be driving," he said.
"Don't forget, my business and Frank Galigani's intersect a lot, and Frank
told me about your car deal. I think it's great."
I felt my whole body relax.
"It's a little overwhelming," I said, and then let
out a loud laugh of my own.
Matt drove away after asking me to be at the station at ten
o'clock the next morning for interviews with Eric Bensen's colleagues, Connie
Provenza and Jim Guffy, and Andrea Cabrini if he could reach her.
On my way home in my big car, I tried to replay in my head the
sound of Matt's whooping laugh. I also told myself that so far there was not
one shred of evidence that Matt thought of me as anything but PSA-6, his sixth
Personal Services Agreement this year.
I stopped at the florist across from Saint Anthony's and made
arrangements for a spray of white chrysanthemums for Eric, the first time I'd
ordered funeral flowers to be delivered to my home address. I ordered a
separate spray of yellow mums with a card from Elaine and Eric's other friends
in California.
~~~~
Back at Galigani's, I stopped in at the first parlor. Rose
and Frank were there with Martha and the ushers they'd assigned to Eric's wake.
The body wouldn't be available for viewing until the weekend, but they were
already arranging the room.
"Here's our resident detective," Frank said.
"What's new, Gloria?"
With no clients around, Frank dropped his somber voice, but
not his impeccable grooming. He almost always wore a dark suit and tie at the
mortuary. If our yearbook had a category "most likely to be an undertaker,"
Frank would have been first choice—always the one to comfort and put
things in perspective, calming his friends in the face of teenage traumas.
Since it was close to the end of the workday, I suggested we
all go upstairs to my apartment for a snack.
"Great," Rose said, "I made a wine run, just
in case you asked."
While I never remembered to buy wine or beer, I usually had
a good supply of fruit and cheese and crackers. Topped off with a good vanilla
ice cream, I often considered that dinner.
Martha, whom I knew only slightly said she had to get home
to her children.
"Good luck on the case," Martha said before
leaving, "I'm sure you'll crack it." Clearly Martha's employers had
given her an overblown description of my role in the investigation.
Rose and Frank and I sat around my coffee table with plates
of food and got into another memory lane conversation. This time it was about
my late fiancé, Al Gravese, and the car crash that killed him just before
Christmas in 1962.
"I always thought you'd do more to find out what
happened," Frank said.
"I might still do that," I said.
It was one more thing, like the long walk along the beach
that I'd been putting off. And one more reason my involvement in Eric's murder
investigation was such a welcome distraction.
There was talk at the time that Al's death was not an
accident. A brief inquiry had turned up nothing suspicious and the matter was
put to rest. The gossip was that Al was mixed up with an undesirable element
that flourished in the city in the late fifties, local bookies and small time
criminals left over from the moonshine whiskey days.
One of the biggest mysteries of my life was how I'd become
engaged to someone I knew so little about. I'd met him while I was a junior in
college, several years after Josephine died and I was living alone with my
father. Al had come to Revere to work at Rose's father's nursery. He was an
expert landscaper and had a passion for the big flower shows in Boston every
year.
It was about that time that I'd broken up with Peter, and Al
was an attractive, available alternative. He always had a lot of money, and his
refusal to tell me what kind of meetings he slipped off to at a moment's notice
seemed romantic. I was desired by a rich, mysterious older man—Al was
nearly thirty; I was twenty.
Eventually I'd stopped chastising myself for being so naive.
It was a different, more private era, I told myself. Not
"Don't forget, my business and Frank Galigani's intersect a lot, and Frank
told me about your car deal. I think it's great."
I felt my whole body relax.
"It's a little overwhelming," I said, and then let
out a loud laugh of my own.
Matt drove away after asking me to be at the station at ten
o'clock the next morning for interviews with Eric Bensen's colleagues, Connie
Provenza and Jim Guffy, and Andrea Cabrini if he could reach her.
On my way home in my big car, I tried to replay in my head the
sound of Matt's whooping laugh. I also told myself that so far there was not
one shred of evidence that Matt thought of me as anything but PSA-6, his sixth
Personal Services Agreement this year.
I stopped at the florist across from Saint Anthony's and made
arrangements for a spray of white chrysanthemums for Eric, the first time I'd
ordered funeral flowers to be delivered to my home address. I ordered a
separate spray of yellow mums with a card from Elaine and Eric's other friends
in California.
~~~~
Back at Galigani's, I stopped in at the first parlor. Rose
and Frank were there with Martha and the ushers they'd assigned to Eric's wake.
The body wouldn't be available for viewing until the weekend, but they were
already arranging the room.
"Here's our resident detective," Frank said.
"What's new, Gloria?"
With no clients around, Frank dropped his somber voice, but
not his impeccable grooming. He almost always wore a dark suit and tie at the
mortuary. If our yearbook had a category "most likely to be an undertaker,"
Frank would have been first choice—always the one to comfort and put
things in perspective, calming his friends in the face of teenage traumas.
Since it was close to the end of the workday, I suggested we
all go upstairs to my apartment for a snack.
"Great," Rose said, "I made a wine run, just
in case you asked."
While I never remembered to buy wine or beer, I usually had
a good supply of fruit and cheese and crackers. Topped off with a good vanilla
ice cream, I often considered that dinner.
Martha, whom I knew only slightly said she had to get home
to her children.
"Good luck on the case," Martha said before
leaving, "I'm sure you'll crack it." Clearly Martha's employers had
given her an overblown description of my role in the investigation.
Rose and Frank and I sat around my coffee table with plates
of food and got into another memory lane conversation. This time it was about
my late fiancé, Al Gravese, and the car crash that killed him just before
Christmas in 1962.
"I always thought you'd do more to find out what
happened," Frank said.
"I might still do that," I said.
It was one more thing, like the long walk along the beach
that I'd been putting off. And one more reason my involvement in Eric's murder
investigation was such a welcome distraction.
There was talk at the time that Al's death was not an
accident. A brief inquiry had turned up nothing suspicious and the matter was
put to rest. The gossip was that Al was mixed up with an undesirable element
that flourished in the city in the late fifties, local bookies and small time
criminals left over from the moonshine whiskey days.
One of the biggest mysteries of my life was how I'd become
engaged to someone I knew so little about. I'd met him while I was a junior in
college, several years after Josephine died and I was living alone with my
father. Al had come to Revere to work at Rose's father's nursery. He was an
expert landscaper and had a passion for the big flower shows in Boston every
year.
It was about that time that I'd broken up with Peter, and Al
was an attractive, available alternative. He always had a lot of money, and his
refusal to tell me what kind of meetings he slipped off to at a moment's notice
seemed romantic. I was desired by a rich, mysterious older man—Al was
nearly thirty; I was twenty.
Eventually I'd stopped chastising myself for being so naive.
It was a different, more private era, I told myself. Not
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