The Neon Ornaments

  The Neon Ornaments

  Tenth Story in the Periodic Table Mysteries

  Camille Minichino

  Copyright 2015 Camille Minichino

  All rights reserved.

  The Neon Ornaments

  Boston, 1997

  Rose started the argument when she claimed to have bought "a box of fabulous neon Christmas ornaments."

  "They're not really neon," I rushed to explain. "They're bright, and they may have some phosphor in the paint, but—"

  Rose grimaced. "Just look at the label." She used her supremely manicured fingers to point to the red and green carton with twelve colorful balls, nestled like a dozen extra large eggs in a form-fitting container. NE ORNAMENTS. "See? Didn't you tell me once that the abbreviations are always the first two letters of the element in the periodic table?"

  "Not always. Sometimes it's not even close, like Au for gold."

  She frowned. "That's dumb. Why would they do that?"

  "It might be that the name is from an old Greek or Latin word. In this case, I believe it's from the Latin aurum."

  "Well, anyway Ne is neon, right? So these are neon ornaments. Otherwise why would that be on the label?"

  "They're using the word very loosely, to mean extra bright. While it's true that neon has a bright spectrum, the element itself is colorless and odorless. It's the tenth in the periodic table. It's—"

  "Gloria, stop! Don't make me sorry I'll be spending the weekend with you. It's supposed to be about jingle bells and the lights on Boston Common and ho ho ho, and good food and shopping. Lots of shopping. Not science."

  " . . . also inert." I had to finish my sentence. "If they say 'neon' they should mean neon. Otherwise they should get another name for the color. Like peacock green, or something."

  "Peacocks aren't green," she said.

  "See what I mean?" I said.

  Rose placed the box of ornaments on the hotel dresser, already overflowing with presents and garlands and it was only Friday night. "When will I learn?" she asked. "There's no rest when your best friend is a physicist."

  Almost retired physicist, I thought, but that only brought up tough decisions I wasn't ready to make.

  Rose Galigani and I had been friends for enough years to accommodate a little bickering. We couldn't be more different—one of us always in comfortable clothes that hid (I told myself) my extra lumps; the other a petite fashionista, meticulous in dress and grooming. Yet we'd been inseparable since junior high. Rose was one of the main reasons I was considering leaving my job on the West Coast to return to my roots in Massachusetts. I'd been away almost thirty years.

  "Long enough," Rose said often, and I tended to agree—sometimes, and other times not. This weekend was supposed to help me decide. Was I going to be the one to prove that you can go home again?

  I'd fled town all those years ago for a good reason. My fiancé died in a car crash a few weeks before Christmas and I couldn't handle it. I might have been able to handle his death, but not the rumors and innuendo that followed. Was he or was he not "connected"? Did the whispers of "mob hit" have any basis? Did I want to know? My answer was to go as far from Boston as I could get. I'd never lost touch with Rose, however.

  While I went to work at a lab three thousand miles away in Berkeley, California, Rose married our friend, Frank, and together they owned and operated the Galigani Mortuary in Revere, a town about eight miles from Boston, where we'd all grown up. Frank was the embalmer extraordinaire; Rose was the all-purpose manager and administrator. With one of their sons a reporter and the other an heir apparent embalmer, they had their fingers on the pulses of tens of thousands of citizens. Or the lack of pulses, as the case may be.

  One of Rose's enticements to get me to move back to Revere was to offer me the apartment above their mortuary, fully furnished. Rose and Frank had lived there in the early days of their marriage so I knew it well. It was pleasant enough if you didn't mind doing your laundry across from the embalming room in the basement, and you were okay with walking past the clients' (as they called them) viewing parlor to climb the stairs leading to your comfy living room. There were also the sounds and smells of mourning to deal with, but none of these details would be the basis of my decision. The real question was, always, could I, should I come home?

