The Boric Acid Murder by Camille Minichino Page A

we’d just discovered evidence for hypergravity.
    “Wow,” was all she said until we got to her cubicle on the other side of the building, the wing with green partitions instead of orange.
    I gave her a smile of genuine gratitude. “I’m really glad to have an interview with Allen. I wouldn’t even have known about him if it weren’t for you.”
    “You know I love to help.” She retrieved a pile of papers from her desk and handed it to me. “I picked these up. They’re copies of the newsletters Yolanda’s group puts out. Some of
them are old, but you never know.” She raised her eyebrows in a conspiratorial gesture.
    “Good work, Andrea.” I looked at my watch. “And you’re not even getting paid for this. Your shift is up.”
    She waved her hand. “It’s OK. I’m free tonight. Maybe we could have dinner?”
    I hoped I’d kept my reaction internal—a hard swallow and a silent “uh-oh.” Lunch was one thing, part of the workday; dinner seemed more of a commitment to friendship. Andrea had come to the party Rose hosted to celebrate my one year back in Revere, but that had been our only purely social contact.
    Matt was coming at seven. I didn’t know what he’d think about a third person. I didn’t know what I thought, except I suddenly felt very selfish.
    “Come by my apartment at seven-thirty,” I finally said.
    Andrea’s smile, buried in her cheeks, told me I’d made the right decision.
    I ENTERED MY APARTMENT and went straight to my desk. I was almost surprised to find my letter where I’d placed it, as if the correspondence had a life of its own and had perhaps left for a while to visit Yolanda Fiore’s trash.
    To my unaided eye the envelope from my anonymous pen pal and the one from Yolanda’s wastebasket came from the same batch. All the obvious features seemed the same—the fashionably rough texture, the size, the off-white tone, the slightly jagged edge on the flap. I sniffed each one, then looked around to be sure no one had witnessed the silly behavior.
    I was reminded of expensive sets of letter paper popular as graduation presents years ago, with the name and address of the sender on the top sheet, and plain sheets meant for additional pages. Somewhere, I was sure, there was a companion sheet to my letter, with a name and an address.
    If I gave the letter to Matt, there’d be considerable advantages—the police could canvass stationery stores, check for fingerprints, enlist the help of the post office. It pained me to
acknowledge the superior resources commanded by real law enforcement personnel.
    I felt let down. All I’d done was demonstrate to myself that Yolanda and I had received mail from the same person, or from two members of the same family, or two customers of the same card shop. Not much, once I thought about it.
    I wondered what Yolanda had done with the contents of her envelope, and if it was also a threatening note. I envisioned a request to meet her at the top of the library stairs on Thursday night, by the coat rack. Or maybe it was just a party invitation.
    The blinking light on my answering machine gave me an excuse to postpone further deliberation on our mysterious correspondent.
    “Peter here,” the first message started. Apparently Peter Mastrone was in one of his pretend-aristocracy moods. Probably watching British or subtitled films again. I’d been expecting the call.
    Peter, who’d been teaching Italian at Revere High for decades, had been living a fantasy life since my return to Revere. In his mind, he and I were a couple, with him in charge. I’d dated him briefly in high school and he seemed to think I’d gone to California simply to give us a thirty-year breather before coming back to be with him again.
    “Erin Wong told me you’ll be helping her with science projects this month and that you might stay on and work with her during the regular school year also. She’s thrilled.” A pause, while he adjusted his voice to a lower frequency. “I