The Boric Acid Murder by Camille Minichino Page B

hope that doesn’t mean you’re dropping my class.” He laughed, as if the thought would never cross my mind.
    Before I called him back I had to decide whether I wanted to continue my visits to his class. For a year I’d given monthly talks to Peter’s students, on Italian and Italian-American scientists—Galileo Galilei, Enrico Fermi, Alessandro Volta, Guglielmo Marconi, Maria Agnesi. I hadn’t run out of worthy subjects, but I was about out of patience with Peter’s constant nagging. He didn’t like my association with the Revere Police Department, either for business or social purposes.

    I had a sudden brilliant idea, and picked up the phone to return Peter’s call.
    He answered, and lost no time getting on my nerves. “I know you got in on Saturday, Gloria. I was hoping you’d have called me by now.”
    “Yes, I had a good time in California, Peter. Thanks for asking.”
    Peter always seemed to bring out the petty, junior-high side of me. Not a good way to start our second year in the same state. I pictured his tall, thin Sicilian frame, cool and dry in a crisp seersucker suit, even on this day with 85 percent relative humidity. I was more comfortable with Matt, who wrinkled easily.
    “Sorry. You know I worry about you, Gloria. I figured you were already back to work.”
    “Work?”
    “The Fiore case. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about it.”
    “Uh …”
    I heard a long exasperated sigh. “I knew it.”
    “Did you know Yolanda Fiore?” I asked him. Maybe I could get some information out of this otherwise unpleasant interaction.
    “Just by reputation. One of those fuzzy-thinking liberals who’s always raving about one cause or another.”
    “Such as?”
    “I don’t even pay attention. Something about radiation leaking out of the lab. Then there was a fuss about nuclear plants and how they store the waste. People like that just like to get their pictures in the paper.”
    “Some people are like that.” Peter didn’t seem to know about John’s involvement in weapons protests.
    “I was hoping we could get together and talk about classes for the fall. I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner?”
    “Not tonight.” It’s already crowded here for dinner, I thought. “And about the class …”
    “You’re dumping it, aren’t you?”
    “I have a great idea for it. Do you remember Andrea Cabrini?
You met her at my party a couple of weeks ago. At the Galiganis’.”
    “The, uh, full-figured woman. How could I forget?”
    “Peter.” I made no effort to hide my annoyance.
    “Sorry. What about her? You’re not thinking of replacing you with her?”
    “Why not? She’s Italian. She speaks a dialect at least as well as I do.” This was purely conjecture on my part, but I was sure Andrea was a quick study. “She’s an excellent technician and knows a lot of the history of science and technology.” I was winging the last part, too, and I hadn’t yet asked Andrea if she’d be willing to do the classes. But this seemed like a good way to solve two problems—Peter’s need for speakers and Andrea’s excessive amount of free time.
    “Has she ever done this before?”
    “I’m sure she has.” Another dubious statement.
    “I like to give the students good role models for how to present themselves,” he said.
    “And also for professional competence?”
    “Of course.”
    “And you want to teach them that personal qualities like kindness, intelligence, and generosity are not necessarily connected to candidacy for Miss or Mr. America?”
    “OK, Gloria. I get it. I’ll give her a try.”
    I smiled at my victory. Now all I had to do was convince Andrea. I felt I had some power over her—partly as her senior by at least twenty years—and hoped I wasn’t abusing it.
    I needed a treat first, however, so I made an espresso and punched the button for Rose’s number. She’d also left a message, “just wanting to talk.”
    “I’m doing better,” she said when I reached her. “I