  This vacation was one of many Rose and I spent together, each of us taking turns crossing the country, sometimes for a week, often just for a weekend, like now. We'd decided this time on a Christmas shopping weekend in Boston, just far enough from Rose's family and my other East Coast friends. I'd slip in, enjoy Christmas cheer with Rose, and slip out.

  We sat on our respective beds in one of Boston's great Copley Square hotels. We were in the heart of the city, with views of the majestic Boston Public Library, the country's first free library, across the street, and the grand Romanesque Trinity Church a block away. Even better, the hotel was connected to not one, but two major shopping areas that spread out on either side of the lobby, like the wings of a retail angel.

  The hotel lobby was decked out with an enormous tree, sporting lights, garlands, and what some might label neon ornaments. We called it our high-class slumber party. We'd already stocked up on goodies from the many food kiosks and now sifted through the bag of snacks. We made our choices for bedtime noshes. A bran muffin for Rose, cannoli from the North End for me. It was no mystery why we wore the dress sizes we did.

  "So, what's new?" Rose asked.

  What was a reunion without a little gossip? I told her about a suspected romance between my boss and his new young secretary (How original, she responded); the possibility of another grant for my research (Is it portable to Boston? she asked); and the state of the many coworkers Rose had met during her visits to Berkeley (I'm glad you didn't get serious with that Paul guy; he'd never move to Boston). There was no question about Rose's agenda this weekend.

  When it was Rose's turn, I heard about her three children and their careers, then stories about Revere, the hometown that she'd never left. I'd never been involved in politics as much as Rose and Frank were, whether I lived in Revere or Berkeley. I'd managed to live and work in Berkeley during tumultuous times and never break down and buy a tie-dye T-shirt. Staying hidden in a laboratory was the key to political neutrality. Tonight, I heard about the usual fights over bond issues in Revere, plus contention over what name to give the new basketball stadium. "Frank and I are against another stadium all together. No one has thought about traffic, parking, access to the facility, or the disruption of private homes. This is not your normal gridlock. We're talking about another four hundred cars a day."

  It always took Rose a while to notice that my eyes glazed over when political talk went on too long, especially when combined with sports talk. My third yawn did the trick and we agreed to call it a night, settling into our respective beds, a nightstand between us. If we needed additional proof of our different styles, our slippers provided it—fleece-lined moccasins next to my bed, baby pink boa high-heeled sandals next to Rose's bed.

  "I almost forgot," Rose said, swishing her silk nightgown under the covers. "I was going to ask a little favor."

  "Sure," I said, hoping it didn't involve attending a council meeting.

  "There's this friend of Frank's. His name is Matt Gennaro and he's a homicide detective with the RPD."

  Uh-oh, the topic that supersedes politics and sports as my least favorite: dating. "I'm not interested, Rose." I yawned loudly. "And I'm tired."

  "It's not about dating. It's about one of his cases that has to do with science."

  "What a coincidence."

  "I'm serious, Gloria. He has a murder case that involves tungsten—am I pronouncing it correctly?—and we told him you knew all about it."<
br />
  "I don't know all about tungsten. I had one small project with the heavy metals."

  "I'm guessing you don't mean music," she said. I shook my head and yawned again. "Anyway, he wants to meet you. To talk about this homicide investigation."

  "What happened to ho ho ho and no science this weekend?"

  "This is different. He's a cop, and you know we like to stay on the good side of cops. There are lots of times when our interests coincide. Anyway, he thinks you can help him."

  "I'll bet he does. Because Revere cops always depend on scientists passing through from California to help them."

  "Come on, Gloria. He'd pay you as a consultant."

  I shook my head. "I just got a raise."

  "What can it hurt?"

  "It can waste my time. And his. I thought we were going to shop till we pop."

  "It's drop. Shop till you drop is the saying. You're hopeless." She rubbed her hands together, gearing up for something special. "Anyway, we're meeting him for breakfast tomorrow."

  "What? You did that without asking me first?"

  Rose's turn to yawn. Louder than I ever could. She must have been practicing. "I'm tired," she said.

