to eighty, given the number of years she and her late husband had dominated local politics from behind the scenes, funding winners almost every time. I sighed as I walked over to her, trying to formulate a word of sympathy that wouldn’t sound hollow.I resolved to listen more closely to Frank in a situation like this, the next time I had the opportunity.
“Good evening, Mrs. Whitestone,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how close you were to Margaret.”
“Thank you,” she said. She gave me an appraising look, up and down quickly, without moving her head, and then trained her eyes on
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