  I growled and turned out the light between us. I heard a chuckle as I drifted off.

  <><><>

  Detective Matt Gennaro was waiting for us at the restaurant in the hotel lobby. With tons of tinsel and holiday music filling the large open space, it was hard to maintain my grouchy attitude toward this meeting. He half stood when Rose and I arrived. Not sexist, but not rude either. We took our seats, introductions were made, and I wondered how long it would take for Rose to come up with an excuse to leave us alone.

  Matt was my age, a widower for ten years according to Rose, and had the look of all my favorite Italian-American actors, including a shadowy beard and dark brown eyes that looked droopy and sad even when their owners were laughing. He was wearing more shades of brown than I knew existed. Dark brown suit, pale brown shirt, striped brown tie. I was surprised he'd passed the Rose Galigani fashion test. In Rose's briefing, I learned that he had no children, a sister in Rhode Island, and owned a house on Fernwood Avenue, close to the center of town, only a few blocks from the police department.

  He got right to it. "I'm sure Rose told you, Dr. Lamerino; we have a case that could use your help. It has to do with physics and we can't get any help from the guys . . . uh, scientists, at the MU lab."

  "The Massachusetts University annex on Charger Street," I added, to be sure we had the same facility in mind.

  "Right. They just can't speak layman's English, for one thing, and also some of them are familiar with the victim and the suspect and therefore their testimony would be compromised. What we need is someone removed, like you, Doctor."

  "Call me Gloria, please," I said. "And there are lots of physicists and chemists in Boston. I can put you in touch with a few."

  "We like to try to keep things in house first. And, as a native of Revere, you fit the bill."

  "As you know, I'm just visiting for the weekend."

  "Right, but that might be all we need."

  I could tell that Rose was itching to chime in, but she kept sipping her coffee and water alternately to keep busy. When our waiter came for our orders, we all chose the buffet table and got in line in an adjoining room. Matt picked up his plate from the side opposite the one Rose and I took, to give us time to reconnoiter, I assumed. He was being very considerate. I wished he'd do or say something out of line soon, so I'd have an excuse to decline the work and take care of my Christmas present list.

  As we scooped food from the various serving bowls onto our plates—choosing from three kinds of eggs, sausage, hash browns, and about a dozen salads—Rose leaned close to me and whispered, "I think he likes you."

  I added a small éclair to my plate and whispered back, "You think everyone wants to date me, and yet, here I am."

  "Because you don't even try."

  Ouch. I should have known better than to take on Rose in verbal repartee. Unless we were talking about the three laws of thermodynamics, she was usually right. But I was very happy and fulfilled in my lab work. I'd published in the best journals, received numerous grants and awards and had my choice of speaking engagements, all validating my professional expertise. That was enough. Wasn't it?

  Back at the table, Matt had waited until we arrived before starting to eat. Not a jerk yet. "Tell me about your case," I said, causing Rose's eyes to light up.

  "Essentially, we have a murdered physicist and a physicist suspect." He held his hand up, thumb and index finger nearly touching. "And we're this close to proving the suspect did it. If we had a motive, it would go a long way to helping us close the case. That's where you come in. Helping us figure out the motive."

  One more forkful into the meal, a loud ring sounded. Matt and I looked around. "It's my phone," Rose said, pulling a boxy black instrument from her purse. I'd forgotten that Frank had bought her a portable phone that had hit the market only a few months earlier, an impressive unit with about a three-inch-long antenna. "Frank insisted I have one of these when I'm away, even for just a weekend. I feel silly, like I'm a cop." She looked at Matt and smiled. "No offense."

  "None taken," Matt said and we all laughed.

  Rose talked on the phone to Frank, carrying on what I knew was a manufactured conversation. She said things like, "Yes, this is an okay time," and "I'll be right there if you need me," and "Yes, what a good thing that I have this phone, sweetie." She clicked off and faced us with a pretend-sad expression, "Some emergency has come up and Frank needs me at the mortuary. I'm sooo sorry to have to leave."

  "I'll bet you are," I mumbled.

  "Have fun you two."

  Being left alone with a guy I'd just met wasn't as awkward as it could have been. Matt seemed very comfortable, treating me more like a potential consultant than a candidate for a date, which suited me fine.

  "A few details," he said, "to get you up to speed. I can tell you it was a gruesome murder. Stabbings always are. The killer usually goes overboard, if you know what I mean. You almost never find one knife wound. I can show you crime scene photos or not, your choice."

  I waved my hand. "Probably not," I said, but I'd already conjured up a repulsive, bloody scenario. I tried to shake away the image, at the same time feeling sorry for those whose job it was to study such images and make sense out of them. If I was revolted by the mere thought, I couldn't imagine what impact seeing the real thing or the real photo would have.

  "As I said, the victim is a physicist who was working at the lab, experimenting with a tungsten alloy—and your first job would be to tell me what that is. Apparently, a colleague was seen fighting with him. The colleague, who's our suspect, claims it was over lab space, nothing more. He wasn't getting his fair share, but it was resolved quickly, he claims, and therefore he had no reason to kill the man. We think the conflict was over patent rights. The victim had filed for a patent on his own, not crediting the suspect, but our suspect claims he didn't know the victim had filed and—"

  "Can you tell me their names? It might help me keep things straight."

  "Oh, right, sorry. Cops get caught up in jargon sometimes and don't even realize it."

  "So do physicists."

  Our first shared laugh, with no prompting from Rose. Matt had an appealing, lopsided grin. Rose would have been thrilled that I noticed. I thought how much Matt reminded me of Rose and Frank, living in Revere all his life, maintaining a pure (pu-ah, rhymes with shu-ah)) Boston accent. He probably thought the world ended at the Charles River, as I once did.

  "Dr. John Richardson is the victim," Matt said. "He taught at MU and did his research at the annex lab in Revere, as I said. Richardson was found in his lab on a Monday morning a week ago. The ME says he probably bled out . . . " He winced, apparently aware that I'd visibly shivered as another unwanted image came to my mind, this one with more detail. ". . . uh, he died sometime on Sunday. The suspected colleague,
Dr. Roger Schott, a post doc, claims he did all the work on creating this tungsten alloy and got none of the credit."

  "Isn't that your motive?"

  "It would be, except Schott claims he knew nothing about the patent application. He keeps to the story that the quarrel was only about getting his name as coauthor on a journal article, and about the lab space." Matt reached down to his briefcase and pulled out a folder. I winced when he handed it to me, considerate enough to wait until I'd indicated to the waiter that I'd finished my breakfast. "There's nothing in there that's unfit for restaurant viewing. Just copies of his notes."

  As usual, Rose had piled desserts onto a small plate before she left us and, also as usual, she'd never intended to eat them. Matt reached over now and plucked a vanilla petit four from the selections. "Hate to see food go to waste." I felt he was also trying to tell me that there was nothing to worry about in the folder.

  I took a chocolate truffle from the plate, to show I wasn't worried about upsetting my digestive system, either. "Thanks, I appreciate that."

  "We have a feeling the answer is in these notes, but no one in the department can decipher them. If we can prove he knew Richardson had started the application for a patent for this certain chemical or alloy or whatever it's called, we'd have motive."

  "Can you convict someone on motive alone?"

  "No, but it would go a long way in a trial. If you can show someone lied about one thing, the main thing, the jury will disbelieve everything he says. The prosecutors will make sure of that."

  I opened the folder, pleased to see only sheets of text, with a few scientific symbols. No photos from a horror film. The first term that stood out was the alloy Matt had mentioned. I saw that it was a combination of tungsten and copper.

  "This is a very common alloy," I said, then remembered he'd asked for a definition. "An alloy is just a mixture of metals, in this case . . ." I presented my open palm.

  "Tungsten and copper," Matt said.

  "See how easy?"

  "Then what's the patent about?"